Pasta and Dissent

It started so innocently.

We were eating the delicious dinner that Perfect Man had spent so much time preparing--pasta with fresh mozzarella and meatballs for the boys, greens with goat cheese, heirloom tomatoes, Nicoise olives and avocado for me. Hammerhead asked me to please drive him to school on Thursday so he could bring his skateboard. I usually drop him at his bus stop (it's closer to where I drop his brother off at high school), but skateboards are prohibited on school buses, and Thursday he wants to bring his board because it's the last day of school and he's spending the night with a friend and he wants to skate with his friend.

"One time," Hammerhead said, "I was just bringing a board--no trucks, just a board--and the driver said, 'What's that?' and I said, "It's just a board but no trucks,' and he STILL made me take it home. He's an asshole."

"That's kind of harsh," I said.

"Everyone thinks he's an asshole," Hammerhead went on. "My friend Anna said 'Bye' to him one day and he just stared at her. So she said, 'Asshole!' to him while she was getting off the bus."

The boys laughed. Aunt Pillowhead's hackles went up.

"Maybe he didn't respond because he can't tell if kids are really being nice to him or mocking him," I said. "It must be a really hard job."

"He signed up for it," Hammerhead's brother said, matter-of-factly, shrugging off my attempt to illuminate the challenges a person who drives a busload of insolent middle-schoolers around daily might face.

And I thought, What are you, some kind of little Republican? Because you've enjoyed a life of privilege and options, you think that every other person on this planet has the same smorgasbord of choices, choices based on wants and whims, not needs and necessity?

But what I said was, "He may have signed up for it, but you don't know why. You don't know what it's like to have to take the first job you can get just so you can pay the bills, feed your family, feed yourself. And you don't know what it's like to drive a busload of middle-schoolers around every day."

Hammerhead's brother shrugged. "Whatever," he said. "I know I'm right."

And then Perfect Man, slumped with disappointment, having worked so hard to create a repast that would inspire goodwill and conviviality, spoke to Hammerhead's brother, saying something like, "Talk to us again when you have the creds to back what you're saying. You don't have any idea what it's like to work for a living."

Hammerhead's brother shrugged again.

And because I haven't learned to just put another forkful of food in my mouth and move on, I said this: "What I'm saying, [Hammerhead's Brother], is that some people are not educated and so they have fewer options. And some people are educated but they have immediate needs and crises--a dying elderly parent, children to feed--and they have to do what they have to do to take care of those crises. And so to say about someone who has a difficult job, 'He signed up for it,' sounds kind of insensitive to me. It might not be the case that when it came to finding a job, that bus driver picked the job he thought he'd love the most. And to call him an 'asshole' because he enforces the rules sounds disrespectful to me."

Well, by that time, dinner was pretty much over, and not because it had been eaten up. Hammerhead's brother, who fully hated me at this point, smiled a little smile and said a sarcastic, "Okay!" while Perfect Man tapped my leg, a desperate, Morse-like code for "PLEASE DO NOT OFFER SOCIOLOGY LESSON NOW. NOW IS FOR EATING PASTA AND TALKING ABOUT SPORTS. REMINDER: KID IS TEENAGER. YOU CANNOT MAKE HIM CARE." And Hammerhead, delighted to be the "Good One" for a change, cheerfully commented that many people today are indeed oppressed in ways we cannot know.

If I were the mom, this wouldn't have been sad, at least not for me. I would have continued the conversation, full speed ahead, whether it was wanted or not. Until the child had seen the world the way the world should be seen. Mother's job: To Shape Character.

But I'm the stepmom, and so it was kind of sad. I hit the barrier, the wall where the conversation stops. For stepmothers, it's about the service you provide. Save your perspective for when it's asked for. (And honey, don't hold your breath.)

Being a stepmother is, in some ways, a whole lot like being a bus driver. Your job is to facilitate a journey for some kids who'd be having a whole lot more fun if you weren't there. You must keep them safe, toe the line, and enforce the rules, all the while accepting the fact that for a lot of the time, no matter what you say or do not say, you will be seen as an asshole.

Not that I'm complaining. After all, I signed up for it.

Waaaah!

