My oldest child is fast approaching three and a half. She has a December birth date, which in our area, means she will start attending kindergarten when she's four years old. Because of this, I elected to not put her in preschool for this past year, deciding that one year of preschool ought to be enough for socialization purposes. I just felt that she was not quite ready to start last September. Instead, we enrolled in a series of classes through our local rec centre.
Last September, we started two classes "Circle Time" and "Dance and Movement". Both of them involved roughly the same activities, except that Circle Time was longer and included a story and use of the bouncy castle. (Guess which one was the most popular.) Both of these classes required "parent participation" - which basically meant that none of the kids got too far out of line. It also meant that my goal for these classes - i.e. get Emma used to taking instructions from a teacher - wasn't exactly being met. When everyone's mommy and daddy are in the class too, what essentially happens is that the adults listen to the teacher and then attempt to bribe, cajole and/or beg their offspring into following along (with varying degrees of success).
In January, a new round of classes started up. As Emma had now turned three, we were in a new level of classes for ages three to five. Parent participation had gone out the window. One of these classes was a dance class. The teacher, a very pleasant and energetic young woman, either had really high expectations of what three to five year olds can do or had previously taught a class of preschool dancing savants. Her intention was to teach the girls (no little boys in this class) a performance piece, consisting of (I kid you not) 12 different dance moves in sequence.
Most of the time, the instructor gave cute names for the moves to make it easier for the kids. For instance, a plie-style bow to the ground ending up with your arms gracefully over your head was called "picking up the sun". First position (feet together at the ankles, pointed out in a triangle shape) was called "happy feet". In this instance, the cutesy terminology actually caused problems for us. The movie "Happy Feet" is a big hit at out house and Emma has been showing us her "Happy Feet" (movie-style) for months by stomping her feet on the floor in an impression of tap-dancing. All requests for her to do "dance class happy feet" has resulted in this response, "No, I do this kind of Happy Feet" [sounds of small feet stomping].
Watching the dance instructor have all the girls lined up to show them the different steps was like watching someone try to herd cats. She actually had the girls attempt an arabesque. For the uninitiated, that when you put one foot out behind you in the air, balancing on your other foot. Please remember that these girls are mostly three, with the odd four and five year old in the mix. Arabesque attempts resulted in most girls immediately falling forward onto the floor. Finding that much more fun than any attempt at actual ballet, most girls intentionally fell forward in a subsequent arabesque attempts, whether they lost their balance or not.
I thought the instructor had ridiculously high expectations of what girls that age were capable of doing. However, it was extremely amusing to watch. About a dozen adorable little girls, dressed in various pink and blue tutus, stomping around the room without anything remotely resembling grace. Fortunately, the end of this class also included time in the bouncy castle, so Emma did enjoy this class a lot. Unfortunately, a snow storm on the last day cancelled their performance. I am very regretful that I didn't get to see this masterpiece performed in it's entirety. I will be forever curious as to whether the teacher could have pulled it off.
Now Emma is enrolled in floor hockey class. This class is full of little boys, although there is one other girl in the class. In this class we also have a group of uncoordinated three to five year-olds running around, except that this time we've armed them with sticks. Also in this class, we actually do have a hockey playing savant. An extremely intense four-year old who can deke the puck (actually a ball) backwards in order to prevent someone from taking it; who can strip the puck from adults; and who after he (frequently) scores, thrusts his stick into the air and screams something along the lines of "SIX NOTHING!!! YEAH!!!" In contrast, Emma spends much of her time riding her stick like it's a broom. What I'm saying is there are a wide range of abilities in this class. The instructor, a pleasant and energetic young man this time, requests that the parents play along during the game portion of this class. Although there is no "official" parent participation requirement, it is understood that our role is to try to get the puck away from little Scorey McScorerson. It's not easy to do that.
During the first game, Emma accidentally whacked the goal scoring super-player in the face with her stick. Now, she didn't appear to do it hard, but her stick did make contact with the little boy. He collapsed on the floor in a flood of tears. He is only four and some kids react very strongly to any sort of hurt, minor or otherwise. However, I secretly suspect that he's going to grow up to become a NHL player who takes dives. After class, I explained to my husband that Emma had a lot of fun, was not a great "technical player" (see above remark re: broomsticks), and while she was unable to score herself, she had, essentially, taken out the best player on the other team. He was very proud.
