That And Two Dimes

(wince)

2009-03-09T11:59:00.000-07:00

Aunt Pillowhead learned something new this weekend. Read on, and benefit from her hard-won wisdom:

When you see a fairly new business acquaintance at business event and turn to give him a casual hug "hello," step on his foot, lose your balance, fall into him and turn that casual hug into an awkwardly long, clinging, desperate struggle to not continue falling forward so you don't knock him over and land on top of him, you need to be Jennifer Aniston acting in a slapstick comedy for it to be cute and funny.

If you're not acting, and it's not a slapstick comedy, and you're not Jennifer Aniston, but merely an off-kilter middle-aged woman who is exhausted because you've been up since 2:30 and taken a terrifying plane ride to this event, then it's not cute and funny at all. It's just really, really embarrassing and difficult to explain. Worst of all, the memory of it, which you will be unable to block despite repeated attempts, will make you feel as graceful and elegant as a manatee.

So, from now on, before you hug somebody, remember these three important rules:

1. Make sure you are well-rested and in top form.
2. Keep your balance.
3. Feet on the floor at all times.

Your friend,
Aunt Pillowhead

Simple Gifts

2009-02-10T12:42:00.000-08:00

It's been months. Months and months and months, I know.

I stopped writing here a long time ago, because, for a long time, things have just been even, and steady, and good, and I didn't feel the need to tell stories that had amusing slants to otherwise difficult episodes. Life became normal, I guess, in a good and happy way, and I just kind of stopped needing to be the struggling heroine in a saga about love and selflessness, unrequited.

Then, today someone asked me for the link to this blog, because she has a friend who is a newlywed and a newlystepmom of a 13 year-old girl, and she thought it would help. Everything challenging about stepparenting came rushing back to me. "Bless her heart," I thought.

It's a funny phrase, "Bless her heart." A kind of catch-all they use in the south to describe someone who's doomed, and who has no idea she is. I don't know if my friend's friend is doomed, but face it, even in the best case scenario, that is going to be hard. Territorial divisions, symbolic boycotting of cooperation, thanklessness, dramatic button-pushing--these are things every teenager does, and teenage girls tend to do it so all so well. It's hard enough when they're your own. But when they're your stepchildren, and they come into your lives in that stage--yikes. That makes it all really hard.

But it can also be really wonderful, eventually.

And I realized that here I am now, with Jeep Boy an 18 year-old, college-bound adult (who, by the way, had another party in our house when we were on vacation last week, we just found out, and I am going to kill him for that later, remind me if I forget) and Hammerhead 15, deep-voiced and the fuzzy shadow of a mustache on his sassy upper lip. If this is a marathon, I'm on about mile 23. Wow. I'm almost done.

Wow.

Last weekend, I was looking at pictures of these boys when we first met--they were 4 and 7--and I was overwhelmed with memories of these last eleven years: of removing splinters from their grubby paws and re-homing spiders found in their bedrooms (both areas of my particular expertise), of running to comfort them when they woke crying at 1:00 in the morning with night terrors (Perfect Man sleeps like a log), of cooking breakfasts and driving to friends' houses to pick up/drop off, of birthday cakes made and laundry washed, of soccer practice and karate practice and drum practice and orchestra concerts (ouch, my ears), of resolving battles, meting out consequences, and soothing hurt feelings. The times we butted heads, the times they turned to me, and all the times in between.

And I was aware of something very profound and very simple: that through the conscious sharing of these last eleven years, the fabrics of our lives have been woven together, and we are part of the same narrative. And I am aware that I love them, and that they love me.

For a long time, I really wasn't sure that they loved me. But after yesterday, I am.

I have a terrible cold this week, one that has me flat on my back. The boys came home from school yesterday and shouted around to see where I was. When Hammerhead found me up in my room, looking like something the cat dragged in, he stood at the foot of my bed. I thought he was going to ask me if he could have a snack, or if I could take him somewhere. But he asked me if I wanted a cup of tea. I said, "Yes, please." And then my insolent, stubborn, sarcastic, rigid, hard-headed 15 year-old stepson went downstairs and made me one, brought back up, and put it gently down on my bedside table.

Bingo!

2008-08-06T09:33:00.000-07:00

I'm back. Because, wow--look at that! This had to be posted!
During a Scrabble game last week, above my bingo (frowned), Hammerhead executed 'toasted,' a quite brilliant play, one so tidy and lovely and absolutely clever it has to be commemorated here. 98 points. Bully for him!!!

A little history:
One of the things that Hammerhead and I share is a love of this game, which I began teaching him to play when he was just a wee lad, with a wee little vocabulary.

He immediately understood some of the particularly satisfying quirks of the game: the learning and strategic use of obscure two letter words (xi, xu, ka, qi) that one would never use in a sentence, unless one happened to be involved in a monetary exchange of some kind in Vietnam. He also took (with unnerving immediacy) to the groove of the open board, the thrill of the triple letter/triple word, and the absolute nirvana of the double double word/ triple triple word connection.

And bingos, well, bingos are always nice, too. And he totally got that.

So back in these early days, when Hammerhead was only 6 or so, and we were in the early throes of the Scrabble tutorial, to be fair, I let him ask me three questions per turn (ie: "is 'toit' a word?"*). And since he was a quick learner and naturally clever in this way, armed with this assistant, it didn't take him long to be a competitive opponent. When he finally beat me one day, I told him that we needed to even the playing field, and now it was only one question per turn, which eventually became one question per game. Which eventually became no help whatsoever.

Sidebar: I have a love of vintage clothes, and a corresponding love of vintage buttons. In a big box, I keep my vintage buttons in separate compartments, according to their composition. Hammerhead used to love to look through the button box, and was especially enamored with a red plastic, flower-shaped button with a rhinestone in the center, which he believed to be an actual diamond. I told him it wasn't, but he was convinced it was, and that it was quite valuable. He asked me if he could have it. I told him that the day he beat me in Scrabble, with no help and no cheats, the button would be his. I made a necklace of it with a long piece of black thread and hung it from a wall hook in the kitchen that was on the wall, just above Snapper's food bowl.

Snapper, rest his soul, was my old, beloved-but-hateful, temperamental mutt who was particularly defensive when it came to food. About 50 pounds, with the colorings of a boxer, but the physique of a small husky, Snapper would go nuts if he thought you were messing with his kibble. And in his old age, when his vision dimmed, he was even more aggressive this way, presumably because he couldn't see what was going on and that made him especially nervous.

So on the kitchen hook was the Beautiful Button, and every day Hammerhead would gaze at it and dream of the day he'd win it fair and square, whereupon he would immediately take it to a diamond dealer, cash it in for a cool million, and buy himself a new Lamborghini. But one day, when I was placing my car keys on the same kitchen hook that held the button, I knocked the button off the hook, and it fell into Snapper's bowl.

Hearing the sound of his bowl being messed with, Snapper came screeching around the corner, and, with Hammerhead and I watching with disbelief and before we could say, "Don't do it!", scooped up whatever it was that had fallen in there with his snappy mouthful of sharp yellow teeth.

He came up from the bowl shaking his head in confusion, with the button swinging from his mouth, sparkling in the sunlight, the thread caught on one of his bottom teeth. Hammerhead and I sort of laughed and sort of gasped, but when I reached gently to dislodge the button, Snapper hopped back, growled, and ate that button so fast we couldn't believe it. Hammerhead was crushed. I offered to do poop patrol for the next few days, but Hammerhead was disgusted by the thought, and dejectedly gave up the dream of winning the beautiful button and how his life would be forever changed by the luxury Italian automobile it would buy for him. It was a sad but memorable day.

