Bingo!

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!)