Two nights in a row lunches have been made the night before—but even better than that…..Cali is making her own lunch! It was my mother who pointed out that she’s more than capable, which had never really occurred to me. I still make the sandwiches, but she gets everything else prepared.
Our mornings have been significantly less rushed, and I’m not as late for work. Success!
Well, that’s not exactly true. There’s not enough time in the mornings—today I was half an hour late for work (and damned lucky my boss wasn’t in). I rushed to make breakfast, I rushed to make lunches, I rushed to do Cali’s hair. I barely had time to throw on make up and find clothes. My morning jog has long since become a fantasy I only commit to in theory. Is it necessary to be this rushed? No, of course not. I’m this rushed because I wake up twenty minutes, half an hour max before I need to be out the door.
Why can’t I force myself to wake up on time?! I went to sleep early enough, I slept soundly…my alarm went off again and again and again. I knew it would mean a hectic morning. I knew it would mean being impatient when Cali couldn’t find her agenda. I still couldn’t drag myself out of bed.
There are other things I could do to help myself, too. I could make lunches, choose my clothes and pack her backpack the night before. The lack of self discipline will be the end of me.
I need to come up with a plan and then I need to commit to this. I’m not willing to be this frazzled all the time. I’m not willing to do this one second longer.
Tomorrow I will take control. Tomorrow I will not be rushed. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
The birthday party, that is. Fewer kids attended than I expected (a combination of Thanksgiving weekend and flu season!) but that actually worked in my favour—fewer kids to entertain!
As the girls arrived we painted their faces to look like cats and had them decorate Hello Kitty ears (black, foam ears glued to headbands) with stickers and glitter glue. When they were done with that we went straight into a game of pin the bow on Hello Kitty, and from there we had an origami folding session. I chose an easy, kid friendly origami project—the traditional boat, and the kids loved it. A few of them even knew how to make other things and led the rest of the girls in making hats and hearts.
Finally we opened presents and ate a yummy ice cream cake—and before I knew it the party was over!
Now what was I so stressed about…?
Ugh, I’m too hungover to blog. I stayed out too late, drank too much, stayed over at my boyfriend’s when I should have gone home. I had to take the subway to my place at seven in the morning so I could make Cali’s lunch before she left for school. I’m incredibly lucky where my living situation is concerned, in that I never need to find a babysitter. Cali has a bedroom in my apartment and another one upstairs in my sister’s house—when my sister’s stepdaughter is there they are inseparable.
Still, there’s no real break from being a mom. There’s always something to do, something to arrange, something to prepare. If I make her lunches ahead of time the tomatoes make her sandwich soggy and the apple slices go brown. And lunch making is one place I just can’t cut corners—I love knowing that my little girl has a healthy, yummy lunch to eat.
It is difficult, keeping my romantic life separate from my mom life. Cali hasn’t met my boyfriend, and she won’t until we’ve been together for at least six months and I know we’re solid. He’s a terrific guy and I know they’ll both like one another—I just can’t risk involving her too soon and opening up the potential for hurt. Until then, it means ridiculous subway rides at ridiculous hours.
Talk about a walk of shame!
Cali’s official birthday party is next Saturday and I have nothing planned. Birthday parties stress me out. Oh man do they stress me out! The theme is Hello Kitty, and as of today I have no activities planned, no loot bags prepared and nothing but dread over the cake making. My sister, Martha Stewart 2.0, typically handles these aspects of Cali’s parties, but with the new baby she won’t be able to hold my hand through this.
My sister’s step daughter had a Hello Kitty party earlier this year and I will definitely be poaching some of her ideas. One of the best activities was decorating Hello Kitty cake pops. Basically, she baked small, round pieces of cake with a stick in them, like cake popsicles. Then she stuck on chocolate chips for ears and dipped the whole thing in white chocolate—and lo and behold if they didn’t look like faceless Hello Kitty’s! The kids then drew on faces and bows with edible markers and small cake decorations, using white chocolate as glue. The kids loved this.
But that’s only one activity! Hello Kitty, in retrospect, may not have been a great theme. Activities related to Hello Kitty? Hello Kitty doesn’t do anything! She just looks cute. So I think instead we might try to make the rest of the activities central to a Japanese theme. So….we can do some origami! (Again, this terrifies me. Somehow I managed to be the one child of nine who missed out on the crafty gene!) And maybe make sushi?! Sigh. Anybody else have ideas?!
