'Tis the Season

Name of Town Withheld is famous for Christmas parties. Starting in the second last week of November, there are parties every weekend - big, fancy, dress-up ones - until the weekend right before the big day. Add into the mix the smaller gatherings, such as the brunches, the lunches, the wine and cheese parties, and you have very few free evenings.

In preparation for the barrage of parties, I ventured off to the mall today in search of a new pair of fancy shoes, and possibly, a new black dress. I went to the place to shop for party attire and instantly spied a pair of black patent Steve Madden pumps with pointy toes and a spikey heal. And, there was a sticker on them - 50% off! I turned them over to view the price and there it was: $180.00. Wow - $90.00 for fancy shoes. I was tempted. I consider spending that on dress shoes pretty extravagant, but I only buy them once every three years or so. Not believing my good luck, I turned them over and looked at the price again, and that's when I noticed that $180.00 was the sale price, meaning that full price was $360.00. Yikes!

I quietly put the shoe back and glanced around for something more "my style" (that's code for "I won't pay that for 2 pieces of cowhide" which I keep ready say to snotty sales clerks who work in stores like this). As I did, I overheard what the lady at the cash register was paying for a dress and a pair of silver shoes.

"That's $968.46 altogether" chirped the clerk. "On your VISA?"

The customer nodded and handed over her credit card, looking somewhat bored with the whole experience.

Almost $1000.00 for a party outfit. That's when I decided that I can likely get through another Christmas party season with my current black pumps and the innocuous black dress that hangs in my closet and collects dust between January 1 and December 1 each year. Most parties will be in fairly dark rooms, with guests drinking enough that they are unlikely to notice, and hey, if I feel like someone is pointing and laughing at my scuffed up shoes, then I'll drink enough that I won't notice. For the record, I should state that I can well afford new shoes, and I can even buy expensive silver ones if I want, but I am choosing not to do that.

For many, Christmas is not a time of celebration, but a time of despair. We are bombarded with messages about where to shop, what to buy, what we need . . . that we can only make our loved ones happy by purchasing just the right gift, and that gift is a new television, another computer, electronic games or expensive jewelery. This serves to make those who, for a variety of reasons, struggle just to feed, clothe and house themselves and their children that much more aware of the disparity between being a "have" and a "have not".

I'm not advocating the end of Christmas presents, nor do I mean to suggest that we could end poverty overnight. That said, I think that there are little things that each of us can do during this and other Christmas seasons that will make a difference for someone, somewhere and perhaps make a broader difference in the future:

• If you're in the market for a new party outfit, ask yourself if you can get by with what you wore last year and think about donating some or all of what you would have spent to a Christmas hamper program. You'd be surprised at the "Christmas" that a low-income single parent can put together for $300.00. A donation of $500.00 will provide food and gift hampers for two families. Can you imagine how many people would be fed if Paris Hilton donated her shopping budget for a single week?

• Do your kids go to school with kids whose parents struggle? Think about having your own kids invite them over to bake Christmas cookies. Homemade cookies are a treat, but buying the ingredients is expensive and not feasible for many low-income parents.

• Make a meal for a family dealing with illness or other trauma. If they have kids, arrange to take them out for pizza and a movie. If you know them well enough, take the kids overnight. That gives caregivers and the kids a break from the stress.

• Contact your local Salvation Army and volunteer your time to package and deliver Christmas hampers and/or serve Christmas dinner. Ask your family members to help.

• Spend $150.00 on decent soap, shampoo, toothpaste, toothbrushes and diapers, and give them to your local women's shelter.
  

• If your kids have outgrown their pajamas, see if your local hospital can use them. Where I live, kids from outlying regions often arrive in the local hospital with nothing. Portable DVD players, DVDs and Game Boys, can also help a sick child pass time during a hospital stay.

• Instead of a gift exchange at the office, pick a local charity and make a group donation.

