My Cowbird

Mama cowbirds wait until a bird of a different species has left her nest unattended, then sneak over real quick to lay one of their own eggs before flying off, ditching the egg for other birds to raise. Presumably so they can go out partying and stuff.

"I coulda sworn all of these were blue when I left..."

There's no mistaking a cowbird chick in the nest. Cowbird eggs have an unusually fast incubation period that allows cowbird chicks to hatch before the native chicks, giving them a head start in life. As a result, cowbird chicks are pretty obnoxious looking next to their foster siblings.

"What, I'm just big boned. You gonna finish that?"

My sister says I'm built like a hummingbird. It's true. I'm tiny. I'm tiny enough that total strangers like to stop me on the street and tell me I need to eat more.

And it's not just that I'm skinny. I'm built hummingbird-size all over, all delicate and bird-boned. With one notable nine-month exception, I've been the same size and shape since I was 14. Which, for scale reference, is about the same size and shape as the average 12-year-old girl.

On the left, next to my actual 12 year old girl. From Poetic Images.

Over the last few years, puberty hit Miss G full force, shooting her up a few inches past me, and adding a bunch of decidedly non-hummingbird-like curves all over the place. At my sister's house one day, Miss G ran in, burst out one of her chirpy explosions about something or other, and dashed back out again, maybe giving me a quick hug in the middle of that someplace.

My sister watched her leave, laughing, and said: "She's like a cowbird next to your little hummingbird body."

It's true. Miss G is nothing like me in build.

Still me on the left.

She's nothing like me in personality, either. In fact, she is so little like me in every possible way that if she weren't so exactly like her dad, I'd be concerned that someone pulled a cowbird on me at the hospital.

Because of this, raising Miss G has been sort of... bemusing. I know her better than anyone else does, and yet she remains an alien mystery even to me.

I don't look at her and feel the pull of the familiar. I feel like I'm raising someone else's chick, a chick who looks more like a different species every day. I don't love her any less for it though. Instead, I find myself curious about what she'll do next.

I expect more parents start feeling this way about their teenagers; I've felt like this from her birth. Like the universe just handed me this small bright spirit and said "Here, see what you can do with this."

"Well, okay. If you're really sure."

How I feel about being a mother hasn't changed in the last 14.5 years. I'm honored that she chose me. Honored, and maybe confused that she thought I was the best person for the job, and definitely unsure myself that I'm up to the challenge.

And my cowbird, she thrives. I'm glad she ended up in my nest.

Ode to my Husband

Every morning, before I'm quite awake, as I become conscious of the furry, sleeping person next to me, my first coherent thought is "Thank god for Dan."

I have never met anyone more compassionate and patient than Dan. He would have to be, to put up with me & Gwyn of course, but he is just... beyond.

Dan taking Peep on an exclusive uncle-niece hotsprings hike.

I knew he was a gentle soul from the moment our eyes met, but didn't realize the depth of his capacity until we'd been dating nearly a year. We were grocery shopping with the girls, and Miss L was standing on the handle-end of the cart, jumping up and down between his arms as he pushed. He told her multiple times to stop jumping and she ignored him. As we left, she launched herself with a particular enthusiasm which sent her head directly into his chin, so hard I could hear the snap of teeth from across the parking lot. It made my jaw hurt for him.

We all went silent, braced for an explosion, Miss L totally still with big eyes like a hunted rodent. She is all too familiar with her mother's frequent outbursts, and expected no less from her father. I remember thinking "Finally, I get to see Dan lose his temper." I am not proud of this. It seemed abnormal for someone to be on such an even keel all the time.

But after a noise of strangled pain, Dan just said-- in a slightly choked voice-- "I really wish you'd listen to me and be more careful kiddo." And we continued to the car.

Me, I would have flipped out. There would have been yelling and cursing. I think most parents would have done the same.

But not Dan.

The weekend Miss L refused to get on the plane, he called every phone line he could think of to reach her, to talk with her about what was going on: mom's cell, her cell, landline. Every attempt went straight to voicemail. Finally he just left a message.

My voicemail would have been flipped out, yelling and cursing straight up till the beep cut me off. I suspect most parents would have reacted similarly.

But not Dan.

Instead, he said: "Hey kiddo, it's your dad. I'm sad about what's happening, but I just want you to know I love you no matter what."

