Hands

February tribute.
In May, there will be a smile post.

My Place

My role as a step-mom is under constant revision but I had the ultimate revelation this morning. See being a woman with no bairns of my own, I have only theories. Some are very good but many conflict with reality. Also, my newly acquired short-ones have four parents -- two they love and two they tolerate, playing off of fears and issues that this situation creates. It's so much fun I could sniff an onion.

So here it is World! Here is the answer to pie: I'm not a parent. Nope. I'm their friend. We know each other because we all three love a mutual person. As a friend, I can listen to their concerns. We can squeal as we race around the living room in strange versions of tag with rules ala Calvin. We'll build forts and watch scary movies. We'll apply zombie make-up to each others' faces for Halloween. 

Hey wait - that's what we already do.

When they're at our house, they'll follow their father's parent-type rules with parent-like consequences. My rules are for all guests in my home. So I'll be me and ask for please and thank you. I'll be me and prefer tidiness and books to chaos and video games. 

Repeat -- I am not a parent. I am an intruder with good itentions and taking off the pressure to make the children accept a fourth parent could clear the way to fewer tug-o-wars with Dad as the rope. 

One of Those Mondays

If you can spare a positive thought for me and mine, we'd appreciate it. Hubs and I are under a thick, putrid cloud of negativity (due to an outside force and not internal demons). It's trying to occupy our thoughts like a window breaking, bloody nose delivering mob calling itself a peaceful assembly.

My solace (other than my loving husband) is hard work. I'll be tearing through revisions this week. I need something to do. 

But it's a hard time to believe in our dreams -- to push through not worrying about when things will improve and just accept life will change with hard work. Sometimes being an adult means making sacrifices. It's tough knowing how long to hold on to hope and when to accept setting aside dreams. 

Ten years ago I was at another emotionally terrifying time. My father had just died from cancer nine months after detection (he was a paragon of health prior) and I was let go from my job due to the affects of recession. I hid from my pain by planning a wedding and working toward my MFA. Most of my classes were completed but I was denied formal admittance into the program. I applied a second time with a much better thesis proposal in the Spring of 2004. Unfortunately, before the decision was rendered by the school my (ex) husband's job required us to move. I let our need for his job persuade me that I couldn't wait for the school's decision. After we moved from Boston to California, I was accepted into the MFA program. I had three courses left but I didn't finish my degree. At the time I made peace with it. It's taken years to see that I didn't fight hard enough. I let fear, fatigue, and a general desire to avoid difficulty control my future.

This time my dreams, our dreams, are jeopardized by legal issues. The word "fair" (wholly abused) is battering us like a police baton. "Fair" doesn't exist anymore. It's mutated and obscene. It's stripped of its superficially pure objective. Fair is a word I do not like. 

But so far we haven't retaliated. We've maintained our dignity when it counted (cursing, as is only natural, in private). And I choose to believe that I'm being tested. If I turn away again, take the easy out, it will be my fault. Trick me once and all.

Vacant Uterus

There are dozens of reasons why I never had children. At one point, I even convinced myself I didn't really like them. That was an excuse I indulged primarily in the company of a former friend. She called all children parasites.  

But the fact is, there's only one reason. My Women Studies minor may get revoked but I don't give a flying cow patty. If I can't work from home, I'm not having a baby. Period. End of story.

I've hid behind money concerns. I even believed that excuse but now I believe those who look at me with pity and say, "You can't plan children." Money is just a threat used by fear.

I've punched invisible assailants with "I'm too selfish and don't want to give up my life." There could be a kernel of truth in that statement but the fact is, I've uprooted and rerouted my life on at least five occasions. I'm fearless in that arena. 

It comes back to one important point. I have to work from home. People figure out how to do it all the time. Because I didn't, I took it to mean I didn't want children. So much for being fearless.

Working from home is desirable on its own merits but the real why is the crux of the story. At seven years old I hated my mother working. HATED IT. I had her for four years solid. She studied in the kitchen, finishing her college education by correspondence in the 1970s. Yes, my mom rocks.

I played quietly in the kitchen just to be near her. I was good at being quiet and self-entertained. It's this imagination thing. I played in my brain a lot as a kid. The playground was awesome. I could transform basement stairs into an RV and go anywhere.

Apparently, my mom was an aid in my kindergarten class. I've racked my brain and think she's making it up. There were two ladies, not three, and my mom wasn't one of them. But then again, maybe that's why kindergarten wasn't scary to the shyest child on the planet. That's when I began to draw. I remember flipping over my daily letter page, alphabet practice, and tracing the image from the back. Apple and a backwards 'A a.' Way more satisfying.

