In the last few weeks, I've noticed that quite a few of my Facebook friends have changed their relationship status to "It's complicated." I want to preface the following soapbox speech by pointing out that I love and respect all of those friends and I do not intend to insult you with my witty comments. So if you find yourself getting insulted, buck up and think long and hard before you send me hate emails.
That said, what the hell is wrong with you gals?! (And yes, of course, it's mostly gals who wear their hearts on their profiles.)
Here's the thing...I've had LOTS of those "it's complicated" relationships. More than I care to admit, actually. But when all is said and done, I think it's a whole lot of camel spit, maybe because of my many egregious dating sins. When I think back on those halfhearted love affairs, there are only a handful of personality types that have caused me grief - and let's not neglect to take responsibility for our own flaws, too.
The Pushover: He would do anything for you, but you just can't find it in you to respect him. It's awfully hard to dump someone who's so nice.
The Egomaniac: You would do anything for him, but he just can't find it in him (or see beyond his own face in the mirror) to respect you. It's awfully hard to let go of someone who treats you like dirt.
The Liar: You're waiting with baited breath for him to redeem himself OR you tell yourself it wasn't that big of a tall tale.
The Cheater: He likes girls...and girls...and girls. Where do we even begin here?!
The Secret Homosexual: He tells you he likes girls...hell, he probably believes he likes girls. But guess what? He likes your short hair for more than one reason.
What it seems to boil down to more often than not is our fear of being alone or of losing all that time we might have wasted with someone who wasn't really in it for the long haul. That's valid. But here's what I think.
There's no such thing as a complicated relationship. You either love him or you don't. You either trust him or you don't. You either respect him or...you get the picture. And all the same must go for him, too. There is no in-between when it comes down to brass tacks, ladies. These simple statements are core reflections of who the two of you are as a couple, and if you're missing one or more of the essential relationship components, you might as well move on. Because if you think you're going to regret wasting time when you dump him next week, you're really going to regret it in a year...or a decade.
There is, of course, such a thing as relationships with complications. Emotions are complicated. I don't always ::GASP:: adore my husband. Today I had a camera shoved down my throat by a trigger-happy doctor, I had a wicked allergy attack when I got home, and my sunburned knee still doesn't move right...and yet hubby thought it was okay to take his kid to a demolition derby without me. Sure, he asked me if I was alright with it at first and, like the kind and loving wife that I am (read: manipulative and fickle), I said it was perfectly fine. And as soon as he left, I moped around the house thinking how much it sucked to take care of myself.
But at the end of the day, complicated emotions work themselves out. There should never be the threat hanging over your head of losing the relationship because of a disagreement or pouty moment. And when I think of all those "it's complicated" moments in my own life, I don't recall one of them in which I was confident that no matter what, it would all be fine in the end. Even as a happily married woman, I can't always be sure that everything will turn out alright - there's no reason at all that my relationship is more likely to succeed than a decent cohabitation. The difference is that at every turn, I know we have those three critical elements of a good relationship and that if ever one of them disappears, we will mutually agree to go our separate ways. There is no threat looming at the end of every argument, but rather the comfort of knowing that we will do our best to keep things moving along in an orderly fashion.
Wake up and smell the coffee - you don't need "complicated" in your life! And if he insists you can't survive without it (i.e., him), then get the hell out of Dodge and find yourself a real cowboy.
*The preceding opinion applies equally well to men in "complicated" relationships. No need to be sexist here.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
At Home in America
Someone planted a flag in the middle of Malaga Lake. I don't know how long it's been there (it was living here before I was), but I'll bet if you measured it from each side of the lake, you'd find that it was smack dab in the middle. That just seems like the thing to do. If you're going to put a flag in the lake, might as well do it right.
It's a little past the dam where the water runs down into a concrete bowl and bubbles out the other side of the bridge into a shrinking forest on route 40. I see it all every day on my way home from work.
