That And Two Dimes

(wince)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your friend,
Aunt Pillowhead

Simple Gifts

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

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

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

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

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

But it can also be really wonderful, eventually.

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

Wow.

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

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

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

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

Bingo!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*It is. "to amble, meander"

Owed To A Blog

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

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

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

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

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

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

We'll see...

The Beat Goes On

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

Hammerhead is now taking drum lessons.

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

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

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

Degrading

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

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

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

Fun & Games

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How I Got My Name

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

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

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

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

Et Tu, Hammerhead?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Such as?"

"Well, you fit in smaller places."

"Uh huh."

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

"Oh, of course. The boobs."

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

OMFG.

Mi Casanova, Tu Casa

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

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

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

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

Oh, and the girls were wearing bikinis.

WTF?

Civil Warring

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

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

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

"You are?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

"What do you mean?" he frowned.

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

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

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

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

"Like what?" he asked.

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

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

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

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

Pause.

"How should I fix it?"

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

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

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

"Okay," I said. "Goodnight."

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

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

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

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

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

I just smiled.

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

*Sort of. I have to note this.

Head of Pillow, Quads of Steel

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

Do you know who this is? No?

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

I shit you not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can't wait to do it again.

Sparring With Jeep Boy

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

Jeep Boy is a new man. Literally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Found your shoes?" I asked.

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

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

Cold Feet, Clean Floor, Warm Heart

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

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

Here's what happened:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home Is Where The Heart Is

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bottle Message: Update

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

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

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

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

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

And that was that.

Ominbus

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

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

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

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

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

Confusion Falls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

______

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

Examples:

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

What I Love About Children

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

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

And my Little loved it, just loved it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Isn't it beautiful?" Mom said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soccer Tort

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hmm," Perfect Man said.

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

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

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

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

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

Little Olga and the Towel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buddha Redux

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Time To Get Over Ourselves

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

Hey, Stepmothers,

Can we talk?

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

Stepmothers, it's time to get over ourselves.

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

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

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

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

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

Tell you what. I'll go first:

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

Don't Make It Bad

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

Here’s something fun to imagine:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hitting the Tree

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Were You Eating Under There?

2007-08-21T17:09:00.000-07:00

New underwear. Don't you just love it? When you wear it, all day long you have this feeling that down to the last detail, you are just the right amount of snazzy.

Anyway, today I was out shopping for shoes for a wedding we're going to this weekend, and I remembered that Hammerhead's low on underwear, so I picked up three packs of his favorite: cotton knit boxer briefs.

He is so happy. It was so easy.

Bend It Like Beckham

2007-08-17T20:37:00.001-07:00

Two weeks ago, Jeep Boy was out with his friends. He called here, at about 10:00, and asked Perfect Man if he could get his ear pierced.

As I said, it was ten (pm), so Perfect Man had been asleep for well over two hours. (He falls over like a redwood at 7:30, give or take five minutes.) And being awakened from a deep sleep by his son with such an unexpected request made him a little cranky.

"NO!" he yelled into the phone, and then "hung it back up" by putting the receiver upside down on his stomach. Then he fell back asleep.

The next morning, when Jeep Boy demanded an explanation for the denial, Perfect Man told him that he was against piercings of ears and other bodily mutilations, and besides that, such a move would require the approval of both parents, and would not be something he could just do on a whim like that.

So two nights ago, (the boys were at her house at the time) Blood Runs Cold called Perfect Man and complained that Jeep Boy had gone out and gotten his ear pierced without her permission, and that when she confronted him, he said that his father had said he could. Perfect Man explained the gaps in truth and accuracy. Now not only was she angry with Jeep Boy, Perfect Man was also angry with Jeep Boy.

I don't think an ear piercing is a big deal, myself. I also think the attitude about it from both parents is a little sexist: if Jeep Boy were a girl, I think he'd have both ears pierced by now, and what's the difference? However, I DO think lying is a big deal, and deceitful manipulation is a big deal, and when shit like this goes down, there's this weird thing that Blood Runs Cold does that I don't understand at all: she gets behind the action. She has an "Oh well. It's done. Let's forget all the trouble and have a little party!" attitude that I honestly don't understand.