Essentially, what I have learned is that preschoolers can't play sports, but they can run around and have fun in an approximation of dancing or hockey. Officially, I am taking Emma to these classes so she can get used to a class format and to expose her to lots of different healthy activities. Of course, the real reason is that it gives me an hour where I don't have to come up with activities like her own personal cruise director, and the vain hope that afterwards, she will be tired enough for a nap.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
The Plane! The Plane!
I am terrified of flying.
It is a wholly irrational fear I have, so I take no comfort in the statistics about the alleged safety of flying. I know flying is very safe, that it is indeed safer than driving in most cases and that I have nothing to worry about. That is, I know it intellectually. But I don't know it, not in my bones. The mere thought of flying gives me the heebie-jeebies. That fact that I am getting on a plane in a little over a week has me suffering mild panic attacks.
A friend of mine advised me not to think about. This blog is pretty convincing evidence of my inability to take that advice. She suggested that I instead focus on the fun parts of the actual vacation, like warm weather and pools. This unwittingly conjured up a different sort of panic attack - I'm still carrying an extra 20 lbs of "baby weight" and will be forced into wearing shorts and a bathing suit. A maternity bathing suit no less. (To be fair to myself, the suit was too small for my enormous pregnant self, but I'm still somewhat chagrined that it's fitting me now.)
The last time I flew was almost two years ago. I took a trip across the country to Nova Scotia with my daughter to visit my family. The flight takes about eight hours, the majority of which I spent in prayer. (Much like there are no atheists in a foxhole, I never pray as much as when I'm on a flight.) I was pretty much a wreck the entire time. During my extended stay with my folks, there was an incident involving a plane suddenly dropping 4,000 feet, injuring several passengers. This echoed an incident I had flying into LAX earlier that year - our plane got caught in the wake turbulence of another passing jet and rolled over. Not all the way mind you, but enough. I starting obsessing about what would happen to my toddler if I didn't happen to be holding on to her extra tight at the right moment. (This was in addition to my usual worries about the plane falling out of the sky.) My anxieties prompted me to instead take the five day train trip back to my home outside of Vancouver with my then 18 month-old. (It was as fun as it sounds. And I'd still take that over flying.) I haven't flown since.
I've never been a great flyer, but this almost paralysing fear did not develop until after I had my daughter. It actually started to really manifest the first time I was away from her for a few days. Emma was just over a year old and I left her alone with her dad while I flew to Las Vegas to meet my parents for four days. I was already burdened with the usual mommy guilt - how dare I leave my child alone to pursue my own pleasure trip! (Never mind that this was the first time I had be separated from her in her life - the child never even had babysitters at this point, or that she was being cared for by her father.) On my way to Vegas, I had a stopover in Los Angeles, which was when the aforementioned rolling incident occurred. My first thought was "Oh my God, I'm actually going to die in a plane crash." My second, third and all subsequent thoughts involved prayers. Once I made it safely to Vegas, I rebooked my flights for the way home, ensuring that I had a direct flight through a different airline. (At the time, my husband was curious how I managed to change my flights to a different airline. I explained that it was easy, I just paid for an entirely new ticket. He was welcome to think of it as a slot loss if that made it easier.)
Apparently, if you are afraid of flying, you are supposed to confront your fears and take small trips until you get accustomed to it. I think that is advice for those who are afraid and have never done it. I've flown lots in my life - mostly doing the circuit from one side of Canada to the other, which is not a small trip. So that's not going to help. What I'm hoping will help is the prescription I have acquired to help "take the edge off" for the duration of the flight. I would prefer to be comatose, but I'll take "not caring" for the time-being. (The "comatose" prescriptions probably aren't safe for breastfeeding mothers). Also, both of my kids have their own seats and we will be strapping car seats into them. No more lap-flying for any of my babies.
When it comes down to it, what has made me really afraid of flying is my children. I am petrified of the idea of dying and leaving them behind. I am still more terrified about the idea of them dying, period. This for me has crystallized with respect to flying. (Which I suppose is a good thing. I don't fly that often, so it is better to be afraid of that instead of say, driving.) On the one hand, I am struck by how incongruous it is that the most life affirming thing I've ever done has made me think the most about my own mortality. On the other hand, at an intuitive level I realize that life and death are two sides of the same coin. I just never thought that babies would lead me to think about death and dying so much. I think it's because I didn't realize how much I could love another person until I had them. (Disclaimer - I am very much in love with my husband. I also have lots of love for my family. But you just don't understand love the same way after you have a child.)