For awhile I wondered why someone would put a flag in a lake. I suppose it's one way of being patriotic...then again, does drowning the Stars & Stripes count as patriotism? Maybe it was some fisherman's idea of declaring his Americanism to the world (or at least to Franklin Twp). Or maybe one of the homeowners that lives along the lakeshore wanted a good way to predict a flood and couldn't find a long stick ("When the water gets up to the first red stripe, it's time to evacuate, Ethel.")
I'm not really sure.
It used to bother me that it was there. I don't particularly like the American flag. I know how dreadfully un-patriotic that sounds but I actually mean it to be quite the opposite. From the time I was old enough to recognize political showmanship, I recall seeing people wave that flag like it meant the world couldn't stop them. Don't get me wrong - that sense of self-efficacy and power could be a good thing. But I suppose I've only ever really noticed the bad sides. The flag seems always to be hanging in the background when people claim democracy as the only true method of governance, or when they're pushing citizens over the border into Mexico because they have brown skin and accents. In truth, the flag is one reason I'm glad that my half-Puerto Rican husband doesn't look Hispanic - at least I can be sure he'll never have to face the discrimination the flag is often used to justify.
Yes, my feelings about Old Glory are complex.
When we moved here and I saw the flag in Malaga Lake, I wondered if this was the neighborhood for me. I'm always a bit leery of communities where the flag-waving sentiment seems especially strong. I worry that they'll come for me next, especially once they realize I was the one who took the Sawzall to the tall, white, self-constructed flagpole that used to stand in our front yard.
On the other hand, every day when I drive down route 40 and past the lake, I find myself searching for the flag. Sometimes it stands out like a giant among Lilliputians; other times it blends into the lake so well you wouldn't even notice it. One day I didn't see it at all and I found myself wondering in a semi-panicked way what happened to it. Did someone take it out and if so, why? Did it finally sink into the muddy abyss of the cedar water? The lake didn't seem unreasonably high, so it couldn't have drowned completely...
Then I saw it, hanging limp in the middle of the water, no breeze to blow it out and make it wave at the rush-hour traffic. I actually found myself breathing a sigh of relief...and then I wondered why it would have bothered me so much if the flag had permanently gone missing.
I don't have any real answer to that, other than to say I have a like-dislike relationship with the American flag (love-hate is far too strong a phrase in either direction). When I think about its storied birth at the hands of a local seamstress (still unsubstantiated by historians, of course), I'm reminded of how much I loved geography and history in elementary school, especially when we got to visit Philadelphia and march the cobblestone streets arm in arm. It seems to me that all old buildings should have a flag draped in the window or hanging over the front stoop.
But when I think about how often it's been waved as a harbinger of war and hate, I cringe. And when I see it plastered on someone's bumper, I find myself believing that whoever is driving that vehicle must be a conservative nut who approves of the U.S.A.'s short-sighted and narrow-minded foreign policies. I know my assumptions aren't always true, but still, there is this gut reaction that I can't seem to shake...
So then why did I panic when I thought the flag was gone forever from the lake? I think it's because it has grown to be a fixture in my life, a welcome sign that tells me I'm only minutes from home. It's probably also because I want very much to like the sight of the Stars and Stripes, to pledge allegiance to it as every student in America must do on a daily basis.
But in fact, I can't or won't. I resist because I don't like to be bullied into things and all too often, I think the flag has been used to bully us into action (or at least into a declaration of intended action). That is not the America I want to know or take part in, although it looks as though I have no choice.
So until I feel free of the undue pressure to conform to this "national" standard, I wonder if I will ever actually be at home in America.
It's a little past the dam where the water runs down into a concrete bowl and bubbles out the other side of the bridge into a shrinking forest on route 40. I see it all every day on my way home from work.
For awhile I wondered why someone would put a flag in a lake. I suppose it's one way of being patriotic...then again, does drowning the Stars & Stripes count as patriotism? Maybe it was some fisherman's idea of declaring his Americanism to the world (or at least to Franklin Twp). Or maybe one of the homeowners that lives along the lakeshore wanted a good way to predict a flood and couldn't find a long stick ("When the water gets up to the first red stripe, it's time to evacuate, Ethel.")