Jeep Boy did something he didn't have permission to do. When confronted by his mother, he lied and said his father gave him permission. That's not okay. Shouldn't there be a consequence when a young man who has just started driving, who will be traveling down a long road with many possible wrong turns ahead, defies and lies? Yes, there should. And apparently, Blood Runs Cold thinks so, too, and she handed him one: When Jeep Boy came back to our house yesterday, there was a 1/2 carat diamond flashing in his swollen, punctured lobe. "Is that real?" I asked him. "Yeah," he said, smiling. "My mom gave it to me."

What Keeps Me Young

2007-08-09T07:30:00.000-07:00

This craigslist posting made my day today:
________

Fat lazy bastard selling awesome smith machine - $750

I have a huge 7' tall 6'wide 4' deep olympic cage machine with pullup station butterfly pull up and down type things that ripped my @#%*ing rotator cuff 2 years ago and matching adjustable bench w/leg lift and alot of weights and other %$#& you can really hurt yourself on it's approx. 10 years old I bought it from another fat lazy bastard 4 years ago it's huge so you can hang alot of clothes and stuff on it after you hurt yourself too i have for 2 years or so put up with this monster taking up space i definitely need thinking about a large buffet table or beer brewing outfit to get me in shape the shape i have chosen is round so please hurry $ 750 for all obo

The Highest Form of Flattery

2007-08-03T20:55:00.001-07:00

Okay, here's a good one:

I'm driving Hammerhead and three of his buddies who have spent the night to the skate park.

It's been an awesome 24 hours. Cheerful, funny friends have established an atmosphere of high energy and appreciation in our home. Fresh blood in the house brings out the best in me, and I am having a grand old time. With the four boys in the car, on a safe and low-traffic side road, I even drive crazy for a few minutes. "Whoa!" the boys all laugh. "Ow!" one of them says, "I bonked my head!"

"Yeah?" Hammerhead asks. "Does your face hurt?"

"No" the friend answers.

"Well, it's killing me*! he says. All boys erupt into laughter.

"Huh," I think to myself, but say not a word.

Seconds later, we pass an odd, enormous sculpture of an anchor which was erected in the park near our house four years ago.

"Dudes," Hammerhead says, "Check out the funky-ass anchor.**"

"Weird!" they all say.

"Huh," I think again. "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle..."
__________

* One of Aunt Pillowhead's favorite jokes, best used when someone (Hammerhead) has just complained of an ache, pain, or any other kind of general discomfort in the cranial area. This pointed yet irresistibly winsome rejoinder has never once elicited even a smile from my long-suffering stepson, who instead consistently complains of its "unfunniness," terming it "the worst of all of [your] horrible jokes."

** Whenever Aunt Pillowhead drives by this odd, artistic non-sequitor (daily), she expresses her confusion over the city's decision to mark an arid, waterless flatland with a huge anchor by saying, "Check out the funky-ass anchor." Which invariably causes Hammerhead to slap his own face with frustration and ask me why I have to say that "every single time we pass the stupid thing."

What I Don't Know

2007-07-29T16:55:00.001-07:00

I swam competitively in high school.
My coach, whose intense dislike of me was matched only by my intense dislike of the sport, consistently entered me in the three events that least depended on ability--including, and most tortuously, the 500 free. I was a slow, apologetic swimmer, and the 500 free was a throwaway event that no one invested any interest in or athletes in. There were never more than three swimmers entered in the 500--the star swimmers were saved for the shorter sprints, where their performances made a notable difference--so even when I came in last, I still earned a point for the team. (3 points for first place, 2 for second, and 1 for third.) And how much could that one point matter?