Anyway, fast forward. We're playing now, regularly, and Hammerhead has indeed beaten me once without help.

But that wasn't this game. That was last year. However, this game was far more significant, far important. He beat me last year in a game when I had terrible luck, nothing but what I call "Old MacDonald" hands (EEIEEIO), he had no real spectacular plays, and only beat me by five points.

But this game! Look at the thought and strategy he had to employ to place 'toasted' above 'frowned.' Finding the spot, realizing he had an opportunity there, realizing that with this particular placement, all the 'down' words worked--it's just awesome.

I beat him by over a hundred points, but I told him--and meant it--that he really won this one.
I was so proud of him!!

*It is. "to amble, meander"

Owed To A Blog

2008-07-07T11:48:00.000-07:00

I just read Jill's latest entry on the DXH. And it’s funny, I’ve also stopped writing in my own blog, for what sounds like the same reason: things are just a little different now.

We still have ups and downs, I still get happy and mad, and I still do and say things I wish I could take back. I’ve got plenty of anecdotes I could share (like catching Jeep Boy puffing the cheeba in his room one night, or getting a call from the police at 1:00 am when Hammerhead and a friend he was "spending the night with" were caught breaking curfew. To name just two.).

But writing about it daily, or even weekly, at this point, feels less like sorting through my reactions to challenging new relationships and more like exploiting the dynamics of old familiar ones, for entertainment's sake.

Maybe this blog has served its purpose. Writing about the things I had difficulty recognizing, accepting, and managing when it came to being a stepmother has forced me to own all of it, to examine myself and my motivations even when I didn't want to, and ultimately, helped me see some ways I can do all of this just a little bit better.

Then again, maybe it's just summer break, and maybe things will pick right back up again in the fall, full force and then some.

We'll see...

The Beat Goes On

2008-06-27T21:59:00.001-07:00

Hammerhead is now taking drum lessons.

Which means he now practices those lessons every day, here at home, on his drum set, which Perfect Man bought him.

Because, if a somewhat stubborn, slightly imperious teenage stepson and his somewhat controlling, slightly indignant stepmother who is a writer and works from home are having a little trouble, there's nothing like getting him a drum set to get the dialogue going.

It is going to be an interesting four more years, boy howdy.

Degrading

2008-04-22T16:20:00.000-07:00

That's what Hammerhead got on his Civil Rights report.

So, weep for the future of the country. Or at least for the future of public schools.

Fun & Games

2008-04-15T05:40:00.000-07:00

It was a good week with Hammerhead and Jeep Boy, which was fantastic for me to experience since two weeks ago, there was a Hammerhead incident that left me thinking about long, extended vacations (or, more accurately, sabbaticals) for stepmothers, to places like Paris, for periods of time such as four years, and/or when the stepson in question turns 18. I might tell you all about that some day. But not today.

Anyway, this week, it was a good week. The boys both wanted to be around us, and we all went to a friend's Sunday brunch birthday party together, along with our dear friend Cut The Bullshit, whom the boys adore and who adds an element of irreverent fun wherever she goes. We were surprised the boys wanted to come to the brunch, because we knew it would be a sedate affair, which turned out to be a vast underestimation of the actual level of energy and social stimulation we experienced. On the way home, we laughed and teased and celebrated with the conviviality of survivors of a close call. And caught up in this, the boys suggested we play a family game of Monopoly after dinner.

However, between this warm fuzziness and the Monopoly game, an "accident" occurred. I was going out to the grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner, and Hammerhead was coming along for the ride. In the driveway, while he was waiting for me to find my purse/keys, etc, he looked up and noticed that Jeep Boy's bedroom window was open. According to the official report, what happened next was that he called out "Jeep Boy!" and when Jeep Boy appeared at the window, Hammerhead threw a few large pieces of mulch up and hit him in the face with it. Jeep Boy laughed and said, "Hey! Stay right there!" and for some reason, Hammerhead obeyed. Which is why, when Jeep Boy returned to the window with a Titleist golf ball and threw it at Hammerhead's head, it so quickly and easily found its target, with such a clear, loud, and satisfying accompanying popping sound.

So anyway, when I came out to the driveway what I saw was Hammerhead leaning against the car weeping silently, and Jeep Boy running out of the house behind me with a zip lock bag full of ice, saying, "I didn't really mean to hurt him." After Hammerhead accepted the zip lock bag and they both brought me up-to-date, and after I felt the impressive goose egg forming on my younger stepson's noggin and remarked that it was quite a doozy, we all went our respective ways, with alarmingly little friction. It was a though we all--each of us--knew our roles and responsibilities: Hammerhead had started it, so he knew he wasn't an innocent victim. Jeep Boy had overreacted and actually hurt his brother, so he knew he'd gone too far and should at least prepare an ice pack as a show of compassion. And I knew I was the stepmother, not the mother, so I just felt the bump and verified that it was big and probably did hurt. No lectures, no scolding, no judgment, no blame. Good.

So about Monopoly: Perfect Man fell asleep on the couch after dinner, so it was the three of us for the game. Which was hysterical. Jeep Boy has this new “sassy teenager” patois that’s really cute—funny voices, sarcastic asides. Which he used to full effect to chide Hammerhead, the self-appointed Monopoly Tsar, mercilessly. Hammerhead takes this particular game very seriously, and has his own ideas of certain variations of rules that should be followed (most of which border on the ludicrous, as do his Monopoly manners in general). Basically, he's an insufferable control freak. When we’d roll the dice he'd move our tokens for us, when we landed on Chance or Community Chest he’d pick up the card for us and read it to us. He couldn’t help himself, it was too funny. And those ridiculous rules: if you roll snake eyes, you have to pay a fine? if you roll doubles more than three times, you have to pay a fine? Whatever! Jeep Boy and I were laughing our heads off, and refused to honor any of them, and Hammerhead became surly and indignant.

At one point, Hammerhead was in dire financial straits, and asked Jeep Boy to trade certain properties for other certain properties. Jeep Boy laughed and said "No way!"

"Oh, come on, Tiger Woods," I said. "Make the trade. You owe him one."

He laughed and said, "Okay," and then went on for a few minutes about how neatly and perfectly the golf ball had hit, and the surprising resonance of the popping sound it made, and even Hammerhead laughed.

A few minutes later, after Hammerhead had tried out another one of his ridiculous secret rules and we both laughed him down, Jeep Boy rolled a seven, and I said, “Jeep Boy, when you roll a seven, you have to give Hammerhead all your money.” And we all had a good long laugh.

It was really a fun weekend for me; it seems we all have found a new comfortable place to enjoy each other, and it’s working. I’m really happy about that, and trying to just appreciate it while it lasts.

(I creamed them both, by the way. But not until 11:00--yikes.)

How I Got My Name

2008-03-23T15:30:00.001-07:00

Last Easter, Brother Number 3, his lovely wife, and their adorable three Cuties, ages 6 to 1.5, came to visit us. Cutie #1 and Cutie #2 would wake up early every day, come downstairs in their footie pajamas, and nestle on the couch with Perfect Man and me, all cozy and warm and sweet and soft. Cutie #2, who was then just newly four years old, carried his "babies" (three stuffed animals) with him everywhere he went. He'd curl up in my lap with his babies and start a sing-song, stream-of-consciousness about what he hoped to do that day, what he thought about, things he liked. One morning, he told me all the different nicknames he had, the little cute terms of endearment his parents called him. I told him I had a nickname, too, that the name his mom called me was different than the name his dad called me, because his dad called me by my nickname. I told him my two names.
He got a wicked gleam in his eye, looked around the room for inspiration, and saw the couch pillow we were propped up against.
"Your name," he said, inhaling with such excitement he almost lost his breath, "is Aunt Pillowhead!'

