Thankful for just being together

Tags

family, grief, parenting, stepchildren, stepparenting

My stepchildren are now in their early 20s and the struggle to negotiate where they are going to be when is on their plates rather than ours.  I listened this year when our oldest daughter shared her frustrations with her mother’s family for not deciding on a day and time for their Thanksgiving celebration and for not seeming to prioritize the family and travel considerations of she and her cousin, who are at school hours away.  I gave all those sounds that said I was listening and I understood what she was saying.  Until she said that this is her least favorite time of year because it is so hard to juggle everyone’s needs.  I told her that lots of people feel that struggle, even without multiple parents and grandparents.  At her age the in-law and my family issues begin for many.  Where will we go, how long will we stay, and will we enjoy any of it by the time it is over?  I also told her that I wished the scheduling struggles she was dealing with were new, but they were not.  What is new is that they are on her plate now.  The parents no longer argue over where she will be and then just tell her what they decided.  Now she has to decide and that, despite how difficult those childhood years were, is even more difficult.

Both she and our oldest son joined us for our extended family’s Thanksgiving.  They arrived before dinner, we had a chance to talk and catch up.  I had a chance to meet her new boyfriend.  We ate and laughed.  And then they packed up and headed to the next party, having received empathy from others that they were attending three Thanksgiving feasts today.

Why do we drive ourselves crazy to go to such lengths?  Why not just choose one and say someone else is in next year’s rotation?

Because, at least while we are young and believe we can do it all, we want to see everyone and hold onto the idea that it is all going to be possible for always.  Those crazy drives from one party to another can drive us crazy, but they also cement the bonds between lovers and siblings who are our partners in persecution.

As a stepparent, I had to sit down and take the time to write this post when I realized that a) I had no anxiety or inner struggles prior to today’s events and b) I only briefly had the thought that, while we were first, because their mother was last she was likely to end up with more of their time.  I only briefly thought it because the quantity of time was not important.  This year, what mattered was that they loved us enough to make the effort to attend each celebration and to share traditional dishes and some conversation.  I would have missed them were they not there, but I can look ahead and say that, when they come to their senses and realize they can no longer pull everything off in one afternoon, I will be okay missing them because I know I will see them next year or the next day. By then my aunts and uncles may no longer be with us and the extended family celebration will have changed into my mom, brothers, children, and (by then maybe) grandchildren.

Families are funny.  Who is in them changes.  People are born.  People die.  People join and people leave.  The circle expands and contracts, but as long as there is a circle, there is a family.  I also realized, as I walked into Thanksgiving this year, that for the first time since my father died, I was walking into a family gathering with more anticipation of seeing those still with us than dread at feeling his absence.

These are little moments for which I am thankful.  Today’s view from the step was mellow and colored by gratitude, if not exuberant joy.  Those days, I hope, are to come again.

Stepmothers Take Note–Another Step Forward for Steps

Tags

biomom, grief, loss, stepchildren, stepmoms, stepmothers, stepparenting

Embed from Getty Images

In this week’s issue of Time, Susanna Schorbsdorff (@SusannaSchrobs) writes about the importance of graduation for her daughters and for all teenagers (and their parents) who have made it through those tough years.  I usually enjoy her essays and am sympathetic to her view of families and life, but I was particularly surprised to read this:

“Then there are the unexpected tragedies. For us, it was when the girls lost their beloved stepmother in a freak accident. At the time, my eldest had just finished a rocky entry into high school and her sister was in fifth grade navigating the maddening rules of tween cliques. The fragile bridge they were building to adulthood crumbled in a day.

Grief seemed to reshape my girls at a molecular level. One held tight to the tangible evidence of loss, cycling through photos and calling her stepmom’s cell phone just to hear her gentle voice until the account was shut down. The other turned inside herself, shutting out school, shielding herself from the outside pressures to counteract what was going on inside. It was a dark summer.”

Did you read that, stepmothers?  A biological mother not just admitting without being defensive or hurt, but highlighting, that a stepmother was beloved and important to their daughters.  Even more, she writes that just hearing her voice, her gentle voice, was important.

It is terrible that these girls lost a parent.  It is wonderful and awesome that they had such a wonderful relationship with their stepmother that they grieved deeply for her loss.  She clearly was an influential person in their lives.