These are just a few ideas. The common theme, obviously, is to think of others. Remember that the world will not change overnight, but baby steps lead to marathons. As someone wise once said, people will forget many things, but they will never forget how you made them feel.

And now, a Christmas song by Janet, compliments of my friend Megan, who never fails to warm my heart with her generosity and wit:

The Failed Mommies Club

While I was pregnant with Daniel, I would sit and think wistfully about all of the things my kids and I would - and wouldn't - do. The "would" list included reading lots of classic stories, quietly listening to good music, going for leisurely walks and exploring nature, baking cookies, eating together as a family, going to bed at the same time every night . . . all that good stuff. Of course, I would always be calm, never raising my voice, losing my temper or using phrases like "If you do X one more time, I'm going to kick your ass into tomorrow . . ."

Included on the "wouldn't" list were: placating the children in the check-out line up with chocolate bars, cooking separate meals for picky eaters, runny noses, knotted hair, dirty faces and watching television during meals. I was also going to avoid sarcasm, something that I have stuck to - sort of.

Needless to say, the list has been modified.

As it turns out, I am not June Cleaver. The kids eat Kraft Dinner at least once a week. I bribe them shamelessly with candy, pretty well anywhere, anytime. Excluding the "KD" nights, Janet wants pasta most evenings and, dammit, she gets it, regardless of what the rest of the family is eating. And when she is finished, she holds up her empty bowl and says "Can I have junk now?" I say yes, because I know it will motivate her to eat her dinner the next night.

They have been chewing bubble gum since the age of 1.

Daniel has a pierced ear and a fauxhawk.

They are avid Simpsons fans. During the first week of school this year, all the kids in Daniel's class drew a picture of a character from a book they read over the summer. Among others, Daniel had read a Simpsons comic book. He drew a picture of Homer Simpson, sitting on a couch, watching television, drinking a beer. He now has a gerbil named Homer.

Janet had a friend over on the weekend. I know her mother will not allow her to have gum.

I let them both have gum.

I have not threatened them with physical violence, but I did tell them one morning that winter gear not on their person in the next two minutes would have be donned outside on the deck, in the snow. (This proved to be motivating, but it made Daniel cry, and he told me after school that day that he was still angry at me).

It used to be in the back of my mind that perhaps I am too slack as a mother - that I should be working harder to ensure that my kids eat at the table, change their underwear every single day and go to bed on time. I was actually getting a bit obsessed about it, until a friend of mine - a fellow slacker, if I can call her that - told me about the Failed Mommies Club. It's a club exclusively for the harried moms of gum chewin', Simpsons watchin', KD-eatin', dirty-faced kids. There are all kinds of activities, such as how long you sit drinking tea with the other moms without saying anything or, apparently, noticing at all, that your kids have, say, stuffed an entire role of toilet paper down the toilet, and smeared toothpaste and shampoo all over the counter in the bathroom, while trying to make a "potion" (I'm very good at that game). Another favourite is letting your 4-year old daughter and her friend go hog wild and give themselves extreme makeovers with hair mousse and sparkle-y lipstick.

Despite my shortcomings, however, the kids have actually turned out pretty good so far. Daniel is polite, caring and studious. Janet can be a bit precocious, but she has a kind heart and a great sense of humour. They seem to be okay with store-bought cookies. The same can be said for my friends in the Failed Mommies Club and their kids.

So, maybe we're just imperfect mommies, not failed ones.

Warning: Some People are Stupid

The other day I received an order from an on line clothing store. There was not a great deal of packaging, but I found this inside a box that contained a pair of children's shoes:


I can only conclude that the company that sent me my order has been sued - successfully - by a plaintiff who, in a state of extreme hunger (and, perhaps, drunk, although that would not have been disclosed in the suit), confused the UPS guy with the pizza delivery guy and ate a cardboard box. His lawyers alleged, no doubt, that the company ought to have foreseen that the delivery would take place at night, when hunger pangs and judgment are at their very worst, making it likely that the plaintiff would eat the cardboard shoe box.