I feigned shock and offense. "That is NOT my name!" I said. "You may NOT call me that!"
He became hysterical, laughing so hard he was choking.
"Yes!" he shouted. "You are AUNT PILLOWHEAD!"
I was appalled, and at a total loss. Speechless, infuriated. Hands on hips, brow furrowed, foot a-stomping. (Not so easy to do when seated on the couch with Cutie and three babies on your lap.)
"Hey, now!" I said, sputtering. "You cut that out!"
He was doubled over with uncontrollable laughter, completely intoxicated by his power.
"Yes, yes, yes!" he said. "You are Aunt Pillowhead!"

It stuck. And I have answered to "Aunt Pillowhead" to everyone in his family ever since. Sometimes, they even call Perfect Man "Uncle Blanket."

Et Tu, Hammerhead?

2008-03-18T06:11:00.001-07:00

The other night, we were out and about (Hammerhead, Perfect Man, and I), and we stopped to get gas. While Perfect Man was at the pump, Hammerhead, from the back seat, said, "I'm really short."

"You're not shorter than your friends, are you?" I asked.

"Not the guys. But the girls in my class are all so tall."

"Yeah, I remember when Brilliant & Kind and Hilarious & Gifted were your age--the girls grow so much faster. But then they stop growing, and you'll catch up."

"To tell you the truth, I don't mind that much. There are advantages to being small."

"Such as?"

"Well, you fit in smaller places."

"Uh huh."

"Also, girls in eighth grade like to hug a lot. And think about it: If you're a short guy hugging a tall girl, where does your face go?"

"Oh, of course. The boobs."

"Yep. And you know, a lot of my friends will turn their heads to one side or another, but not me. I like to just go face first right in there."

OMFG.

Mi Casanova, Tu Casa

2008-03-10T06:57:00.001-07:00

Two Saturdays ago it was unusually balmy here. In the warm afternoon, as I was working on my computer and occasionally looking out the windows at the breezy, sunshiney day, Perfect Man came rushing into my office and said, "Can you see the neighbor's trampoline from here? Look outside. You won't believe it."

On the neighbor's trampoline, reclined in a very languid, Caligula-like pose, was Jeep Boy. On his side, up on one elbow. Ankles crossed. Amused expression.

Across from him, jumping up and down, thus creating the expected physical and physiological consequences of exuberant up-and-downward jumping, and was the cause of his amusement: the neighbors' (gorgeous, 6' tall, ample-busted, long-blonde-haired, legs-that-go-all-the-way-to-the-floor, fourteen-year-old) daughter and her equally visually interesting, same-aged best friend.

Oh, and the girls were wearing bikinis.

WTF?

Civil Warring

2008-03-03T15:49:00.001-08:00

Sunday night, at approximately 8:00, Hammerhead sat down at the computer to write a report on the Civil War that was due Monday morning.

"It's going to be easy," he said. "I have lots of notes and points, and all I have to do is string them together with transitions. I'm really, really good at transitions."

"You are?" I asked.

"Yeah. On all my papers, my teacher writes, 'Good Transition' and stuff."

He worked on the paper until about 8:30, and then brought it up to read to me. Before he started, I asked him if he wanted feedback. He said he did.

"So the point of my paper is to talk about whether racism is better today than it was during the Civil War," he said.

In retrospect, it would have been a good idea for me to have a couple tequila shots before allowing him to begin. And after he had read his first sentence ("Although many people disagree, the facts are that slavery is still prominent in our country today, but not as extreme as it was in the times of the civil war.") it was too late.

This opening statement, aside from getting my heart rate up and producing that dreaded itchy feeling I get whenever I hear anything inane, was a very solid indicator of the quality of what would follow. Fortunately, I have had two natural home births, during which I learned various techniques that helped me through excruciating discomfort, such as breathing, visualizing a favorite place, and biting the insides of my cheeks to distraction.

"During the times of the Civil War," I heard Hammerhead say, as I alternated between deep breaths and cheek biting, "black people were not allowed to go into some stores, attend certain schools, or be completely free."

I really like Alta, I thought to myself. That amazing snow. That slow double chair. No snowboarders. Those chutes. Alta is really, really special.

"And there were racist cults like the Ku Klux Klan and Confederate groups. Despite the fact that these "cults" still exist today, they are not as powerful and active as they were in the 1800s."

He went on in this general vein for another paragraph or so, and then cited the bravery of certain people in the times of the Civil War, such as Rosa Parks, who sat on a seat in a bus that she was not supposed to sit on. I breathed, I bit, I visualized.

When he read his final sentence, which ended with, "so although slavery is not as predominant today as it was in the times of the Civil War, it still exists," and beamed at me with pride, I said, "Well."

"What?"

"Well, I think you have confused two very different eras in American history."

"What do you mean?" he frowned.

"Well, there's the Civil War, which took place in the 1800's. And there's the Civil Rights movement, which took place about a hundred years later, in the 1950s and 1960s. Rosa Parks was an icon of the Civil Rights movement, not the Civil War. There were no buses in the 1800s. Also, you keep saying 'slavery' when I think you mean 'racism.'"

And then I turned away. I did not lecture about the hour, the procrastination, the sloppy work in general.

"So I should fix those things?" Hammerhead asked the back of my head, as I wiped down the kitchen countertops.

"If you want your paper to make sense, you should. And some other stuff, too."

"Like what?" he asked.

"Well, I think that to the slaves who were bought and sold like property, separated from their children and spouses, beaten or killed if they tried to escape, with no basic human rights to speak of, identifying their plight as one of mere discrimination is more than just a little understated."

"Oh, I know," he said with authority. "But black people couldn't go in stores or certain schools, too. That was part of it."

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

"I'll fix it," he said. "But you know the sad thing? I could turn it in just like it is now and get an "A."

Pause.

"How should I fix it?"

Instead of telling him he should fix it by throwing it away, studying the topic so that he knew what he was talking about, and starting all over again with solid facts instead of confused opinions, I turned to him and gave him a few basic pointers on how to write a coherent paper in general. He spent another half hour on it. He read it to me again. It was better, but it was still far from good.

"Do you want more feedback?" I asked him.

"No," he said. "I'm done. I've turned the computer off and I'm done."

"Okay," I said. "Goodnight."

Two or three years ago, this would have become an enormous fight. Heck, even last year, to tell you the truth. But, through the wisdom of our family therapist (gosh I miss him) and the experience of the trauma those fights Hammerhead and I used to have caused, I have learned so much about letting go. The lousy education he's getting, the low standards at his school, the poor study habits he has--these are not my problems to fix. Help when help is asked for, in the amounts that are wanted. Then stop.

Monday morning, he woke up early, turned the computer on, and made a few more changes, much to the frustration of Jeep Boy, who worried they would be late for school.

"This is poor planning," Jeep Boy said to Hammerhead as he typed away. "How long have you known about this project? Three weeks, right? And you're sitting here at 6:30 in the morning working on it. You're not going to be able to get away with this when you're in high school."

Hammerhead looked at Jeep Boy and smirked. "Shut up," he said. "Listen to who's talking. Last week you had me finish your homework for you in the car on the way to school! So shut up!"

