The One You Feed

An old Cherokee man is teaching his grandson the ways of the world. He says, "Within all of us, there are two wolves. One wolf is good. He does no harm. He lives at peace in your heart, and finds harmony in the world.

"The other wolf-- he is full of anger, snarling, raging at everyone and everything. Yet all his anger changes nothing.

"These two wolves, they are battling in you, always. Always."

The boy is silent, then asks, "Which one will win?"

His grandfather answers, "The one you feed."

I never write about being a stepmom anymore. I can't think about the wasteland of the last several years of my life for longer than about eight seconds before I'm incoherent with anger.

Eight seconds. The same amount of time you have to hang onto a wild bull at the rodeo.

Last night Dan told me he is working on forgiving Miss L's mom, as if any of us needed more evidence that he is some kind of freakishly evolved, on-the-edge-of-enlightenment being.

"I don't see that ever happening for me," I say. "Being a honeybadger, yes. Not giving a crap, not letting it ruin my life, those things I can do. Forgiveness? No. I can't do it. I don't see how I can ever think how all the shit she's done is okay. I mean... ever."

He says he understands. He says he doesn't blame me. He says, "I'm still going to work toward forgiveness." Because he is a better human than anyone I know.

I'm not there. And not in a grudge-holding way. I am probably the least grudge-holdy person you'll ever meet. Not that I don't have a temper; I do. But it flares up and burns out real fast, and I always apologize immediately: a genuine apology. I am capable of grace.

I am not actively angry. Our everyday life is very cheerful these days. Peaceful. It's fun when Miss L is here, and she even keeps in touch with us when she's not now. All of the dark days are behind us. I know this. I believe it 100%.

Those dark days, though. They're molasses. They're sticky when you think you've cleaned everything up and put it all away.

I have forgiven worse. I have forgiven far less forgivable things. So why not these things?

Miss L is not my daughter; I should have no stake in this claim. For the love of pete, if I could forgive all the crap my actual biological daughter's other parent has dished out, I should be able to get over this. This woman who shouldn't even matter.

And still, there is just something about all the stupid bullshit that I cannot let go of. Maybe the using her daughter as a weapon. Maybe the calculating way she sabotaged our budding family when it was still so delicate, and destroyed our foundation so thoroughly that we will always be stunted as a result. Or maybe the myriad of other hypocritical, double standard, underhanded sneaky-ass things I can't even list here except to just say sometimes other parents just suck.

Every time, I expect that discussing these things will lance the infection and drain all those soupy, putrid toxins out, leave my mind light and airy the way venting so often does. But not this. It just festers.

It just feeds the wolf.

I think someday down the road, maybe it'll be safe to dwell. Eventually I'll find the minefield is dormant, and-- beyond the trenches-- I'll find forgiveness.

Until then, I'm starving it out.

UnChristmas

It's a very unChristmas this year. Not because I don't feel celebratory (I do!) or because I don't love Christmas (I really do) but because everything is nonsense-backwards this year.

Today, for example. It's Christmas Eve today. As kids, we would have arrived at my grandparents' on the dot of 4pm, ready for julebukking (contrary to the linked definition, that just meant traveling among relatives house and devouring all available food like a swarm of locusts), present opening, eating of endless cheeses, Christmas punch, sometimes eggnog, always meatballs. Sometimes dinner I guess, but that's less clear. And carols, holding hands, singing around the tree.

Just like in Whoville!

Yet on this Christmas Eve, I am doing none of those things. Instead, I'm watching 5th Element and eating Qdoba nachos.

My kid, my husband, my stepdaughter, and my parents are all hundreds of miles away, and all in different directions. My sister is up the road, but her family celebrates Hanukkah now. When I left her house earlier this afternoon we sort of looked at each other awkwardly and said "Uh, Merry Christmas?" because we don't know what to make of this day, so naked for both of us without its usual holiday glitter. For her, because she has married into new faith. For me, because I have married into a blended family, and our Christmas isn't for another week.