Her loss, and the way Susanna Schrobsdorff writes about it, highlights one of the great gifts of stepparents.  Although the girls lost one of their mothers, they had another to help them through their grief and will still have a mother as they move beyond graduation to the rest of their lives.  I worry far less about my older (step)children because, no matter what happens to me, they will have a mother.  No matter what happens to their father, they will still have a father.  I hope their mother feels the same.  If I could get a stepmother for my younger children without having to go through divorce, I would wish the same for them.  Children today, and, I suspect, always, can never have enough adults that love them and are deeply invested in their happiness and well being.  I think, from what I have read of her work, Susanna Scrobsdorff would agree.

What If Riffs

Tags

empty nest, mothers and daughters, stepparenting

I do some of my best thinking in the car.  My mind is in neutral, like meditation.  It’s occupied with a mostly automated task.

As I was driving today I must have been thinking of my older children because I thought, I wonder what if I had supported her role as mother rather than competed.  Would we have been friendly?  Would it have been easier for the kids? Could I have done it?  What would it have looked like–to act to the kids like I was her friend even though she hated me?

What if riffs.

I texted my daughter this morning to wish her luck in a venture about which I have serious misgivings.

I haven’t heard anything back from her eight hours later.

I did not feel this child grow inside my body.  I did not watch the test to see two lines or one and rejoice when it confirmed what I already suspected.  I did not experience hours of labor and the rending of my body only to feel her soft sweet skin on mine and her lips on my breast.

I did not rock her small form and watch it grow before my eyes in those early months.  I did not witness her first taste of solid food (at least not in person).  I have never had her call my name when she woke from a nightmare.

And yet this growing away, this move to establish independence, feels like (as I imagine) having the first layers of skin removed or experiencing a scapel cut through to my fleshy insides.

And I wonder, in my what if riff, what this will feel like when it is the child I first felt move in my own, whose birth tore my body, and whose soft skin felt like an extension of my own for so many years.

How does anyone survive this journey of parenthood?

I have an ever growing understanding of midlife crisis.  It’s not just about mortality and unfulfilled dreams.  It’s about rebranding and healing and distracting.

Time to buy another canvas or sketch out a plot.

Mother’s Day

Tags

mother's day, mothers

Two of my children began in my womb.  Two came into my life with my husband.

I knew the two who began in my womb from day one.  When they were born I examined their fingers and toes and undressed them and looked at their skin, learned all of their blemishes.  I fed and cleaned them.  I was their primary comfort when the world set them spinning.

For the other two, I was part of the world spinning.  I was a discomfort at first.  I may still be a discomfort.  I never saw them as babies.  I never changed diapers or fed bottles, much less a breast.  I was never sure when it was ok to hug them and when it was something they just put up with.

So my knowing of my children in this way is different.  Where I feel free to stick my finger in one son’s ear and show him the icky ear wax, I would never think of it with the other.

However, I have watched and loved and agonized over all of my children, and perhaps the two who did not begin in my womb more than the others.  Perhaps because I don’t have the same physical connection that allows me to pull them close and set everything ok.  I know their facial expressions and how they are windows into their hearts if one only knows how to read them.

I know their histories.  I don’t know all of their histories for two of my children, but neither does the woman in whose womb they began because their lives have been shared between us.  As they get older, this seems less strange, less foreign because their lives are being shared with many others and soon we will be one small part in the big kaleidoscope that is their lives.

In my teens and twenties my kaleidoscope was focused on my friends and the love of my life.  When my friends and that love left me, it refocused on my parents.  When I found a new love and had my own children, my parents moved to the periphery once more, but, as my children age, they make return visits to the center.

What does it all mean?  Our children are born and we know them intimately, absolutely.  Some children come into our lives and we know them intimately, carefully.  As they grow, they pull away and we know them more carefully, less intimately.  They go out of focus, but they never truly leave.

I am watching my older two children go out of focus and it hurts.  It’s like giving birth, but having them ripped from my chest.  However, when we give birth and they are torn from our bodies, we have that immediate reconnection as their skin touches ours and all returns to right with the world.  This going out of focus, this ripping from my chest offers no such immediate balm.  Only my own history suggests that they will return.

The fact that I have to go through this two more times is terrifying.  More terrifying than the knowledge of giving birth when you become pregnant a second time.  They give you pain killers for child birth.

I think God knew how hard I was going to take this.  So he sent my youngest, who still throws her arms around my neck and asks me to snuggle.

I love you, babies, and I love you & admire you more than I can say, mom.  Happy mother’s day.