I speculate as well that the jury (it's an American company, so there was likely a jury on the case) saw some poor sap - one of their peers - having to sue a big, rich company that had made piles of money from people just like them, just to get the justice that he so obviously deserved.

In addition to the claim for pain and suffering that would have followed the ingestion of the box, which only money can compensate, there would be other damage claims, such as the claim to replace the plaintiff's toilet, which likely broke under the strain of a mass of soggy, yet undigested, cardboard.

I'm all for placing warning labels on things that are obvious dangers, such as bottles of bleach and paint thinner. Being a complete klutz, I also like being warned when a surface is slippery or wet. Generally speaking, however,I know that heavy objects can hurt me if they fall on my toe and that my tummy will hurt if I eat hand lotion, shampoo or ink. Because of some idiot, my favourite on line store has to place inane warning labels in boxes to advise people that they should not eat cardboard - either raw or cooked - and that cost is being passed on to me. One has to ask, where is the personal responsibility for stupid moves?

Hot Mama

I was painting the basement the other day and I was dressed for the part. I had on ill-fitting jeans, an old and fairly soiled sweatshirt, work socks and really ugly sandals. I also sported a cheap, old ball cap, adjusted a size too small, which caused my ears to stick out amongst the several greasy, straw-like clumps of hair. Just in time to compliment my just-fell-off-the-turnip-truck ensemble was another hormone-based breakout of pimples on my chin. I hadn't showered that morning, and while I think I brushed my teeth, I'm not really sure.

I came upstairs to get something and Arnold saw me. I may have imagined it, but I think he shuddered, ever so slightly.

"Just think", I said cheerfully. "When we retire you can see me like this every day!!"

He laughed, but it was a little bit nervous for my liking.

As I slapped lime green paint on the walls that afternoon, I wondered if, perhaps, I may be one of those women who, having snagged a man and roped him into joint debt, has let herself go.

I like to think that I haven't, but some of the signs of, let's say, a relaxed attitude towards my relationship have surfaced, particularly since the kids came along. I shave my legs on those rare days when I have the energy to do it in the morning and the bikini line is just a lost cause (I considered getting a swimsuit with a skirt, but I'm actually okay with the folks at the swimming pool thinking I'm an environmental activist). If I pass gas while we're sitting in the living room watching Law and Order, I don't blush and, in fact, rarely react at all. If they're around, I might even try and pin it on one of the kids. As for hair and make-up, I used to work very hard at achieving that "Ivory Girl" look - fresh, yet flawless. Now, I am just fresh and most obviously flawed.

Although I do not see Arnold letting himself go, I think I can attribute my attitude and inaction to how busy our lives have become. We both have demanding jobs and the kids are involved in a number of activities. If one of us has to travel or work over the weekend, it's brutal. On Sunday, I was flat out with skating, play dates, soccer and more play dates. I had a fun day, but I was wiped at the end of it and it occurred to me that tired mommies may, in fact, be the real driving force behind prostitution ("It's been a helluva week, honey. Why don't you stop and get something on the way home and we'll order pizza when you get here"). I have friends who have expressed similar thoughts. One good friend tells me that getting her in the "mood" used to entail hubby taking her for good food and wine. Now, he simply has to vacuum the entry way.

Okay - it's not that bad and, thankfully, I'm not at the point where my partner performing housework will drive me wild. I actually love my family life and feel blessed that I don't have to get gussied up to be loved as a mommy and partner every day. Arnold can still make me laugh and my grandmother once told me that is the most important thing you can hold onto.

Switched at Birth?

"Mama, when I grow up, I don't want to be a lawyer like you", Janet declared last night.

I smiled at her and conjured up my understanding mother tone.

"That's okay, honey. You can be whatever you want when you grow up. What do you want to be?"

She turned to me. She was not wide-eyed and awestruck by the revelation that she could be anything she wants to be - that the world is hers for the taking and that career opportunities are limitless.

"Nothing", she said. "I don't want to work, ever".