I’ve got the paperwork printed off and partially filled out. I’ve got the incentive—raising a kid in the city is expensive. So why can’t I bring myself to sit down, sort everything out and pursue child support from Cali’s father?
The process is daunting. Even once I gather all the information and complete all the forms I’m still faced with the challenge of finding him. And when I do find him I have to be prepared for the possibility that he will seek access. One of the only benefits to not pursuing financial support from Cali’s dad has been his deliberate absence from our lives. Make no mistake—I’ve never attempted to stand in the way of their relationship. But she has never been his priority; he has never attempted to have a meaningful relationship with her. And I’m of the mindset that no relationship is better than an unreliable one—which is what it was, what it would be.
Is it worth it? Is the work, the legal wrangling, the emotional strain worth a few hundred dollars (if that) a month? There is a certain pride in raising my little girl without financial support from anybody. But there’s no place for pride in parenting, and I know that.
So here I sit: unsure how to proceed, unconvinced that what I recover will be worth the cost. It would be easy to launch into a rant, to tear him down for bringing this child into the world only to disappear to avoid his responsibilities—but I won’t do that. After all, I chose him. And perhaps that’s what really stops me from holding him accountable—not pride for being able to do it myself, but shame for having designed such a difficult situation.
I feel like I should introduce myself or give a long rambling biography…but I’m not going to. You know everything you need to know—I’m twenty five, I’m a single mother, I have an eight year old girl named Cali. Everything else you’ll learn through the blog.
There are enough parenting blogs and magazines that cater to the minivan majority—you won’t find that here. I’m liberal, I’m unconventional and I plan to be very, very honest. I don’t know any other way.
So welcome to my world, and read on!
This morning as I dropped my daughter off at daycare we walked past a woman dropping off a girl in front of the school. Just as we were walking past I heard her yell “Whatever. F*** you.” It was so strange. That a young girl should start her day like that is heartbreaking to me. Of course, I don’t know what took place before that moment—I don’t know what spurred her angry words. I gave Cali an extra hug before I left and said “I love you” enough times that she was probably a little embarrassed. I couldn’t help it, though. I want my daughter to begin her day feeling loved and peaceful.
I do not look at that woman with scorn or judgment—I have a very short temper myself. I have often been frustrated enough that I snap at Cali, sometimes saying something I spend the rest of the day regretting. Like cussing when I stub my toe, there is a certain satisfaction in spitting out an angry word in my frustration. Is that what I sound like? Would another mother hear my outbursts and worry for my daughter’s emotional wellbeing?
I think that is what was most disturbing about witnessing that moment—not that the mother was so awful, but that she was probably a lot like me.
Yesterday was my daughter’s eighth birthday. Just now, as I typed those words, I had to stop and really consider it one more time: Cali is eight years old. When I was eight I had the world figured out. I think she does too.
Her birthday was lovely, if not a little hectic. My sister gave birth to her first daughter a little after eight in the morning and Cali was thrilled. “My wish came true!” she said, and we both headed upstairs (we rent the basement apartment in my sister’s house) to check out the new baby girl. Birthdays are always cause to reflect on our own and our children’s lives, but seeing my sister with her newborn baby brought back all the memories and emotion of Cali’s birth.
I was a young mother—just seventeen when she was born. Labour was long and difficult and the joy and anticipation that surrounds most births was missing; I was overwhelmed with fear and anxiety instead. Although I was still with her father at the time I was very aware that ours would not be a lasting relationship. It crumbled just shortly after her first birthday—it’s been just the two of us since then.
I was unprepared for her birthday this year, as I am most years. The baby’s arrival further complicated my last minute plans. Cali has been so excited about the baby since we found out, so I wasn’t too worried that she’d feel like her day was usurped in any way. Still, I wanted to make sure we set aside some time that was exclusively about her, so we went for lunch together and then spent a few hours shopping. It all felt very grown up, which inevitably made me wistful and nostalgic.
My little girl was once an infant like my new niece—now she is glancing at items in the store remarking “I would never wear that.” It may sound ridiculous, but in many regards I wasn’t prepared for the reality of my daughter aging. I can no longer walk into a store and purchase what I’d like her to wear—she has her own style, her own taste. She won’t wear dresses to school!
She is eight years old now, and she seeks autonomy more every day. I wonder if I’ll ever come to terms with this.