Jeep Boy looked at me helplessly. "It was just three math problems," he said.

I just smiled.

Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last.*

*Sort of. I have to note this.

Head of Pillow, Quads of Steel

2008-02-25T21:37:00.000-08:00

Do you know who this is? No?

Well, then, I'll tell you: this is your own dear old Aunt Pillowhead.

I shit you not.

Let me tell you something, my little darlings. I have a few surprises up my sleeve. And this is the latest one: Aunt Pillowhead, a nearly 49 year-old perimenopausal woman with fading eyesight and graying temples, can #$%*@ rip on her Mantras, and hold her own with a bunch of testosterone-addled, type A men who have something to prove.

Last week, I went on a cat ski trip with Perfect Man--a last-minute invite from a business friend of his. 11 men had reserved a private cat--expert level--and two of them bowed out. Would Perfect Man and a friend be interested in taking their spots?

And Perfect Man, being perfect, said his favorite ski buddy was his wife, but if this was a guy trip, he understood, and he could find another friend to come. "Oh no," the business friend said. "If your wife can ski, bring her. That'd be cool."

I have to admit I had some trepidation and anxiety about it all. The way it works, the cat takes the group up to a spot the guides have chosen based on the ability level of the group. They take you down a run and assess everyone's capability, then gauge which trails and spots they'll take you on all day according to the weakest skier. Every run, you follow the lead guide to the bottom, where the cat is either already waiting, or where it will be any minute to pick you up. The faster the group is, the more runs you do in a day--the range is between 8 and 12.
So I worried about two things:
1. That I'd be the weakest skier and everyone would be disappointed that they didn't get to ski the kind of terrain they wanted to, and
2. That I'd have difficulty on some of the runs--I don't like cliffs or tight trees--and that I'd get to the bottom and find 10 impatient extreme skiers wondering who the hell invited Betty Crocker. It's not cheap, and people have to make reservations well in advance, and I didn't want to ruin anyone's big day.

Well guess what, kittens? I was not the weakest skier, not by a long shot. I was comfortably right in the middle of a group of expert skiers who just happened to be all very fit, much younger men. In fact, because the avalanche danger was low, and because we were all such strong skiers, the guides took us down three gorgeous steep runs that had not been skied all season. I waited for people several times that day. No one ever waited for me. I fell once, on a cat walk (caught an edge in some slab), but others fell multiple times, on all kinds of terrain, so it was no big deal. I picked my way through the tight trees, had a great time in the chutes, and circumvented the two biggest cliffs so as not to kill myself. In short, I had a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful time. We skied 12 runs. And by the end of the day, I had even earned a nickname from the guys, which I interpreted as a badge of acceptance and approval.

(I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and gosh darn it--people like me!)

Truthfully, I have to say: to do something like this for the first time at this point in my life? Pretty cool.

I can't wait to do it again.

Sparring With Jeep Boy

2008-02-19T06:58:00.000-08:00

Jeep Boy is a new man. Literally.

Maybe it's his restaurant job. I kind of think it is. In that atmosphere, everyone sees him only as he is now: 6 feet tall, handsome, graceful in his movement and sweet and funny in his disposition. And I think the way he is perceived there has had a profound effect on the way he sees himself. His fragile uncertainty is melting away, and he seems to be growing into his new lanky frame, both physically and emotionally.

And somehow, with all of this, there is a new tenderness between us that I am so, so happy to report, and even happier to experience. Although our relationship has never been hostile, there's always been something a little withholding and distant there, that's always made me a little sad.

On Monday, we skied together: Jeep Boy, Perfect Man, and I. Hammerhead opted to stay home--so instead of 2 Grownups/2 Kids, it was three grownups. We had a great time, laughing a lot, enjoying 3-5 inches of fresh pow, skiing hard. Perfect Man took some video of us in the bumps and trees, like he always does, and Jeep Boy and I reviewed them in the car on the way home. First I looked them over, then I handed the camera back to Jeep Boy and he did, too.

Which is how he came across a horrible, horrible 10 second video that Perfect Man took of me last month, in the lodge at lunchtime. He'd been testing out the camera and I didn't know he was shooting me. Here's the basic action:

ME, with an epic case of helmet hair. Spaced out, looking off to the side, chewing my salad like a cow chews cud. One, two, three slow, hang-lipped chews. I swallow, take a sip of cocoa, then glare at the camera suspiciously. END.

Honestly, it couldn't be more hideous. And when Jeep Boy was clicking through the camera, found and watched it, it went something like this

"What the HELL? Oh my GOD this is SO MESSED UP! What the HELL kind of...what the HELL? HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA (etc.)"

"What?" I asked from the front seat, with a certain amount of anxiety.

"NO, I'm not showing this to you yet, HOLY SHIT this is hysterical. What does this MEAN? What is this? It's DISTURBING HA HA HA HA HA HA (etc.)"

"What?" I asked, a little frantic now. "Show me. What?"

Well, from there it devolved into very unflattering, but apparently amusing impersonations, judging from Perfect Man's copious and hearty laughter. Then a few really upsetting comparisons (the bad guy from Goldfinger when I'm chewing, Zoolander when I'm sipping the cocoa). But the funny thing was how he latched onto it and how much it made him laugh.

"I have NEVER seen you look so MESSED UP HAHAHAHAHAHAHA (etc.)"

He wouldn't let me delete it. He begged me to let him download it onto the computer. He wanted to take a picture of it with his cell phone. (I put the kabosh on that.) And, using the rear-view mirror as a guide, he worked to master his impersonation of me for the rest of the ride home. And every time I'd turn around to ask him something, he'd look at me earnestly with this horrible expression on his face, waiting for me to scream at him to stop. And finally I stopped protesting and just joined in the laughter. What the hell.

Flash Forward: Yesterday, when I came downstairs, his shoes were on the front carpet again. It was the first time he'd forgotten since the New Rule. I picked them up and threw them into the front yard, about 10 feet away from the porch. Then, after he woke up and ate the delicious migas I made him for breakfast, I went downstairs to fold laundry and he packed up to go back to his mom's for the week. He called to me to say he was leaving, and I came up to say goodbye. He was at the front door, putting on the shoes that had been sitting in the snow all night.

"Found your shoes?" I asked.

"Yes," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "They were nice and toasty from the snow."

Then he looked at me, snapped into that horrible expression, gave me a big, big hug, and went laughing out the door.

Cold Feet, Clean Floor, Warm Heart

2008-01-31T06:01:00.000-08:00

This stepmother finally did something right, from start to finish, and this morning, she is basking in her success.

Here's what happened:

In our house, you take your shoes off before you come inside. At the downstairs door, which leads into the garage, we have a little shoe rack and a little rug, and the idea is, you step onto the rug, you take off your shoes, you put them on the rack. (The reality is you step onto the rug, you take off your shoes, and you leave them in a pile on the rug. But I can live with that.)

Well, lately, since Jeep Boy's car doesn't fit into the garage and he parks on the street, he uses the upstairs door to come into the house. This door leads right into our living room, and he's gotten into the habit of leaving his shoes on the very nice rug in front of the front door.

Every morning, when Perfect Man comes down to start his day and sees them there, he asks Jeep Boy to please not leave his shoes by the front door, but carry them up to his room after he takes them off. And every morning Jeep Boy says, "Okay," and then forgets, and leaves them by the front door again the next day.

And now Hammerhead has started doing it, too. Four nasty-ass teenager shoes piled up on a beautiful wool rug in our living room every morning. Two nights ago, I asked both of them to please take their shoes up to their rooms and they both said, "Okay," and then they both didn't.