Steps Down a Tortured Memory Lane

Tags

ex-wives, graduation, moms and daughters, parenting, second wives, stepmothers

For the last several days, I have been putting together a slide show for our oldest daughter’s graduation open house.  As any parent who has put together such a collection of pictures will tell you, it’s quite the trip down memory lane.  There are ooh’s and aah’s about how little and cute they used to be, how young you used to look, some ugh’s over why you chose that haircut or why no one told you your butt had gotten that big.  There are some tears as you realize how quickly time has passed and project that forward to how quickly time will continue to pass.

When you are the stepparent this trip down memory lane is a little different.  Or maybe it’s just when you’re a parent of a child with two sets of parents and two households, no matter if there is a step in front of that appellation.

Seemingly innocent pictures can bring back flashes of painful, frustrating, heartbreaking memories.  That was the day we waited an hour for her mother at our assigned “switch” location and kept everyone waiting to open presents.  I never could stand that outfit she sent her in. Those were the years when the clothes went back and forth in little suitcases.  There’s that damn necklace that matched her mother’s that her mother insisted stay around her neck even when she slept.  I remember tossing and turning the first night of that necklace, certain she’d strangle before morning.  There’s the year her mother pierced her ears against her father’s wishes.  How she cried when we had to turn them at night.   And that haircut above her ears when her dad loved that long hair.  And on and on.

There’s my scowl again at a family event because somebody was late at switch time or somebody said something nasty that was innocently repeated by a child.  There’s my forehead with more lines, my eyes with more distance.

There’s my happy-go-lucky daughter whose eyes also become more guarded as I ranted about the tardiness and the nasty comments.

What a waste.  I thought it at the time, but at the time I longed for her mother and father and I to be a team, working together to raise the children the best way we could.  I could do it if only they would work with me by working together.  I was not the problem.

We were all, mainly she and I, too immature and insecure for such a feat.

And here we are, in our forties, more lined, sadder eyes, wiser.  Justice and what was fair seemed so important to me for all of those years.  But it was justice and what was fair for me.  I saw her as selfish, but didn’t see the log in my own eye.  Either that or I wasn’t selfish enough to blow it all off and be happy because I deserved it.

I’m still processing my tortured trip down this particular memory lane, but two lessons stand out so far, beyond asking someone who will tell you the truth about the size of your behind to tell you how you really look in those jeans.

1) I’m sorry, baby, for making it harder than it needed to be.  And that sorry extends outward to everyone involved.

2) If I could give any advice to new stepparents, it would be to breathe deep and let it all go.  It’s not fair.  For anybody.  And you’re all going to behave badly.  Don’t focus so much on the way you wish it were if only someone else would change that, when you’re looking back, you are left wishing it were the way it could have been if only you had accepted the way it is.

3)  See?  Even as I processed those two I realized another.  Our parents are not perfect because they are still growing, too.  I became a parent to a three and a one year old at 21.  I was not a full-fledged adult and I put myself in a situation that required the wisdom of Yoda to negotiate successfully.  So I’m going to take my own advice from #2 and accept that I did the best I could, even when I knew better, because that’s who I was at the time.  And I’m going to do better for the next 17 years of her life.  Or at least I’m going to continue to do my best.

She deserves nothing less.

Update from the Step

Twelve years ago I was crushed when my husband’s ex managed to keep our two older children from coming to the hospital when their first little brother was born.  It seemed so petty.  God must have been on her side, however, because when she had their second little brother a little over a year later, they were with her and she had full control over where they were and when.

Twelve years later I wish I could go back and have a chat with myself.

There is no winning if there are losers.  At least not that I’ve seen yet.

The only win is to be happy and refuse be a loser.

Sometimes that means letting go.

Letting go does not mean not caring.

The only actions you can control are your own.

That baby does not have two moms to fight over him.

He has one who needs to fight for him.

I have not been nearly as good a mom as I have expected others to be so I either need to tell myself to tone down the expectations of others or ratchet up my own game.

But he has been amazing.  I don’t need to tell myself anything about that because I’ve never stopped marveling at how much he has blessed my life.

Don’t forget to thank God for this baby.  And don’t stop taking pictures.

 

Parental Pride

Tags

babies, kids, pride, project 365

A couple of social media happenings collided today that highlighted for me the full spectrum of my parenting experience.

My cousin, who had her first baby last week, sent an email to family and friends detailing the onset of labor, the fairly easy delivery and the happy, easy-going baby and placid first-time parents who now reside in their home.  Those happy hormones of early motherhood oozed through her email and the sheer joy of seeing a person that you and the person you used to love most in the world created together shone from every word.

I remember that feeling.  I have it still at various moments for the two children that my husband and I made together.  I’m not going to lie.  There’s some heavy narcissism wrapped up in that feeling.  Look what we’ve done and how wonderful it is.  Look how much they’re like us.  Isn’t that amazing?

