There are days where I feel like I have an extra weight on my head...a brass crown with the title, "evil stepmonster" engraved on it for good measure. Mind you, no one has actually called me this, but I feel that way just the same.
Too many Disney movies with the wicked stepparent, or comedies with the much younger second wife being sorority sister to her new husbands children. I have been a mother for 13 years, a stepmother for only a year and a half and I am still trying to find the balance between meeting my bonus daughter's needs and my husbands expectations. No easy feat, and not necessarily one I feel very qualified to perform most days of the week.
She is about3 and a half feet tall with dark bushy hair and blue eyes, exactly like her Daddy's. She furrows her brows and attempts to give me the evil eye every now and again and then I remind her I have gotten the same look from her much bigger and more imposing father and she is going to have to work harder to impress me.
She is feminine and giggly, awkward and silly, and not just a little obsessed with stuffed animals, donuts, and "Despicable Me." She is 100% Daddy's girl and even though she knows me now, she wants to ride in his car and hold his hand and have him read the bedtime stories and do the goodnight kisses, and that's OK with me. She is confused some days about who I am compared to who her mommy is and has told my husband, "You have two girlfriends, Mommy and Miss Patti." He corrected her, quickly, but really how do we explain it all?
She likes my boys and is coming to understand why they call Bob, "Dad," but overall she still remains unsure of her place in the picture-just as I am unsure of my place in her family picture.
What I know for sure is that she needs all of us, and she deserves our best effort to be grownups, behave responsibly and be kind to one another and that isn't always easy. I hope she to come to see me as an extra, extra ally, extra set of hands, extra woman for girl talk, extra shoulder to cry on, extra parent to be pissed at in adolescence. I call her my bonus daughter because "step" just doesn't work for me.
When I hear the word stepchild or stepparent I think of a staircase with two people removed from one another by one step or flights of stairs. One of them below or above the other-never on the same level. Ick. Not my vision of family. Even though I am definitely in a different role in my family with my biological children I believe very firmly that their feelings are equal to mine in ever conceivable way.
Her feelings count and her voice matters-right now we have made a foray into friendship with her long dark hair. Having had boys I missed out on braids and bows so she is delighted to have me fix her hair in "mouse ears" or "two ponytails" or a simple braid. Her mother is less delighted and in one of her more snarky moments when her daddy returned bonus daughter to her other house her mother told her she looked like a dork. To say I thought less of the exwife after that is an understatement.
Life isn't fair and unfortunately children in divorced families learn this lesson all too soon. Bonus Daughter only gets stolen weekends with her Daddy and she has to share them with this strange lady that makes her eat something other than french fries and sleeps in the same bed as the man who is supposed to be wrapped around her finger alone.
Divorce isn't fair on the Daddy either-he misses her, painfully, on a daily basis. He wishes for more time, more stolen moments. We tried for full custody and were unsurprised when we lost. I reassure him that what is important is that we tried. I want him to be able to look her in the eye in 20 years and tell her unequivocally,"I wanted you with me full time and so did Miss Patti and I did not replace you with Nick and Henry."
So here we are 18 months in and navigating the current of failed marriages, new beginnings, adult strain, and custody one stolen weekend at a time. My hope is that she will look back on this time as one where she got extra love and affection from a bonus family and we were never a step away from her.
Showing posts with label 2011. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2011. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The imperfect blessing of parenthood
"We never know the love of a parent till we become parents ourselves."Henry Ward Beecher
I have a friend who is preparing to welcome her third bundle of joy into the world and a brother and sister in law who have just delivered their second. The former is weary with the load she bears and some amount of anticipated dread at the sleeplessness to come, the latter are learning the balancing act of a two daughter household and walking zombielike through their days.
We saw our newest family member this weekend and oohed and aahed and cuddled and fed and attempted to the soothe when the furies took over little miss 8 pounds of fire. She is luscious, rosy, soft skinned like the petals of a spring flower, with soulful blue eyes and a lovely upturned nose. In turn we all made overtures to her and I delighted in every moment of watching the boys make over her and delight in her contentment or occasional passing of gas. "She tooted on me!"