And he didn't (as I and the other more petty members of the human race might have) leave this message as a guilt trip. Nope. He really meant it.

Dan didn't lose his temper till a couple days later, when Miss L finally returned his call with a sulky attitude, angry at him and calling him selfish. That was when I developed sudden empathy for the insane  emotional turmoil which drove Alec Baldwin to leave that nasty voicemail for his daughter a few years back. That was when I finally learned the answer to the question I've wondered for seven years now: What will it take to make Dan snap?

I don't blame him. I don't think anyone could. Most of us would have lost it much sooner.

But not Dan.

Dan's first meeting with the new Parental Coordinator is today. Miss L's mom says Miss L cannot continue seeing us twice a month after we move to Colorado, though it sounds like this would have been brought up even without our move. Miss L is (we're told) too exhausted from traveling so much. Her grades are suffering. She doesn't see her friends enough. And this is not only her mom's idea; Miss L is agreeing with every word.

Dan says, okay. I'm not thrilled about this, but I can handle once a month if it's better for her. We can redistribute the lost days elsewhere. Her mother has over three weeks in the summer and half of Spring Break. We can rearrange.

There is silence from Miss L's mom. She does not want to give up more days. She just wants Dan to discard his parenting time and be happy about it.

As per the court orders, we now invoke the help of a third party: the PC. The magical gal who's supposed to wave her wand and resolve all the differences between parents.

Dan and I have discussed strategy, pros and cons, potential compromises, outlined defenses for the most likely attacks for over a week now. He feels prepared. He has lists.

Last night he comes home and I ask how he's doing. He's silent for a minute, then says: "You know, I don't even care. All I want is to be a dad to my kid without fighting tooth and nail to do it. I don't care if I only see her once a month. I don't even care if she barely talks to me in between visits. I really don't. I just want them to let me be a dad."

Me? I'd be flipping out. Yelling and cursing. I think most parents would.

But not Dan.

Growing up

You know how one day you look at your kid and you think "Holy crap. When did they get taller than me? And how long have they not been four years old anymore?" and your heart kind of breaks for the cute little tykes of yesterday while at the same time swelling at how beautiful and grown-up they're getting?

Yeah. That. Every day, that.

Kid Snippet

The kids like to mess with our electronics. Regularly, without anyone knowing, they change our ring tones, our contact names, and each other's passwords. It's a friendly kind of rivalry.

Tonight, Miss L called Dan from her Mom's house, looking for Miss G. Turns out Miss G changed the passcode on her iPod last weekend so Miss L can't access it. Her mother has grounded her until she can unlock the iPod, because this has happened multiple times now, and she feels Miss L is being irresponsible, and doesn't want to deal with calling tech support on principle.

Miss G is at youth group during all this. After she gets home, I ask her if Miss L called her yet. She says yes, but she never changed the passcode. Well, she did, earlier. But then she changed it back and didn't change it again. So it should be the old passcode still; Miss L just forgot what it was.

It was a typically bizarre/intriguing kid cross-section.

Questions going forward:

Will Miss L still continue letting Miss G use her iPod, or will she cut her off?
Will being grounded teach Miss L to be more responsible? Or, failing that, teach her to not mess with other people's passcodes in order that her own passcodes not be messed with?
Will Miss G ever learn what a boundary is? EVER?

Only time will tell.

Stay tuned.

Echoes (part 2)

Miss L is so much like her father, it hurts. Not because I don’t love him, but because I love him so much. He is unlike anyone I’ve ever met, and I’m thrilled that so many of his best qualities are being genetically continued in the world through her. If there’s one thing we could all use, it’s a little more Dannishness in the world. That’s why it’s so devastating to see those parts of her, at best, ignored and at worst-- actively weeded out.

Dan and Miss L share a love of the outdoors. They share a daydreamy distraction that’s equal parts endearing and exasperating. They share the same gentle spirit that loathes hurting other creatures, leaving them both confused and devastated if their cheerful oblivion inadvertently causes someone else pain. They both love working with their hands, whether repairing broken things or making something beautiful. Or maybe that’s the same skill, to them.

Miss L is an amazing writer. She lit up over the summer when she talked about the journalism class offered by her school. “We get to make our own newspaper!” But in August, when we saw her schedule, her elective was listed as Speech & Debate.

“Oh, bummer. Was Journalism full? That sucks,” I said.

“No... Mommy said Speech & Debate would be better for me.”