There's no excuse for feeling sorry for yourself, unless you are
1. a baby who doesn't know better, or
2. a very flawed woman who DOES know better, but does it anyway, because you are so very flawed

And I'm a baby. And today, I am feeling really sorry for myself, even though I have nothing to feel sorry about. I have two beautiful sons, one beautiful daughter-in-law, one beautiful husband, one beautiful chocolate lab, one fairly attractive cat, and two beautiful stepsons who happen to have a beautiful mother who is in Germany right now, having flown there business class to spend ten days at an elite horse show, which worked out with her schedule just fine (since we were willing to keep the boys an extra five days), on account of the fact that she DOESN'T HAVE A JOB and DOESN'T WORK and therefore DOESN'T HAVE A SCHEDULE.

Ay, yi, yi. It is so useless and so petty and so small and so unproductive to feel resentful of this thing, this imbalance of lifestyle. But sometimes, I really, really do. I wish I were more like the heroes I admire, Gandhi and Mark Twain. I wish I were better at discipline and serenity and off-beat folksy humor. But the bottom line is, it gets me. There are so many other people I would like to be giving money to, so many other causes I would like to support, yet I have no choice, and so I support A Life Of Leisure For Blood Runs Cold While We Work Our Fingers To The Bone And Many Others, So Much More Deserving, Do Without, and this is the way it is.

It wouldn't be so bad except that we are 5oK in debt due to six years of really unfair alimony payments and continued child support that have ultimately afforded her this luxury. Also, that on the day before Mother's Day, Blood Runs Cold's boyfriend, Studmuffin, drove both the boys to our house in the middle of the day so they could get some money to buy her a Mother's Day gift. Now tell me, is that whacked or what? We are put in the position of either saying, "Of course we will give you money to honor your loving mother on Mother's Day!" or "Dudes. Seriously. Tell Studmuffin to give you some of his own money, or mow her neighbor's lawn and earn some, or make a card or something. But don't ask us to pay for your mom's gift, okay? And next time, think before you ask us such a stupid question."

Still simmering a bit over that one. But of course, Perfect Man chose the former course of action, because he loves his boys so much, and sees all of this crap as the minutia it really is, and wants his boys to grow up loving both his parents and experiencing as little conflict as possible. He is better than Gandhi, and better than Mark Twain. He is my real hero, and I love him with all my heart.

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor

I hate TV

AND

I love TV



That's hard to reconcile. When I'm in an easy mood, a mood that begs to turn on, tune in, and drop out, when I want to reward a long day of arduous computation, reckoning, negotiation and summarization with a big fat stupid night of Feet Up/Blank Stare, TV is awesome.

But when I'm in a busy mood, thinking about what needs to be done and how much of it there is to do, and someone else is sitting in front of the TV, slack-jawed and dormant, TV is the worst, most repugnant symbol of everything that's wrong with the world today.

And today, Hammerhead and his brother, at exactly 4:05 pm, as soon as I got them home from school and when I had so much more to do before I could call it a day, sat down in front of the TV and turned on "The Sopranos" (via On Demand). And you know what? Aunt Pillowhead don't play that.

According to Aunt Pillowhead, TV should not be on before 5:30. (And if you SHOULD turn it on at 5:30, you can watch Antiques Roadshow or MacNeil Lehrer, and that's all.)

So I made them turn it off. They looked at me as though I were crazy and mean. "Why?" they asked in unison.

"You know why," I said with the stepmotherly authority I have bestowed upon myself. "It's just not okay to watch TV at this hour, before you've done your homework, when it's still light outside."

"I don't have any homework," Hammerhead's brother snarled. "And it's raining."

"Oh, well!" I sang as I turned the vile contraption off, so it could rest up for later, when, at some arbitrary point in time, I will love and worship it with heart and soul.

They trudged off to their rooms and closed their doors. Later I made them a snack of leftover spaghetti and they shoveled it into their mouths with little or no comment. (And I'd even grated fresh Parmesan Reggiano on it! Go figure!)

I am crazy. And I am mean. But only until 5:30 pm. And then, with the flip of a switch, the click of a button, and the shift of an on again/off again attitude, I become sane and nice again. Like magic!