I really can't tell you how much I hated swimming. It gave me nightmares. And then one day, one of those nightmares came true: after a season-end meet, which we lost by one point, and in which I placed third in the 500 free, a hateful and ignorant teammate, a twin who oozed inhumanity (imagine Anne Coulter as a 17 year-old) screamed at me on the bus all the way back to our school. I'll never forget it: "We LOST because of you. You're LAZY, you're NO GOOD, you DON'T EVEN TRY!!! If you had gone just a little faster, you would have come in SECOND, and we would have at least TIED, but you won't go fast, will you? It's not because you CAN'T, it's because you WON'T. You're LAZY and you don't CARE ABOUT YOUR TEAM and YOU DON'T EVEN TRY!!! You're never even TIRED after you swim, ARE YOU???? ARE YOU???"

After I graduated from high school, I vowed that unless my life depended on it, I would never, ever, ever, ever, ever swim more than 25 yards in one day again in my life.

I kept that vow until three years ago, when I was talked into the Danskin triathlon by some co-workers.

Long story short, I've been swimming ever since--1.5 miles three days a week. And here's the weird part: I love it. Turns out the experience is a lot different when you don't hate the people who make you do it, or feel ashamed by what you're not capable of contributing.

Anyway, last Wednesday, this young woman who'd been swimming in the lane next to me came up to me in the dressing room afterwards and said, "You're a really strong swimmer!" And it wasn't one of those qualified compliments, either, you know--the "for your age" or "considering you're missing a limb" or "compared to a brain-damaged cormorant" kind of thing. The reason I know this is because, somewhat miraculously, in the last three years, I actually have become a pretty strong swimmer. I know my stroke is efficient, I know my flip turns are quiet and quick, I know my arms have gotten strong, and I know--weirdly--my speed increases exponentially after the first 40 lengths. But still, when an almost-half-my-age woman complimented me this way, it made me feel great, really great. And that's why, two days later, when a super-fit, super-fast woman about my age was swimming in the lane next to me and literally going twice my speed, I was not as discouraged as I might have been otherwise. And after our swim, when we were both in the shower, I wanted to share my admiration for her. You know, what made me feel great would probably make her feel great, too, so why not Play It Forward? I was a little intimidated, though. She looked like a professional triathlete and had a serious, closed, expression on her face. And I tend to think that women who are so fit, so capable, and so serious like this don't need gushy compliments from relatively slow and apologetic swimmers like me.

But still. Sometimes a gushy compliment can make someone's day. And if you can make someone's day, you should make someone's day, right? So I went for it. While I was shampooing, I turned to her and told her that I was amazed by her speed and that it was inspiring to swim next to her, and I asked her if she was a triathete. She smiled a reluctant, tight smile and told me she had been before her daughter was born, but didn't race any more.

I pushed on. How old is your daughter? Four, she said, offering no enthusiasm or energy. What a fun age, I said.

She looked up at me. Do you have children? she asked. I do, I said, but they're grown. I have a 28 year old and a 24 year old son, and my oldest is married, so I've got a daughter-in-law, too. And I have two stepsons who are 16 and 13.

I have a 16 year old stepson, too, she said.

Now we were getting somewhere! Here's what we had in common! We could share stories about 16 year-old stepsons, about driver's licenses and girls and teenage malaise.

Oh, I said, hoping to break into her closed psyche somehow, to make her laugh, make her connect with me. How often is he with you?

He's not, she said. Not at all. Not anymore. My husband--his father--died. I'm a widow. So my stepson is not with me at all any more.

And it took my breath away.

I told her I was so sorry, of course. I told her how sad that must be, and how I couldn't imagine what her loss must be like, and she looked at me evenly and said, You're right. You can't. You can't imagine what it is like until it happens to you. I used to think I knew what this meant. And I try to focus on what I have, she said. I try to be grateful. But life throws some awful shit at you sometimes.

And I didn't know what else to say. So we stood there next to each other for a few more minutes in silence, this woman with her perfect body and perfect stroke, consumed with her perfect sadness, and me.

The Bust & The Butt

2007-07-23T16:33:00.001-07:00

Two very interesting things happened today.

