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So, Sophie Grégoire-Trudeau needs more staff to take care of her three young children while she gallivants around, working for charities that tackle issues like eating disorders, domestic abuse, at-risk mothers, and global poverty while also serving as the wife of the Prime Minister in a public and ambassadorial role.

We’re all busy, Sophie! Why can’t you do what the rest of us do and suck it up? I know women who work two jobs and leave their kids with the old lady down the street who lets them watch TV all day and feeds them nothing but Nutella and Lipton Noodle soup. Oh no, wait, that’s a repressed memory from my own childhood. Well, I know professional women with demanding careers who completely overwork their nannies, making them care for the children day and night and keep on top of the housework. Or some of us take our own parents for granted, leaving our kids with their aging grandparents, day in and day out. How about that, huh? It’s not unheard of to just leave the kids at home with their tween sibling and a Netflix account, either. Isn’t that why they invented the microwave?

I’m not saying you’re being unreasonable, I’m just saying: Why don’t you do what I do?

Like yesterday, for example.

7 – 8 a.m. A frantic flurry of getting the kids up, dressed, fed, lunches packed, hair re-braided, and off to school.

8 – 9 a.m. Guzzle coffee, catch up on emails, social media, news.

9 – 10 a.m. Shower, including washing my hair and combing it out for lice and/or nits because that’s been going around the kindergarten class and I simply WILL NOT have that, so the new policy is everyone gets combed out on weekly basis until further notice, lice or no lice. I also shaved my legs even though it’s not my anniversary and rummaged for clean and presentable clothes, did my makeup and packed a work bag.

10 a.m. – 12:30 p.m. Drive all the way across town for a quick-but-useful work-related event and then all the way back again.

12:30 – 1 p.m. Drop by the school to pick up and pay for the kindergarten painting I bid for at the school art gallery/silent action. Seriously? Nobody else wanted to bid on it? I can hardly believe my good luck.

1 – 3 p.m. Hastily write this blog post, publish and share it as I dash out the door with a typo (since corrected) in the title again.

3 – 7 p.m. Assorted parenting: pick up the kids, bring them home, feed and water them, homework, piano practice, chop! chop! chop!, dinner prep, chop! chop! chop!, feed them for bazillionth time, tag in the hubs and rush out the door to get a kid to tutoring.

7 – 8 p.m. Bliss! Hang out at a coffee shop while the kid’s at tutoring. Okay, fine, I sketched out the outline for this blog post during that time.

8 – god only knows, was it 11 p.m.? Bed time. Really, more snacks? Wtf, kids. Bedtime, I mean it this time. Clean the kitchen, lunch and breakfast prep, throw some clothes in the washer but forget to move them in the dryer to make tomorrow extra special, generally burn out and then lie in bed tossing and turning because apparently this is what happens now.

Of course, here’s what I didn’t get around to doing: 

• Any work on personal, long-term projects
• Pitching stories so I can continue to have a stream of paid work
• Long over-due invoicing and assorted admin work
• Catching up on dozens of semi-finished blog posts I have in the works
• Any housework beyond the kitchen
• Decluttering my office and the rest of the house (Bahahaha, I need to do this so bad but it can never be the priority.)

But, it’s okay! Because I can suck it up like everyone else. I hear if you wake up at 5am, you can squeeze a few more tasks into the day. I’m gonna try that!

What’s wrong, SGT, are you too good to wake up at 5am?

Okay, never mind. I’m hearing that she’s expected to have clean hair, shaved legs, and makeup on every day. Holy crap. Get this woman some more staff.

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Here’s another milestone for you. Forget walking, talking, toilet training, or kindergarten; nothing is quite so satisfying as when your littlest child first dons a t-shirt that hangs down past her knees and becomes part of a sports team.

Was I proud of how she ran up to join the rest of the group? Of how she ran all the way to the back fence to field a ball and then tried to throw it in, the ball soaring a full four feet from where she stood, hitting the ground and coming to a dribbling stop?  Of how she only lay down in the grass and looked at the clouds once during the entire session?

Sure, I guess. I mean, she was mighty cute.

But the key milestone moment here — and the only reason I am even able to recall such sweet details from her “game” — is that for the first time EVER, I didn’t have to chase a small child around on the sidelines. That’s right, I was able to sit back and give the child on the field my undivided attention. (All right, fine. I could have given her my undivided attention if I wanted to. As it happened, I found dividing my attention between the playing field and my phone was sufficiently loving.)

It has been seven years, guys. I’ve put in seven years of trying to cheer on one kid standing in the outfield while keeping a toddler from falling off the top of the bleachers. I’ve chased runaway two-year-olds up and down snowbanks and through fields of dandelions. I’ve stopped to cheer on a t-ball at bat only to find a preschooler climbing a tree and the baby in a mud puddle.

I’ve missed singles, doubles, runs scored, and plays made. I’ve been that mom who shows up halfway through the first inning, screwing up the entire batting line-up for the game, because the chicken fingers took longer to cook than I expected, the baby had a blow out, and the preschooler didn’t want to wear shoes.

But not this year, my friends. Not. This. Year.

Well, not on Wednesday nights when it’s the four-year-old’s turn to take to the field anyway. It’s just me and her. Oh yeah, the ten-year-old’s around here somewhere, too, but I’m 75% sure he’s not going to run out into traffic.

And even when it’s not the little one’s turn to play, things are much, MUCH calmer than they used to be.

“I’m so loaded down with samples and gift ideas right now,” I said to my friend, “It’s Mother’s Day season.”

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Who are you recommending these gifts for? Your readers are mostly moms. Oh! It’s what we should buy for our own moms!”

*blink*

*blink blink blink*

All these years of mom blogging and I’d never actually thought of that. Who are these gifts supposed to be for? I guess these are often supposed to be gift ideas we can ask for. You know, when you subtly text your husband the link to this post and say, “No 4 plz. One more apron and I will hang myself with it.”

But she’s right. I should be writing Mother’s Day gift guides for men’s magazines! (Remind me to pitch that next year.) In the meantime, we do have our own mothers, mothers-in-law, sisters-who-are-moms, and friends-who-are-moms who we also want to recognize.

And remember, as much as you love glitter-covered macaroni necklaces WITH ALL YOUR HEART, Mother’s Day can often be a whirlwind of burnt toast (THIS is why we’re supposed to teach them to cook!), papier-mâché … birds? is that a bird?, visits to the in-laws, over-crowded restaurants AND a few loads of laundry because, well, it’s still Sunday night. So it’s completely legit to buy yourself a little something too.

Here are my top picks:

For your own mom:

Let a cherished family recipe take place of pride with these custom decorative cutting boards from Canadian Etsy seller Elk & Elm Home. They’re perfect for hanging or leaning against a wall and, of course, for handing down to the next generation.

For the brand new mom:

When you’re caring for a newborn, you consider yourself lucky if you can find time for a shower in any given day. Forget about cleaning the house. Hiring a service for a one-time deep clean might possibly the best present for any mom, especially one with a newborn under her care. Bonus points for using a service that specializes in eco-friendly cleaning services.

For the mom friend who has it all:

Nobody needs another box of chocolate or bunch of variety store flowers. Your mom friend who is pretty much set, will appreciate it more if you spend that money on mothers and babies who truly need the help. You can spend as little as $18 on a Unicef Survival Gift that will make a real difference for moms and children around the world. And it comes with a card!

For yourself:

To be honest, the gift sample I have been enjoying the most is nothing super fancy. It’s this ingenious one-piece headband/bandanna/scarf/hood and more. (They say it can be a tube top, too, but I’m not going test that one out personally.) The Tillie head covering is made from a seamless piece of breathable, moisture-wicking fabric that comes in a variety of prints adorned with fun and inspirational quotes. And, most importantly, it stays put! It’s become my go-to bad hair day saviour.

 

 

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Should parents be allowed to opt out of modern medicine?

Earlier this week, a Lethbridge, Alberta jury found David and Collet Stephan guilty of “failing to provide the necessaries of life” for doing just that. Their one-and-a-half-year-old son, Ezekiel, died of bacterial meningitis in 2012 after his parents treated him with home remedies and naturopathic medicine. The Stephans also own a nutritional supplement business and use naturopathic medicine.

We’ve seen this question before.

Jehovah’s Witnesses follow a Biblical interpretation that prohibits blood transfusions. An American-born sect called Christian Science rejects invasive modern medical interventions and instead preaches reliance on prayer and “right thinking.” These are just a couple prominent examples.

For the most part, these anti-establishment blips on the radar of mainstream society go altogether unnoticed. The obtuse moral compass of outlying sects are hardly worth the trouble of trying to unravel for most of us. But every once in a while a child is endangered when her parents don’t consent to a life-saving blood transfusion. Or a child raised within Christian Science dies from a treatable illness after suffering for months.

Then, suddenly, the rest of us sit up straight for moment and we say, “Hold up. Can they do that? Should we even allow them to do that?”

And the law isn’t clear. Some cases are prosecuted while other aren’t. Sometimes medical treatment is court ordered and other times the authorities don’t step in until it is too late. The allowance for religious exemptions from our obligation to provide basic medical care for our children varies from country to country and from state to state.

Increasingly, however, we’re seeing another kind of abstainer from modern medicine. Their objections are not rooted in scripture a doctrine of faith, though. They are, rather, devotees of schools of natural or alternative medicines that reject much of modern medicine. Their natural habitats include artist’s communes and small islands off the coast of British Columbia. You can sometimes spot them on trips to your local community garden or at an outdoor folk festival.

And, hey, sometimes this alternative medicine and natural lifestyle stuff gets trendy. Like when health and wellness stores start popping up next to Starbucks and your mother-in-law offers to refer you to her naturopath. We saw this trend take an alarming turn when parents began to withhold vaccinations in significant enough numbers to allow for the resurgence of measles and whooping cough in certain communities. Last year I interviewed several parents who opted out of vaccinating their children and explored some of the reasons for their choices.

I said it then, and I still maintain, that it is dangerous when ideas that undermine science and reasoning gain popularity. Most of us simply aren’t equipped with enough information to be able to decipher studies and raw data for ourselves. It’s can be hard to tell the pseudoscience from the real stuff. So we need to keep talking about it. The mainstream media has to continue to debunk false psuedoscience wherever it rears it’s head and public health policies should absolutely enforce rules like mandatory vaccinations in public schools.

But, of course, it’s not that easy.

I also think we need to allow for dissenting fringe opinions. We can’t dictate the values and principles by which people decide to live their lives. Nor do we actually want everyone worshiping at the alter of consumerism, modern science, and the church of Pfizer. The rights of people living according to an alternative value systems, be they hippies or libertarians, need to be protected just as much as those of different faiths and cultural backgrounds.

And a dedication to alternative medicine can be as legitimate a reason for eschewing modern medicine as any other religious belief. For some people, the commitment to alternative medicine is not simply a lifestyle choice — a stop at Noah’s Natural Foods between yoga class and a day at the office — but instead constitutes a set of values that permeate and guide their entire life.

Religious freedom isn’t just about our right to worship (or not) for an hour a week. It’s about our rights to live our daily lives and raise our families according to our own beliefs.

So do I think David and Collet Stephan were wrong not to bring their son to a hospital before it was too late? I do. Do I subscribe to their naturopathic brand of health care? I do not. Do I think this case should serve as a warning to others about the limits of natural remedies? I sure as fuck do.

But do I think their behaviour was criminal? No, I don’t.

By all accounts, these are loving parents who were caring for their son according to the same principles they lived their lives. It is a horrible tragedy that this young boy has died and I’m sure these parents are torn apart. They have already lost their youngest son. I’m not sure any good is being served by giving them jail time and having the rest of their family torn apart. (Although I do agree that the naturopath who treated the boy should be charged.)

I was reading about cases of children who suffered or died because of their parents’ conscientious or religious objections to medical intervention while I was mulling this case over. And it is the stuff of pure heartache. While we need to take democratic principles like religious and moral freedom very seriously, how can you balance that or any principle against the life of a child? You know what, you can’t.