Holidays are one of the roughest parts of blended families, letting go of the traditions you had as a child, plus those you envisioned for your own family as an adult. I've written about this before, our crazy paper Christmas tree that simultaneously symbolizes everything I love and everything that is heartbreaking about living in a blended family.

Only, that post was a lie.

In reality, the kids cheerfully taped paper ornaments to that stupid paper tree while Kermit the Frog sang "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" and then I started crying and had to leave the room. Dan followed to talk me off the ledge, in the incredible way only he can do. And I cried that the paper tree was bullshit, that celebrating Christmas on December 30 is bullshit too, that this is the stupidest holiday ever because it's made up on a random day. And that we will never have a "real" Christmas, just like we will never be a "real" family.

Dan pointed out-- look, the kids are happy. They think it's Christmas, so it's Christmas. Who cares what the date is? And we are a real family, dammit. So what if we have zero examples of families like ours to look to? So what? We're our own thing. We're trailblazers.

And he was right.

I realized in that moment it was only my stubborn perception of how the holiday "should" be that was interfering with feeling celebratory. And, PS, no one gave a crap about the real-ness of the holiday except me. I pulled it together, returned to the idiot paper tree, tried to appreciate that we had created-- for the first time in our lovable disaster of a family, actually-- something new, something from scratch. A tradition that is 100 percent ours.

Then I went on to write my blog post about how the calendar day doesn't matter. And somehow, in the intervening couple years since then, it's even become true.

Look, Christmas-on-the-day is a farce anyway. Most scholars agree that historical Jesus wasn't born anywhere near December 25. Mistletoe and the Yule log come straight from my ancestors, the pagan Norsemen. And the whole gift exchange thing has its roots in the Saturnalia.

Regardless of the various appropriated traditions, Christmas is when we gather to celebrate.

Except that's backwards.

When we gather to celebrate, THAT is our Christmas.

In Alice in Wonderland, every day that isn't your birthday is your unbirthday. A day to celebrate! And our Christmas is an unChristmas, our celebratory day anywhere between December 29th and New Year's. It doesn't matter when the day is; "Christmas" is whenever we get around to celebrating it.

Instead of feeling like we're being cheated out of the holiday, our oddball paper Christmas now feels super fun and sacred somehow. Like those days you wake up really early and you just know the entire world is asleep except you, and in that grey light anything is possible.

Our Christmas is like that-- we're the only ones celebrating; it's a day that's all ours. Anything is possible.

Just like the Whos down in Whoville, we celebrate our Christmas without a (real) tree, without my childhood trappings of untangling light strings with my dad and my red and green plaid taffeta dress.

Instead, our Christmas has a paper tree with glitter-glue ornaments cut from brown Trader Joe's shopping bags. The inaugural song every year is Elvis crooning Blue Christmas; we listen to the whole album, before moving on to the Muppet Christmas album. Then Dan & I leave to buy stocking stuffers from the Michael's dollar aisle while the kids watch holiday movies (Elf, then Scrooged, usually in that order) and they wrap presents.

Crossover traditions from childhood? None.

Yet the feel of Christmas in the air, the family celebration and joy and presents and togetherness and loving one another? We've got that covered.

Even when it falls on December 30th.

Well, it's complicated.

That is the one phrase I use more than any other to answer nearly every question thrown my way. And it makes me nuts. If there is one thing I hate, it's "complicated"-- and there is no way to stepparent without  gobs of complication.

Even basic questions have complex answers requiring endless exposition and backstory to explain custody schedules, latest compromises, and current negotiating climate.

I ambushed my poor sister the other day, who innocently asked if I thought the kids might be interested in taking an art workshop over our brief vacation in CO this summer.

"Well, it's complicated," I say.