1. Jeep Boy got busted by Perfect Man, and

2. Hammerhead asked me to look at his butt.

1. Jeep Boy Got Busted by Perfect Man

Jeep Boy got his driver's license last week. In the state where we live, there is a law that newly-licensed teenagers cannot drive with peers in the car for six months after they get their licenses. The only passengers allowed in the car with a newly-licensed teen are family members. Needless to say, this law, and the consequences of breaking it (which include up to a fifty dollar fine, 8-24 hours of community service, possible revoking of license, and a commensurate increase in insurance costs) have been discussed at length in our home.

Well, due to a confluence of unexpected events, right after Jeep Boy left for work this morning, Perfect Man, instead of I, drove Hammerhead to his skate camp. And en route to the skate park, Perfect Man spied two of Jeep Boy's buddies with their lunch boxes and cell phones, standing on the street around the corner from our house, obviously waiting to be picked up and given an illegal but fun ride to work. Perhaps their wires crossed and Jeep Boy was looking for them on the wrong corner--who knows? In any case, Perfect Man got to them first. You see, Jeep Boy had just recommended these two friends to his boss, they'd both been hired, and this was their first day. When they saw Perfect Man, they looked very surprised and very afraid. As well they should have! Perfect Man called Jeep Boy on his cell phone, told him to come right home, and took away car privileges for an undetermined length of time.

Oh, I am so glad it was Perfect Man who caught the miscreants and not me. It is so much better to be the silent observer in this situation.

Poor Perfect Man. Yesterday was his birthday and today his present is this: You Have A 16 Year Old Son!!!!

I have been holed up for the most of the day, keeping a low profile. And not half an hour ago,

2. Hammerhead Asked Me To Look At His Butt

"Would you please look at my butt?" he said, coming in my office covered with grime and sweat.

"Well," I said. "I would love to."

He pulled down his pants and showed me a very red right butt cheek marked by a very red straight line, where he landed on the end of his board when it got stuck in the coping, standing upright, during a failed jump.

"Ouch," I said.

Which satisfied him completely.

Short Clips

2007-07-17T15:18:00.001-07:00

This is a picture from "Slovenly Peter," a book that captivated and horrified me when I was a little girl. I read it with one eye closed.

Its subtitle is something like "Cheerful Stories to Make Good Little Boys and Girls Laugh," which is a cruel distortion of what it actually is, and what it actually made good little boys and girls do.

This picture is from a story called "Little Suck-a-Thumb," who is taught a lesson when his mother goes out and warns him not to suck his thumb while she's gone, or this guy with big scissors would come and chop them off. He doesn't listen, she leaves, and he sucks his thumb.

And then, the guy with the big scissors comes in and chops off his thumbs, just like she told him he would, moving with such eager purpose he's lost his hat in the rush to mutilate the poor kid. (Check out the blood dripping on the floor--that was the part that really got me.)

I hadn't thought about this book for a long, long, time, until this weekend when I had to trim the nails of my beloved, 110-lb, two-year old chocolate lab, Not A Mean Bone In His Body.

At first we were doing great. I'd give him a piece of chicken every time he let me take his paw and clip a nail. He looked at me with the combination of pure trust, pure gratitude, and pure adoration that has led me to love him so much it's embarrassing. And then, I got to the "little toe" and he jerked a bit and I snipped too close. And it bled, and bled, and bled. I almost passed out.

He didn't yelp, didn't seem to even mind much, except ten minutes later when I wrapped it in cotton and put a sock on his foot, taping it around his leg to keep it secure and keep him from tracking blood all over the house. That he didn't like, and he walked around like an angry, humiliated canine Charlie Chaplin. I felt so ashamed I couldn't look him in the eye for about an hour. How could I have injured a helpless, sweet creature who depends on me to be kind and keep him safe?

How the heck did this happen? I grew up and became not one, but two monsters I feared as a child! Wicked Stepmother. Guy With Scissors. What's next?