10 Things I Don't Recommend

1. Be about 47 years old.
2. Fall down the stairs and get a huge, ugly bruise on your huge, ugly butt.
3. Three days later, go to the rec center and swim some laps.
4. After your swim, shower off in the public shower. Start off wearing your suit, and then, when you're pretty sure no one else is coming, take your suit off.
5. When three really young, really fit, really pretty young women with three cute babies on their three skinny hips which show no visible signs of trauma come out of nowhere and begin showering next to you, smile at them awkwardly.
6. Decide to be "wacky" and announce: "You're probably all wondering about this horrible bruise on my butt. Well, I'll tell you: I fell down the stairs! Whoo-hoo! Was that ever dumb! And now look at this baby! Did you ever see anything like it?" Show them your butt.
7. Watch as they politely examine your butt, murmuring sympathetically.
8. Laugh. Clear your throat. Hum a little tune.
9. Listen to the simple, quiet sound of water running. Notice the babies are staring at you with consternation.
10. Decide your hair really doesn't need to be conditioned today and get the hell out of there.


Your friend,

(Older and wiser) Aunt Pillowhead

I Fall Down, Go "Boom!"

Aunt Pillowhead fell down the stairs last night.

It looked just like the photo on the left, but for a few minor details. Namely, Aunt Pillowhead:

• Is not twenty-something, but older than that
• Was not in an evening dress, but ratty PJs
• Was not feet down/head up, but head down/feet up
• Wore her hair not swept back from her brow, elegant and shiny, but more dandelion-esque and a little on the dry side
  
• Was not experiencing the event in classic black and white, but in modern living color
• Looked less as though she were fleeing her sinister beau and more like she was running down to her office to get her purse
• Was not on a formal, dramatic, curved staircase made of marble, but five carpeted steps that go from the kitchen to the downstairs
  
• Was not looking wistfully off to her left, but (with a quite surprised expression) straight up at the ceiling
• Did not have her hand on the banister
  
• Was not wearing shoes

And today Aunt Pillowhead has a bruise the size of Milwaukee on her left butt cheek. And it makes her sad and cranky. It also makes sitting, a usually painless activity, really uncomfortable.

And she's keeping her distance from anyone who might just set her off tonight.

Wheeee!

Harrowing ride, full circle. I am always a little amazed when it happens this way, and it always does.

Last night, while I was watching my favorite guilty indulgence, "What Not To Wear"...

("Oh, Aunt Pillowhead," you say. "How could you? Why, just two posts ago you were faulting Blood Runs Cold for her need to judge and feel superior to others, and now you tell me that you LIKE watching two meticulously put-together fashionistas pounce on some poor unsuspecting woman with no sense of style, humiliate her by making her look at videotape of herself looking really bad, force her to throw away all of her ugly, tired, ill-fitting, dated clothing, and then make her over in their own image? You're kidding, right?")

...um, as I was saying, I was watching this show and then Hammerhead came in...

Okay, hang on there. Wait just one minute. You know what? It's not about watching them humiliate her. I like that show because I identify with the fashionistas AND the victim. And I'm telling you, that victim likes the attention and advice, once she gets over being shamed in front of all her friends on national television. And look how much more confident, beautiful, and snazzy she looks afterwards, with the possible exception of a few not-so-great haircuts and one or two times when the make-up just didn't look right. It's a Cinderella thing--the diamond from coal thing, and I'm a sucker for that stuff. Plus, they give her $5,000. That's a wad of dough, not to be sneezed at.

Anyway, Hammerhead came in. "Aunt Pillowhead," he said. "I learned this new card game that I know you'll love. Want to play it?

"Sure," I said. "Just as soon as I see what they're going to do with this poor lady's hair."

"How long?" he asked.

"Ten minutes, tops," I said.

Hammerhead sat on the floor next to me to watch, absently shuffling the deck. "I don't like that hairstyle on her. She looked better before."

"Yeah," I said. "That fake red color is a little shocking. And I'm not crazy about the bangs, either. But it's a good outfit she's got on."

"Can you play now?" he asked.

"Yep."

And we did. Fifteen games of "Llamas!" which was very fun. I won two games. Loser had to kiss the bottom of winner's bare foot, which was my idea and disgusting, but which I knew would delight him, and it did, when I had to kiss his stinky little paws. And I didn't make him kiss mine. (Scary! Old Lady Foot!) We laughed a lot, and I realized (again) that no matter how high up or low down we go, he and I, I need to remember to come back to the center as quickly as I can, so he can find me there when he wants to.

Laughing Buddha

Last night, Hammerhead had his "I Am A Famous Person In History" presentation at his middle school, with the rest of his seventh grade class.