These are the same boys who tell me, "I love you more mom," when I tuck them in to bed at night. Each night I tell them, "No you don't-inconceivable." Which inevitably leads to a Princess Bride type back and forth ending with, "Anybody gotta peanut? Arrrggghhh."
I have told them time and again that no matter their love for me-they can never know the depth of my love for them-at least not right now. Someday, when they are fathers they will understand I was not being pretentious or ornery-simply stating the fact that without taking this strange trip called parenthood you don't get the extra baggage of love.
Of course you love and are loved. I would never presume that those who do not have children do not experience great love-in fact I imagine they can and do experience a deeper love in some relationships than I can imagine. But just as when I was pregnant and became increasingly annoyed by the people who felt it their responsibility to share the story of their sisters 83 hour labor and subsequent 4 inch long tear up to there and the people who told me to sleep in while "I could," I know Nicholas and Henry cannot understand the joy and sorrow of parenthood until they take the plunge themselves.
My own childhood was fraught with the tumult of alcoholism, sexual abuse, and mental illness. But after the birth of my first child I experienced a profound sense of gratitude towards my mother, with all her flaws and frailties. I finally understood the concept of, "just doing the best I can do," and I remembered with some amount of guilt the times she would say those words to me as she cried. On my darkest postpartum days, I would remember her and think,"If my own mother, with all of her obstacles and lack of coping skills could do this-surely, I can do it too."
When in the throes of pregnancy you cannot imagine that a creature weighing less than many a house cat will manage to completely up end your life and cause you to ponder your sanity, your level of intelligence, and sterility. When you are a child your parents are very often the center of your universe and your love for them is unparalleled.
As you grow into puberty and young adulthood you recognize more of the flaws in your parents and you love them, but you also "love" your Ipod and you "love" your new sneakers, and that boy with the brooding stare and hoop through his eyebrow in third period. Then, there is the moment you become a parent.
In a flash the life you knew before is gone and your capacity to love and be loved is changed forever. This creature, helpless and pink, wrinkly and fussy, is part of you and you are part of this seamingly perfect little person. You feel a love so deep and boundless you can no longer imagine a life without it.
I consider myself politically progressive, and until becoming a mother I never believed I could kill another human being. Now I not only know I could, but I do not doubt that I would take another human life if my own child's life were threatened.
That is not to say I do not have moments wherein I consider the merits of animals that eat their own young. If I thought I could eat him before he turns rancid I might nibble on the 13 year old every now and again, parenthood is the ultimate in bitter and sweet. No one person, thing or experience has left me as exhilarated or humiliated as being a mother.
Nothing has prepared me more for what comes next in life like parenting, and nothing has fueled my passion for life like my children and seeing the world anew through their eyes. I imagine, true to its thorny beauty, nothing will hurt the same as the grief I experience when we transition to an adult relationship and I no longer hear, "I love you more," every night or have requests for tuck ins.
Then again, by that time I will get to look forward to being a grandmother and taking the ride all over again-waiting for the day when my boys tell me,"I get it now Mom, and you were right."
I have a friend who is preparing to welcome her third bundle of joy into the world and a brother and sister in law who have just delivered their second. The former is weary with the load she bears and some amount of anticipated dread at the sleeplessness to come, the latter are learning the balancing act of a two daughter household and walking zombielike through their days.
We saw our newest family member this weekend and oohed and aahed and cuddled and fed and attempted to the soothe when the furies took over little miss 8 pounds of fire. She is luscious, rosy, soft skinned like the petals of a spring flower, with soulful blue eyes and a lovely upturned nose. In turn we all made overtures to her and I delighted in every moment of watching the boys make over her and delight in her contentment or occasional passing of gas. "She tooted on me!"
These are the same boys who tell me, "I love you more mom," when I tuck them in to bed at night. Each night I tell them, "No you don't-inconceivable." Which inevitably leads to a Princess Bride type back and forth ending with, "Anybody gotta peanut? Arrrggghhh."