We walked to school together during first grade so again, maybe I didn't notice. But I noticed in second grade. My mother was replaced by a witch and I called on God to take away the mean old hag and bring back my mother. Over and over I pleaded because this stressed out teacher was a stranger. 

Politics meant mom didn't work at a job while I was in fourth through sixth grade. But that doesn't mean she wasn't busy. I was independent enough that she could be, too. But she was home after school most days. One day I walked in, saw an ink stamp my dog chewed up and said, "Oh Shit!" A disembodied voice came from the dining room. "Oh what?"

The first job I remember her loving came during Junior High. It was corporate. She looked sharp and felt sharp. I didn't mind. It meant I could watch more TV and not get in trouble. But during my senior year, mom was home and bored out of her gourd. I forgot the cries of a seven year old girl and saw that staying home was killing my mom's spirit. Plus, I was deeply encouraged to put education first. I learned the message so well I didn't get married until 29. I didn't avoid being a stupid, selfish twenty-something, though.

Every time the baby talk loomed (long after the nightmares in high school about immaculate conception), I erected a barricade. "It's not the right time. We don't have the money. I like my life." But I spent hours in college daydreaming about my ideal life. And being home with my kids was my dirty little secret. 

I could still be a mom. We've considered it. My life will change dramatically but frankly, my life is so freakin' LIVED that the selfish "my life" crutch is broken.

I'll be OLD when my child graduates high school. But that measurement has never freaked me out like it does some of my peers. Maybe because I'm the third child and my parents aged with grace and vitality. Old has never been old to me. 

As usual, I do things when I damn well feel like it. I've never liked being told when or if. And I have one demand. I have to work from home before I'll have a child. For my child. For me. And if Gloria or Camille have a problem (or one of their drones), they can suck my left titty.

Communication and the Second Marriage

During our dating stage, my husband and I had to survive that murky middle where couples start to tip-toe around certain grating habits. He burped more and more and complained about dog hair. I griped about how the children got everything they wanted. With jaw muscles twitching, we stabbed away.

My dogs slept in the bed with me. Reese preferred to be under the covers and against my belly. However, he also liked to sleep in the middle. Sometimes he and I were back to back leaving his stiff little paws to push against J, as if to say, "she's mine." Every night this frustrated J but he didn't comment because Reese was my Boo Boo.  He understood that I loved my dogs and we had our ritutals.

However, he did sigh and grunt. He rolled around with emphasis night after night. I'd ask what was wrong but J didn't want to complain.

After a while, I quit asking.

Society teaches us to speak in passive aggressive language--never directly asking for what we need. We're taught it's rude and are encouraged to believe that our loved one ought to figure it out and do it for us; to read between the lines and prove that they know us perfectly. Instead, the loved one is bewildered and stymied. They grow angry because they don't know what's wrong.

For us, that meant there were many stunted quarrels and plenty of snipes because I came with dogs and my husband came with children--and we were equally fierce about each. Love me, love my dogs. Love me, love my children. And that meant accepting how the other dealt with their lovable baggage.

We were living in more and more silence and both suffering because initially, we could talk about anything. It was killing us to think it might not be real after all. We were so certain in the beginning that we changed everything to be together. The disappointment was too awful to face.

Finally, J told me that he didn't want Reese sleeping in the middle anymore. He said more but why didn't matter. From that night on, Reese slept along the edge. I'm a deep sleeper but I kept the little booger from sneaking in between us.

My husband was stunned. He told me what he needed and I complied.

Several months later I lost my precious Reese in one of the most horrible tragedies imaginable. J was at a loss how to deal with that much pain but he was there for me the best way he knew how. And though he and I were still struggling, we were also talking more and more.

J considers Reese to be the critical juncture in our relationship. Without him, J wouldn't have spoken up. In his previous life, his needs were often discounted, even intentionally disregarded. My response wasn't calculated. I heard him and it changed everything.

Slowly, we rebuilt trust with a simple tradition that continues today. We have deck night every weekend. We sit outside with beers and talk about anything that's bothering us: internal demons, professional fears, relationship needles, hurt feelings, and unstuff everything before it becomes a big ugly monster that haunts the dark. 

Reese reminded us how to talk. To talk. And to spend time together making our own traditions.

Tightrope Walking Step-mom

More than once since mounting the step-parent tightrope, I've time-traveled back to 1987.

         I'm standing in the courtyard at Mission Junior High being told by Greg that I'm the hideous monster my "friends" have been openly mocking and insulting while the delighted girls giggle in a gaggle. Not that I didn't know. I left their lunch table days before for a new one, sitting quietly, hoping to be absorbed. I was but they offer no protection when my "friends" want satisfaction. So they trap me and detonate their evil scheme using a boy. A BOY!