So... I had hoped that this post would help me work through my fears. At this point, I'd have to say that my plan has not been an overwhelming success. So wish me luck, Internets! For soon, I will once again be praying in the skies.
It is a wholly irrational fear I have, so I take no comfort in the statistics about the alleged safety of flying. I know flying is very safe, that it is indeed safer than driving in most cases and that I have nothing to worry about. That is, I know it intellectually. But I don't know it, not in my bones. The mere thought of flying gives me the heebie-jeebies. That fact that I am getting on a plane in a little over a week has me suffering mild panic attacks.
A friend of mine advised me not to think about. This blog is pretty convincing evidence of my inability to take that advice. She suggested that I instead focus on the fun parts of the actual vacation, like warm weather and pools. This unwittingly conjured up a different sort of panic attack - I'm still carrying an extra 20 lbs of "baby weight" and will be forced into wearing shorts and a bathing suit. A maternity bathing suit no less. (To be fair to myself, the suit was too small for my enormous pregnant self, but I'm still somewhat chagrined that it's fitting me now.)
The last time I flew was almost two years ago. I took a trip across the country to Nova Scotia with my daughter to visit my family. The flight takes about eight hours, the majority of which I spent in prayer. (Much like there are no atheists in a foxhole, I never pray as much as when I'm on a flight.) I was pretty much a wreck the entire time. During my extended stay with my folks, there was an incident involving a plane suddenly dropping 4,000 feet, injuring several passengers. This echoed an incident I had flying into LAX earlier that year - our plane got caught in the wake turbulence of another passing jet and rolled over. Not all the way mind you, but enough. I starting obsessing about what would happen to my toddler if I didn't happen to be holding on to her extra tight at the right moment. (This was in addition to my usual worries about the plane falling out of the sky.) My anxieties prompted me to instead take the five day train trip back to my home outside of Vancouver with my then 18 month-old. (It was as fun as it sounds. And I'd still take that over flying.) I haven't flown since.
I've never been a great flyer, but this almost paralysing fear did not develop until after I had my daughter. It actually started to really manifest the first time I was away from her for a few days. Emma was just over a year old and I left her alone with her dad while I flew to Las Vegas to meet my parents for four days. I was already burdened with the usual mommy guilt - how dare I leave my child alone to pursue my own pleasure trip! (Never mind that this was the first time I had be separated from her in her life - the child never even had babysitters at this point, or that she was being cared for by her father.) On my way to Vegas, I had a stopover in Los Angeles, which was when the aforementioned rolling incident occurred. My first thought was "Oh my God, I'm actually going to die in a plane crash." My second, third and all subsequent thoughts involved prayers. Once I made it safely to Vegas, I rebooked my flights for the way home, ensuring that I had a direct flight through a different airline. (At the time, my husband was curious how I managed to change my flights to a different airline. I explained that it was easy, I just paid for an entirely new ticket. He was welcome to think of it as a slot loss if that made it easier.)
Apparently, if you are afraid of flying, you are supposed to confront your fears and take small trips until you get accustomed to it. I think that is advice for those who are afraid and have never done it. I've flown lots in my life - mostly doing the circuit from one side of Canada to the other, which is not a small trip. So that's not going to help. What I'm hoping will help is the prescription I have acquired to help "take the edge off" for the duration of the flight. I would prefer to be comatose, but I'll take "not caring" for the time-being. (The "comatose" prescriptions probably aren't safe for breastfeeding mothers). Also, both of my kids have their own seats and we will be strapping car seats into them. No more lap-flying for any of my babies.
When it comes down to it, what has made me really afraid of flying is my children. I am petrified of the idea of dying and leaving them behind. I am still more terrified about the idea of them dying, period. This for me has crystallized with respect to flying. (Which I suppose is a good thing. I don't fly that often, so it is better to be afraid of that instead of say, driving.) On the one hand, I am struck by how incongruous it is that the most life affirming thing I've ever done has made me think the most about my own mortality. On the other hand, at an intuitive level I realize that life and death are two sides of the same coin. I just never thought that babies would lead me to think about death and dying so much. I think it's because I didn't realize how much I could love another person until I had them. (Disclaimer - I am very much in love with my husband. I also have lots of love for my family. But you just don't understand love the same way after you have a child.)