"See, I'm not sure how long we'll be there. I know when we're arriving, but I'm not sure when the girls fly out with Dan because Miss L's mom says her husband's family is having a reunion in Oklahoma right at those dates. But we only have two weeks where all four of us overlap this summer, because I start work July 1 but Miss G is at the lake with her dad's folks till June 22 and then she's with her dad August 3rd till school starts and Miss L gets 10 days with her mom sometime in there so we're working things out with this new parent coordinator but we haven't gotten hard dates for sure yet so I'll have to--"

My sister starts laughing and I interrupt myself saying "I know, it's ridiculous, I'm so sorry. Even an easy question is like a 20 minute response."

She says, "No, no, it's fine! Actually I was just thinking... I am just in awe. I don't know how you do it."

I think about it a minute. There's only one answer.

"Well. It's complicated."

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.

The myth of positive stepparenting blogs

The question asked recently in one of the stepparenting forums I pop into now and again was "Are there *any* positive stepparenting blogs out there? Most of them are either depressing or bitter."

Totally true. I'm guilty of veering into depressing and/or bitter myself. But positive stepparenting blogging... it's just-- well, not impossible because nothing's impossible... but (like absolutely every other damned thing about blended families) it is delicate and tricky.

To have a good blog, you need interesting content. Without any drama, your stepparenting blog sounds pretty lame, almost like a regular family. Almost, in fact, like real life. Who wants to read about that? You get that at home.

Normal happy family? Booo-ring!

So, you need a little drama to keep things spicy. Except, under a constant onslaught of drama, very few people are able to remain positive, let alone keep a sense of humor about it.

For example, this weekend my stepdaughter refused to get on the plane to see us. And her mother refused to make her. If anyone can tell me how to make this into a funny story, I'm all ears. Right now, it's depressing. And if I dwell on it, bitter will enter next.

We had nothing but totally normal family things planned. Miss L's favorite dinner Friday night: chicken enchiladas and homemade refried beans. After, we were hitting Titanic 3D. Saturday we were going to refinish some dressers that were her great-grandmother's, a project started ages ago. And in the evening, we were going down to Pig Rock to do some bouldering, grill a fat steak, and watch a movie under the stars via portable DVD player. Sunday: sleep in, make pancakes and bacon, chill around the house till airport time.

Could I make an interesting blog entry out of that? Maybe. Dan has some good one-liners, and pics of climbing are always good.

Exhibit A: Arbitrary Climbing Picture

Except, here's problem two: if blog entries aren't about your struggles as a stepparent, why are other stepparents reading your blog? They're looking for support, commiseration, reassurance that they're not alone, stories of how other blended families handle conflicts, either to sympathize with them or find guidance for their own battles and inspiration for their heartbreak. If the weekend I write about is just like any weekend with a regular family, it benefits nary another stepparent out there.

Maybe I could make it funny if I include the part about how I was joking to the kids that I'd rather have us all live in a tent than spend one more summer in Las Vegas, and how the lawyer actually mentions that in her official letter; that a tent is not acceptable living conditions, that this is a reason Miss L should be here less, as if I had been serious.

I mean, come on. That's pretty funny.

OMG, tents!!! Call CPS!

It's also kind of funny how the lawyer's letter said with Miss L getting more interested in her hair and makeup, it's not important for her to see her dad as much anymore. Yep. Really said that.

It's also really funny how it's the four days a month she's with us that is causing her to flunk English class and has her constantly exhausted, not the other 26 days of the month. And also pretty hilarious that she doesn't get enough time with her friends during that 26 days, but instead needs to only visit one weekend per month from now on because friends are super important, and 26 days isn't enough time to spend with them, and four days is too many to spend with us.

Funny.

Actually not funny. I'm afraid I stepped into bitter a little. Dammit, I was doing okay for a minute there. They're just super close together sometimes.

