50-something Moms Blog

Angsting over Al and Tipper

Unlike many people, it seems, I am not particularly perplexed when the marriages of high-profile people don't work out. In the case of Al and Tipper Gore, even the fact that they've been together for more than forty years isn't cause for shock or dismay. Being married is work, and even with the luxuries that the rich and famous can afford, no one can tend your intimate relationships for you.

Because I think that when relationships that appear to be the ideal suddenly float to the top of life's aquarium, the cause of death is probably related to effort - the lack of it. Making the effort to reaffirm love and commitment is something that people in successful unions do all the time - daily maybe - it's not just an at the altar.

And sometimes, these reaffirmations require people to dig deep and work hard because long term relationships are not rom-coms where everything is neatly worked out in 98 minutes and sealed with a kiss or a special knowing look as the credits roll. Marriage is a long-running sit-com interspersed with "very special episodes" that can run for decades - just like a well-maintained diesel truck.

Marriage is work.

Good Touch/Bad Touch Fail

My seven year old daughter has been schooled in the dangers of sexual predators and strangers in general since she was three. That was the year her preschool introduced her class to the obligatory good touch/bad touch curriculum that has been repeated every school year since and is routinely reinforced by first me and then her step-father and I at home. 

"What if" and "What should you do" scenarios by the countless dozens were presented to Kat and she responded with the appropriate responses every single time.

Until it happened for real ... and she failed.

She didn't tell her Dad or me or a teacher or another trusted adult, and neither did the other two children who were with her at the park when every parent's nightmare scenario became a reality.

The Babysitter is Twelve

In Canada, Red Cross babysitter's training is the bottom line recommendation for mothers searching for someone to watch their children. It surprised me because back in my American home state, I'd never heard of such a thing though don't doubt it probably exists.

The minimum age at which a child can be left home alone, or put in charge of the care of younger children, is twelve. Anyone with sitting aspirations registers for the training at or shortly before this magic age. 

I am not sure what it is about twelve. Here, children that age are likely in junior high - seventh or eighth grade - which perhaps is a tipping factor. Having taught primarily twelve and thirteen year olds back in the day, I never put much stock in age. Children's maturity levels, as far as I could tell, sprung more from innate temperament and their parents' willingness to delegate responsibilities and hold them accountable for their actions. Parents who demanded early, appropriately and often found themselves rewarded with more responsible pre-teens than those who were inconsistent and fearful.

Back in Iowa, finding babysitters was impossible, but here in Alberta, I've had a consistent supply of sitters and most of them have been twelve. As I myself began to babysit at around that age, and I fully expect to be able to leave my daughter alone for an evening at that age, I was fine with this.

The Coach's Wife

We have avoided organized sports until now. Partly by design as I distinctly remember my single self watching in horror as my mom co-workers surrendered what little free time they had to evenings and weekends consumed whole by practices, games and tournaments.

That will never be me, I vowed.

And it hasn't been. Our daughter has never expressed anything but the most luke-warm interest in organized sports. Until this spring.

She handed me the information sheet on outdoor soccer with an expression that let me know she was gunning for my free-time in a serious way.

"Are you sure?" I asked her. "There is a lot of running. They play outside in the cold, rain and sometimes even snow."

I didn't add - "and you're kind of a weenie" - but I am sure she heard that anyway.

"I don't care. I want to play this year," she said and made that face. The one my husband says she inherited from me.

What followed was a mental sigh, one as heavy as if I'd set it free.

Am I a Bad Mom if I Let Her Quit?

Since she was three, my daughter has been enamored of the dance. Ballet tutus were her go-to clothing choices and High School Musical opened up whole new worlds of bursting into song while cutting a rug or two.

But those days are gone. This year Kat's dance groups were deemed old enough to compete in the various local dance festivals and dance class narrowed to endless rehearsals of the same routine. While Joffery ballerinas step up to the grind of breaking down the dance into its tiniest components, seven year old girls wilt with boredom. What was fun became torture, and the mirrored walls reflected tired eyes and grim expressions as Kat and her classmates tip-toed through the same dance week after week.

Daddy's Girl

My daughter, Kat, was not quite five when I married my husband, Rob. He and I will be married three years soon. They have known each other longer than Kat knew her biological father, who died when she was just three. In terms of influence my second husband is really the only father Kat has ever known, and it shows because she is completely his little girl.

Recently, Kat has discarded with the need to address Rob as anything but "Daddy". In the beginning he was "Rob" and then he was "Rob" but she referred to him as "Daddy". Now it's just Daddy.