The generous side of me likes to think that Janet is gearing up to be a mom and a wife, and doesn't really understand that raising kids is work. The realist in me knows that she intends to be supported and treated like royalty. She is, after all, entitled.

I've known women with similar aspirations. Some of them had a solid plan for landing a breadwinner. I knew one young lady who refused to date anyone who was under a certain age, did not have a certain level of education and who did not have a certain level of income. The plan was designed not only to ensure that she didn't have to work, but that she didn't have to work and she would be rich. Her plan worked. She has several homes in warm places and an aging husband who is devoted to her. Oh, and although she works on herself, in terms of hair, skin and nails, she definitely does not have a job.

As for Janet, I know that we look alike, but I am wondering if somehow, there was a mix up at the hospital. If that's the case, the results of having her photograph age-enhanced would all make sense . . .

There Goes the Bride . . .

"Mama, I wish I could see you and daddy when you got married," Janet sighed wistfully, just before going to sleep the other night.

Without thinking, I replied "Well, maybe you can one day".

"Will you and daddy be in that room with the Mayor, reading you a story from that big book?"

I paused, unable to think of how to respond appropriately.

How odd, I thought, that she wouldn't have suggested that there be a big church ceremony. It wasn't even in the mix. As far as she's concerned, it's a civil ceremony all the way. I shouldn't be surprised. After all, despite the fact that both of her parents come from a long line of Catholics, she has never set foot in a church and has had no exposure to the formal teachings of Christianity, unless you count dancing along with me while I lip-synced the entire soundtrack from Jesus Christ, Superstar last Easter. She's never actually been to a wedding, likely because her own parents started the whole family thing a bit late.

How will I explain my relationship with her dad to her?

I was legally married once. Following a ceremony, conducted by a United Church minister, we jumped into the evening. There was a swing band, great food and free liquor - all the stuff you need to get you started on the right foot. Despite my sordid past, of which most of the guests were unaware, but which would have left many of them, particularly those from the groom's side, gasping had they known, I wore a white dress (okay, it was more of an ivory, but that doesn't mean anything).

The wedding was one heck of a party. The marriage, well, not so much. Indeed, I had my doubts going into it, but the invitations had gone out and I had picked out lots and lots of stuff at the various registries. Like most wise 22-year olds, I figured that everything would be all right. The groom would grow up and turn into Prince Charming, or at least someone who no longer embarrassed me at parties, at some point during the first year. (I have no doubt that he had similar, unexpressed, reservations).

For a variety of reasons, including immaturity, Nu Skin products and tomato aspic, things just didn't work out and the marriage ended. The dissolution was fairly painless. We had no kids and no property to speak of. I walked away with some debt, but it was manageable. I also walked away with some wisdom and a sense of what I need from that kind of a relationship that has stood me in good stead for many years. I know now that when you enter into a commitment of that magnitude, you need to accept not only your partner, but their family. Moreover, you have to be mature enough to accept that neither your partner, nor their family, are perfect. You and your family are likely far from perfect too, no matter how good you all look on paper, and you must accept that. I also came to realize how important it is not to lose your sense of who you are and where you fit in in the world.

Being married - and divorcing - also changed my mind about the institution of marriage and the value it holds for me. I still love weddings, and I think getting married is a fine way to express your commitment. Indeed, I live in what is a typical marriage - we have a minivan, a car, two kids and a house. We have debt. We share expenses and child care responsibilities. We cook together. From time to time, we argue. We support each other through difficult times. We introduce each other as "husband" and "wife" and we are as committed to each other and our family as we could possibly be. That said, neither one of us has a desire to actually marry. We're content the way things are.

When I was much younger, I asked a friend of mine why he and his partner had not ever married.

He said "I'm over 19, so I don't need my parents' permission; She and I are both lawyers, so we know we don't need the state's permission; and we're not religious, so we don't need God's permission".

I thought - and continue to think - that's a pretty good way of putting it.

And on that note, I will leave you with this little gem from Harry Enfield: