The end is nigh!

Well yes, of this blog - but more than that.

Emily is starting to make serious inquiries into the existence of Papa Noel, Father Christmas, Sinterklaus - you know - Santa.

Last week, she started telling me, yet again, how her classmates keep telling her that Santa is simply her parents putting gifts under the tree. She tells me these things to weigh my reaction against the knowledge that her peers are sharing.

I made my usual noises about it being too bad that those children don't believe in Santa and how I, certainly, do believe in Santa.

Her tone changed. She put her face close to mine.

"You don't think Moms and Dads put presents under the tree and pretend that Santa did it?"

She watched me struggle. I do not, as a general rule, LIE to Emily about things. She watched me search for a somewhat truthful answer to this fairly direct question. This is the best that I came up with:

"Does it matter?"

Her face was still and attentive.

"Yes", she said. "It matters."

"No", I said, "does it matter who puts the gifts there? The gifts are still there, right?"

I am starting to plead. She has me trapped and she can see it. I am avoiding the question because if she puts it directly TO me, I will have to answer it - and I desperately do  not want to answer this question.

Emily starts to cry. Quietly at first.

"B-but the Easter bunny and the tooth fairy and there'll be just no JOY left..." her sentences are jumbly and full of emotion - I am trying to soothe her
.

"Its all right to still believe in Santa sweetie - there is nothing babyish about believing in Santa."

She leans into me. She is not asking the question and I am not offering any concrete answers.

A few minutes pass and her crying subsides. I hold her, thinking of a way to fix this, and knowing that I can't really. She knows and she knows I know.  The apple has been bitten, the bridge has been crossed.

Finally, I offer this to her.

"Emily - when you really want to know - you ask me and I will tell you the truth. But only if you really want to know. Until then, you don't have to ask."

She lays in the arms, silent. I have admitted everything in those last words.

"When I really want to know - you'll tell me the truth?", she asks - looking at me, face to face.

"Yes, baby - I will", I murmured.

And like that, it was over.

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You mean every mother doesn't say this?

On Saturday, we had dinner with friends.

Towards the end, Joe introduced the "Gizzard Getter" and delighted- his daughter with the threat of his hooked fingers.

Emily turned to me and swooped in to poke me in the throat.

I was mid-eating and said:

"I will bite off those fingers and spit them back at you."

If I hadn't already gotten the boot, I might now

It is American Thanksgiving, and the delicious cream cheese and crackers I prepared and ate for my festive holiday meal truly hit the spot.

For in Montreal it is a Thursday. Like any other, except that it snowed and hailed today and even THAT isn't terribly unusual if you really think about it. I went to work, I went to class, I met with a student to discuss her final paper, I took a friend to the car dealership to pick up his repaired car, I came home and ate the aforementioned crackers.

I also thought.

I may have also considered and pondered a bit.

I read a few of the other ClubMom Bloggers to see where my neighbors are headed off to, how they are coping with the news. Moreena, who I don't know that well, but I am sure we would wave at each other in the neighborhood used a piece of a response that the ClubMom bloggers were given when we asked Why we weren't being moved over to CafeMom:

Moreena wrote:

"So just imagine the laugh I got at my own expense when I read this from one of ClubMom's corporate representatives about why the ClubMom blogs wouldn't be simply transferred over to CafeMom at the end of the year, when ClubMom shuts down:

"Part of the philosophy of CafeMom is that everyone is equal - there are no experts, nobody has special status, and nobody is paid for writing."

Ahem. This is the moment when I get up on my soapbox.

Last year I had a loud disagreement with a fellow graduate student when he suggested that I wasn't a "good" writer. His rationale? I "only" wrote a blog. The lowest form of writing in his opinion. The  proletarian form of writing which is occupied by anyone and everyone, and is generally ruled by the talentless.

I took exception with this.  I still do.

However, from my professional standpoint, I take much greater exception with the idea that we are ALL equals in every venue. I suppose that if I believed that my half-way done PhD in Early Childhood Education would be moot. I mean, why bother? We are all equal.

Doctors? Don't need 'em. I can give medical advice to another mother - I have had a child, and she is still alive - hasn't died from any major illness yet. This must qualify me as an equal to any pediatrician.

And Teaching? Oh Sally Jim, don't get me started about how much MORE I know than most teachers. I am teaching hopeful teachers at university. I know exactly how much more I know. I suppose I should counsel them to not bother their education or acquisition of expertise - for what could they know that other parents and mothers would know.