“But you were so excited about that other class!”

“Maybe I’ll take it next year.”

She rolls her eyes now when we plan to go climbing or hiking. She used to run out the door so fast we had to send her back inside for her forgotten shoes. Part of it is getting older, but part of it is that these are not Approved Activities. She’s been trained that these pastimes are beneath her. And, accordingly, so are we.

Outdoorsy and artsy things are only acceptable under certain conditions. Her new stepdad is really into mountain biking, so that’s on the Approved list. Her mom took piano, so piano lessons are in. Skiing is acceptable. Hiking? Nope. Writing? No way.

List of Approved Activities include getting her eyebrows professionally shaped, shopping for, and wearing, cleavage-baring shirts and skin-tight jeans, even though she’s not even 13 yet. Any future career that makes her lots of money is acceptable. Any future career that would land a lower, but still healthy, salary while also incorporating her creativity-- well, no one talks to her about that possible path. Creativity is not important. Her aesthetic side is just that-- a side dish. Not good enough for the main course.

It breaks my heart to see Miss L rejecting and denying such integral parts of herself. She says she wants to be a plastic surgeon, has herself all lined up for hard sciences and advanced math classes. Which would be fine, if that were her passion, but it’s so clearly not. I’m concerned for her future, not because I think she can’t handle that academic road-- she’s absolutely capable; she’s a brilliant student-- but because those aren’t the things that light her up inside. And ignoring those things has a way of exploding your life out later on.  

I don’t have the same concerns for my stepdaughter that I have for for my own daughter. I don’t worry she’ll self-destruct. Instead, I worry that her true self will drift away, dry and neglected, and she’ll be left wondering why she feels so lost. I worry she’ll want to drop out of college when she finds she hates life without all those things she shuns, those things she’s been taught are unnecessary or unacceptable. I worry that she’ll never be able to embrace that nature-loving, artistic, compassionate being that is her true nature, down under all the artificiality that’s slathered onto her these days. And as a result, she may never be whole.

Echoes (part 1)

Miss G is so much like her father, it hurts. Not because I miss him, or miss what we had together, or because I’m nostalgic for what could have been. It hurts because the similarity nauseates me. 

Her likeness to him, both physically and mentally, repels me. Even after over a decade apart from him, even though she is an entirely separate person, her inherent him-ness triggers my protective instincts into screaming get out, get out, GET OUT. The more him-like she gets, the more I feel myself withdraw.

It’s awful.

It’s even more awful because I am absolutely crazy about that kid. She is this amazing, bright spirit who I’m pretty sure will conquer the world. By some miracle, she seems to have gotten all of the good qualities from both her parents, and avoided the worst parts of us. 

In her, I see the gorgeous, untwisted potential of everything her father could have been and should have been and very nearly was staring out at me from my own brown eyes. In her, I also see the capacity for the self-destruction that haunts her father. It terrifies me. 

I see the total disregard for personal boundaries and insanely controlling personality that came close to swallowing me whole. I see his inability to commit mixed with his frightening capacity for single-minded obsession brewing within his daughter, the same elements that combined into the impossible, heady, terrible maelstrom that holds him captive still. I see his same brilliance and his same lack of focus snarling in her constantly. I see courage teetering dangerously close to foolhardiness, and pride edging toward alienating arrogance.

The whirlwind dichotomy isn’t tearing her apart like it did him. Not yet. On my good days I imagine that my hard-won understanding of her father’s true nature enabled me to parent her in ways that honor that legacy. Without knowing the worst possible outcome in advance, maybe I would have parented differently. Maybe I wouldn't have known how to avoid it. Maybe I would have inadvertently crammed all her amazingness into a self-cannibalizing pressure-cooker, doomed to explode someday, taking all of us down with it.

On my less-good days, I wonder if the monster will still get her in the end.

Other parents suck

Your stepdaughter was thrilled a month ago about moving to Colorado next summer. This morning, she says it will be too hard on her. Too stressful. She's already overwhelmed by traveling so much. Your stepdaughter suggests moving to Reno instead “so we can be a real family again” which is funny, because she sure hated being 'a real family' when we all lived in the same city before. Hated it for 5 solid years. When you tell her the flight is only an hour longer, and drive time to the airport is the same, she ignores you. Repeats herself like she’s memorized a speech. Like she’s a robot.