I'm not really sure.
It used to bother me that it was there. I don't particularly like the American flag. I know how dreadfully un-patriotic that sounds but I actually mean it to be quite the opposite. From the time I was old enough to recognize political showmanship, I recall seeing people wave that flag like it meant the world couldn't stop them. Don't get me wrong - that sense of self-efficacy and power could be a good thing. But I suppose I've only ever really noticed the bad sides. The flag seems always to be hanging in the background when people claim democracy as the only true method of governance, or when they're pushing citizens over the border into Mexico because they have brown skin and accents. In truth, the flag is one reason I'm glad that my half-Puerto Rican husband doesn't look Hispanic - at least I can be sure he'll never have to face the discrimination the flag is often used to justify.
Yes, my feelings about Old Glory are complex.
When we moved here and I saw the flag in Malaga Lake, I wondered if this was the neighborhood for me. I'm always a bit leery of communities where the flag-waving sentiment seems especially strong. I worry that they'll come for me next, especially once they realize I was the one who took the Sawzall to the tall, white, self-constructed flagpole that used to stand in our front yard.
On the other hand, every day when I drive down route 40 and past the lake, I find myself searching for the flag. Sometimes it stands out like a giant among Lilliputians; other times it blends into the lake so well you wouldn't even notice it. One day I didn't see it at all and I found myself wondering in a semi-panicked way what happened to it. Did someone take it out and if so, why? Did it finally sink into the muddy abyss of the cedar water? The lake didn't seem unreasonably high, so it couldn't have drowned completely...
Then I saw it, hanging limp in the middle of the water, no breeze to blow it out and make it wave at the rush-hour traffic. I actually found myself breathing a sigh of relief...and then I wondered why it would have bothered me so much if the flag had permanently gone missing.
I don't have any real answer to that, other than to say I have a like-dislike relationship with the American flag (love-hate is far too strong a phrase in either direction). When I think about its storied birth at the hands of a local seamstress (still unsubstantiated by historians, of course), I'm reminded of how much I loved geography and history in elementary school, especially when we got to visit Philadelphia and march the cobblestone streets arm in arm. It seems to me that all old buildings should have a flag draped in the window or hanging over the front stoop.
But when I think about how often it's been waved as a harbinger of war and hate, I cringe. And when I see it plastered on someone's bumper, I find myself believing that whoever is driving that vehicle must be a conservative nut who approves of the U.S.A.'s short-sighted and narrow-minded foreign policies. I know my assumptions aren't always true, but still, there is this gut reaction that I can't seem to shake...
So then why did I panic when I thought the flag was gone forever from the lake? I think it's because it has grown to be a fixture in my life, a welcome sign that tells me I'm only minutes from home. It's probably also because I want very much to like the sight of the Stars and Stripes, to pledge allegiance to it as every student in America must do on a daily basis.
But in fact, I can't or won't. I resist because I don't like to be bullied into things and all too often, I think the flag has been used to bully us into action (or at least into a declaration of intended action). That is not the America I want to know or take part in, although it looks as though I have no choice.
So until I feel free of the undue pressure to conform to this "national" standard, I wonder if I will ever actually be at home in America.
Friday, June 25, 2010
A Lightning Strike
you know before she gets to you
that she is coming
fury winding itself up, her breath
the wind
pulling and pushing
she pounds her fists into your back
leaving cracks
paper-thin and skin-deep
along your spine
and you know you should turn and run
away from this storm
but instead
you pull closer into her center
you think
this is it
the hurricane, the flood
that will trap you
in the mud building castles
up around your knees
this is the moment you
don't want to live
you pull your shoulders up
hold steady
plant yourself still deeper in
and wait for the scream
that doesn't come with her
the light is blinding but
blinks out faster than it struck
and when all is said and done
you are nothing more
than air
--------------------
I haven't written creatively in such a long time, I fear I'm a little rusty. But the other day I was driving home from work and felt compelled to draw a metaphor that I'll leave to your interpretation. I often think I'm a much better narrative / creative nonfiction writer than anything else, but I suppose it doesn't hurt to experiment. At the very least, writing poetry and flash fiction (before it WAS flash fiction) are the strongest roots of my creativity.