So I think we need to allow authorities to intervene and order medical treatment in some cases, possibly even taking temporary custody of the child away from the parents when necessary. But that does not mean the parents themselves are criminal. In cases where the parents have otherwise proven to be loving providers, the loss of their child is punishment enough.

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The truth is I don’t know what I would do.

But this is a reality for families living in Châteauguay, Quebec, a suburb of Montreal. The news broke earlier this week that Karla Homolka has been living in the Quebec community under the name Leanne Bordelais with her three school-age children. Parents from the community are outraged, and perhaps understandably so.

When you Google Karla Homolka, the Wikipedia entry under her name has the subtitle “Serial Killer” because that is what she is. The husband-wife team of Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka dominated the headlines here in southern Ontario (and made international media waves as well) in the early 90s. The details of their crimes  — the rape and murder of at least three teenage girls, including Homolka’s very own sister — and the subsequent trial was reported widely. Anyone in Canada who is old enough to remember feels a mixture of disgust and horror at the mention of either of their names.

While Paul Bernardo will likely remain in prison for the rest of his life, Homolka struck a plea bargain with the crown prosecutors and was sentenced to a mere 12 years in exchange for testifying against Bernardo. Video evidence came to light later that showed Homolka was not the victim she claimed to be and that she played an active role in the rapes and murders. The media then dubbed the crown’s plea bargain the “Deal with the Devil.” Also note that while Bernardo was already a serial rapist (the Scarborough Rapist those of us living in Toronto will remember), he didn’t kill anyone until he teamed up with Homolka.

So in 2005, after serving 12 years, Homolka was released from prison. She was 35 years old. She married her attorney’s brother and had a baby in 2007. I had my first baby in 2006 and I have to marvel at the parallels. When my son was born I felt like I still had my whole life ahead of me. Karla Homolka was released from prison with her whole life ahead of her.

So now Homolka has had three children in total, living under various pseudonyms, and moving from one place to another whenever the media track her down. Parents from the community where she is now living are livid. Here are some samples of quotes from this Montreal Gazette article:  “A child should not have to pay for a parent’s crime, but that’s unfortunately what will happen.” “I’d like parents to step up and make a stink.” “I don’t deserve to be uncomfortable sending my kids to school. People like that don’t deserve second chances.” “I know her kids have got a right … but not in our neighbourhood.”

And, man, isn’t that harsh for the kids? Despite their mother’s vile past, they still have the right to go to school and live without constant harassment. My fellow Toronto blogger and mom of three, Kat Armstrong, says, “Even if she is a monster, her kids don’t know that and they love her.” Armstrong thinks it’s the kids who will wind up being punished. “To be honest, whether I agree or not with her choice to procreate, anything that happens will be punitive against her children and not her necessarily. I would allow her kids to play with mine. I would not allow her to drop them off at my house, however.”

On the one hand, I agree with Kat. On the other, my gut tells me to keep my kids far away from that woman, and I can’t blame parents for trying to do just that.

It’s a miserable situation for those children, to be sure. But the root of the problem is really that their mom is a serial killer. That seriously sucks for them. At some point, they’re going to figure that out and that’s got to mess a person up, like, big time.

In the meantime, I guess they’ll move again. They can’t stay where they are. Should the media hunt Homolka down again? Do we have the right to keep tabs on her? I honestly don’t know. On the one hand, as long as she isn’t in jail, doesn’t that have to include the right to live freely? On the other, I would definitely want to know if she was living in my community and perhaps the media are doing a service by outing her.

What do you think?

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They say if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Or — in my case — if you can no longer enter an entire room in your house, clean it the eff up.

I was trying to get to the washing machine late last night with (yet another) set of vomit-soiled sheets when I stubbed my toe on a box of summer hats. And because I am brimful of zen-like patience and serenity, I tried to kick the box across the room but it was wedged between a hockey bag AND a t-ball tee, so I just wound up stubbing my toe again.