And it's the funniest coincidence-- her mom wants you to move to Reno too, and she also thinks it's too much traveling for her daughter! It's almost as if they've been talking about it a lot in the past month, almost as if her mother has changed your stepdaughter's mind about the whole thing. But surely not. Surely she'd be supportive of you leaving the city she herself said was an inappropriate place to raise your stepdaughter.

But not if she doesn't like the new custody arrangement. Not if she misses her daughter too much in the long summers. Not if she's complaining that it's not fair you get all the holiday weekends-- forgetting that she has 9+ months with your stepdaughter while you don’t even have three. That’s not included in her definition of ‘fair.’

Apparently she would rather return both households to a life of constant conflict with her daughter smack in the middle. It’s only been a year, and she already wants out of the custody schedule she requested. Even though it was her idea to move in the first place. Even though her daughter’s present ‘really stressful’ traveling schedule is a result of her actions, her insistence that this would be best for everyone, her refusing to stop at anything, including the destruction of your family, to get her way.

No, no. These things don’t count. All that matters now is that you are the bad parents if you are the ones who move now, because it will suddenly be your fault that the daughter travels twice a month. It’s convenient in this case to forget she’s already been doing it for a year.

And then we have the other parent.

The other parent is also sabotaging your move to Colorado. He is taking his daughter aside and calling her repeatedly telling her she doesn’t have to move, she can stay with him, he’ll fix up her room, like you’re some kind of a monster who is tearing her from him against her will. Like he hasn't had six years living in the same city with her to fix up that room, to be active and involved. To meet her teachers or attend her conferences or pick her up from school. To even pretend to be a father, even a fake father like that fish that’s packaged as imitation crab.

The other parent owes over $14,000 in child support arrears. Which used to not matter, because you used to think money was less important than his presence in your daughter’s life, that you’d trade every penny of child support if only he’d start giving a shit about his kid. Only now that you’ve been around the block a few times, you’ve realized that she’d be better off with the cash, because being around him stresses her out so much that she has tummyaches for days and days leading up to her weekends with him.

Luckily he cancels a lot, so she only sees him maybe once a month. Except then you're kind of stuck, because if she's disappointed you say 'Oh honey, your dad loves you, he just has a crazy work schedule' to comfort her but you feel like it's a lie and you wonder if he really does love her and even if he does, is it a good idea to tell her that because you don't want her thinking this is love, this constant disappointment, this emotional unavailability and being let down as more predictable than coming through.  

So if he’s not going to maintain a supportive presence physically, it’d be nice if contribute financially. Or at least at least chip in for even a portion of the $400+ in medical bills she racked up due to those stomach problems last year. Except he never did. And yet your daughter came home today and announced that Daddy and his girlfriend just bought a new house! And it’s big! And Mama, oh my god, has the awesomest pool.

No, no. Again, these things don’t matter. Those child support payments are seriously crippling him financially. He’ll tell you all about it the next time he calls. And if he’s not active and involved-- well, that’s your fault too. You’re obstructing the relationship, poisoning your daughter against him. Not him, not the guy who cancels 3 out of every 4 weekends. It’s nothing to do with his actions. No, you are the bad parent who is taking his daughter away and preventing them from having a decent relationship.

Ridiculous? God, yes. But you cannot make this stuff up. For one thing, it’s totally unrealistic; no one would ever believe you. They especially wouldn’t believe that these things happened on the same day.

So here is the number one rule of blended families. Are you listening? Because this is the answer that will make your life bearable:

You. Are always. Wrong.

Your house is the bad house, and the other house is the good house. Whatever you do, it makes you a bad parent. Even if it is the exact same thing the other parent did a year or two ago, such as accepting an outstanding job offer in a city that will be much better for your child and your family. Even then, you will be a bad parent and, frankly, a bad person because you actually do not care about your child and you are not doing what is best for her. In fact, your actions are irreparably damaging to her. Because-- and this is key-- what is actually best for her is not what you think is best. It is whatever the other parent thinks is best.

Now. With that knowledge, and under these conditions, go forth and parent. Maintain integrity. Follow your gut. Do what you think is right for yourself, your children, the family you’re trying so hard to make together. Go ahead. Try it. Just try it. I dare you.

Fairy Places

I collected fairies once. Somewhere along the last couple years, I sort of got over it. Tucked them into boxes, possibly to save for my niece if she gets into such things when she’s older. At thirteen and nearly-thirteen, our girls have outgrown magic and packed away their own fairy collections; dull practicality is rushing into its place at a frightening pace.