Do you know how I learned I was a writer? Besides all the used-up notebooks and worn-down pencils, I mean. It was all the times that I was inspired by something mundane in such a way as to become almost completely distracted by it. As I get older, these moments are much more infrequent, but I still have them occasionally.
What I enjoy the most about writing is both the urgency and the patience in it. What I mean to say is that when inspiration strikes, it builds in my brain as language, words that kind of sway almost so that I can see them in front of me. There is this need to write them down but I know whatever is coming won't be right until I leave them be for awhile. It often starts slowly, a few lines that usually mean the start of something new; within days, the few lines build into deeper concepts that eventually take on a life of their own. By that time, I've thought so often about these words that I've memorized them in a particular order almost unconsciously created. Then, and only then, does writing come easy.
It's an amazing process.
you know before she gets to you
that she is coming
fury winding itself up, her breath
the wind
pulling and pushing
she pounds her fists into your back
leaving cracks
paper-thin and skin-deep
along your spine
and you know you should turn and run
away from this storm
but instead
you pull closer into her center
you think
this is it
the hurricane, the flood
that will trap you
in the mud building castles
up around your knees
this is the moment you
don't want to live
you pull your shoulders up
hold steady
plant yourself still deeper in
and wait for the scream
that doesn't come with her
the light is blinding but
blinks out faster than it struck
and when all is said and done
you are nothing more
than air
--------------------
I haven't written creatively in such a long time, I fear I'm a little rusty. But the other day I was driving home from work and felt compelled to draw a metaphor that I'll leave to your interpretation. I often think I'm a much better narrative / creative nonfiction writer than anything else, but I suppose it doesn't hurt to experiment. At the very least, writing poetry and flash fiction (before it WAS flash fiction) are the strongest roots of my creativity.
Do you know how I learned I was a writer? Besides all the used-up notebooks and worn-down pencils, I mean. It was all the times that I was inspired by something mundane in such a way as to become almost completely distracted by it. As I get older, these moments are much more infrequent, but I still have them occasionally.
What I enjoy the most about writing is both the urgency and the patience in it. What I mean to say is that when inspiration strikes, it builds in my brain as language, words that kind of sway almost so that I can see them in front of me. There is this need to write them down but I know whatever is coming won't be right until I leave them be for awhile. It often starts slowly, a few lines that usually mean the start of something new; within days, the few lines build into deeper concepts that eventually take on a life of their own. By that time, I've thought so often about these words that I've memorized them in a particular order almost unconsciously created. Then, and only then, does writing come easy.
It's an amazing process.
Monday, June 21, 2010
When the cure is worse than the disease
I don't take care of myself very well, which is why I waited so long to rid myself of this sinus infection that I ended up in the E.R. on Saturday. Not a nice way to spend an afternoon, but it certainly could have been worse - we were there for a little less than two hours and I left feeling better than I did when I got there. Except now I'm taking super-strength antibiotics that are making my feet drag and my tummy slosh.
I have found that the effects of the illness are pretty much the same as the effects of the "cure". I'm cranky when I don't feel well, regardless of the cause. I feel like running over babies in strollers, but I have not yet gotten to the point where I would run over puppies. Also, there's a small chance that my decision to speak only minimally to my husband is not ACTUALLY because he's an ass - a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.
So I suppose what I'm really saying is this - I am in a poor humor these days, either because I thought I was a superhero and could single-handedly destroy this sinus infection with no medical intervention, or because I detest feeling sick and am growling at the world much the same way that a rabid wolf with a tummy ache would. I'll let you decide that.