Note, dear friends and readers, that this is NOT EVEN the room I cannot enter. Our washer and dryer are in a dilapidated back mud room/addition which serves as a drop-off area for everything that enters the house. So it’s going to get cluttered pretty much every day. Of course, it doesn’t help that last week it was snowing and this week was over 20°C and sunny and we are both winding down the hockey season and gearing up for baseball so I have snow pants, boots, mitts, toques, baseball caps, sunglasses, hockey bags, baseball bats, cleats, and skates for a family of five jammed into a drafty ten by ten foot room.

No, the straw that broke this camel’s back was what happened when I decided to move some winter coats down to a basement closet. I couldn’t reach the closet; I couldn’t even enter the room that contains the closet. There were piles of toys upon Legos upon stray craft supplies and missing board game pieces. There were sports cards and Barbie shoes and ground in PlayDoh bits. Beyond that, Christmas wrapping paper had been unraveled and left in a heap upon the floor. Sleeping bags were unrolled and a coffee table was literally overturned.

The truth is while I’ve avoided this room for months, the children have clearly been having a field day. I’m sure this all reflects poorly on me. What kind of a parent lets their children destroy the house like that? Don’t I know it’s my responsibility to teach them to pick up after themselves? There needs to be consequences! I know, I know.

All I can say in my defense is that you should see my kids play. When I say enough with the screens, go entertain yourselves, they launch into complex narrative webs that span all three floors of the house and involve countless toys and props. They drag things out and really, really play with them. They write plays and then act them out. They create endless piles of crafts and collect bits and pieces of little treasures. So at the end of the day, when it’s time for bed, or when we’re trying to make it to some practice or another, it’s really an overwhelming mess — for anyone, let alone kids.

While they’re creating these messes, I’m probably scrambling to finish some work, cooking a meal from scratch, cleaning the kitchen, overseeing homework, folding laundry, or some combination of those things. I’m not entirely negligent, is my point. And it has gotten better. This is a room in the basement and not the entire main floor. You should have seen the place when I worked from home with three kids who didn’t go to school all day.

Of course, all the excuses and explanations in the world still don’t help me get to that closet so I can put the bloody winter gear away, do they? And, no, it’s not just that room in the basement. My office is a disaster. All the closets are disorganized heaps. God even knows what’s under the beds.

So, I started in on the basement room yesterday. I knelt down in the doorway with a plastic garbage bag and sorted through the debris until I could at least enter the room. I had to stop, though, in order to cook dinner, feed people, clean up after dinner, bathe a child, fold some laundry, and then (surprise!) deal with a puke-y kindergartner. So I still can’t get to that closet.

But I’ve got a solution. All I have to do is get really, really into housekeeping. Like, maybe it’s not the time-consuming chore that is keeping me from actually living my life like I’ve always thought. Maybe it’s really the satisfying and enriching practice of providing a clean and orderly home for yourself and your loved ones. Hey, it’s possible!

So instead of gritting my teeth, rolling up my sleeves, and tackling messes only when absolutely necessary, I will embrace a varied and interesting housekeeping routine. I will look forward to the day’s task. I will trade in my evening tv shows for another pass on the bathroom floor. I will smile, my heart filled with love, as I collect my beloved children’s socks from beneath the couch. I will live a life of writing and cooking and cleaning, rinse and repeat as necessary.

There will be no greater joy than organizing my linen closet. If I say it enough, it will be true.

Shh …

And, well, if that doesn’t work out, there’s always rage yoga.

It’s becoming a spring tradition, and one my family looks forward to every year.

The TIFF digiPlaySpace is an interactive, digital exhibit just for kids. Imagine a huge room with the most fun, educational, state-of-the art video games. Except one massive wall is made up entirely of a vibrant screen and children are jumping up and down in front of it, creating bursts of colour and movement on the screen. On another wall is a green screen where kids get to see themselves living among dinosaurs or riding roller coasters. Turn the corner and there are children making stop motion animations of themselves running for their lives, kids sculpting mountains out of kinetic sand, robotics, virtual reality, and more.

Touch the screen and watch the colours explode.

The harder you move, the better the effects.