So before I went to bed, I opened the front door and put their shoes on the porch.

The next morning (yesterday), I made them both a delicious breakfast (Perfect Man is out of town on a business trip, so it's Second-In-Command Aunt Pillowhead here at the helm). They had smoothies and cheese omelet and I sectioned some fresh satsumas for them, so they started the day knowing I am on their side and love them to pieces.

Then I sat down with them and chatted about other things for a few minutes before I said this, with no anger, no tension, and no judgment in my voice whatsoever:

"Oh, guys--I have something to tell you. You know how your dad has asked you dozens of times to please not leave your shoes by the front door, and you forget and keep leaving them there?"

They nodded.

"And you know how last night I asked you both to please bring them up to your rooms and you said you would but then forgot?"

They nodded. Hammerhead's jaw set and his eyes darkened as he prepared to hate me.

"Okay, so New Rule: From now on, when I see your shoes by the front door, I'm going to put them outside. Last night I put them on the front porch, but every time I see them there, it's going to be farther and farther away from the door. I'm thinking that since asking you isn't working, maybe the experience of going outside into the cold morning, looking for them in your bare feet might. And remember, I have a pretty good arm, so they could very easily end up across the street one day, not necessarily in the same general area. Just so you know. Fair warning."

And here's where it got different: I didn't go on about "We've given you lots of chances" and "It's very frustrating to be ignored when we ask you over and over and over again" and "We're the ones who have to clean the floor and it's not fun to deal with mud and dirt three times a day." I figured they could piece that stuff together on their own, so I just ended it there, cheerfully.

Then I asked Jeep Boy if he'd found the copy of "Call Of The Wild" he'd asked me if I happened to have the night before (when he knocked on my bedroom door at 10:30, woke me up, and told me he was supposed to have it for school the next day. I'd sat up in bed, thought for a second, and said if I did, it it would be downstairs on the middle shelf with all the "Kazan" books that Brilliant & Kind loved when he was little).

"Yeah, thanks," Jeep Boy said. "That saved my ass."

And gradually, Hammerhead's jaw unset and his eyes returned to their light and sparkly selves again.

When they put their shoes on, they laughed to each other how cold they were and did a little "cold feet" dance.

And this morning, there were no shoes by the front door.

Home Is Where The Heart Is

2008-01-28T05:47:00.000-08:00

Funny thing happened Saturday night. A sweet and funny and new thing.

Perfect Man and I were about to settle in to our cozy Week Off weekend night at home (boys with mom this week)--bottle of red wine just opened, delicious dinner on the stove, in our PJs at 4:00, and Band of Brothers cued up on the DVD player--when the phone rang. It was Jeep Boy.

"Hey," he said when I answered. "I'm on my way to work but I'm early and have about half an hour. I was wondering: can I come by?"

"Well of course, honey!" I said, unable to hide my surprise and pleasure. "We would love to see you."

"Okay. I'll be there in a minute." And he was. He must have been right around the corner.

He came in and gave us both a big hug, and Perfect Man and I sat in the living room and chatted amiably with him, as though entertaining a guest. "Are you hungry, hon?" I asked. "We have a little of your dad's famous bean dip leftover from last night, I can warm it up. It's delicious--goat cheese, home fried potatoes, cilantro. Want some?"

"Sure," he said shyly. So I fed him.

He actually looked a little off-a little sad somehow. Maybe I'll ask him later this week, when he and his brother are back here, how things are going. But the main thing was that it was so nice to know that with extra time on his hands, he would want to be with us here in Home B, even when he didn't have to, if only for a few minutes. And it was such a nice opportunity to remind him that whenever he comes here, he can expect to get hugs and warm food. That this isn't just Home B, it's his home--and not just every other week, but always.

Bottle Message: Update

2008-01-23T05:59:00.000-08:00

Well, Perfect Man didn't wait for Jeep Boy to find the note. He just told him he should go check the bottom left desk drawer.

At first Jeep Boy attempted the "Best Defense Is A Good Offense" strategy and assumed an air of indignation: his personal space had been violated, and this would not stand! He tried to rope poor old Aunt Pillowhead into his ill-fated deflection by saying to her, "I don't think you guys have the right to go through my stuff. That's messed up."

Aunt Pillowhead (who does indeed occasionally "rock;" thank you, Jill!) nipped that one right in the bud. "First of all, my friend," she said, holding up one finger to underscore the primary nature of the point, "I had nothing to do with this one. And secondly," (second finger up now--so 'no nonsense!') "If the point you're trying to make is about violated trust, I think your dad's got you on that one. So back up a little bit, because this isn't going anywhere good." Then she disappeared, up into her room with the New York Times and her new pair of $17 drugstore glasses that make everything so magically, wonderfully legible.

And privately (much to Hammerhead's chagrin, because he was so very anxious to be a part of the whole thing) Perfect Man told Jeep Boy that he and his friends were wrong to bring illegally purchased alcohol into this house and to consume it, it was wrong of him to hide and lie about what they were doing, and incidents like this cause him great worry, and cause him to feel less capable of trusting him to make good decisions in general. But his bottom line was this: Jeep Boy must promise that he will never, ever, ever get behind the wheel if he has had anything to drink, or get into any car driven by anyone else who has had anything do drink. If he is ever in any situation like this, he has to know that he can call either one of us anytime, from anywhere, and we will come and get him, no questions asked, no repercussions suffered.

And that was that.

Ominbus

2008-01-14T16:18:00.000-08:00

Jeep Boy got a new job, busing tables at a very cool new restaurant owned by a friend of Perfect Man's, and cheffed by another friend of his (who you know is so important in the restaurant world). So we went for dinner (Perfect Man and I) on a pre-opening night, and it was just adorable. Oh my god, Jeep Boy looked so cute--tall, gangly, scared to death with the water pitcher, wide-eyed and ultra-alert. Not only that, his pants were actually up around his waist instead of below his butt (uniform regulation) and his cool restaurant T-shirt was actually tucked in. I wanted to cry! But instead, I called him over and said, "Hey, Jeep Boy. You're underpants AREN'T showing!" (Every morning, when he comes downstairs with his belt around his thighs and his boxers fully exposed, I say, "Jeep Boy, your underpants are showing," and he grimaces with forced humor. So when I said this on his first night on the job, in front of all the cute girls he works with--oh, relax, no one else heard me!--he pretended to grimace with forced humor. But personally, I think he really enjoyed my little joke.)

So Perfect Man and I have been all weepy and poignant for a week--"Oh, Jeep Boy is growing up! He looked so cute refilling water and clearing plates! Oh, he's so sweet and he looked so earnest!" Then, yesterday, Perfect Man found a quarter-empty bottle of vodka in Jeep Boy's desk drawer--apparently left over from some New Year's festivities. So much for weepy nostalgia! He asked me what I thought we should do. "Drink it!" I said. But it was rot-gut crap, so instead, he emptied the bottle, then taped a note to it that said, "We need to talk," and put it back. So far, Jeep Boy hasn't found it. Or maybe he has, and he's faking.

Man, sometimes being the stepmother is just totally awesome. I am SO out of this one!

(But I can't help thinking how much fun it will be to ask him what vodka drink he recommends next time we're in the restaurant! Hoo-hoo!)

Confusion Falls

2007-12-21T08:17:00.001-08:00

Poor old Aunt Pillowhead. She gets all funky around Christmastime.