Everything is becoming lame. School is lame. All their parents are lame. Hiking and camping are definitely lame. As far as I can figure, electronics are the only not-lame things left in existence.

Except we found this place in Oregon, out in the middle of nowhere. We were looking for campsites along this dirt road; a near-hidden muddy turnoff caught our eye almost too late. I reversed a bit to make the turn and we edged down a muddy path toward a stream.

The whole drive was gorgeous-- tall pines, clean air, dappled sunlight-- but this was a pocket of even more perfect. Every living branch and fallen trunk enveloped in quiet moss; water curling around smooth stone islands and wandering into tiny waterfalls; hazy green light and some delicious unidentifiable smell.

“This is such a fairy place,” I said before we even got out of the car. The phrase was reflexive; I haven’t used it in years. Maybe because I’ve been stuck in the desert, where fairies and their places are in mighty short supply.

I thought the girls’ apathy was impenetrable, but they lifted their heads like racehorses scenting a track. Within seconds, they were out of the car and across the river and calling to come look! come look! with the level of excitement usually reserved only for new Glee episodes.

We pitched tents and played barefoot in the water till dark. The girls kept saying “It is a fairy place; it is SUCH a fairy place” all heady with delight. They collected raspberries and flowers and little pretty things, arranging them just so near certain places they thought the fairies would like best.

In the morning, they woke us with delighted shouts that the berries were missing!! And nothing else had been touched at all, Mama! They found oddly dry rocks left in conspicuous places and were sure the fairies left them in gratitude. Giddy from success, they vanished into the brush to collect more berries, more flowers, more little pretty things to leave behind.

In spite of the dizzying speed at which they’re approaching adulthood-- too slowly and too quickly, all at once-- I feel freshly anchored. Even though they are careening away from childish things, becoming unrecognizable from the 'them' we've known for the length of their lifetimes, there's a kernel there that wants to believe in fairies, a smidgen of innocence left unaffected by cell phones and skinny jeans. 

I remembered why I started collecting fairies in the first place: so I could remember that too. The simple strength of childhood faith in magical things: Mom's kiss will make it better; other worlds await beyond wardrobe doors; fairies live near waterfalls. 

Maybe it's no accident that life got real dull and cranky right around the same time I felt irritated with fairies in my house. Maybe it's faith that threads magic through our lives instead of the other way around.

Working from home is so much harder

I balanced the home-work thing so much better when I didn’t work at home. It’s much harder to maintain boundaries now.

I had it down to a science, too. Alarm went off at 3:30 am. Get up, get dressed, wake the kid up and get her dressed. Pack our bags up together. Drop her at daycare, give her kisses goodbye, drive off feeling guilty, get to work by 4:45. On an 8-hour day, I was done by 1:30. Call the daycare en route to grocery store, tell them not to pick the kid up from school. Do a mad grab of groceries in 10 minutes or less, speed to school, surprise Miss G with reprieve from afternoon daycare. She did homework while I cooked dinner, then we watched a movie together while eating. Then-- bathtime, booktime, bedtime. Next morning we'd get up and do it again.

Overtime days were trickier. Or easier, depending on perspective. There’s no time for wasting; every minute has to count. This removes a lot of choice as far as how to spend your days, which I personally appreciated. Too many options overwhelm me.

Maybe that’s my problem-- excessive freedom. Working from home feels like I have all the time in the world to accomplish everything I want to. In reality, it’s more like the overtime schedule: every minute has to count.

I woke up early today, ready to work on a painting. Then I foolishly checked my email first, which led to other computery things-- stupid social media and networking and, oh yeah, squeezing a little writing in. And then, Miss G had a stomachache and needed extra MamaCare, so really very little got done.

Don’t get me wrong. I love that I’m in a position now where I can drop everything to take care of my kid without feeling guilty for it. Or, more accurately, without fear of job loss or black marks against me compounding my guilt. At the same time, I still need to get shit done.

It is a constant battle to keep those lines between working and mom sharp and clear when it all happens in the same physical place, and I'm losing.

I start writing, then realize I have got to get laundry on the line before it gets too hot outside. While hanging laundry, I remember I need to submit a couple paintings for a show by tomorrow, so I do that next. Then it’s lunchtime. Then I have to run errands, or I have articles to write, or caulking to take care of at the Other House, or have just plain lost my groove.