Being a step-parent is so similar to middle school it gives me hives. People are once again mean just to be mean. They tell lies. And that's the example they set for their children--forcing kids to be confused or covert. They like you one week and hate you the next. They can't hug you or invite you to a party because it will hurt or anger another friend (parent). 

I'm a new step-mom and the hand I've been dealt? Sure it's from a divorce deck, thus stacked against me, but I have an extra special element. Their mom slipped my cards from the bottom. 

I won't complain about X because I don't know her at all. When my step-daughter shows me a picture of her horsing around with her mom, I admire and comment as I would anything C shares with me. 

It's my only hope to undo the lies told about me. That's my play.

What can any of us do? We use our strengths and spend the rest of the time in a crash course.

Last fall, we moved into our new house. The kids don't live with us so they share a room for now. One day our son will probably use the bed in the office but for time being, they have a futon bunk-bed, an old xbox and an older TV. This is a huge improvement from the pullout couch in the living room at the old house.

To make their bedroom special, I wanted to do something fantastic. They love HALO--both of them. Every weekend hours are lost into the video game black hole. I can't relate. I never liked video games that much. I'd rather read a book. But I'm trying. We've bought Tomb Raider and that's my intro.  

Long before Christmas, I found silk Halo posters on eBay and bought several. My husband and I mounted them on black foam board and voila, very cool decor! I looked for sheets but they don't make Halo bedding.  

However, I wanted something extra special. So Thanksgiving weekend we got to work. 

My husband enlarged the HALO letters and made stencils--one letter per 8x11 sheet. We arranged them on the bedroom wall and I painted the logo. 

I was so excited. We did this in a weekend. I refined the edges of each letter over and over until they were crisp. I painted until my eyes snapped. 

Finally Wednesday arrived. I raced home, eager to hear the reaction. I didn't expect cries of "Thank you!" but I knew they would think it was cool. As is too often the case, my new family members were dispersed throughout the house glued to individual beeping gadgets. 

I went in search of life, a big grin on my face. For the last several nights I'd been like a kid waiting for Santa. This was one of the best gifts I'd ever given.

I'm not sure I even got grunts. This isn't unusual but this time it hurt. It hurt as badly as anything I endured in middle school.

My husband was cooking dinner. I asked if they'd seen it. Noticed it. If they had a pulse? At least a single, collective one. As soon as the three of them got home, he showed them the painting. They said they liked it. 

Oh.

I, on the other hand, got dead crickets. Not crickets silent before nuclear fallout. I got dead, dried out husks that didn't even whistle in the wind.

And then I got mad. 

When I was a precious teenager, I argued with my mother constantly that anger wasn't a choice. By my thirties I learned that it is possible to choose how you react.

I didn't choose. I let it explode out of me like lava. 

My teeth clenched until they cracked, I tried to have a covert discussion with my husband in the kitchen. That was when the antenna powered up. The more silent they remained, the angrier I got. 

My husband doesn't like confrontation. I deal with things in the moment. He went to stone as I nastily demanded some appreciation. No matter how wrong they may be, don't attack the baby bears. Papa Bear has only one reaction.

And that made me thrash like a bull seeing red. I was set to gore.

When I get mad, there are tears. Those only make me angrier because I hate those weak water leaks. I threatened to paint over the HALO, hoping for a cry of "NO!" I'm married to a bunch of stuffers.

I bucked back and forth. "Such ingratitude is intolerable!" The wilder I got, the more isolated I became. So I left. I got in my Mini Cooper and I drove. I dialed person after person, seeking some sort of humanity. When my husband's step-mother called me back, I sobbed out the whole story. And she gave me the wisdom of ages.

Children will break your heart. Even your own. She couldn't tell me how many times she did something she thought was so special only to be left dangling like a fish forgotten in the hot sun. By her children, her step children--it didn't matter. 

Yes we can dictate that they always thank us for every little thing. Oh wait, we have. But I want sincerity. Demanding certain reactions will never garner genuine feelings.  

J's (and now my) Smother made me feel better and I drove home. I asked everyone into the living room and I apologized for losing my temper. I owned everything I said that was mean or unfair. I left the rest alone. 

This isn't middle school. I have only one recourse and that is to lead by example. To treat the children the way I want to be treated. And someday, when they reach their twenties, they'll be free to like me.

Two days later I came home to this drawing from C. It was her way of saying thank you. And sorry. 

I'm framing it.