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!)