Why?
Well, first of all, Perfect Man is Jewish and she's agnostic. That makes the act of buying and decorating a Christmas tree seem almost as odd as the singing of Christmas carols. Instead of "Angels We Have Heard On High," and "Little Town Of Bethlehem," I've been walking around singing "What's It All About, Alfie?" and "Things I Don't Understand." When you research the symbols and traditions of Christmas, you find it was originally a pagan holiday that the Christians co-opted to get people in line with their beliefs, which further complicates the chowder that is my thinking these days.

Secondly, since my kids only come to visit us every other Christmas, alternating with their dad, and Perfect Man's kids always celebrate Christmas with their mom and Hannukah with us, we don't even celebrate the holiday on the off years. But I still want to get gifts for the people I love and still like the idea of recognizing a season of love and peace and joy--I don't want to be a Scrooge--so I'm still half-plugged in. I'm not sure what the answer to all of this is but I don't think it's Festivus.

Lastly, it's just a nostalgic time. This time of year, it's impossible to not reflect on Christmasses past, my adult children who were once little fat bundles of unabridged and unchecked Christmas Everything: Wonder, Greed, Delight & Magic, who once decorated the tree, sang songs, watched the sky on Christmas Eve looking for Rudoph's nose, and woke me up at 5:00 on Christmas day, wearing footed pajamas and expressions of hysterical anticipation. Or even further back, when I was the child waking up at 5:00, and the feeling I had when looking at the blinking, candy cane-laden tree in the predawn light, the piles of presents that promised a new, perfect life, the guaranteed hours of happiness and goodwill that lay ahead. And that sharp, sweet smell of fresh pine needles. I love that smell.

But should I complain?* Of course not. I am married to a man I adore, who adores me back. My children are grown and healthy and happy. Instead of the tree and the presents and the carols, on Christmas morning we will be skiing in fresh beautiful snow at a gorgeous ski resort with all the other Jews, Buddhists, and agnostics who ski, where we will have spent the three previous days and nights. I am lucky. I am blessed, and I know this.

But I am still confused, and still nostalgic, and, if not exactly sad, still a little wistful. So, Season's Greetings from your befuddled, muddled old friend. And Happy New Year, too.

______

*One easy way to talk Jewish is to take a statement and put it into question form.

Examples:

1. "That is not a nice thing to do." becomes "Is that a nice thing to do?"
2. "He is not such a bright person." becomes "Is he such a bright person?"
3. "This holiday does not make sense to me" becomes "This is a holiday that is supposed to make sense to me?"

What I Love About Children

2007-11-07T04:42:00.001-08:00

Last weekend, I took my Little Sister (I'm what they call a "Big" for Big Brothers Big Sisters) to a horse show. It was really fun and different, not something I would have ever chosen to do on my own.

And my Little loved it, just loved it.

But that's not what this post is about. This post is about something I overheard at the show that makes me laugh every time I remember it.

Behind us was a rather harried, very well-intentioned mom with several young kids in tow, including a little boy who was about four. The snippets of conversation I caught from them brought me back to my own life twenty years ago, when Brilliant & Kind and Hilarious & Gifted were young and impressionable. Every now and then, I'd get a wild hair that it was time to get out to do something fun as a family: No Saturday morning cartoons today! I'm going to be an Interesting and Involved Mom, and I'm going to take you to do something different, something stimulating, something many less fortunate children don't ever have the opportunity to do. I will expose you to something new, and you will become inspired in a new way about life!

Sometimes these outings provided great fun for everyone, but more often, someone in the group, for one reason or another, did not enjoy himself one tiny bit, and the day would unravel quickly and dramatically--best laid plans and all.

So I listened with empathy and compassion on this day to this mom, as she did her best to rally her troops. In an extra-animated, aren't-we-excited-to-be-at-this-very-cool-horse-show? voice, she explained in detail the merits and complexities of each rider and horse's routine and appearance, asking leading questions every now and then like "Isn't this amazing?" and "Aren't we having fun?" Between happy exchanges with my Little, I silently rooted for Mom, urging her kids to please, please, for her sake, just try to get at least a tiny little kick out of this?

And at first, they cooperated nicely, but after about forty minutes or so, it started getting old, and they started getting bored. Whiny requests for vendor food and beverage began to pepper the conversation. Siblings began to focus on and loudly point out what was annoying about each other. Mom pressed on admirably--deflecting, redirecting, so excited to see what was coming up next!! My heart went out to her.

And then, the dressage portion of the show began. The announcer, a folksy old cowboy with a winsome speaking style that wavered between frank and poetic, introduced a certain routine by heightening all of our expectations. "This is my very favorite routine in this portion of the show, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "You will never see anything so graceful in your life. Pay attention to how this rider has trained her horse to literally dance--moving sideways and forward at the same time. Please watch closely and enjoy fully what you are about to see, an amazing, beautiful floating gait."

"FLOATING GATE?" the little boy behind me yelled.

"Yes," distracted and hopeful Mom said, not quite getting his misunderstanding. "Watch now!"

"Where?" the little boy asked. "Where is it?"

"Right there!" the mom said. "Just watch the horse. Watch now."

"A floating gate!" the little boy said. "Cool!"

"Isn't it beautiful?" Mom said.

"But I don't see it!" the little boy said, getting kind of desperate. "I don't see the floating gate!"

"It's the way the horse is walking. That's the floating gait," Mom said. "See? Right there!"

I couldn't stand thinking about the inevitable crash that was coming, so I turned around and tapped the mom's leg gently. "I think he misunderstood--I think he thought he would see a gate--like a fence--floating in the air."

"Where is it, Mom?" said the little boy. "Where's the floating gate?"

And after she thanked me, mom, true to form, took the opportunity to enlighten and educate her terribly disappointed little son, explaining how a word can sometimes have more than one meaning, and what a homonym is, and what the announcer really meant by "floating gait."

I almost turned around to add a suggestion that their the next family outing could be to Japan, where they could see an actual floating gate at the Itsukushima Shrine.

But I thought better of it. She had enough to deal with. Bless her heart.

Soccer Tort

2007-11-05T15:42:00.000-08:00

Saturday, Jeep Boy came home from soccer tryouts. He's played in the same elite club since he was four, and he'll be seventeen in two weeks. Thirteen years of two seasons a year, three or four practices a week, one to four games a weekend.

"How'd you do?" I asked him when he came loping into the living room, his long legs dragging to find their rhythm in that new, lanky gait.

"I'm quitting," he said. "I'm not going to do it anymore. I'm just not feeling it. It's not in me."

"Wow," I said. He'd been toying with the idea of quitting for a while, but I didn't think he'd actually do it. His mom's boyfriend is a former pro soccer player who runs the club Jeep Boy plays in. He committed to coaching Jeep Boy's team this season when Jeep Boy said he didn't like his other coach, and I imagine--well, I know--that in that house, there's more than a little pressure for Jeep Boy to fully dedicate himself to soccer, both as a sport and as a stepping stone to college. The fact that he has amazing natural ability probably makes it even more frustrating to both of them to have watched his interest wane over the last year.

"Well, you've been saying you haven't been so excited about it lately. How's it feel to make that decision?"

He smiled shyly. "Great," he said. "I feel like a weight is off my shoulders. I saw those other kids today who really want it, and who really try hard and take it so seriously. And I'm just not there with that."

"Then good for you," I said. "Good for you for doing what feels right to you."

He clapped his hands together, got up and went into the kitchen to tell his dad.

Perfect Man, of course, was perfect about it. "It's certainly not like you never gave it a shot, honey," he said. "You've been doing this almost your whole life. There are a lot of other things in the world to do, a lot of other ways you can have fun and stay strong."