For my children that we did not create together, I have also had moments of immense pride, but the narcissism is different.  I can take pride in having nurtured or influenced, but not in having created.  That was done before I was in the picture.    I think in many ways I have a purer pride in their achievements because I’m proud for them, not for me.

Which brings me to my second social media moment.  My aunt posted to Facebook today her pride as a mom that my cousin, a phenomenal trumpet player, has made it to the National Trumpet Competition semi-finals.  That’s a huge deal for a kid from a very small town.

I’m very happy for my cousin.  He’s earned it.  I’m happy for my aunt.  She’s earned it, too, with hours of listening to trumpet practice and hours spent driving to special trumpet lessons and various festivals and competitions, not to mention hours of role modeling a lifelong love of creating music.

But I couldn’t help but itch to respond how proud I am that my oldest has his first preliminary hearing for several felony counts tomorrow.  It’s a milestone in a man’s life.  Doesn’t your child’s baby book have a spot for those details? Hmmmm…….

When those miracles enter our lives through our act of loving another person, whether that entrance is through a birth canal or a marriage certificate, we start a lifelong love affair that is stronger than any we had anticipated to that point.  We see the hope and promise that youth offers.  I doubt many bring children into their lives looking forward to failure and despair.

I didn’t make my post to Facebook.  Facebook is for the lives we want to lead, not the ones we do.  And when reality gets too real in social media, the herd abandons its weakest members like a three-legged gazelle in a herd chased by lions.  Avert your eyes, children.  It’s not nice to stare.  And, ooooo, look at that cute little baby.  Isn’t s/he precious?  Look quick for the tattoo that marks it as the future felon.

Little too determinist?  And I don’t even like Calvin.  He just keeps turning back up like some bad damn theological penny.

How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Bake the Ways…..

Tags

baking, cookies, love, moms and kids, project365

My aunt posted to Facebook the other day that she knew she was like her mom (my grandmother) because her kids were home and she was happily feeding them. Must be hereditary, I thought. Then I thought maybe it’s genetic, but hooked to the x-chromosome and it’s like a Wonder Twin power thing–you need both Xs to activate it.

I love to feed my family and my friends. This does not include taking them out to eat. I have to prepare the food. I make homemade bread. I won’t buy prepackaged chocolate chip cookie dough. I can’t stand eating cupcakes from the bakery counter. It just feels wrong. Treats like that should come from the hands and the heart of the one providing them.

Our oldest daughter has been having a rough time lately and over break she kept asking me to make cookies. There were so many other treats that chocolate chip cookies just seemed extraneous. But this morning it dawned on me it might be about more than the cookies.

And so I made her cookies while she was sleeping in. And filled a ramekin with cookie dough (yes, we still do that, even with real eggs) and put a little heart on top with a toothpick.

You are loved, baby girl, and you know it’s true because I am trying to fill your belly because I can’t fix what’s wrong with your heart.

You may have a problem if……

Tags

Christmas Eve, family, whining

I woke this morning at 6am (yes, Christmas Eve and a day off for the whole household–awake at 6am) from a dream in which I was screaming the F-word at my young son because he refused to stop playing video games long enough to open Christmas presents. Fantastic parenting all the way around. In my own dream.

My husband thinks I may be projecting some anger from our oldest son to our youngest in my dream world. You think?

I was so angry, tight chest and all, that I couldn’t get back to sleep. When I told my husband about the dream, having conveniently awakened him with my tossing and turning, he said it was the ghost of bad Christmases past. I’m not sure how anyone who has shared custody of children that everybody loves avoids bad Christmases because we never figured it out. Instead, I have many to look back on and cringe at the insensitivity of all involved and, most particularly, of the self-absorption of the adults. I don’t know if two sets of presents and lots of extra grandparents and aunts and uncles with presents made up for all of this. And if I’m waking with nightmares, I wonder how my two oldest children feel. Happy thoughts to start off the two day Christmas extravaganza.

Then I was awake, reflecting on Christmas Eve. It’s a beautiful concept–the eve before the feast of Christ’s birthday (celebrated), waiting for the light in the dark of winter (there’s mud on the ground and the barest dusting of snow this morning in our northern climate). What does a person do on Christmas Eve? Wait. Americans are no longer good at waiting. I’m not very good at waiting.

It’s really just like any other day, but it feels like I should be doing something of great import. Making sweet treats with my children while Norman Rockwell sketches us. Snuggling up before a fireplace with my beloved while a jewelry store jingle plays in the background. Working at a soup kitchen.