Okay, so positive stepparenting blogs? Yeah, they don't exist. Because like every single other life experience, stepparenting in a blended family isn't always positive. There are ups and downs and you can't make everything funny. There are really hard times, and really good times. And sure, there are totally hilarious times, but sometimes the absurdity gets lost in the unfairness. The anger. The wondering why the most basic thing in the world-- having a family-- is so easy for everyone in the world except for your family.

It's not always like that, though. You just have to hang in for the crappy stuff till the good stuff comes back around. Just like a regular family. Just like real life.

Above all, keep your sense of humor. And for the love of god, don't joke about tents.

Anniversaries

Our wedding was three years ago today. I jokingly said to my mother "It's hard to say if things have gotten better in those three years, or way worse."

Except, like many jokes, it's not really a joke.

When I first got our amazing wedding photos I had trouble looking through them.

Instead of seeing pictures, I saw memories. I remembered crying for hours the night before the wedding, sure Dan was making a colossal mistake in marrying someone his daughter hated so much. I remembered his ex-wife calling and yelling at him for an hour the first day of our honeymoon and wondered why the hell I had willingly signed on for this much animosity... for the rest of my life. The wedding itself, a ceremony promising union, felt like the biggest possible farce.

Hard to believe you could not find perfection against this backdrop.

Fast forward three years. Life is still uncertain, although I cry much less these days. Miss L no longer radiates hatred from her being if I walk into the room. And although Dan's ex-wife remains an obstacle to the future we want more often than not, we are learning how not to give in to terrorist demands.

We married in the eye of a hurricane but the storm is finally passing. Clouds are breaking; blue skies appearing.

Maybe the wedding felt false because I thought it should be the beginning of happily ever after and ours felt like the furthest thing from.

A wedding is a beginning, period.

On our wedding day, Dan and I joined hands and committed to a life together, and that's exactly what we're doing. It's not the perfect life. It never is, not for anyone. We're just living life, and living it together.

Over rough roads and smooth.

Doesn't get much more authentic or more celebratory than that.

Traditional, Schmraditional

I remember in high school getting hooked on late-night reruns of thirtysomething. Recently I thought, hey, I actually *am* in my thirties now. I bet I'll get a lot more out of that show. 

I made it through maybe a season and a half and then I had to stop. Because-- really? These are your biggest problems, Hope and Michael? A frustrating remodel? And really, Nancy? Elliot isn't responsible enough? 

I would possibly sell my soul for the problems in that show. Because we have all that regular stuff-- errands and money and homework and cancer and the kids and whatever else traditional spouses and traditional families scuffle about. But then with the bonus family comes some bonus crap, too. 

Let's take this weekend as an example. We drove out to Fresno and back; our less-than-24-hour blitzkrieg to California left us plenty of time for a family meeting today, before Miss L's flight back to her mom's. Meeting about-- chores? TV usage? Normal kid things?

Nope! Our meetings start with things like "So, your mom says you want to come here once a month instead of twice. Is this true?" 

There is no road map for this. No guiding light. There's not even a TV show.

Although they did try. 

Every single person sludging their way through a blended family frappe is doing it stone blind. 

You know how they say that 50% of marriages end in divorce? That percentage shoots up to 70% for marriages involving stepkids. And I don't think that statistic is a big shocker to any of us in those marriages. 

I am incredibly lucky. I have an amazing, wonderful, loving husband who is willing and nimble enough to navigate this minefield with me. I have a cool kid who's staggeringly adaptable to whatever new curveballs this hard-won family of ours throws her way; I have a cool stepkid whose common sense and levelheadedness is rising like a phoenix from the sheer insanity of her life. 

I have all of these things, and it's still damned hard. Not all the time. Not even most of the time. But it's no thirtysomething, I'll tell you that.

Know what though? I wouldn't trade it. The happy is happier when it's harder won. And those thirtysomething things that unseat regular families don't faze us for a heartbeat. At a certain level of crap deflection, you start feeling... well, kind of badass.