In the meantime-- the dog hair blows across the floor like little furry tumbleweeds, the dishes pile up, the car gets a flat. I flip out at Dan and the kids because I am literally the only person who seems to give a crap that we live in a pigsty, and they are all fully capable of washing their own dishes. Instead they just leave them in the sink, because Someone Else will do them. This leads to fights that involve phrases like “my time is just as valuable as your time” and words like “accountability.”

My list of things to do grows daily instead of shrinking. I don’t feel efficient in any direction, and I keep thinking it’s just because I haven’t figured out the right method. Any other working-from-home moms struggle with this? How do you set your boundaries? How do you maximize your worktime efficiency while still taking advantage of having more physical time with your kids?

Thirteen

My daughter turns thirteen this week.

There's an endearing, exasperating naivete to this age. She wears eyeliner but doesn’t wash her hair without reminders. She's self-conscious enough to ask me if she can bleach her mustache, but not enough to bleach it regularly. Sometimes she leaves the house looking like a million bucks. Other times I turn her around before she hits the breakfast table because I cannot stand to look at the same sloppy gym shorts for even one meal more.

Her awkwardness is mixed with a maturity far beyond her years. We're moving at the end of the school year. She tells me her dad offered to fix up a room at his house. I say, "That's an option, if you want to stay here and do that instead." She laughs, slings me a sidelong look that says I should know better. "Mama, he could have fixed it up for me whenever, if he wanted to. I'm ready for a new adventure." She does not say this with hurt defensiveness, or snotty pre-teen attitude, but with indulgence. She’s been to the magic show. She knows all the tricks, watches with eyes straight ahead while a secret smile teases her lips. And I look at her, wondering yet again where this amazing, unquenchable bright spirit came from. Surely not from me.

There’s no mistake, though. Her chin is definitely mine; her smile is her father’s. Her eyes are my brown; their mischievous glint is his. As childish curves melt away revealing new profiles, my hands emerge from her wrists. But the way they move-- fast, darting, confident-- that’s her dad all over.

She’s inching a bit taller than me every day now. Some days she mocks me with it, superiority in every line of her. Other times, her face crumples and she buries a mournful “I don’t want to be taller than you” in my neck. I don’t point out how she has to slump to fit there; I just hug her and pretend not to notice.

When we’re swimming, or if my shirt hitches up, she touches the tiny tattoo on my back, two  hearts entwined from a single line. When it was sharp and new, she’d cry “Your heart, Mama!”-- excited every time, as only a toddler can be. I’d answer “Yep! That heart is for you and me, kiddo. We’re a team no matter what.” She’d nod with wide, solemn eyes.

Now her long, unfamiliar fingers trace it for comfort, like this labyrinth might hold her answers.

“I love this tattoo,” she says.
“You and me, kid,” I say.
“You and me, Mama,” she answers, comforted by the familiar litany, by the things that remain true even under puberty’s onslaught.

It's taken every bit of the past thirteen years to learn this is fleeting. Kid problems like slurping spaghetti and forgetting homework are on their way out with a jaunty wave. Instead-- enter birth control. Enter cars, relationships, careers, debates on college vs trade school vs traveling.

A new morning is visible from the porch now, just beyond the looming teens corner. Survive that uncertain landscape and we're there.

I forgot. Even even though everyone told me, has been telling me for years how fast it goes. I never believed them. Eighteen years sounded like a life sentence when I was pregnant and terrified at twenty-two. Now it seems like barely enough time.

Stepmothers' Day

Today, the Sunday after Mothers’ Day, is Stepmothers’ Day.

I envision this horde of grouchy, unappreciated women at their wits’ ends rising up and saying in one huge angry huff: “You won’t acknowledge us on Mothers’ Day? Fine. We’ll invent our own goddamned day. Goddammit.”

I used to read these online stepmother forums, searching for any shred of guidance on how to make things better at our house, how to get Miss L (and/or her mother) not to hate me, how to break through the resentment, understand why there was so much of it to wade through in the first place. And all I learned was that our problems were universal. There was a lot of virtual shrugging, a lot of ‘I know, right?’ but no real advice.

And these women, they are not bad women. Through post after post, their hearts are breaking, but they just come back swinging harder the next time. More than anything, and in spite of everything, their love for those kids permeates their words. It wouldn’t be so damned hard if we didn’t care, after all.  

