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hErDIng sQUirReLs
29Oct/09Off

Pay no attention to the mom behind the curtain

I was recently asked if I felt like I had different relationships with my biological kids as compared to my stepkids. And I know what the politically correct answer is. And I know what the truthful answer is. However, as stepmom I am subject scrutiny under the wicked myth and thus, to avoid it, I must be fair and blind in all things.

The fair, blind answer is, nope; everything is just fine and dandy as candy. Well alrighty then.

All you critical people, exit to the left and pay no attention to the mom behind the curtain.

Okay, anybody still here?

Yes. Flat out, I do have different relationships with my bio-kids than my stepkids.

FACT: I’ve been with my bio-kids longer. I understand them more. In essence, I know how to motivate them and how to manipulate them (both of which are amazingly important tools in parenting). But I will say being a bio-mom completely gave me a leg-up on being a stepparent.

I really feel bad for the single gal who finds herself thrown into instant motherhood. (I’m looking at you here, Izzy). Any person who raises a kid must inevitably transition from being the center of her own Universe, to having her family be the center. One good thing about growing your own kids first is that one’s selfish reactions as a new mother is lost on a newborn. Newborns, as a society, don’t understand—or care—that you want time to yourself or need a nap or want to take a crap in peace or need space to feel human for awhile. And because that little nubbin is yours to keep, you have less guilt when you feel frustrated and want to throttle them. I mean, come on—you made them, for crying out loud. You suspect that everything you do will force your biological kids into therapy at some point anyway. They are your kids, so the fear of completely screwing up, while present, is on your mental back-burner most of the time. And hey, all that time you’re stumbling around through the early part of parenthood and releasing your attachment to your single life and once-beloved individuality, your bio-kids are growing up, none-the-wiser. For all they know, you’re the greatest parent EVAR. And maybe sometimes you are.

But jumping in head first without ever having parented before? Uy. Stepkids… they arrive with someone else’s screw ups (and, okay, successes) intact. Those little monkeys have their own notions of parenthood and those notions and their related expectations—all of which are based on the hopes and the experiences of the child—are probably wildly different from yours—all of which were scrabbled together off the cuff and based on some Lifetime TV movie of the week. Worse, because stepkids are likely old enough to notice, you can’t hide your parental idiocies and mistakes behind the wall of “you’re my kid and you’ll love me no matter what.” NEWSFLASH: You’re not actually mom. They’re not hardwired to love you unconditionally.

So, conversely, you pretty much know that everything you do will ensure that your stepkids attend therapy. Sadly, this factoid is and will always be a front-burner concern.

Add to this the pressure of the scrutiny one faces as a stepparent, and you’ve got yourself a whole bucket of suck. Think about it: There is a bio-parent out there watching and criticizing everything you do; a parent who trumps you in the love department because she’ll always be their real mom. A woman who has more influence over the school because she can actually affect changes at bureaucratic levels that step parents can’t. A woman who has the benefit of her kids'-- your stepkids'-- unconditional love, always.

Sadly, life as stepmom is sometimes the equivalent of holding everybody’s jackets while they’re on the ride.

I’d feel really sorry for you saps who just dropped into this gig but… I happen to be in this gig, too. And I sometimes already suffer from not being the center of my own Universe, so forget about it.

That said, I take solace in the fact that I have a pretty sweet Universe.





27Oct/09Off

The Tower mural

I hate it.

I’m referring to the controversial mural in the Tower. The one that covers the side of the wall of The Well Community Church’s thrift store, with the skinny baby and the angry Matrix-agent guys looking down over the city and the morose two-faced guy, the giant mural otherwise known as, “The Wall with the Formerly Water-Vomiting Blue Lady.” That mural.

It scares me and it’s huge and ugly and I hate it.

When I heard about the controversy over its depiction of… whatever it depicts, I initially thought, “Wow. Another creepy mural in the Tower. Shocking. I wonder if this one will have multicolored mucous, too.” (For the record, it does not. Also for the record, I'm not sure if the mucous mural is located in the Tower proper.)

No, I do not understand the artists’ vision. I have no idea what the image is intended to convey, except that it makes the little hairs on the back of my neck stand out. It makes me feel creeped out and miserable and it makes my stomach upset.

I do not like rabid bunnies eating ham. I do not like them, Sam I Am.