So to all of you folks out there with non-traditional challenges, or who are raising non-traditional families in non-traditional ways? Keep rockin it, guys. We're awesome, you know. Those dull cookie-cutter families got nothing on us. 

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.

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.

Victory. I think. A little bit.

My hardest part of being a stepmama is never feeling like I win. Not in a self-martyring woe-is-me kind of way, but in the sense that victories aren’t really victories. Or they are, but they’re shaded in unexpected tones and tricky to make out-- not as brightly victorious as I’d like. And not the way I’d have defined ‘victory’ a year ago-- five years ago-- six months ago.

The girls came home after several days with their (respective) other families yesterday.

“Mama, we need girl talk. Like, NOW,” says Miss G. Miss L nods agreement.

“Uh oh. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Me and Miss L just need to talk about things with you.”

The girls exchange meaningful looks and eyebrow waggles. Serious business.

Dan wisely leaves the house, and the girls collapse in the family room with joint sighs of utter disgust. Disgust at the world, I guess, or parents everywhere or maybe just at Dan. Who can say.

Miss G goes on a rant about this and that while Miss L chimes in here and there, and I murmur and/or exclaim in (apparently) all the right places. Everyone feels better, and I feel all popular and stuff, and the girls disperse with lighter hearts.

A little later, Miss G finds me alone in the kitchen and gives me a big hug.

“I love you, Mama!”
“Aww, I love you too.”
“I think Miss L loves you too. A little bit.”

It’s kind of funny and heartbreaking and touching all at once. Just like everything else about being a stepmama.

And I feel-- well, semi-victorious. Not because my stepdaughter loves me (We think. A little bit.) but because she no longer leaves a room if I enter. She asks me for help with art projects. She hovers in the kitchen while I make dinner.

On the other hand-- she doesn’t give me hugs. She responds to my “Good night, girls! Love you!” with silence, or sometimes a delayed “.... ’night!”

I’m finding my way. I’m moving forward even if the scenery doesn’t match the job description, and it doesn’t wreck me any more. The news that she might love me (a little bit) doesn’t devastate me by falling short of what I want for us like it would have a couple years ago. But neither is it the desperate lifeline tied to the family I always wanted, not like it would have been a couple years before that.

So it’s kind of a victory. I think. A little bit.

It isn’t that I don’t care, because of course I do. But there’s a significant difference between regular caring and caring so much that your whole life, your future happiness, and maybe even your sanity depend on it.

I’ve learned to let Miss L be Miss L, and let me be me, let this family be whatever it is instead of insisting it become something it’s not. She’s changed, and I’ve changed and we’ve traveled from miserable through tolerance all the way up to mutual-- something. Respect? Friendship? Tentative affection?

Love?

We think. A little bit.

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.

Paper Christmas

Every year, Dan and Miss G & I head to Tucson to celebrate Christmas with my folks and my siblings. But Miss L spends Christmas with her Mom’s family, so we do a separate celebration for our immediate foursome. Or at least, we try. Shifting custody schedules and other-parent-snarkiness have combined to make Christmas pretty squirrely at our house. The annual uncertainty of when or how we’ll manage to celebrate has been the only holiday tradition we’ve managed so far, something that deeply offends my Christmas vibe. It’s hard to feel merry and grouchy at the same time.

I should have learned to roll with this kind of thing by now. God knows nothing else in our lives is peaceful or settled. But I grew up in a family that was serious about its traditions, especially at Christmas, which makes all this vague ambiguity that much harder for me to accept. Like moving from bedrock to marshlands.

Last year it came to a head-- no time during the winter break when we’d have both kids, leaving us with no family Christmas at all. Thanksgiving was the only weekend we’d for sure have both kids. But we already had plans to hit Fresno over Thanksgiving; how could we get back in time for Christmas the same weekend?

Then I came up with Surprise Christmas. I painted a Christmas tree on kraft paper and made paper ornaments, then hid them in a mailing tube under the camping gear along with wrapping paper and stockings.