In the meantime, I'm biding my time at work, thinking about that poor unfortunate soul who has to meet with me in 1.25 hours and contemplating how close to home I can get before I make myself carsick.
Sometimes I think I've got enough material here to make a good stand-up show.
I have found that the effects of the illness are pretty much the same as the effects of the "cure". I'm cranky when I don't feel well, regardless of the cause. I feel like running over babies in strollers, but I have not yet gotten to the point where I would run over puppies. Also, there's a small chance that my decision to speak only minimally to my husband is not ACTUALLY because he's an ass - a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.
So I suppose what I'm really saying is this - I am in a poor humor these days, either because I thought I was a superhero and could single-handedly destroy this sinus infection with no medical intervention, or because I detest feeling sick and am growling at the world much the same way that a rabid wolf with a tummy ache would. I'll let you decide that.
In the meantime, I'm biding my time at work, thinking about that poor unfortunate soul who has to meet with me in 1.25 hours and contemplating how close to home I can get before I make myself carsick.
Sometimes I think I've got enough material here to make a good stand-up show.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Today's life lessons
- Some people are bound to suffer their entire lives. Thank Gautama I'm not one of them - unless you consider endless allergies and stuffed up sinuses suffering, in which case you should do a little chant for me.
- Teaching is a learning experience. Just make sure you're not in a classroom full of mind-numbing morons.
- Pet insurance is expensive. But not as expensive as having a reckless nutjob for a dog and an overweight cat who are UN-insured. There's a chance, however, that this life lesson will change - it depends on whether or not Obama goes for the pet healthcare proposal I sent him. DOWN WITH NON-COVERAGE OF PRE-EXISTING CONDITIONS - at this point, birth itself appears to be a pre-existing condition.
- No matter what happens, it ALWAYS pays to stand up for yourself. Sure, it may cost you your job, but in the end you get to walk away pride intact and there's got to be SOME way to make your pride pay the bills. So, for example, if someone tells you that you lack the authority to make solo decisions and that they expect your full cooperation in the future, it's okay to defend yourself sarcastically in such a way as to force the opposing party to bend down and kiss your cheeks.
- Yard sales are hard work. I don't know this for sure, but judging by the fact that we've been putting ours off for two weeks, I'm guessing it's true. And poster board is no longer five cents a sheet. Shocking, I know.
- You really are as stupid as you act. You've driven in Jersey, right? Enough said.
- It's totally possible to have an infinite amount of snot in your head. In which case it's much cheaper to stop buying tissues and just use your sleeve instead.
- There is a direct correlation between the number of figures in a person's salary and that same person's inability to make coffee. Larger salaries seem to indicate incompetence at a variety of levels. Coffee is but one tiny (but important) example.
- People with too much time on their hands are prone to using the E.R. as a diversion from boredom. As evidenced by my experience on Tuesday, when I'm pretty sure only two of the few dozen patients actually needed to be there.
- Honesty is the best policy...unless it will get you in trouble. In that case, just lie. There's no sense ruining your own day, too.
- It's possible to clean a desk off with minimal effort. Just heap everything on someone else's desk - when it needs to come back around to you, it generally will. Until then, kick back, relax, check Facebook...whatever.
- No means no...except when it means yes. Some people have this uncanny biological ability to filter nos into yeses - I think it's in the eardrum.
- Being a pest usually pays off. I'll do a little bragging here - after my scathing letter and emails to Sallie Mae, I finally got a response that resulted in an automatic deferment of all loans due and an apology. I'm still switching lenders, though :)
Monday, June 14, 2010
Why doesn't it just rain?
Not that it hasn't already, but the way I feel today, I'm thinking it should just keep on raining until something interesting happens.
Ugh! Do you ever wish you could go back to a former life? Everyone has one...I think I might have had like 30 already. Sometimes being happy is just BORING. Of course, life always seems a little more boring once Syd goes home - she's kind of like a twister that just keeps going, sucking up everything in her path, spinning the world around and around for fun, then spitting it back, leaving it an exhausted shadow of what it once was. I meant that in a good way.