He forgot his orange robe, accidentally left it at home, so he had to be Buddha in a skater tee shirt, jeans, and a pair of new Nike shoes. I wasn't there, but Perfect Man said he did pretty well, all things considered. Also, that Nefertiti was awesome.

The Other Shoe Falls

Ahh, Part 2. Whenever I have a fight with Hammerhead, there's a Part 2. I know it will happen, but I don't know exactly when. It's lurking up there, waiting until things are calm and we are all unawares, and then it swoops down and attacks, hoping for a quick, easy mouthful of my soft, bruised flesh. (Or, to be more precise, of Perfect Man's soft, bruised flesh, but that always hurts me more than it hurts him, I'm pretty sure.)
Part 2 stars Hammerhead's mother, Blood Runs Cold, a tall, beautiful, mean as hell 20 watt bulb. She rides her horse every day, owns a cute little house and a brand-new Audi, takes trips to Europe, Aspen, Florida, and California, courtesy of Perfect Man's generous settlement and our painful alimony payments, which THANK GOD finally stopped two years ago, hasn't held a job in 20 years, does not know how to have a conversation that involves an exchange of information, with both talking AND listening, and so has severed every friendship she has ever had, sometimes more than once. And yet Blood Runs Cold feels completely qualified to stand in judgment of everyone around her, up to, including, and especially me, poor old Aunt Pillowhead.
Of course it's easy to resent the ex-wife and mother of your husband's children, especially when she's tall, beautiful, mean, dumb, and doesn't have to work because you do. Some of this is automatically built into the deal, I acknowledge.
But what's really, really hard to live with is her enabling role in Hammerhead and his brother's struggles to adapt to and navigate the challenge of living in two households, each with different rules, expectations, and routines. During my battle with Hammerhead the other night, he locked himself in his room and called her, crying, saying he hated me and hated it here, which is awful enough to know in and of itself. What makes it more awful is the way she encourages and promotes it. I know it must be very, very hard to be the mother who gets the call from the child in tears who begs to be rescued from the house of hell. I really can't imagine how I might have responded to it if I'd had to deal with that dynamic when my own boys were young. BUT, I'm pretty sure I would not have responded with forty-minute phone calls to my ex-husband three days later (ie: today) outlining all of the ways we are mishandling Hammerhead, all of the things we are doing wrong, and all of the things we should do. Because I think that even in a worried, emotional, and angry state, I would know that that's not where you can make a positive, healthy difference for your kids. Even if Perfect Man and I esteemed Blood Runs Cold's opinion about what good communication and parenting involved, even if we thought that her perspective and opinion of what goes on in this house and how it could be improved had merit, and even if we took every action she recommended, we would probably not be able to affect the kind of change Hammerhead really wants and needs. Because what Hammerhead and his brother both really want and need is what we all want and need: to feel clear, powerful, independent, safe, in control, and capable, no matter where we are, no matter what situation we find ourselves in. Hammerhead's bravado is intensified by his feeling that unless he is in his mother's close proximity, he is undefined and unsafe, and his brother experiences this even more acutely--he is nearly seventeen and has profound separation anxiety when he is away from her, to the point of being unable to spend the night with friends and take trips with his elite soccer team when they play out of state. Her choice to create dependence and neediness in her teenage boys may make her feel important, validated, and superior, but it's having the opposite effect on them. And that's frustrating and sad to see.

Cheers!

"I've never really been into champagne."

This is what Hammerhead said to me this morning as I was packing his peanut-butter sandwich and chocolate chip cookies into an empty Cost Plus World Market plastic bag, so he could take them with him to SCHOOL, where he spends his WEEKDAYS, since he is a CHILD in SEVENTH GRADE.

I had to laugh. "Oh really? Not like that single-malt scotch phase you went through back when you were ten?" He got mad. He didn't know what I was talking about, exactly, but he knew I wasn't taking him seriously.

"I mean it!" he said. "I don't get why some people think it's so great."

Really, really useful insight into Hammerhead's psyche, as my darling husband Perfect Man pointed out to me later. This was not misuse of an expression, the kind you might hear from a precocious four-year-old, trying out something he's just learned without realizing its full meaning. Hammerhead truly thinks he is a completely formed adult, and that his wisdom and life experience put him on a par with any other adult on the planet--except, of course, for me, his flawed and doubting stepmother. Me, he's got an edge over.

WWBD?