I'm OK, You're OK

2007-07-09T17:21:00.001-07:00

Last month, Perfect Man and I visited my brother, his wife, and their three boys: Cutie #1, Cutie #2, and Cutie #3. The three Cuties are adorable--smart, funny, and extremely entertainable. (Aunt Pillowhead is a big hit with the seven-and-under crowd.)

And while we were there, this thing happened with Cutie #2 that I haven't been able to stop thinking about. Cutie #2 is four, and his six-year-old brother, Cutie #1, was showing me his class picture from kindergarten and "introducing" me to all of his friends. Cutie #2 didn't have a class picture, but he goes to pre-school and has classmates he wanted me to "meet" as well, so he ran off and then came back with a wooden alphabet puzzle. He took all the letters that started the name of someone in his class out of the puzzle and arranged them in a group on the floor to "introduce" me to everyone. Letter by letter, he'd pick them up and say, "This is Amelia," or Ann, Adam, Brandon, Cory, etc. I was just mesmerized with his thought process--he was so consumed with the details of his solution, and so careful to get everyone right. When he got to K, he told me it was Kevin, who is a bully who spits on him sometimes. I took the K from him and said to it, very earnestly, "Kevin, you may not spit on my sweet nephew. Promise me you will never do that again." Cutie #2's eyes lit up and he said, "He says he will still spit on me sometimes!" so I said, "Well, I'm sorry, but that won't do." And I took Cutie #2's hand, and we walked outside with the K, and we put it in a corner of the garden. And, firmly but not unkindly, I said to the K, "Kevin, you will just have to sit out here by yourself until you can promise to be civil and respectful to my darling nephew." Cutie #2 was in hysterics by then, jumping up and down and laughing and saying, "I don't think he's paying attention to you!" And I said, "Well, let's just give him some time to think about his actions and be by himself." We went back inside and I told Cutie #2 that he could decide when he wanted to bring Kevin back in the house--if he wanted to make him stay out there all night, he could. If he wanted to try to go talk some sense into him in an hour or so, he could do that, too. It was up to him. Cutie #2 said he was going to make Kevin sit out there in the freezing night all night long to teach him a lesson. I told him that was fine with me.

After dinner, Cutie #2 suddenly announced that he had to go outside and bring Kevin back in before it got too cold, that he had been out there long enough. He went and got the K and then carefully put it back in the puzzle with all the other letters, and then he put the puzzle away. I read him and his cute brothers a story, and they all went to bed.

So what I'm wondering is: why can't we all be as pure and kind and ingenious as four-year-olds?

The Scream

2007-06-27T12:48:00.001-07:00

Oh.

my.

god.

Hammerhead's brother got his first car two nights ago. For now, let's just set aside the way I struggle when I compare my stepsons' abundant possessions with the scraps and bits I was able to provide my own boys when they were teenagers. That's as old an issue around here as the poisonous bile that sticks in my throat whenever I spend too much time thinking about Blood Runs Cold.

Also, let's not even talk about the difference between having been raised a (Whatever It Is You Want, You Don't Deserve It And Shame On You For Even Thinking You Did) Catholic, like I was, compared with a (Of Course You Should Have That Beautiful Thing That You Already Have Four Of At Home! You Are Worth So Much More Than Even That!) Jew like Perfect Man.
But, tedious as they are, both of those pre-existing factors bear mention, because, like fleas on an old yellow farm dog, they are always there. And they bite and their bites itch like a mo' fo,' and that can influence behavior.

So Hammerhead's brother got a car, with gift money from Perfect Man's parents he's been saving for ten years, plus money he's saved from his summer jobs this year and last, plus money Perfect Man and I (but not Blood Runs Cold, because she "can't afford it") have chipped in. And it's a nicer car than I would have ever been able to help either of my kids buy, if I had ever helped my kids buy a car. And I'm a little conflicted about it.