And that’s the real crux of it. We’re hated for making sure homework is done and vegetables are eaten. Resented for planning family vacations and attending little league games. Ignored at recitals, not informed about school conferences, not consulted regarding the futures of the children we’re raising. Because, you know, we’re not real parents. We barely count. We’re just some woman the dad married; why include us in anything.

I, too, am  ‘just some bitch,’ according to Miss L’s biological mother. I’ve posted my share of horror stories in those forums, more of them than I care to remember. Actually I’m trying real hard to forget them, forget every single one of them and not feel resentful and just move forward. I can’t change what’s past, but the future’s up for grabs. Things are so much better now; it’s a whole new life.

I even took Miss L bra shopping yesterday (with other people too; we’re not quite brave enough to be alone together yet) and everyone had fun and she took the bras back to mom’s house with her instead of leaving them on the floor with tags on like she used to do with the stuff I bought her. We are starting to become... maybe not good friends. Maybe not even friends. But friendly, anyway, and that’s a start toward something. Something new. Something hopeful and less angry.

But on this day, this stepmothers’ day, I think about the women who still haunt those forums, how I’m only about a year removed from those miserable, can't-win days. I visited the other day, and nothing has changed. They have user names like didntsignup4this and tiredofdrama. Those new to the message boards post threads with titles like “New here... feel like a horrible person :(” and “Get out now or stick with it?” The ladies who’ve been doing this for years post things like “Yet more marriage probs because of stepkid” and “Another ruined vacation” and “Bio-Mom filed false abuse charges on us w/CPS... AGAIN!” It’s all so familiar, and so grim, I had to stop reading.

In some weird, not-quite-schadenfreude way, reading all that baggage is comforting; my rocky start with Miss L wasn't me being an idiot and doing everything wrong. Well, partly. But moreso it’s the role itself. It’s just freakin’ tricky. It’s stressful and complicated for all of us. And while I’m sure there are some genuinely wicked stepmothers, the majority of us try really hard to be good moms while putting up with way more than the usual amount of bullshit, all for the (apparently) unforgivable sin of loving these kids we did not birth and marrying their fathers.

It’s easy to see why we’re so universally despised.

Damned right we deserve our own day. I think I’ll buy myself something nice.

Toddler Country

Peep's staying with us while her mom's off on business and her dad's off sailing in the Bahamas. Everything remotely resembling responsibility has taken a far back seat. It's Wednesday, and I'm just now getting around to my Sunday blog; that pretty well sums up the week so far.

Life with a toddler spins you into a different time flow-- you finish breakfast, get the kitchen tidied, get her changed and dressed, get yourself changed and dressed (if you're lucky)... and it's lunch time. But the day leading up to that point is so full of wonder and giggles it hardly matters that you can't figure out what happened to the last 4 hours of your life. 

Actually-- scratch that. Because it's not just the busyness of the day; it's the foreignness of visiting their world. Learning their customs... attempting to speak their language... understanding their ways and introducing them to ours. It's an anthropological expedition.

"Oh! Mamie! Oh no. What-- happint-- Mamie's pants?-- big mess dere..." was Sunday's concerned greeting. I explained I was wearing my painting pants; they were supposed to have paint on them. She seemed to accept that, but at infrequent intervals throughout the day I'd hear her mutter quiet reassurances to herself ("Dat-- mess-- okay... Mamie's painteen pants...that-- s'pose be... paint dere.") so I suspect she's still unsettled by them. She did, however, rally enough to point at one blop of paint and declare it a moose. "A moose.... in a bubble baff."

Everything mundane and drab turns magic and sparkly in the eyes of a toddler.

We have our hair-pulling-out moments too-- like when she refuses to eat her cottage cheese, sulkily declaring it 'too spicy!' Or yesterday, when our blood sugar crashed at the same time and we ate our tuna fish together in tears, both of us missing her mom fiercely.

But meltdowns are rare; overall she's a happy little thing, as long as we spend lot and lots of time outside. She's way easier than Miss G was at that age-- far less bossy and headstrong only intermittently.

And every minute is just so--- ohh, holy crap, I just realized I've been sitting here typing when I could have taken a shower.