Okay. Last night was the night that finally got me to do this, start this blog, this constructive, creative outlet, where I can turn my miserable failings as a stepmother into light, fluffy, amusing anecdotes, so we can all laugh together at how RIDICULOUS I am, ha, ha, ha! Because after last night, I realized it's this or perish. And I'm not ready to perish.

What happened was that I had a stupid, stupid battle with my thirteen- year-old stepson, who for the purposes of this blog, will heretofore be known as Hammerhead. Hammerhead is by turns brilliant, arrogant, sweet, insolent, lazy, funny, and absolutely, impossibly stubborn. What was the battle about? Well, that's the good part: Buddha. We fought about Buddha.

That was the subject of his "I Am A Famous Person In History" report. He wanted help with his Buddha costume, an orange robe, and came into my study, wearing it. "Can you help me pin this?" he asked.
"Sure." I said. "So your Buddha's wearing an orange robe? He's an Indian Buddha?"
"I don't know," he said. "Buddha."
"There are lots of Buddhas," I said. "'Buddha' means someone who has become enlightened all on his own. Not a specific person's name."
"Whatever," he said. "It doesn't matter."
"Well, yes it does," I said. "If you want to be accurate. So which Buddha are you?"
"It doesn't matter," he said.
"You know, Hammerhead," I said with itchy irritation, "it seems as though you didn't really do much research on this report."
"Well, that's just your opinion," he said.

That got my hackles up. "I will not help you with your orange robe," I snapped, and things very quickly, very dramatically devolved from there. Before the end of the night, both of us were in tears.

What is this all about?
I would like to be able to say that it's partly about my frustration with the lousy education both Hammerhead and his brother are getting. In the ten years I've known them, I've not seen either of them read more than two books. Hammerhead's brother is 16 and can't write. This is no exaggeration. Last fall, when he asked me to check a report he'd done, it was so full of spelling and grammatical errors, I didn't know where to start. When I tried to explain the difference between possessive and plural, and which one needs an apostrophe, he didn't understand a word I said. And yet, he currently has an A in English. And Hammerhead is sure to get an A on his Buddha report, mostly because of the orange robe. The thing is, neither of their parents care, which should be my cue to also not care. But there's a part of me that thinks because I know the difference, I have an obligation to help them understand it, as though allowing them to turn in badly researched and written work is like letting that poor woman who's accidentally tucked the hem of her dress into the waist of her pantyhose walk out of the restroom and back through the restaurant, baring her unattractive fanny to hundreds of strangers, getting laughed and pointed at, and suffering terrible, terrible humiliation, from which she may never fully recover. How dumb is that? Pretty dumb.

But mostly, the thing with Hammerhead is that he pushes my big red button: Someone telling me that I don't know what I'm talking about, when I do know what I'm talking about. (Okay, even if I don't know what I'm talking about. I just don't like being dismissed.) And Hammerhead, who knows this very well, is a Dismisser Extraordinaire. He has the maddening ability to brush my authority away as though it were a swarm of harmless, annoying gnats, saying things like, "Just leave me alone! I don't care what you think about this! Why don't you mind your own business? Get a life!"

When you're the mom, it's easy. You say, "You may not speak to me that way! And you may not do another thing tonight until you re-write this report so that it is at least factually correct. Get to work." End of conversation.

But when you're the stepmom, it's complicated. You can ask your stepchild to please speak to you with respect, but you can't mandate it. Just like you can drive your stepchild to school, the dentist, the skatepark, you can cook your stepchild dinner, birthday cakes, late-night snacks, you can make sure your stepchild is safe, you can buy his clothes, take his temperature, remove his splinters, but you are not in charge of shaping his character. That is not your job. That's where the line is.

I know this, but I keep forgetting it. So instead of detaching and walking away, I stand there paralyzed, incapable of comprehending the scene before me--as though I were watching a duck do calculus. And as the indignity of it all sinks in, as I stand there unsure of my role, my place, my rights, I begin to feel like a stranger in my own house, one with no arms, no mouth, no legs, no brain. And I am filled with fury, because I hate feeling helpless. And I behave very, very badly.


The nine characteristics of a Buddha are as follows:

1. a worthy one
2. perfectly self-enlightened
3. stays in perfect knowledge
4. well gone
5. unsurpassed knower of the world
6. unsurpassed leader of persons to be tamed
7. teacher of the gods and humans
8. the Enlightened One
9. the Blessed One or fortunate one


I have a long way to go.