BUT, for now, let's just talk about last night, when Hammerhead's brother--who shall from this point forward be known as Jeep Boy--was driving us all out to dinner in this new, 1999 blue Jeep. He was bursting with excitement and wonder at the view through the windshield, the new horizon of manhood that now lay before him, and exhilarated to be seen behind the wheel of that fine car. This was the way he's has wanted to be seen for so long: an independent, capable, completely grown adult. A child no more. And it was all actually happening.

Maybe that's what distracted him from using his goddamn brain, causing him to nearly kill all four of us.

Well, that's an exaggeration. Aunt Pillowhead has been known to exaggerate once or twice. What actually happened was this: Jeep Boy was driving west on a two-lane, east/west street. The taqueria that was our destination was on the south side of the street. We were on the north side. Jeep Boy spotted an open parking spot on the south side of the street, and began turning the Jeep into it. And by "turning the Jeep into it" I mean crossing the street into oncoming traffic and attempting to parallel park, with the car facing the opposite direction of every other car that was parked on that side of the road.

At first, I thought Jeep Boy was trying to pull a U turn, but as soon as I realized that he had every intention of continuing his westerly-facing direction, and that he intended to parallel park the Jeep this way, facing the west on an eastbound street, and as soon as I saw the line of cars coming at us head on as we sat there like four fat flightless birds strapped in a big blue boat, I asked him this question:

"JEEP BOY! WHAT THE FUCK???!!!" in a loud, high-pitched tone of voice.

I don't know what was going on with Perfect Man, who was sitting speechless in the front passenger seat. I think both he and Hammerhead had been stunned into silence by shared wonderment--it was as though Jeep Boy had been abducted by aliens and replaced with a defective look-alike--a blind, stupid one who couldn't drive worth a shit--and they couldn't believe their eyes.

"What?" Jeep Boy asked, whipping around to look at me, totally terrified.

Finally, Perfect Man came to. "This isn't a one-way street, Jeep Boy," he said with inexplicable calm.

"I know!" Jeep Boy said.

"You can't park facing this direction on this side of the street," Perfect Man said.

"Why not?" Jeep Boy asked, shaken and confused.

"BECAUSE IT'S AGAINST THE LAW!!!" I screamed from the back seat.

Perfect Man looked at me with a meaningful expression. The meaning it was full of was 'screaming things from the back seat is not helpful.'

The cars that faced us were gathering in number, blocked from their passage and stopped in the middle of the street, yet no one was honking. I personally think this is because they were enjoying themselves so much. All the drivers were thinking, "Holy Moly! This is frickin' awesome! I never get to see anything this frickin' bizarre!"

Ten minutes later, after we'd gotten out of that situation, and after Perfect Man had gotten Jeep Boy's coloring back to a healthy, peachy pink by telling him a "funny" story about how I'd screamed the exact same thing to my youngest son Hilarious & Gifted eight years ago, when Perfect Man was teaching him how to drive a standard and he went right through a red light, Jeep Boy smiled sheepishly.

"I honestly didn't know you couldn't park like that," he said. "I really didn't."

Oh, my god. There are so many, many things he doesn't know about driving a car, let alone life. How will he stay safe and well in the process of finding out? How did any of us?

Is This A Good Time?

2007-06-19T21:57:00.001-07:00

Poor Hammerhead. He got his braces today.

I picked him up from the orthodontist and he was sweetly subdued, effortfully cheerful, trying to be brave.

I realized as we were driving home that three years ago, I'd picked his brother up from the same orthodontist when he got his braces, too, and he'd had the same stunned and plaintive demeanor. He was starving, and I made the mistake of taking him to a deli and buying him plain slices of turkey and cheese. I thought it would be soft enough for him to manage, but he couldn't chew them, and he got sad and frustrated, teary-eyed and silent.

Hammerhead was also starving today, so I took him straight to his favorite smoothie place and got him his favorite smoothie. He thanked me and sipped it on the way home, alternating his comments of how good it tasted with comments of appreciation for the "free" electric toothbrush his orthodontist had presented him.