But when I read it would be painted over, I didn’t like that much either. Well, sort of…

Here’s the dilemma: I hate this piece of art. CLEARLY. But… it is doing what art is supposed to do: it makes me feel. Horrible, yes; it makes me feel horrible and scared and like I am being watched, but still—what a powerful piece of art to make me feel so viscerally.

Art, by its very nature, should inspire feelings. Isn’t that the point of art, to make you think and feel and talk? To communicate a vision, thereby urging others to communicate? And this mural, more than any other recent piece of art, has gotten our community talking. About art. Like it, love it, loathe it—it is successfully doing what art is meant to do. And just because I don’t particularly care for it, doesn’t mean others shouldn’t be able to appreciate its freakishness. (I mean that in a good way.)

I think I mostly hate the baby. Where is his mom? Why did she paint his eyes all clown-like and then leave him laying there like on those vegetables? And what is with the two-faced guy? I want to sneak him some Prozac, maybe, if I can get past those evil looking guys in the background.

But… I do appreciate the detail work. The rock-like patterns on the blue lady (that is a lady, right?) are very interesting. And eventually I will force myself to go and examine it at length, when I get my courage up.

You see, art is a very, very challenging thing.





20Oct/09Off

Kale: My latest love affair

I'd spent most of my adult life avoiding it. It was curly and green and I suspected it was bitter. It looked like a weed, for crying out loud!

And then I read the article that would change my life. Molly Wizenberg’s piece in October’s issue of Bon Appetit: How I learned to love kale. I was awestruck. Kale? Really? Isn’t that the stuff used to decorate salad bars?

Yes. It is. But it is so much more.

When prepared correctly, kale has a smoky, almost nutty, if slightly bitter flavor.

I tried Wizenberg’s preparation suggestions, and the following recipe is one I would gladly make—and consume—several days a week. Bonus: All of my kids loved it. And did I mention it was green?

Sauteed Kale
1 bunch kale, large center ribs and stems removed, cut crosswise into ½ -inch slices
1 medium yellow or white onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, pressed
2 Tbsp. olive oil
Sea salt

1) Prep: Taking the individual leaves, cut away the center rib, then slice the leaves into ½-inch slices. Wash the kale, then spin in a salad spinner.
2) Heat 1 tablespoon olive oil in a large fry pan. Sauté onion until translucent, then add pressed garlic.
3) Add another tablespoon olive oil and kale to pan; cook for 3 minutes, until kale is wilted.
4) Salt to taste, preferably with sea salt.

It’s the perfect fall side dish. ENJOY!





20Oct/09Off

Same as it ever was

You know that lady at the supermarket who has a cart overflowing with kids and groceries, navigating the aisles in her work clothes while stuffing her face with a freshly-opened bag of rice cakes? She somehow manages to simultaneously listen to the13-year-old jabbering on about his day and ignore the 6-year-old trying to lay down in the bottom of the moving cart, all while a teen follows distantly, texting away? If that same lady has an intent-yet-crazed look on her face, clearly meal planning for the next 3 meals and knowing she’s forgetting what she came for, chances are you have seen me. I am that lady, despite my best attempts at planning, pretty much every night of the week between 6 and 6:30. Also if you did see me, I’m sorry if I rolled over your foot or something. Chances are it was an accident. Maybe.

It’s not that I’m disorganized. I think you need to have higher brain function in order to comprehend a sense of organization. I’m not there yet. Because even the simplest tasks, I perform them, I repeat them, and I get them wrong every flipping time.

Case in point: I walk into the market and go immediately to the vegetable aisle. Always. Every time. I park on that side of the grocery, it’s the entrance that is closest to my car, I’m a vegetarian… go figure. So there I am, in the veggie aisle and I scope out the biggest bunch of bananas, and think, “This will last a few days.” Nevermind that I have seven kids and the bunch has nine bananas. Nevermind that we have to make seven lunches the next morning. Nevermind that our kids are banana hounds and that stupid bunch will last maybe a day, if I’m lucky. Somehow, I am still convinced that this is a massive bundle of fruit.

I’ve been making this mistake for two years now. I just recently graduated to the “two bunch per shop” thought process. I’ve also learned to buy massive amounts of other fruits and veg, not because I realized that “massive amounts” is the appropriate quantity for my brood, but that I decided in a fit of frustration I was going to see how much I could buy and how much would just sit there on the countertop at the end of the week, rotting away.