We stopped at a hotel on the way back from California. I donned a jingly reindeer headband, Dan his Santa hat, and we unfurled the tree and hung it on the hotel room wall. We did all the shopping early and brought the presents along; the kids did their gift wrapping in the hotel room, surrounded by Elvis’s Blue Christmas and twinkling lights. They hung up the paper ornaments and sang carols. Santa even came in the night and crammed stockings full.

I’ve never seen either kid so excited.

On the surface, we got our Christmas. I guess. I mean, it had all the important elements of a ‘real’ Christmas-- family togetherness, lights, carols, presents. But despite the kids’ (and Dan’s) obvious delight, I felt depressed by the farce. It was a poor second to celebrating Christmas together for real. I mean-- a paper Christmas tree, for pete’s sake? Come on.

In the year since then, my perspective changed entirely; turns out it’s the most successful family Christmas we’ve had yet. The kids have asked-- multiple times-- if we’re having the paper tree again, and kept asking when would Christmas happen, starting around October. They were grumbly to hear Christmas was going to be a planned event this year instead of sprung on them unsuspecting. There’s been nothing but “Remember when” about last year’s Christmas; none of our other Christmases have been reminisced over even once.

Some traditions are passed down from generation to generation. Some develop slowly, build up over time. And some spring forth fully-formed, armed and ready for battle-- like Athena from the head of Zeus.

So, even though our celebration this year is marred by Dan’s radiation treatment, even though we’ll have to stay an arm’s length away from him while hanging our ornaments and opening presents, I can’t wait for our day. I plan on doing more than just celebrating-- I plan to revel.

I really, really love Christmas. There are a zillion movies about Christmas spirit and I cry at all of them. But nothing taught me the lesson so hard as last year-- that Christmas is where you find it. That Christmas traditions are accessories, not the foundation. That sometimes you have to make your own Christmas, even if it’s only out of paper. And sometimes, those are the most sacred of all.

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.

Thanksgiving Curry

I almost had such a great post for today.

So, last time Miss L was here-- almost a full month ago, on Dan’s surgery weekend-- she asked me what the plans were for Thanksgiving.

“Well, I think you & your dad are going camping,” I said.
“Oh. So are you and Miss G going to Tucson?” she asked.
“Nope, she’s going to Florida with her dad, and my folks are going to Denver for Thanksgiving.”
“Oh! Well... what will you do?”
Be blissfully, blessedly alone for four whole days.
“I'm writing a novel,” I said.

After Dan drops her at the airport, he comes home and says, “Miss L doesn’t think it’s right for you to be alone at Thanksgiving. She wants to stay here and cook.”

“I-- what?”  No. No, no, no, no.

“Yeah, she asked me what my favorite dish is and said she wants to make it for Thanksgiving. So she’s making curry.”

Oh god. And I can’t say no. You can’t say no to your stepdaughter wanting to spend Thanksgiving with you. Crap. And I hate curry. He knows I hate curry. It is the only food I will not eat, other than “meat” from McDonald’s. I’ll have to somehow choke it down; I can't hurt her feelings. There is just... no way out of this. Or-- wait.

“Well-- if you guys are staying, I’d rather make traditional dinner. What about leftover turkey curry the next night?” While I go to a write-in somewhere.

“Oh, great idea! I’ll run it by her.”

The next week, he says, “Oh, I talked to Miss L about Thanksgiving. She’s really looking forward to cooking with you.” He’s all lit up.

“Cooking... wait, what?”

“Yeah, I suggested making turkey curry the next night, but she really wants to have curry as one of the side dishes on actual Thanksgiving.”

“Honey, that’s kind of a hassle. Curry is really involved, and our kitchen is ridiculous. There’s just not room for both of us to be cooking such different meals in there. If she wants to help with regular Thanksgiving dinner, that would be great. And then she can take over the kitchen the next night for curry. It would be so much easier for both of us.”