Sitting in the kitchen this morning, watching me clean the cookbook shelves (that was my solution to how to wait, at least this morning) my husband looked at all of the Christmas cards hanging on our patio door and said, “Do we send Christmas cards?”
Ah, the royal We.
“We normally do. I normally send them the weekend of Thanksgiving, but this Thanksgiving was a little weird, as you might remember.”
Weird. No big family dinner following the deaths of my maternal grandfather and uncle. A family split into pieces, each celebrating with their smaller family units. A homespun memorial for my husband’s grandfather in a family that spawned a minister, but can’t bring themselves to sit in a church. And the news that our son had stolen a large sum of money from his uncle. Weird. Needless to say, no cards were mailed.

And then time slipped away (cue Bruce Springsteen) and still no cards.

He’s out on bail. We have no idea if he will show up to any Christmas celebrations. We’re divided about whether or not we want him to. And we’re not sleeping well.

So for diversion, I just checked out the Inappropriate Elf Contest. Which led me, in a roundabout way, to this. And now I’m laughing. Thank you, wonders of the Interwebs. Merry Christmas Eve to you, too.

SNL

Why I’m Stuck with the 10 Things You Must Let Go Of

Tags

freshly pressed, humor, lists, self-help

Am I ever glad Freshly Pressed finally freshened up! Ah, the power of a little-known blog🙂

Now I can read about what I should be doing with my life, why Google Reader is the best social network, and I can see pics of the Northern Lights that I missed two days ago because I was too busy blogging.

On that note….

Why I’m Stuck with the 10 Things I Must Let Go Of Today.

Guilt. I’m Catholic. A convert even. I chose guilt and now we are in an inseparable union. Check it. The Catholic church does not dissolve those kinds of bonds. Unless you go through a helluva pile of paperwork. I’ll get started on that next week.

Negative thinking. I’m the descendent of German Mennonite farmers. There’s not an Optimist Club member in the bunch. I have tried, but it’s genetically impossible. Like growing bigger breasts. Ain’t gonna happen with this DNA.

Need for approval. I’m the first born. Every move I made was examined and praised, celebrated. I’m not complaining. It was awesome. I took in approval quicker than breast milk. And approval has continued to reward me. My parents continue to praise me. My teachers continued to praise me. My coworkers and boss continue to praise me. If I were to quit praise, I would need some chemical subsitute, which does not meet with societal approval. Closing the loop here.

Anger/Heartbreak. I’m a stepmother and have been for 17 years. Show me someone who has dealt with that mixed up bag of emotional blackholes and who doesn’t suffer from anger/heartbreak and I’ll show you someone who has found a chemical substitute for praise and broken the loop on needing approval. There’s another list of 10 that applies to them.

Fake friends. Can’t let these go because I don’t have any. I revel in the fact that my friend count is small. I can say it’s an elite group and that gains me the approval of those in the group and lessens my heartbreak over having fewer Facebook friends than my archnemesis, whose friends must be fake because come on……

Procrastination. I’m in a hurry, so I’ll answer that one later.

Envy. That’s just un-American. If I don’t envy my neighbors and desire the material possessions they have, I’m not motivated to do my part to reenergize the economy. I don’t covet my neighbor’s wife or his donkey, so I think I’m covered with the commandments. Envy is in the process of becoming a recognized Olympic sport, so I’m holding out for when I can compete for the gold and win approval from millions for my advanced skills in envying.

Self-doubt. I’m an introvert, crave approval, envy those around me, deal with anger/heartbreak/insecurity issues stemming from my liminal position as stepmother, and I’m a middle-aged woman in a culture that fetishizes thirteen year olds and defines women first by their appearances. Best of luck on that one.

Limitations. If I tried something beyond my comfort zone, I might fail, and failure contributes to self-doubt, anger/heartbreak, guilt, and does not meet with approval. This is just vicious. I’d try to come up with a wittier analysis, but I’m just not bright enough.

Time. Sorry, but this one is a socially agreed upon reality. I can’t make today Sunday no matter how hard I try. And I’ve tried. I could try to live like it were Sunday, but I’d probably end up fired and/or committed. And I’d have to feel guilty for skipping church on two days of the week rather than just one.

I love all of these ideas, but, absent a year to eat myself happy in Italy, pray myself happy in India and love myself happy on some Pacific island, I’m stuck with just accepting who I am, forgiving myself for it, and ceasing the endless need for overhaul of my entire being. Today no less.