Ready, set, green screen.

Yeah, well, the moon’s pretty cool, I guess.

Topographical light displays meet kinetic sand.
I couldn’t pry my four-year-old away.

Mad ball handling skills in progress courtesy of stop motion animation.

This is the fifth year TIFF has put on the digiPlaySpace exhibition and, I swear, it’s the best year yet. Head over to the TIFF site to book your time slot and buy your tickets in advance. Tickets are $10 each or (and this is what I would totally do) you can buy film and PlaySpace combos for $15 per kid and $20 adult that also let you screen a TIFF children’s film.

The digiPlaySpace and TIFF Kids International Film Festival are only on until April 24. So if you have any downtime at all in the next two weekends, I’d highly recommend it.

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This past couple months have been awful for sicknesses around here. It seems like everyone I know has had various bugs and viruses run through their homes, one after another. I don’t think I’ve had a week without at least one child staying home from school for a day or two in over two months.

Early spring often seems to brings out the germs. And every year I hear complaints from parents online and in person about people sending their kids to school sick and spreading the sicknesses. I’ve even received notes home from teachers reminding parents to keep kids home if they are sick.

Even more heartbreaking this year, is that I’ve heard of a couple mothers who passed away after suffering from complications related to the flu. My heart goes out to those families and, on a more selfish level, it reminds me to prioritize my own health as well.

But, honestly, it’s not that easy to just “keep your kids home if they’re sick.”

If my child has a fever, has thrown up in the past 24 hours, seems lethargic, or tells me they are feeling sick, sure, I keep them home. But what if they have a niggling cough or a runny nose? My four-year-old is the kind of kid whose nose runs for weeks on end every winter. It just does. If I kept her home whenever she had signs of a cold, she’d miss months and months of school.

And when are we supposed to do these daily health assessments? Each morning is a flurry of cajoling sleepy kids out of their beds, convincing them to get dressed, making them breakfasts and lunches, and hurrying everyone out the door. Every day, I ask my four-year-old: “How do you feel? Are you sick?” And every day she blows her nose, and tells me she feels fine. My ten-year-old has complained of stomach aches, only to spend the day watching TV and asking what’s for lunch.

Parents are making these calls on the fly, as they try to get busy families out the door, weighing their own work priorities and their kids school commitments against the level of sickness they detect. Is there an important meeting? Is it exam time? How many days have you already missed? Does the child likely have a more serious contagious illness like strep throat or the stomach flu or is just a cold? And, honestly, if your child already has that cold, hasn’t it already been spread around the class?

I don’t know!

This is all to say that I have mostly been feeling guilty every single day for months. If I keep one kid home, but send his sisters to school because they’re fine, might they possibly be contagious even if they’re not yet sick? But often they don’t get that illness at all! If my kids seems fine in the morning, but tired in the evening, were they sick? Or just tired? And those days when I do keep them home, or if I’m sick myself, (which has been a lot!) are days I hardly get any work done.

So I guess my general point is that in the absence of clear signs of abuse and neglect, maybe we can just trust that parents are doing their best. Don’t send notes home reminding parents to keep sick kids home. Don’t post inflammatory comments on social media scolding parents for spreading viruses. Because I really can’t take much more guilt.

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Do you know how hard it is to take drywall plaster off school uniform pants?

Let me start at the beginning. It was a bright and shiny August day and the good people at Old Navy sent me an email to remind me to put in an order for school uniform clothes. They even offered me a nice-sounding discount and waived the shipping charge. So I poured myself a beer, got out my trusty, old credit card, and dove in.

My son wears the same thing to school, day in and day out. A navy blue polo shirt and navy blue pants. I keep his drawer stocked with these and getting dressed is a breeze. My oldest daughter, on the other hand, likes to make things difficult. This dress, but these leggings and not those tights and this sweater, but not that one and whatareyoutalkingabout, those pants are BOYSIE. I WON’T WEAR BOYSIE CLOTHES. You can imagine all the boys’ clothes, like pants, that I was trying to foist upon her.