The Middle Part

When Miss G was little, I spent the day at school or at work missing her-- telling stories about her, planning what to do that evening with her. And every day I was surprised at how little she really was-- in the afternoon when I picked her up from daycare, such tiny shoes lined up next to the door. Or when I saw her tucked in watching Star Wars on the couch, only the slightest arc of her head visible above the cushions. Or nestled up with her Pig at bedtime, barely a bump changing the blanket's landscape. Her chock-full personality loomed in my mind; how could all that chutzpah fit into such a tiny package? How could something two feet tall pack such a wallop?

And now when I see her, I think "My god, she's enormous. When did she get so big?" And her personality is still not contained neatly within.

Where'd the middle part go? How did she move from too small to too big without a middle part? Worse, how'd I miss it?

Then I realized, I'm still in it. I'm surrounded by middle part.

Parenting is not a verb with a concrete culmination. It's a jumble of stages crammed together. There wasn't a missed mythical 'right' size, when Miss G's height magically matched her energy level and angels sang and everything made sense.

For a middle to exist, there has to be a beginning and an end. Parenting begins clearly enough-- one day there's no baby, then the next there is. But it doesn't wrap up in a bow at age eighteen. Or, you know. Ever.

It's a lifetime of middle part.

Back to (Christmas) Basics

By the time we get to our foursome family Christmas, it’s Christmas #2 or #3 for the girls. They get so many presents that giving them yet more stuff feels like futility. Futility overlaid with a slight slime of one-upmanship.

I don’t want our gifts in competition with Miss G’s new digital camera from one of her other Christmases, or Miss L’s new Wii from one of hers. It’s fine if grandparents or other parents want to spend that much money. But I don’t.

It drags us to the edge of a black hole-- every year spending more and more, trying to find something nicer/more expensive/more memorable than last year, something better and more loved than presents received elsewhere. I don’t want Christmas to be about that.

So this year, when Miss L’s list started off with a $500 cell phone and an iPod touch, and Miss G included an electric scooter on hers-- I decided, this has to stop. Lists like that feel... well, ugly. Entitled. These are words I want to keep out of Christmas. More upsetting is when Miss L started to read me her Christmas list, then stopped, flipped to page two and said, “Well, I’ll read you the less expensive stuff first.” Yowch.

Then I thought, I refuse to feel guilty over this. There is no earthly reason I should spend more on a single present than all my other Christmas shopping combined.

We’re not stingy at Christmas. Even last year, with neither of us working and drowning in legal fees, the kids didn’t feel any lack. Except the lack of celebrating it together. Having that taken away from us was devastating. So this year and all years to come, the togetherness will be the most sacred part of our holidays.

Miss L’s assumption that we wouldn’t spend that kind of money on Christmas presents is absolutely correct. And you know what? I’m taking it even farther. I’m gonna be proud of it. I’m bringing the spirit back to our celebration. Let the kids’ other Christmases be about piles of stuff, stuff and more stuff. Ours is gonna be about handmade presents, stringing cranberries and popcorn, making cookies and gingerbread houses. The stuff, anyone can buy that anywhere. The traditions, the memories, being a family-- we build that all on our own. Together.

Tangled.

I miss footie pajamas and sippy cups. Parenting was clearer then.

Definitions have smudged over the past few months-- how much eyeshadow is okay for a 12-year-old to wear; how much visible cleavage is okay for an almost 12-year-old. (Very little and none, respectively.)

We're at the edge of exponential complication, lingering over a last cup of hot cocoa before the hurricane of two teenagers strikes with full force. No one's screaming that they hate us or slamming any bedroom doors. Yet. But it's coming. The air's thick with hormones and dichotomy.

They wanted to see Tangled, the latest animated Disney movie. At the rate things are becoming lame around here, I would not have predicted that. They ditched us, of course, sat somewhere in the back. But after, they held our hands all the way back out to the car-- one in her push-up bra and skinny jeans, one in her cargo pants and fuchsia eye shadow. They'll be taller than me by next year.

From the inside, this age was miserable. From the outside, it is magical-- watching them take grown-up out and try it on, twirling around in it. They are so beautiful in their alternating uncertainty and fearlessness; they are luminous with awkward grace.

And then, just as fast, the grown-up is all put away. There is not a word for this, for these women-dipped girls-- not quite ready to let go of who they were a minute ago, hesitantly brushing up against who they'll become. Contradictions ravage them at breakneck speeds.

We brace ourselves with arms wide open.