The answer is: none. None fruit wasted away. In fact, I could have purchased even more. I know this because the next night, I am back, reloading my cart.

When I’m done filling my cart with veg and more veg and even more fruit and veg, I hit the other aisles of very heavy food that inevitably force me to rearrange my basket because holy crap, I’m on the path to squishing everything if I’m not careful.

Every night. Same dilemma.

Every night, something gets squished.

Every night I end up in line, scolding the 6-year-old to stay away from the gum and candy and asking my disinterested teen to run back to the car for the canvas shopping bags.

So there you have it: my nightly travail. Yes, I’m disorganized. True, I’m distracted.

But at least I’m consistent.





14Oct/09Off

Q&A: 18 years old, and new to this

Cross-posted from Stepchicks.com, and expanded upon. Read others' responses here.

QUESTION: …I’m 18 years old and a FUTURE step-mommy… If anyone has advice for me, or anything to look for, or anything that I need to do NOW, please help. All advice and wisdom is appreciated.

ANSWER: You know what’s awesome? How my gut dropped reading that you were going to step into this role and you're 18-years-young, AND that you're asking for advice at all about where you are headed.

Here's my honest opinion about stepparenting: I think most of us who enter into the deal don't enter lightly. But at some point, when the reality of the messiness that lies ahead confronts us, we look at our lives and we tell ourselves, "I am an adult. I can deal." We rationalize. We gradually shout down that little voice trying to warn us-- whether that voice is in our head or popping out of the mouths of the well-intentioned.

We stare at the wicked myth and vow that we shall not ever be that evil queen. We will write our own story; we will be the cool stepmom. We envision a life of good times and endless Christmases and sure, it'll be tough for awhile, but eventually things will get better, smooth out, and we can finally get down to the business of living happily ever after.

It's not until just after about two weeks of the giddy hysteria of “WE'RE A FAMILY NOW,” that reality sets in, sucking us down into the funk of “Forever.” And suddenly that quiet little voice that once whispered beneath our rationalizations has become a full-throated bullhorn and we’re gripped with panic: HOLY CRAP. THIS IS REAL. And the less acknowledged fear, "If I try to run, everyone will think I'm an asshat," mumbles nearby like a chain-smoking schizophrenic sidekick.

It’s not that way for all of us. Some of us are able to shake past the fear, work ardently with our partners and try to grow new kind of family, one where we define our own dysfunction, thankyouverymuch.

Your feelings are real. And you are, I’m sure, a caring woman who is very responsible and desiring nothing more than to make this work.

That said, really, really listen to the advice you solicit. The role you step into now is not a nifty little something with a man and his sweet baby that will love you the instant it arrives. It’s a lifetime of being second-place to a child that will forever and necessarily be the center of her father’s world, and you will have to support it. Assist. Facilitate. And the sweet little baby is actually a person with a ferocious mother attached who may or may not ever see you as who you really are. She may just look at you as competition or a threat. She may just be a lifelong enemy.

Then again, maybe not.

That said, the stepmoms you talk to are women who have been to war, all of us have battle scars all our own; and we know and have lived and CONTINUE to live the various difficulties that lie ahead of you.

Everyday is not Christmas in stepmother land. Especially Christmas.You need to really know yourself before you jump into a lifetime role that will put you in second place– or often third, or fifth– most of the time.

Honestly ask yourself:
• Can you deal with someone hating you every day for years on end? That someone could be a stepchild that you see daily. Or it could be your stepchild’s biological mother, who spits vitriol in your wake whenever she sees your stepchild.
• Can you accept that you are sharing a parenting role not with someone else, but actually, two someone elses, and that your ideas/constructive comments/criticisms/ruling/decrees/parenting advice may and often will get overruled?
• Can you deal with daddy guilt, when your man acts completely against the grain of your agreement because he feels horribly that he doesn’t see his own kids as much as he wants?
• Can you accept that in the eyes of society, family, friends and even therapists that your feelings are oftentimes invalid in the face of others in your family?

My please-dear-gawd-listen-to-me advice: Go be young for awhile. It’s okay to be selfish at this time in your life; in fact, it’s expected.

Above all, know this is a huge and heavy decision– a forever decision and it if you go with it, your life will never again be about you. This isn’t a gauntlet I’m throwing down, this isn’t a challenge. This is a warning.