I think maybe I'm just feeling my age now and who wants to do THAT? I don't want to be mature and make good decisions - I want to be completely immature and make bad decisions, using youth and ignorance as an excuse.
I have a terrible feeling I'm going to accomplish nothing today.
Ugh! Do you ever wish you could go back to a former life? Everyone has one...I think I might have had like 30 already. Sometimes being happy is just BORING. Of course, life always seems a little more boring once Syd goes home - she's kind of like a twister that just keeps going, sucking up everything in her path, spinning the world around and around for fun, then spitting it back, leaving it an exhausted shadow of what it once was. I meant that in a good way.
I think maybe I'm just feeling my age now and who wants to do THAT? I don't want to be mature and make good decisions - I want to be completely immature and make bad decisions, using youth and ignorance as an excuse.
I have a terrible feeling I'm going to accomplish nothing today.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
The story of us: How a boy & his kid changed my life
Alex and I met on a blind date on December 1, 2006.
At the time, I lived in a small cabin in the middle of the Pine Barrens - I had been a self-proclaimed hermit on a dating hiatus for about a year and I enjoyed living alone. Thankfully, the apartment got cold in the winter and one completely serendipitous day, I called a guy about delivering some wood for my teeny-tiny fireplace. The morning he and his wife showed up to drop off the wood, it was pouring and dreary outside, I was hungover, and my knee was swollen to twice its size from a mystery bug bite I got the night before. I wasn't looking my best by any means and in truth, I was waiting for them to make the delivery and leave so I could take myself to the E.R.
For some reason, though, I invited them in for a drink - and to make a long story short, she asked me for my phone number because she wanted me to meet a family friend. She thought I was a nice girl. Was I crazy for giving it to her? Definitely. But I certainly never expected it to turn into anything.
Weeks later, on Thanksgiving in fact, she called me to ask if I'd like to come over for dessert and meet Alex, the family friend. I thought there was great potential for an incredibly awkward situation if we didn't hit it off, so I lied and said I was hours away at a family member's house - in truth, I was only blocks away at a family member's house. The next week, Alex called me and asked me out - I had never been on a blind date before and it made me nervous, so we arranged to meet in a public place for dinner. On December 1, we had our first date. Not taking into account the fact that my first words to him were, "I'm so sorry I have short hair!", we had a far better time than I expected - so good, in fact, that I was completely freaked out by how nice he was. (In my head, the hair was going to be an issue because I imagine that most men appreciate long, flowing hair.) I was trying to figure out why someone would divorce him and lots of potential flaws crossed my mind that night.
That line of potential flaws (none of which turned out to be real) kept me from returning his calls for the next two weeks. That and the fact that he seemed a tad too perfect for me. Finally, he left me a frustrated message that he claimed would be his last. I don't know if it was the chutzpah I heard in that message or something else I couldn't put my finger on, but that night I finally called him back and the rest is history.
It was quite awhile before I met Sydney, partly because she lives several states away and partly because we were trying to be gentle about it. The first time I saw her, Alex had just brought her home from the airport and she was standing in her bedroom unpacking. She looked at me warily, smiled, and said very quietly, "Hello." We went to a Phantoms hockey game that night and I remember very distinctly that she sat on one side of Alex and I sat on the other. I thought how very symbolic that was - that we were both now being forced to share this important guy.
It was a difficult game to sit through - everything he did with me, she did with him. When he held my hand, she grabbed his other hand; when he offered me his soda, she asked for a drink, too. I understood that it was a defense mechanism, a child's way of saying, "He's been mine longer than he's been yours." But when I stole the hat off Alex's head and reached around his back to give it to Syd for safe-keeping, the ice started cracking. That night, she got a bad nosebleed in the back of Alex's old truck and we bonded even more while I tended to her dripping nose and later when I tried to get the blood out of her white coat.