Inspired by the abundant good will in the car, I decided to take it to the next level. In my opinion, nothing eases physical discomfort better than humor, so to distract Hammerhead from his pain, I asked him if he knew when a good time to go to the dentist was. He said, "No."

"Two-thirty," I said. "Get it? Tooth hurty?"

"Aunt Pillowhead," he groaned. "I'm not in the mood."

"Hammerhead," I said. "You're never in the mood for my hilarious jokes. And that is hard to live with."

"Your jokes are never hilarious," he said. "That's hard to live with, too. And oh my GOD! My mouth hurts so much! I just wish I would go into a coma for a week!"

"What a coincidence!" I said. "I also just wish you would go into a coma for a week!"

Hammerhead laughed in spite of himself.

What a funny thing, to be present and depended upon in such little landmark events in these boys' lives. And what an education I am getting. Along with learning what is best to feed stepsons whose mouths have recently been bound with steel, I think I'm also learning to not want more than what is there, to do my best with the little patch of land I have. Like those lovingly tended, tiny little gardens you sometimes see in front of barren, humble homes, or flowers that find a way to grow in the cracks of sidewalks--the point is not to wish for more beauty, but to create it where you can, even when you thought there was no room, or that it wouldn't make a difference.

Like buying smoothies and telling bad jokes on a ride home from the orthodontist, for example. For some reason, I think I'll remember it for a long time. I wonder if Hammerhead will, too.

Dinner Time!

2007-06-06T06:22:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about dinner at our house.

It's a complicated affair, which too often does not result in anything Norman Rockwell-like. To wit:

Hammerhead: Loves anything that used to have a mother. Hates cheese. Loves potatoes, will eat broccoli, otherwise hates vegetables, especially the reviled tomato. Is very annoyed by his brother.
Hammerhead's brother: Loves cheese. Enjoys meat without skin or bones, cooked medium well. Hates anything that grew in the ground. Will not touch anything green, or anything that has touched anything green, or anything that has seeds or nuts or other suspicious texture in it. Is very annoyed by Hammerhead.
Aunt Pillowhead: Loves everything, but is a vegetarian. At dinnertime, often experiences an end-of-day urge to teach Hammerhead and his brother a thing or two about life.
Perfect Man: Adventurous eater and culinary grad, perfectionist and unfailing optimist who clings to the stubborn belief that if he cooks four separate delicious meals for us, his most beloved in the world, we will sit down together and have happy dinnertime harmony. (Lovingly prepared meal=domestic bliss.)

But the problem is, by the time he's shopped (fresh for every meal), chopped, cooked and served these four separate dinners, he is exhausted, cranky, and disappointed, either by the way something didn't turn out, or by someone's bad attitude. Or because he's called us to the table four times and we haven't come until the fifth time, because of skateboarding (Hammerhead), ESPN (Hammerhead's brother), or the mind-lubricating, limb-slowing combination of a glass of red wine and internet Scrabble (yours truly).

Aunt Pillowhead! you think. Why don't you cook dinner every now and again, and help out the poor guy? After all, he IS perfect. Doesn't he deserve a break?

I have tried this, but it doesn't work. Perfect Man is adamant that dinnertime is his territory, his contribution, his ritual. He doesn't even want help prepping, but for the occasional washing of the greens, because people get in the way.

And so he does it his way, which does work pretty well sometimes. But too often, we sit with a beautiful dinner, teens who quibble, a damn-it-I-need-to-be-heard!-stepmother, and a sad, quiet dad.

Something needs to be done. Is it family meeting time?

Pasta and Dissent

2007-05-29T19:45:00.001-07:00

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!

2007-05-25T19:17:00.001-07:00

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

2007-05-23T17:33:00.001-07:00

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

2007-05-16T17:47:00.000-07:00

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!"

2007-05-14T18:43:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-05-05T11:53:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-04T08:00:00.000-07:00

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

2007-05-03T17:26:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-05-02T10:21:00.000-07:00

"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?

2007-05-01T11:20:00.000-07:00

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.