"Mom thinks I'm just quitting because it got hard," Jeep Boy said. "But that's not it. I just don't want to do it anymore. I think she's disappointed in me."

"Hmm," Perfect Man said.

"But what she thinks doesn't matter," Jeep Boy said.

"Not in this case, it doesn't," Perfect Man said. "This is your decision."

"Yeah," Jeep Boy said, and then, trying out something completely uncharacteristic, he said,
"Screw what she thinks."

"Hey now," Perfect Man said, with perfect reproach. "None of that."

So this is a whole new episode in Jeep Boy's life. He's choosing to remove himself from a sport and a culture that has identified him since he was in pre-school. But bigger than that, this is the very first time I have seen him do something despite his mother's disapproval, and make a decision just for himself. This next year will be so interesting and so different. I wonder where he's headed. I hope it's someplace really good, and I hope there's something I can do along the way to help him get there.

Little Olga and the Towel

2007-10-26T16:30:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday, I fell in love with a kooky, kooky old lady. I have since chosen her as my role model.

I was showering after my swim, in the big open showers at the rec center, and she entered. She was in her late 60's, early 70's, with a perfectly coiffed straw-colored hairdo, wearing a thick gold rope necklace, and nothing else. She narrowed her eyes at me and watched me lathering up with my scrunchie scrubber, took two steps toward me, and held out a greyish, worn out cloth. "Feel this," she demanded, in a thick German accent.

I wasn't sure I wanted to feel anyone's anything while standing naked in the shower, but she had such a commanding air about her, I obeyed.

"It's a schcrubbie, like yours," she said. "But FLAT. See?" She stretched it out and showed me it was a rectangular shape. "So I can schcrub my back, like THIS!" Then she did an exuberant, exaggerated "scrub-my-own-back" dance, elbows pointed straight up, knees bent, boobs flopping from side to side, looking at me happily. Then she suddenly stopped and said, sadly, "But it's old. And I don't know where to get a new one."

I was absolutely charmed. How did she do it? I wanted every ounce of her unselfconscious, trusting joyousness. I wanted it as my very own.

"Well," I said. "I have one of those at home. "Still in the package. So I can find out the company that makes it and leave you the information. Maybe you can order them online."

"You DO that for me," she said. "And I will cook you something delicious."

"I do like food," I said, helpfully.

"I am a good cook!" she said. "My name is Olgita. You leave the information for me at the front desk--they know me there. On Friday?"

It did not surprise me one bit that they knew Olgita at the front desk. "Yes," I said. "And I'll leave a list of my ten favorite things to eat, too, so you can make one of them for me."

"Oh, ho, HO!" she laughed, pointing at me. "I like you. Yes, I do!"

Man. I like her, too. Very, very much.

Buddha Redux

2007-09-25T06:23:00.000-07:00

It's been months since the Orange Robe Episode, and nothing Buddha-related has come up in conversation around Aunt Pillowhead's house since.

But on Sunday, while out running errands, I spied a red resin laughing Buddha in the window of an antique/junk store. The little guy called to me, "Buy me for Hammerhead!" he said. So I did.

Hammerhead's reaction, when I gave it to him, took me totally by surprise.

He cupped his hands to receive it, then held and gazed at it like a father cradling his firstborn baby. "My own Buddha!" he said. "I never thought I'd have my own Buddha!"

On Monday morning, he took it with him to school, to show his friends and keep in his locker. His plan is to rub the tummy for good luck every morning, especially before tests. He held it in his hands through the entire ride there, rubbing the tummy and turning it over and over. "I used to go to Vietnamese restaurants and see the Buddha and be so jealous. But now I don't have to be jealous, because I have my own Buddha," he said. "It's so cool. It's so awesome. Man. I can't believe I have my own Buddha. It's really heavy. Will it break if I drop it? I hope I don't drop it. What happens if you drop a Buddha? Is it bad luck? Man! I can't believe it, it's so cool to have my OWN Buddha."

I couldn't really believe how much he liked it. I thought he'd be amused and maybe a little charmed, but I had no idea he'd be so overwhelmed. "I'm so glad you like it so much, Hon," I said, and I startled him. I think he forgot I was there, driving the car. He looked at me with surprise, and then looked back down at his own Buddha, smiled, and shook his head. We rode the rest of the way in happy silence. It was good.

It's Time To Get Over Ourselves

2007-09-18T09:39:00.000-07:00

Hey, Stepmothers,

Can we talk?

And I don't mean about our selfish, difficult ex-wife, our petulant/ ungrateful/neurotic/troubled/needy/manipulative stepchildren, or our half tuned-in husband either. And most of all, I don't mean about us, and how we struggle to deal with it all, and how our sacrifices, contributions, and efforts go unrewarded, unacknowledged, and uncelebrated. I don't want to talk about how amazing we are and how hard we work and how lonely it gets sometimes. Because the truth is, it's all starting to get really boring.

Stepmothers, it's time to get over ourselves.

What did we think would happen when we married this man and inserted ourselves between him and his children?

And how did we ever forget what it feels like to be a child, to need to love our biological parents fiercely and unquestioningly, and how weird and scary it felt when someone tried to step into either of their shoes, even temporarily? How did we ever forget that one adult--that teacher, that relative, that babysitter--who took over and resented us, who didn't understand our feelings, and who stridently mandated our respect and admiration? And most of all, how in the world did we forget how much worse it was when this person thought she was so smart, funny, pretty, hip, and perfect, that if we didn't agree, there had to be something wrong with us? It makes my stomach hurt to think about it.

The thing is, it's not about us, Stepmothers. It's about our stepchildren. It's about what has been taken away from them because of their parents' divorce, what they need now, and the things we might be able to do to soften, comfort, and lessen their trauma while folding them into their new life with us.

Our stepchildren have no obligation to us. Anything we get from them is extra and hard-won. We are not in a reciprocal relationship, we are in a relationship of service. So let's get our egos out of it, stop whining, and get back to work. Let's turn to our friends, family, job, husband for devotion, comfort, and reassurance. Let's stop demanding it of these poor kids.

It's not that I don't want to read our blogs, Stepmothers. It's that I want to read less about how fabulous we are and more about our fabulous stepchildren. Who are they? What do they wish for, how are we working to understand them? Above all, how are we helping them to reassemble their senses of self, their feelings of power, success, and security, now that their lives have come apart? Now THAT would be interesting. That would be helpful. That would tell them that we really love their father, that we honor their place in our life, and that, more than anything, we are up for the responsibility of doing our part to create a happy home for everyone. Okay?

Tell you what. I'll go first:

Excellent related Modern Love piece in last Sunday's NYT.

Don't Make It Bad

2007-09-02T05:58:00.001-07:00

Here’s something fun to imagine:

There are two sisters, one young and beautiful, one a little older, and, let’s just say...handsome. All of their lives, these sisters have viewed each other through a kind of filter, focusing more on how the other should be more like them than what they actually love about each other. Which turns out to be a lot.

Okay, so imagine this: last weekend, these sisters meet in a large American metropolis (one that maybe people in South Africa, or Iraq, or Asia might be able to locate on a map, but not many US Americans, because they don’t have maps, as such—if you don't get this reference, go to youtube, you will either thank or curse me, I promise) and they have a breakthrough, which results in an amazing bonding experience. For the first time in their lives, these two women just enjoy each other. They don’t think “I wish you were more...” or “I think you should be less..” or "Why do you always have to...", they just have fun together.