Syd and I, like Alex and I, have had our ups and downs, but to be fair it was a smooth transition compared to what it could have been. We have always included her in important decisions - we asked her permission to get married and we included her in the planning. Though she couldn't go house-hunting with us, we considered her needs in every single house we checked out, even though she only stays with us three or four times a year. Still, there is always a subtle hint of competition when it comes to Alex's love and attention - it's not easy to share.
But here's what I see now: my husband and my stepdaughter rocking out (rather badly) to Guitar Hero in our home, where we all have a defined place. Sydney, who is now almost 11 and already five feet tall, sleeps in a purple (technically "orchid corsage") bedroom that she helped paint, with posters that she tacked up and her giant suitcase in the middle of the room. The cat sleeps with her instead of me now and when she comes to visit, the dog greets her before she greets either of the people who take her out and feed her. She helps me bake cookies around the holidays, we go camping and adventuring in the summer, and she mentions to me things she doesn't tell her dad. (Some things are the same, though - she still calls me T.D., a nickname she made up two years ago that stands for "Tara Doodle". And though she hated it when I first started calling her Sydney Bean, she now expects and, dare I say, even likes it.)
She's growing up so fast. Today when we canoed in the lake at the end of our street, she and Alex paddled...and we didn't spin in circles! She was too big to play on most of the playground equipment in the park across the lake. And, of course, her vocabulary has advanced to include words like "hell" ("What, T.D.? It's a place, isn't it?") and "crap" ("Well what else am I s'posed to say when I'm aggravated, T.D.?").
When all is said and done, she'll probably be at least six or seven inches taller than me. One day, she'll be more interested in boys than in us (she already has a "boyfriend"); she'll want to stay home, where her friends are, in the summer; she'll get a job and start driving, go to college, and maybe meet the love of her life. She'll suffer losses and celebrate big wins, and maybe she'll find out all the things her dad and I have known for a long while but have tried to protect her from. She'll love us and hate us and be completely indifferent towards us and she'll do all the things that we (unfairly) did to our parents.
In the end, "step" means whatever you want it to mean - in my case, being a stepmother has been a life-changing challenge that makes me view the world in an entirely different light. My actions all have long-term impacts on Syd and her generation and my words carry weight that I will often not predict. I'm not the center of her world in the way that her parents are, but my actions matter enough that sometimes the lessons she learns here travel back home with her. Her words and actions matter enough to me that sometimes I learn things from her that no one else could teach me.
One thing's for sure - I think I'm always going to be T.D.
At the time, I lived in a small cabin in the middle of the Pine Barrens - I had been a self-proclaimed hermit on a dating hiatus for about a year and I enjoyed living alone. Thankfully, the apartment got cold in the winter and one completely serendipitous day, I called a guy about delivering some wood for my teeny-tiny fireplace. The morning he and his wife showed up to drop off the wood, it was pouring and dreary outside, I was hungover, and my knee was swollen to twice its size from a mystery bug bite I got the night before. I wasn't looking my best by any means and in truth, I was waiting for them to make the delivery and leave so I could take myself to the E.R.
For some reason, though, I invited them in for a drink - and to make a long story short, she asked me for my phone number because she wanted me to meet a family friend. She thought I was a nice girl. Was I crazy for giving it to her? Definitely. But I certainly never expected it to turn into anything.
Weeks later, on Thanksgiving in fact, she called me to ask if I'd like to come over for dessert and meet Alex, the family friend. I thought there was great potential for an incredibly awkward situation if we didn't hit it off, so I lied and said I was hours away at a family member's house - in truth, I was only blocks away at a family member's house. The next week, Alex called me and asked me out - I had never been on a blind date before and it made me nervous, so we arranged to meet in a public place for dinner. On December 1, we had our first date. Not taking into account the fact that my first words to him were, "I'm so sorry I have short hair!", we had a far better time than I expected - so good, in fact, that I was completely freaked out by how nice he was. (In my head, the hair was going to be an issue because I imagine that most men appreciate long, flowing hair.) I was trying to figure out why someone would divorce him and lots of potential flaws crossed my mind that night.