I have told them time and again that no matter their love for me-they can never know the depth of my love for them-at least not right now. Someday, when they are fathers they will understand I was not being pretentious or ornery-simply stating the fact that without taking this strange trip called parenthood you don't get the extra baggage of love.
Of course you love and are loved. I would never presume that those who do not have children do not experience great love-in fact I imagine they can and do experience a deeper love in some relationships than I can imagine. But just as when I was pregnant and became increasingly annoyed by the people who felt it their responsibility to share the story of their sisters 83 hour labor and subsequent 4 inch long tear up to there and the people who told me to sleep in while "I could," I know Nicholas and Henry cannot understand the joy and sorrow of parenthood until they take the plunge themselves.
My own childhood was fraught with the tumult of alcoholism, sexual abuse, and mental illness. But after the birth of my first child I experienced a profound sense of gratitude towards my mother, with all her flaws and frailties. I finally understood the concept of, "just doing the best I can do," and I remembered with some amount of guilt the times she would say those words to me as she cried. On my darkest postpartum days, I would remember her and think,"If my own mother, with all of her obstacles and lack of coping skills could do this-surely, I can do it too."
When in the throes of pregnancy you cannot imagine that a creature weighing less than many a house cat will manage to completely up end your life and cause you to ponder your sanity, your level of intelligence, and sterility. When you are a child your parents are very often the center of your universe and your love for them is unparalleled.
As you grow into puberty and young adulthood you recognize more of the flaws in your parents and you love them, but you also "love" your Ipod and you "love" your new sneakers, and that boy with the brooding stare and hoop through his eyebrow in third period. Then, there is the moment you become a parent.
In a flash the life you knew before is gone and your capacity to love and be loved is changed forever. This creature, helpless and pink, wrinkly and fussy, is part of you and you are part of this seamingly perfect little person. You feel a love so deep and boundless you can no longer imagine a life without it.
I consider myself politically progressive, and until becoming a mother I never believed I could kill another human being. Now I not only know I could, but I do not doubt that I would take another human life if my own child's life were threatened.
That is not to say I do not have moments wherein I consider the merits of animals that eat their own young. If I thought I could eat him before he turns rancid I might nibble on the 13 year old every now and again, parenthood is the ultimate in bitter and sweet. No one person, thing or experience has left me as exhilarated or humiliated as being a mother.
Nothing has prepared me more for what comes next in life like parenting, and nothing has fueled my passion for life like my children and seeing the world anew through their eyes. I imagine, true to its thorny beauty, nothing will hurt the same as the grief I experience when we transition to an adult relationship and I no longer hear, "I love you more," every night or have requests for tuck ins.
Then again, by that time I will get to look forward to being a grandmother and taking the ride all over again-waiting for the day when my boys tell me,"I get it now Mom, and you were right."
The Sheen of Compassion
At this point more than enough has been said by and about Charlie Sheen to insure that not even Howard Stern would be able to testify for him in a child custody case and keep a straight face.
But what about Martin and Janet Sheen and their other less infamous sons? Watching the drama of Charlie Sheen's implosion began as simple celebrity addiction gone bad nonsense. Nothing particularly earth shattering-an other worldly size flameout but he didn't appear to be covering any new ground here. But then we started to hear about the warlocks, and "winning", and lest I forget to mention them, "the goddesses". Also known as porn stars and willing participants in the circus that is currently on tour in Southern California.
One part Scientology, one part Anthony Robbins infomercial, and three parts Jimmy Swaggart. It's no longer about addiction and arrogance for me. It's about Martin and Janet and what I imagine has been the road to hell and back they have traveled countless times in the hope that they might be able to help Charlie before he finally does that something that can't be repaired. That something may be his death, or worse the death of an innocent bystander.
I believe the Sheen's have thought about what they will do when that call comes in the middle of the night. How they will handle the deluge of press feeding on their sorrow and shame. How they will handle the guilt they feel at being grateful he is no longer suffering, and no longer torturing everyone around him. What's different for the Sheen family is that they will have to do it all in the very public eye of an American society obsessed with celebrity-but ignorant of the reality that is mental illness.