It amazed me always how like my late husband Kat was in manner though she never knew him at all due to his illness, but I am equally astounded at how much she is like Rob and with her eagerness to emulate him. Sometimes, as I watch and listen to her, I wonder where my influence is.

"She makes all your funny faces," Rob tells me.

Hmmm, a dubious contribution.

Mom, the Enforcer Of All That is Boring and Sensible

Every school my daughter has ever attended has an informal ban on flip-flops. Though it is not stated in the school rules, letters appear at least twice a year imploring parents not to shod their precious ones' feet with flimsy plastic soles held fast by even less durable straps.

And every year, my nearly eight year old pitches a long, predictable campaign in favor of some of the cheapest, non-protective footwear ever made in China.

Springs warming weather erupts in our northern neck of Canada with a frenzy of skin-baring, and it starts with the toes. Long before all the snow has melted away, teens begin parading about town in sandals and flip-flops. It marks one as non-native, wearing sensible shoes - with socks no less - after April Fool's Day.

Kat's bad influencing begins at the bus stop. The older girls began wearing flip-flops early this year as our winter was shorter and warmer than usual. I could see in her eyes as they slowly surveyed the brightly painted toenails and jeweled straps of the flops that she was formulating her best arguments to defeat me in our annual argument about what constitutes proper footwear for school.

Getting My Yoga On

Once a month I trek into the city to spend the weekend expanding my consciousness, learning about the the physiologically benefits of yoga and how to teach it to others and torturing my poor aging body with practices that regularly approached the 2.5 hour mark.

Why?

Excellent question and I really don't know the answer. 

I resisted yoga all through my thirties. I was a runner, a kick-boxer and a weight-lifter. Yoga seemed light-weight, the dominion of vegetarians and navel-gazing mediation types, but I turned to yoga in my forties when my knees betrayed me and my shoulders and neck couldn't bear the weight of daily stress anymore. And I discovered that I was oh, so wrong about the "light-weight" and that vegetarianism and mediation are hallmarks of a hardy folk more than worthy of emulation.

After only two years of practice, I began to explore the notion of teaching yoga. I was a high school teacher before emigrating to Canada and I miss teaching - though I don't miss teenagers much. My husband, Rob, encouraged me and my instructor, Jade, thought I was ready to take that step and so, this last January, I did.

Adopted Children

Because I am an ex-patriot, I didn't receive a census form to fill out. The government keeps a loose tab on the number of American citizens living abroad, but it doesn't seek to quantify our lives in any meaningful way beyond making sure we still fill out our tax forms every April. But I heard via talk radio and the blogs that Uncle Sam was particularly picky about who makes up the average American household. Specifically he wanted to know about the genetic make up of people's children beyond their preferred racial/ethnic designation. If a person was blessed with children were they biological or adopted?

On the surface it seems a very celebrity magazine type of question. How many times, for example, have Brad and Angie's kids been parsed by their bio or adopted status for the public to ponder before consuming? Being adopted myself, I have always been a bit offended by the media's near-fetish with idea that a celebrity's child needs to be classified as "womb-grown" or "acquired". What difference does that make? And is it anyone's business really?

I'm Losing Touch with Friends and Family. Thanks, Facebook.

Facebook changes. Often and nonsensically. It's all about revenue no matter what Mark Zuckerberg says. I didn't mind when Zuckerberg decided that Facebook should be more like Twitter. I loved the "real-time" feel. It really helped me keep current with my writer/blogger friends who are as glued to the keyboard as I am most days. 

I even struck up a friendship, as opposed to just a "being related", with my eldest cousin due to the immediacy of the feed. He and I are about sixteen or so years apart in age. He was nearly grown when I was barely in preschool, so we didn't really know each other before we "friended" each other on Facebook. 

It might seem a little thing, and an odd one to people grounded in the face to face world, but I love being able to connect with people through words on a virtual page. It reminds me of bygone days when I wrote letters and received them. Weren't those days wonderful?

But Zuckerberg, in his quest for IPO status, can't seem to ever leave well enough alone on Facebook. His latest tweaking of the feed has rendered it all but useless for people who use it to keep up with ... anyone or anything. No longer does it keep up in real time, but supplies only the "top news" according to what the technogeeks at Facebook think is relevant to me. As a result, I am left out of the loop with no recourse for redirecting my homepage to the people who are REALLY important to me. I haven't seen a current status update on my cousin, or my two step-daughters since the feed thingy switched over.

Facebook is sucking donkey balls any more, in my opinion.