But I could dream, couldn’t I? So when I saw the slim-fitting, girls navy blue school pants, I imagined a winter where two of my children could pull out the same pair of school pants and shirt everyday and all I would have to do is wave them off in the morning.* It didn’t matter that those slim-fitting pants were almost twice as much as the marked-down boot cut style we had last year. Hell, they could have been three times as much. I was drunk on the fantasy of easy mornings and I was going to have those pants.

So I ordered one pair because I am also not a complete fool and I know my daughter.

And you’ll never guess. Yes, she refused to wear them. Every couple months I’d pull them out and it would trigger insta-hysterics. “I HATE THOSE PANTS!” “But did you see-” “THOSE ARE BIG, FAT, UGLY PANTS!” “They say right here, sli-” “I WON’T WEAR THEM! I WON’T! NO, NO, NO, NEVER!!!!” Until I just slide them back into the drawer and grasp around trying to figure out an acceptable combination of leggings/skirts/t-shirts/sweaters that would both keep to the dress code and keep her warm.

That is, until yesterday.

Yesterday all the pieces finally fell together. My daughter looked at the pants I laid out, shrugged, and said, “Alright, I’ll try them.” The heavens parted, a chorus of angels sang, and the morning was lit with a warm, golden glow.

She came down for breakfast and said, “I think I like these. They’re the same ones M— wears.” I kissed all my children and waved them off .*

I passed the next several hours in tranquil bliss, the bane of my existence having been lifted.

One by one, the kids clambered off the school bus that afternoon and greeted me with their own peculiar expressions of love, respect, and gratitude.

“I’m hungry!” “Here. Hold my backpack.” “Why did you give me tuna? I told you I don’t like tuna.”

Aw, such sweeties. It was good to have them back.

Then, on the walk home, my daughter excitedly told me about the art project she worked on for much of the day. They were building a structure or something … I’m not exactly sure because when I stepped back to admire how smart she looked in her coat, boots, and slim-fitting school pants, I was distracted by several bright white stains that dripped down an entire leg.

“What’s on your pants?”

“Oh, mom. I’m sorry. I tried so hard to be careful because we were told it wouldn’t wash off. It’s drywall? Something? And I didn’t get any on my shirt!”

The sky darkened; the angels packed up their harps and slammed their bedroom doors.

“What? What! WHAT?! Drywall plaster? You were using drywall plaster at school on the ONE DAY you finally decided to wear those BRAND NEW pants?”

And then I really lost it.

“I can’t believe they would give that to you. They make you wear a freaking school uniform! THEY KNEW IT WOULDN’T WASH OFF. I could have sent extra clothes. God, any other day and you’d be wearing worn out leggings anyway. AAAAHHH!!”

My poor little girl looked so sad. Crap. It wasn’t her fault.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s not your fault. It’s only pants. It’s just that they were basically BRAND NEW. And I can’t BELIEVE …”

And I was off again, riding a seesaw of rage and remorse, vacillating between how I felt and how I wanted to feel. Because I’m not the mom who cares if the kids’ clothes get dirty or stained or worn out or torn. I’m not! Any other pants, I swear, would have been no big deal. And I love that her teacher embraces all kinds of crazy art projects and engages them in ways that no other teacher does. I KNOW that is way more valuable in the long run than a teacher who is worried about staining their clothes.

But those pants!

So I googled, and I soaked, and I took a plastic knife, a plastic scouring brush, a toothpick and my fingernails to task. I was actually able to scrape off almost all of the plaster. The only stain that remains is a whiteish smear right above the knee where she had rubbed the plaster deeper into the fabric in an effort to wipe it off herself at school.

It looks like she spilled some yogurt on her pants at breakfast and then I hastily wiped it up with a paper towel on the way out the door. You know, hypothetically. And, well, that’s going to have to be good enough.

Because, by god, those yogurt pants are getting worn again.

* By “wave them off in the morning,” I do mean make them breakfast, frantically scavenge for lunches, break open piggy banks for bake sale money, search for lost library books, sign permission forms a week late, wrestle them into snow pants, scream about lost mittens, and then haul ass to the school bus stop, of course.