That line of potential flaws (none of which turned out to be real) kept me from returning his calls for the next two weeks. That and the fact that he seemed a tad too perfect for me. Finally, he left me a frustrated message that he claimed would be his last. I don't know if it was the chutzpah I heard in that message or something else I couldn't put my finger on, but that night I finally called him back and the rest is history.
It was quite awhile before I met Sydney, partly because she lives several states away and partly because we were trying to be gentle about it. The first time I saw her, Alex had just brought her home from the airport and she was standing in her bedroom unpacking. She looked at me warily, smiled, and said very quietly, "Hello." We went to a Phantoms hockey game that night and I remember very distinctly that she sat on one side of Alex and I sat on the other. I thought how very symbolic that was - that we were both now being forced to share this important guy.
It was a difficult game to sit through - everything he did with me, she did with him. When he held my hand, she grabbed his other hand; when he offered me his soda, she asked for a drink, too. I understood that it was a defense mechanism, a child's way of saying, "He's been mine longer than he's been yours." But when I stole the hat off Alex's head and reached around his back to give it to Syd for safe-keeping, the ice started cracking. That night, she got a bad nosebleed in the back of Alex's old truck and we bonded even more while I tended to her dripping nose and later when I tried to get the blood out of her white coat.
Syd and I, like Alex and I, have had our ups and downs, but to be fair it was a smooth transition compared to what it could have been. We have always included her in important decisions - we asked her permission to get married and we included her in the planning. Though she couldn't go house-hunting with us, we considered her needs in every single house we checked out, even though she only stays with us three or four times a year. Still, there is always a subtle hint of competition when it comes to Alex's love and attention - it's not easy to share.
But here's what I see now: my husband and my stepdaughter rocking out (rather badly) to Guitar Hero in our home, where we all have a defined place. Sydney, who is now almost 11 and already five feet tall, sleeps in a purple (technically "orchid corsage") bedroom that she helped paint, with posters that she tacked up and her giant suitcase in the middle of the room. The cat sleeps with her instead of me now and when she comes to visit, the dog greets her before she greets either of the people who take her out and feed her. She helps me bake cookies around the holidays, we go camping and adventuring in the summer, and she mentions to me things she doesn't tell her dad. (Some things are the same, though - she still calls me T.D., a nickname she made up two years ago that stands for "Tara Doodle". And though she hated it when I first started calling her Sydney Bean, she now expects and, dare I say, even likes it.)
She's growing up so fast. Today when we canoed in the lake at the end of our street, she and Alex paddled...and we didn't spin in circles! She was too big to play on most of the playground equipment in the park across the lake. And, of course, her vocabulary has advanced to include words like "hell" ("What, T.D.? It's a place, isn't it?") and "crap" ("Well what else am I s'posed to say when I'm aggravated, T.D.?").
When all is said and done, she'll probably be at least six or seven inches taller than me. One day, she'll be more interested in boys than in us (she already has a "boyfriend"); she'll want to stay home, where her friends are, in the summer; she'll get a job and start driving, go to college, and maybe meet the love of her life. She'll suffer losses and celebrate big wins, and maybe she'll find out all the things her dad and I have known for a long while but have tried to protect her from. She'll love us and hate us and be completely indifferent towards us and she'll do all the things that we (unfairly) did to our parents.
In the end, "step" means whatever you want it to mean - in my case, being a stepmother has been a life-changing challenge that makes me view the world in an entirely different light. My actions all have long-term impacts on Syd and her generation and my words carry weight that I will often not predict. I'm not the center of her world in the way that her parents are, but my actions matter enough that sometimes the lessons she learns here travel back home with her. Her words and actions matter enough to me that sometimes I learn things from her that no one else could teach me.
One thing's for sure - I think I'm always going to be T.D.
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