So... I had hoped that this post would help me work through my fears. At this point, I'd have to say that my plan has not been an overwhelming success. So wish me luck, Internets! For soon, I will once again be praying in the skies.
My First Blog (.. or "What on Earth has compelled me to do this?")
If someone had told me five years ago that I would ever write a blog, I wouldn't have believed them. (That assuming that I knew what a blog was five years ago, I can't quite remember.) I, unlike some of my circle of family and friends, have never been prone to public self-disclosure. Putting my thoughts out into the world of the Internet could not be more public, aside from the fact that few people will likely ever read this blog. So what is driving me to this?
About three and a half years ago, I left the world of full-time legal practice and entered the world of full-time mommy practice. I have a beautiful three year old daughter and have just welcomed a son three months ago. (He is also beautiful - er, I mean handsome. The point is, I have adorable kids.) I love my life at home with them -my crazy and frustrating life - and I would not trade it for anything. But there are aspects of my former professional life that I miss.
Most days, especially in the early baby days with my daughter, I missed the really mundane aspects of working life. Showering regularly. Going to Starbucks. Talking to adults. Wearing nice clothes. Peeing by myself. On a more profound level, I missed the automatic respect that my profession used to command. Not that I spent my time as a lawyer feeling prestigious and respected; it just that the contrast with how society as large views the stay at home mom is so stark. In a world where your value is often judged by how much money you make, making "nothing" means that SAHM are often perceived as not particularly valuable. On the rare occasions that I am out in the world interacting with new people, I'm not asked for my opinion about world events in the way I had been previously. As if my newly acquired encyclopedic knowledge of children's programming means that I am no longer capable of keeping up with, and forming insights, about current events. (I am, thank you very much.)
But why have I turned to blogging? As time has moved forward, I find now that I miss the most about my job is the writing. Let me make this perfectly clear, when I was practicing law full-time, I never did any personal or creative writing. But I think because I was constantly writing for professional purposes, I satiated my desire to write enough that I didn't notice what I was missing. In the absence of any professional writing, I find myself compelled to write something else. With no court documents to draft, that leaves personal writing of some type or another.
But why share? This one is trickier for me to analyze. I'd have to say it started with Facebook; enjoying writing status updates and enjoying reading those written by others. Recently a friend turned me on to Twitter. I'm really enjoying Twitter - not the least of which is allows me to passively stalk famous people that I either admire or have become interested in solely because of their Twitter persona. (I have also found it to be a great way to for people share interesting links.) Twitter, for the uninitiated, is also referred to as "micro-blogging", as you are only able to "tweet" in 140 characters. I have found the character limit constricting - I dislike misspelling things on purpose and I have a tendency to put two spaces after a period (which I keep having to correct on my tweets). Also, I would like to petition twitter for 141 characters for people from Canada and the U.K.; the extra character so we can spell "colour" correctly. Up until recently, my updates were more or less for that one friend that introduced me to Twitter, but I still really enjoyed it.
What did I like about the phenomena of sharing my thoughts? Well, I am certainly not the first person to make this observation, but being a stay-at-home mom is very socially isolating. I found this is actually increasing as my daughter gets older. Now to arrange a "play-date" (which is more about a mommy date than anything else), I have to deal with competing preschool and rec centre class schedules. Also, have to wait until all children concerned are relatively healthy, or else risking being one of those social pariahs that make other people's kids sick. Since all children appear to be little walking petri-dishes, waiting for a clean bill of health in two or more families can mean months before we all get together. I myself am now just getting a new cold, without having ever gotten over the previous one. (My sense is that for the foreseeable future, "less sick" is my new "healthy".)
So, here I am, writing out my thoughts and putting it out in the world. Blogging allows me the freedom to ramble on - no character limits here! It's not quite a message in a bottle asking that the Internet save me from isolation, but that's probably not too far off the mark.