Everyone, yes every single person in the United States, knows someone with a major mental illness. But unlike cancer, we don't talk about it at church, or work or the PTA for fear of being judged, shunned, misunderstood. Mental illness, specifically, bipolar disorder, affects 10 million Americans and the very nature of the disease prevents long lasting effective therapies. The highs can be intoxicating and the medications can be devastating, numbing, and leave the patient longing to feel "normal" again. These patients take themselves on and off medications frequently, and are at a higher risk for suicide then patients with other mental health diagnoses.
But here is the kicker-those 10 million Americans have families-just like the Sheens-families that struggle to get them to see a psychiatrist or stay on their meds, or go to AA. Families that watch them lose jobs, marriages, children, and have to decide when is enough enough? So what of Janet, the woman who held him and kissed his wee little toes, change his diapers and dreamed for him to grow big and strong and healthy? What of Martin, the man who watched Charlie become a fine young actor and then self immoliate while all he could do is watch and pray? How many times have Charlie's brothers lost the attention of their parents to his behavior, illness and addiction? How many family dinners have been ruined by manic attention seeking behavior and sibling rivalry at the boiling point after years of abuse and neglect by a brother they simultaneously love and abhor?
Charlie Sheen may never be able to save himself and his family may never be able to either, but rather than a constant stream of gossip and useless twitter feeds we could use the downward spiral of his life as a springboard to a conversation about mental illness and family and mental healthcare in the United States.
A conversation like that would be worth writing about and might actually change something other than the channel.
But what about Martin and Janet Sheen and their other less infamous sons? Watching the drama of Charlie Sheen's implosion began as simple celebrity addiction gone bad nonsense. Nothing particularly earth shattering-an other worldly size flameout but he didn't appear to be covering any new ground here. But then we started to hear about the warlocks, and "winning", and lest I forget to mention them, "the goddesses". Also known as porn stars and willing participants in the circus that is currently on tour in Southern California.
One part Scientology, one part Anthony Robbins infomercial, and three parts Jimmy Swaggart. It's no longer about addiction and arrogance for me. It's about Martin and Janet and what I imagine has been the road to hell and back they have traveled countless times in the hope that they might be able to help Charlie before he finally does that something that can't be repaired. That something may be his death, or worse the death of an innocent bystander.
I believe the Sheen's have thought about what they will do when that call comes in the middle of the night. How they will handle the deluge of press feeding on their sorrow and shame. How they will handle the guilt they feel at being grateful he is no longer suffering, and no longer torturing everyone around him. What's different for the Sheen family is that they will have to do it all in the very public eye of an American society obsessed with celebrity-but ignorant of the reality that is mental illness.
Everyone, yes every single person in the United States, knows someone with a major mental illness. But unlike cancer, we don't talk about it at church, or work or the PTA for fear of being judged, shunned, misunderstood. Mental illness, specifically, bipolar disorder, affects 10 million Americans and the very nature of the disease prevents long lasting effective therapies. The highs can be intoxicating and the medications can be devastating, numbing, and leave the patient longing to feel "normal" again. These patients take themselves on and off medications frequently, and are at a higher risk for suicide then patients with other mental health diagnoses.
But here is the kicker-those 10 million Americans have families-just like the Sheens-families that struggle to get them to see a psychiatrist or stay on their meds, or go to AA. Families that watch them lose jobs, marriages, children, and have to decide when is enough enough? So what of Janet, the woman who held him and kissed his wee little toes, change his diapers and dreamed for him to grow big and strong and healthy? What of Martin, the man who watched Charlie become a fine young actor and then self immoliate while all he could do is watch and pray? How many times have Charlie's brothers lost the attention of their parents to his behavior, illness and addiction? How many family dinners have been ruined by manic attention seeking behavior and sibling rivalry at the boiling point after years of abuse and neglect by a brother they simultaneously love and abhor?
Charlie Sheen may never be able to save himself and his family may never be able to either, but rather than a constant stream of gossip and useless twitter feeds we could use the downward spiral of his life as a springboard to a conversation about mental illness and family and mental healthcare in the United States.
A conversation like that would be worth writing about and might actually change something other than the channel.
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