And now that I think of it - I also own a car. I bet I could fix my own brakes if I really thought about it and consulted with some friends. Anyone have some advice on that to share?

Yes, I am sounding bitter ( party of one!) - but I think Club Mom will be cutting off something special here when they close this Mom Blog venue down.

Paying Writers to write about their parenting experiences and expertise was not profitable for the Club Mom organization. I understand that. Getting free content is, well, Free. That is Always more profitable.

The bottom line, however is that the mothers who have been writing these blogs DO have expertise. Be it with parenting various ages, stages, disabilities,  single motherhood, cultural, racial or religious issues. We HAVE expertise.  YOU have expertise.

I do not buy the "we are all equal here" philosophy any more than I ever bought the "anyone can take care of kids" philosophy which is used to justify paying child care workers minimum wage.

And while I will continue to be grateful for the opportunity ClubMom has given me through their organization, I am compelled to call a cop-out answer when I see one.

And that answer stunk.

Smoke em if you got em

It wouldn't be the first time that it took me  while to clue into what is happening right in front of me.

Which is what has happened...again.

Apparently, ClubMom is closing it's doors, Mom Blogs included. While I had seen rumblings from other blogs, I had not heard myself, so I firmly enforced the "You don't know until you KNOW" rule.

Now, however, I know.

In the larger scheme of things, these endings are inevitable. This, as we know, does not make them less yuckky.

I have not decided what to do with the content of this blog - if I can fold it into Balefulregards or not. I am not the most internet savvy individual, so it will take some time for me to figure it out what the heck I am doing.

But thanks, Club Mom. You were the first "entity" to make me a paid writer - the first to give me a clue that my writing was Good, like PAYABLE good and I thank you.  Furthermore, I was always shocked that I made it into the first round draft of paid Mom bloggers. You took a chance on a newish blogger who talked about all the things moms aren't supposed to talk about - things Moms aren't even supposed to THINK let alone release into the wild of the internet. Kudos to you Club Mom.

For those of you who don't know, I will remain on my Home Blog - "I am Doing the Best I Can".

Seeing as I am only half way through my PhD, still speak almost no French and remain as crazy as ever I believe that the magic will still continue in that venue. (Now with more Magic Craziness!!)

I will also be continuing to wrangle the circus at True Wife Confessions ( the original - accept no substitutions as in other sites with very similar names)

and the other, Not safe for work or viewing with/by and or of small children site which shall not be named here.

So, find me there all you readers who are standing at the ready with free lance writing jobs that you are dying to sign me to life long contracts for billions and billions of dollars.

Or even those who just enjoy my quirky outlook on parenting, children and life.

But I won't turn down the contracts or nothing. I'm not THAT crazy!

State of Fear

Since September, I have been the Teaching Assistant in an undergraduate class focusing on children's literature.

Some, but not all, of these students are Education majors, training to become teachers.

We spend lots, LOTS of time talking about what is "appropriate" for children. Is this an "appropriate" book? Is this an "appropriate" topic?

Mysteriously to me, lots of students tell me that topics such as depression and death and fear and violence...Not appropriate. Issues of racism, or classism, or gendered discrimination? Not appropriate.

Perhaps because I have spent so many years in the presence of children that I am intimately aware of their resilience. Furthermore, I know that this resilience is not borne of ignorance. The children who are resilient are those who have a way of making sense of the world in which they live. This world is often confusing and scary and really quite terrible.

I have talked with children who have seen their mother and/or father arrested the night before for substance or domestic violence issues. They need an adult to help them make sense of the things they KNOW. 

I have talked with children who have been abused by their adults, and who need to both tell you what has happened to them while maintaining their natural protection of the people they love. The need to tell and to protect is bound up together. Push too hard one way or the other and this child can stop talking forever.

I have talked to children whose parents have profound mental health issues, including my own daughter. Ask Emily if she knows what depression is, and she will tell you in graphic detail what it looks like up close and personal. The discussion of deep sadness will do nothing to her but confirm what she KNOWS. So how do I tell these future teachers that the children in their classrooms will know far more than any of them can ever imagine? That their worries about "appropriate" material will seem remote to the life experiences of their future students. That any adult who is worrying about "appropriate" will not seem a safe adult with whom to discuss the heavy issues of life.

Sadly - and perhaps oddly liberating - is the realization that when we stop protecting children from the knowledge of what we do as adults, we can become trustworthy and safe.