And in this wave of goodwill and newfound acceptance, they decide to go do some karaoke together.

For those of you who have not yet done karaoke, here are some tips:

#1. It doesn’t matter if you can sing or not. What matters is that you pick a song the crowd likes.

#2. Picking a song the crowd likes involves scoping out the crowd and gauging their basic demographic, plus their response to the songs others are karaoke-ing. For example, if the crowd is enjoying and singing along with fast, hip-hop songs, and you want to please the crowd, choose a fast, hip-hop song.

#3. “Hey Jude” is not a fast, hip-hop song.

#4. You and your companion karaoke-er may own expensive purses full of valuables. You may not want to leave them unattended at your table as you go up to sing a duet of “Hey Jude” together. This will not change the fact that if you are two white women in your 40’s, carrying your purses up to the stage can not, and will not, look cool, or, in any other way, appeal to a crowd of a certain demographic.

#5. The key of a song is very important (dare I say “key?”) in how well it will be sung by a given singer or singers. In other words, if you and your karaoke partner are sopranos, you will both suck when singing a song in a basso profundo key. You will sound like female impersonators. You will desperately cling to each other when you realize how bad you sound. You will not enjoy the feeling.

#6. “Hey Jude” has a lot of “na na na na” choruses, and if you suck at the first one, you will most probably suck at the sixteenth one. Prepare for that.

#7. When trying to liven up the sixteenth “na na na na” chorus which you have sucked at so far, bursting out into Paul McCartney’s background riff of “hey joooday joodayJOODAYJOODAYJOODAYJOOODAAAY!” will probably not inspire the crowd to respond with encouraging cheers. Instead, they will probably blink quietly. This will make you very, very uncomfortable.

#8. When you realize that singing a duet in this unnaturally low voice with a same-sex fellow karaoke-er may cause the blinking, silent crowd to think you are lesbian lovers, explaining between choruses of “na na na na” that “We’re SISTERS!” is awkward. Don’t do it. They don’t care. They just want you to take your expensive purses full of valuables and get the hell off the stage so they can start having fun again.

#9. When “Hey Jude” is over with, please the crowd for the first time since your turn began. Do this by running, not walking, to the nearest exit. Run, run, run! Go, go, go!

#10. If you ignore all of the above advice and choose “Hey Jude” as your song at a karaoke bar, and all of the above happens to you, for the rest of your life you will not be able to hear that beautiful song without cringing and laughing. Can you live with that? If so, then be my guest! Go for it! And good luck!

Hitting the Tree

2007-08-28T18:33:00.000-07:00

When Hilarious & Gifted, my youngest son, was learning to ride a bike, we set him up in our back yard, which was long, wide, and grassy, and had one tree growing in its southeast quadrant. Our plan was to let him learn and fall where the grass was soft and there were no obstacles to hurt him, except for that one tree, which was so easy to avoid.

And which, for some reason, he kept crashing into.

We started him in the northeast corner, and pushed him towards the southwest. He pedaled furiously, eying the tree with excitement and dread, all the while heading directly towards it, as though it were pulling him like a magnet. And bang! he crashed, and bang! he fell.

We tried the northwest corner, pushing him southwest. Bang! and bang! again. Due south, due center, due east, due west--no direction or destination made a difference; the tree called to him and he collided with it every single time. Brilliant & Kind, his amused and frustrated older brother, tried coaching him ("Don't look at the tree!" "Stop before you hit the tree!") to no avail. Finally we gave up, and Hilarious & Gifted took his bike out to the hard, unforgiving street, teeming with cars, cats, and ruthless neighbor children, got on and rode away. It was impossible to understand.

So, too, is it impossible to understand that whenever I am in any situation where decorum is required, I develop a kind of spontaneous Tourette's Syndrome, and find myself violating the very taboo (usually a simple, understandable taboo) that had been clearly outlined in advance. I either blurt out something inappropriate, call someone important by the wrong name, or knock over something fragile or permeable with an unnecessary, emotive gesture. Like hitting that one tree in the yard, the fear of doing the wrong thing is what causes me to do the wrong thing, every single time.

Which is why, when Perfect Man and I were invited to his cousin's wedding--a lavish, Modern Orthodox Jewish wedding in New York City--I apologized to him in advance.

"I will embarrass you," I said. "I'll kiss someone I'm not supposed to touch, or dance during some somber chant, get the giggles during the ceremony, or something. It makes me sad to think about how sorry you will be that you brought me."

"Honey, you'll be fine," he said, "There will be a lot of other people there who don't understand the tenets of Modern Orthodox Judaism. Honestly, there's a lot of stuff about it I don't know myself. Just relax, and have fun, and everything will be fine." Then he added, "Also, maybe just don't talk or move while we're there." It was supposed to be a joke, but I think he was serious.

Anyway, last weekend, we went. The event took place in a big, beautiful riverfront hall. Perfect Man guided me into a room where the bride was, beautiful and elegant, sitting in a chair in the center of the floor. Her mother stood next to her.

"The bride's in here," he said, handing me a scotch to help me relax. "And the groom's in another room. They haven't seen each other for a week. You can't kiss the groom. Don't touch the groom. I don't even know if you should talk to the groom. Probably, you shouldn't. I think during the ceremony, we're seated on separate sides of the room. One side for men, other side for women. You stay on the women's side."

"Got it." I said, slurring slightly, because my scotch was gone already. "The women's side."

"You're doing great!" Perfect Man said, handing me another scotch.

The room was filled with gorgeously adorned women in gossamer and Gucci. I kept my mind busy by counting the number of Christian Louboutin shoes I saw, until I counted the same silver snake skin pair twice, lost track, and gave up.

Then Perfect Man's sister and brother came over to chat with us. They were kind and considerate about my shiksa anxiety, assuring me over and over again that I was doing great. "Just keep your eye on the nearest exit," Perfect Man's brother said jokingly. "And if something goes wrong, head for it."

And then, a burst of sound from a double door, and the crowd parted. A line of men in suits--presumably the groom's closest friends and family--came through the room, marching, clapping and singing, with the groom being carried along in their stream. They were bringing him to see his bride. I couldn't see exactly what happened when they stopped at her chair; I think he lifted her veil to confirm it was her. Then they all turned and began to march out again, clapping, singing, and passing by us on the way out the door.

And that's when Perfect Man and his brother decided their active participation was required. With a look of alert determination on their faces, they dutifully hopped in at the end of the line, clapping and marching, their yarmulkes bobbing in time. Perfect Man's sister and I immediately noticed that no other men in the room were joining in this way. "What the hell are those two doing?" we asked each other, and I took a step to tell them I didn't think they were supposed be in this march. But before I could say anything, Perfect Man turned and shook his finger at me, saying with stern authority, "Men Only! No Women!" Then he turned away again and marched out the door.

I looked at his sister and the two of us started laughing so hard we were crying. I was so relieved to not be the ridiculous one, and it was so entertaining to see someone else being the ridiculous one, the emotional release was extraordinary. And all of a sudden, it hit me: if all of my social faux pas over the last four decades have provided even a fraction of this kind of relief and amusement to others, then the discomfort and humiliation I have suffered along the way has been more than worth it. What a great feeling, to be so completely released from remorse and regret!

And I would have given a hundred dollars to see what happened when the groom and his closest friends and family got back to their room and there were these two guys no one knew standing there at the end of the line, these two guys who, as they slowly began realizing that they had misjudged the situation, were maybe winding down their clapping a little, maybe turning their march into more of a shuffle, and maybe, just maybe, both starting to look for the nearest exit.