“Oh, well. I guess that would be easier. Okay, I’ll talk to her.”

[Disclaimer: Okay. Lest you think I am a total, total bitch for not wanting to cook Thanksgiving dinner curry with my stepdaughter, let’s discuss my kitchen. And, to a lesser extent, curry. My kitchen is galley-style, flanking two parallel walls. There is literally 26” between counters; I have to stand off to one side to open the oven all the way. In addition to the tight quarters, our crappy stove has three working burners, of which I will need four: gravy, potatoes, cranberries, and stuffing. Plus the oven. It’s already a challenge to cook Thanksgiving dinner in there without adding a whole extra person needing at least one entire counter and a fifth burner. And the curry? Miss L’s mom’s family is from Sri Lanka. When she says curry, she’s not messing around. This is hours of chopping, mashing, peeling, prepping, simmering-all-day traditional curry.]

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, which is the day before her flight arrives, Dan says, “Well, Miss L couldn’t decide which curry recipe to make, so she’s doing two.” Ha ha! Two! What a delight. Dan is pleased as a full tick.

His cheerful oblivion is the last straw. I flip. Dan flips back.

He’s pissed that I’m not excited to have them here for the holiday. I’m pissed that he can’t understand it was important to me to write over the weekend.

He doesn’t understand why the curry is a problem. I remind him about the three burners, the 26 inches. I remind him that I don’t let anyone help with making dinner because two people in this kitchen is way too many.

He throws up his hands and says “You two have just built a wall! A WALL!” and I say “Oh my god, you think this is personal?” I tell him it has nothing to do with my relationship with Miss L, that I would feel the same way about Miss G wanting to make one (let alone two) really complicated dishes on that day. Let there be no mistake, I tell him, I am genuinely touched that Miss L thinks I shouldn’t be alone at Thanksgiving, and I am willing to figure out a way to make this work. But it’s still a pain in the ass.

Let's skip ahead to the grudging compromise portion of the argument in which we decide to take over his parents’ kitchen a few houses down; they’ll be out of town. Will Miss L feel exiled if we send her to cook down there? Possibly. To avoid this, Dan and I decide that I will cook regular dinner down there, and she can take over our kitchen here. Bonus: with no one home at the other house, I can bring my laptop and get the alone time after all. Win, win.

Except. Oh, right. His folks are installing new flooring, so all the kitchen cabinets are sitting in the backyard, along with the kitchen sink (and not in the metaphorical sense). So... maybe I can... wash the turkey in the... er, bathtub?

And wait-- okay, where do we eat? Load up plates at the other house and cart them back to our house and eat? We can’t eat at his parents’ because the dining room table is now holding up the microwave and pretending it’s a kitchen counter.

And is Miss L familiar enough with her dishes that she can gauge what time they’ll be done, so we can eat everything at one time?

I ask Dan all these questions. He suggests finishing the flooring real quick and getting the sink hooked back up. I say, “Installing kitchen flooring and a sink while I’m trying to make Thanksgiving dinner is the only thing that will make this day more ridiculous.” He says I’m a Negative Nelly. I say he skips right to the magical unicorn dust happy ending without any practical sense of how we get there.

Put us together and we break pretty close to even. This is why we’re good together.

I figure... okay. We'll figure it out. Whatever. Plus rinsing the turkey out in the bathtub and the whole curry thing will make a good blog entry. The only thing I’ve done this month is write, think about writing, or avoid writing. And once, dressed up like a fairy. God knows I could use some material.

So, I put my grouchies to bed and got ready to take discreet anecdotal notes.

And then. Miss L had the temerity to show up with a giant ziplock bag of frozen curry she already prepared at her mom’s house, thus neatly preventing any drama or interesting stories arising out of Thanksgiving day dinner.

Damn.

Maybe next year.