Finally, my chosen blog title might require some explanation. In case it's not absolutely clear, I do not regret my choice to stay at home with my children. (Indeed, I am fortunate that it was a choice for me.) I know that I would miss them so much more than I ever miss legal practice. I refer to myself as a "semi-retired" lawyer, because at this point, I'm not sure that I'll ever go back to that. But full-time motherhood isn't exactly easy either. I've named this blog "mostly mommy", because although I may be mostly mommy, I am not only or entirely mommy. So, even if I only ever blog about my kids, if this blog helps me to carve out some small space for me to be me, so much the better!
Cindy
About three and a half years ago, I left the world of full-time legal practice and entered the world of full-time mommy practice. I have a beautiful three year old daughter and have just welcomed a son three months ago. (He is also beautiful - er, I mean handsome. The point is, I have adorable kids.) I love my life at home with them -my crazy and frustrating life - and I would not trade it for anything. But there are aspects of my former professional life that I miss.
Most days, especially in the early baby days with my daughter, I missed the really mundane aspects of working life. Showering regularly. Going to Starbucks. Talking to adults. Wearing nice clothes. Peeing by myself. On a more profound level, I missed the automatic respect that my profession used to command. Not that I spent my time as a lawyer feeling prestigious and respected; it just that the contrast with how society as large views the stay at home mom is so stark. In a world where your value is often judged by how much money you make, making "nothing" means that SAHM are often perceived as not particularly valuable. On the rare occasions that I am out in the world interacting with new people, I'm not asked for my opinion about world events in the way I had been previously. As if my newly acquired encyclopedic knowledge of children's programming means that I am no longer capable of keeping up with, and forming insights, about current events. (I am, thank you very much.)
But why have I turned to blogging? As time has moved forward, I find now that I miss the most about my job is the writing. Let me make this perfectly clear, when I was practicing law full-time, I never did any personal or creative writing. But I think because I was constantly writing for professional purposes, I satiated my desire to write enough that I didn't notice what I was missing. In the absence of any professional writing, I find myself compelled to write something else. With no court documents to draft, that leaves personal writing of some type or another.
But why share? This one is trickier for me to analyze. I'd have to say it started with Facebook; enjoying writing status updates and enjoying reading those written by others. Recently a friend turned me on to Twitter. I'm really enjoying Twitter - not the least of which is allows me to passively stalk famous people that I either admire or have become interested in solely because of their Twitter persona. (I have also found it to be a great way to for people share interesting links.) Twitter, for the uninitiated, is also referred to as "micro-blogging", as you are only able to "tweet" in 140 characters. I have found the character limit constricting - I dislike misspelling things on purpose and I have a tendency to put two spaces after a period (which I keep having to correct on my tweets). Also, I would like to petition twitter for 141 characters for people from Canada and the U.K.; the extra character so we can spell "colour" correctly. Up until recently, my updates were more or less for that one friend that introduced me to Twitter, but I still really enjoyed it.
What did I like about the phenomena of sharing my thoughts? Well, I am certainly not the first person to make this observation, but being a stay-at-home mom is very socially isolating. I found this is actually increasing as my daughter gets older. Now to arrange a "play-date" (which is more about a mommy date than anything else), I have to deal with competing preschool and rec centre class schedules. Also, have to wait until all children concerned are relatively healthy, or else risking being one of those social pariahs that make other people's kids sick. Since all children appear to be little walking petri-dishes, waiting for a clean bill of health in two or more families can mean months before we all get together. I myself am now just getting a new cold, without having ever gotten over the previous one. (My sense is that for the foreseeable future, "less sick" is my new "healthy".)
So, here I am, writing out my thoughts and putting it out in the world. Blogging allows me the freedom to ramble on - no character limits here! It's not quite a message in a bottle asking that the Internet save me from isolation, but that's probably not too far off the mark.
Finally, my chosen blog title might require some explanation. In case it's not absolutely clear, I do not regret my choice to stay at home with my children. (Indeed, I am fortunate that it was a choice for me.) I know that I would miss them so much more than I ever miss legal practice. I refer to myself as a "semi-retired" lawyer, because at this point, I'm not sure that I'll ever go back to that. But full-time motherhood isn't exactly easy either. I've named this blog "mostly mommy", because although I may be mostly mommy, I am not only or entirely mommy. So, even if I only ever blog about my kids, if this blog helps me to carve out some small space for me to be me, so much the better!
Cindy
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