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hErDIng sQUirReLs
9Apr/10Off

Running with the Squirrels

My husband and I. This is what we do. Everyday.





8Apr/10Off

Platitudes and magic potions

?“I know it’s really hard right now, but be patient because s--”

…someday. I stop before I utter the word, before I actually sow the most frustrating seed in all of stepmotherly communication. I slap a hand over my mouth in disbelief.  I’m stunned.

I can’t believe I almost gave her the “someday line.” That terrible turn-of-phrase each of us stepmoms have heard probably a thousand different times, applied to a thousand different stepparenting situations, beginning with the very first moment we waltzed into our illustrious steppositions.

It’s a horror of a statement, usually prefaced with the awful reality of now:  “I know they act like they hate it, but…”

-followed by a gratuitously hopeful platitude about the future: “-someday your stepdaughters really will appreciate that you were a stable and consistent parent.”

THE SOMEDAY LINE. It’s basically telling us stepmoms to place our frustrations in the lap of faith and asks us to keep our eyes on a distant promise—and wait for karma to kick in.  Just be kind. Don’t talk smack. Keep being a good person, the better person, nay, the BEST person; don’t sink to “their level”; don’t mention how truly horrific their unruly biological parent is—just smile, be caring, be ever present, deal with the back stabbing or the eye rolling or the grunting or the passive aggressiveness or the outright aggressiveness, stuff down your feelings…. and wait.

…And keep waiting. Because someday—somedaaaaayyyyy, it will all come out in the wash.

Someday those kids will see you for all you are…

Someday they will understand how much you cared, how hard you tried...

…and someday they will tell you they appreciate you.

The fact is, in our drive-thru world, we have all been trained to expect instant gratification. Accepting that I might, maybe, someday be told I was appreciated for even a teensy amount of the effort I’m making now—the internally painful, gut wrenching decisions; the emotional sucker punches; and the bloody welts from my eternally bitten lips—does nothing for the inferno of my desire to be loved and appreciated and foremost, to be understood right now.

I hate the someday line.

When I complain about my life—which I prefer to call VENTING, thankyouverymuch— I need a listener. I need someone to nod and say nice things and pet my head with verbal reassurances. And those people, those horribly unselfish, annoyingly well-meaning people with their kind eyes and gentle voices and soft, comfy shoulders just made for my tears, always dish out the someday line.

Hey, nice people! NEWSFLASH: Worst. Platitude. EVER.

Mostly because it’s true.

Also? Obvious.

I already know I need to be nice. I already know I need to be patient. I already know not to complain about the ex or show any exasperation lest I be accused of any form of wickedness whatsoever. When I am this undone—when I am aching because my stepdaughter passive-aggressively refuses to tell me she loves me back; or after spending the day with me, laughing and having a great time, my stepson suddenly ignores my very existence when his mom comes to the door—the last thing I want to soothe my singed feelings is the cold truth.

Unfortunately, our heart’s desire can’t easily be granted. Because even though we are stuck being wrapped in a fairy tale’s stereotype, there is no Fairy Godmother for us.  Ever. Nor is there a magic potion that, with just one swallow, wrenches our stepkids’ eyes wide open to help them see—right now, today—that we stepmoms are really trying to be good and loving and present; nor help us all see that we really can come to love each other unconditionally.

Instead, in those moments when we are most off-put, when we feel we have been wronged or slighted and are nowhere near appreciated enough for all that we are and all that we do… the best we can hope for is to simply accept that the someday line is our magic bean. Planted by family and friends, it becomes a constantly growing reminder throughout our parenting lives that our goodness and sincerity aren't for naught.  And whether we like it or not, we need to just hang in there. Because all those platitudes and someday reminders eventually become a hearty stalk, creating a foundation for our long-term survival. We’ll see.

Someday.





7Apr/10Off

Fat Cat

I'm not usually one to pass judgment, but at what point did this cat think, "Hey, you know what? Walking is overrated. GIMME SOME FRISKIES!"

Bad idea, cat.





5Apr/10Off

Me: Au naturel

I ran into an old acquaintance the other day at the grocery store. We made idle chit chat until we reached the passably polite point, and then, just as I turned and we made our goodbyes, she lobbed a conversational egg at my head and blurted: “What did you do to your hair?”

The yolk of this query drips down the sides of my head, coloring me embarrassed. Mortification wreaks havoc on my person, changing the sound and intent of the question into something much more shrill. The questioner’s face darkens and morphs to fit the now-harpy-like quality of the rude question that echoes through my brain:  “WHAT,” she squawks, “did you DO to your HAIR?!?”

Her now-tiny bird-like eyes pierce into my soul as her head cocks to one side, staring me down while awaiting my answer. And I am stunned.

You know, for a witty person, I really suck in these situations. When startled, I’m like a cow in the middle of the freeway: shocked into stillness, mouth chewing about wordlessly, completely out of my element. Instead of humor or snark, my shocked self merely pushes forth blatant, boring honesty. And while, YES, honesty is always the best policy, my lack of cleverness always leaves me with a nagging, almost feverish desire to redo the whole moment over again. I ache with the knowledge of what I could have said or what I should have done or how much better the whole moment could have felt if only I had just…

On the face of it, I realize the situation didn’t call for a snappy comeback. It was just a simple question based in curiosity and posited in what I took to be a brusque, almost rude, way. The simple form of the question embarrassed me because, frankly, this was the first indication I’ve had that perhaps my hairstyle isn’t liked by everyone. THE NERVE!

And here, dear reader, let me sate your curiosity: my hair is plain. It is not exciting. It is not painted with otherwise bright colors nor filled with feathers nor beads nor anything interesting nor beautifying nor exotic.

In point of fact, instead of my formerly long, blond-highlighted tresses gracing my delicate features, I have grown my natural color out and cut my hair shoulder length; now, shorter, mousy brown and naturally silver strands flop about my head. It’s a relatively bland, mom-like haircut.

I don’t miss the long blond hair; I’m 40. I don’t want to color my hair anymore. I earned my gray strands, one hair at a time. I like my Lily Munster stripes. I look my age now and, shock though it may be? I like looking my age. (Except the wrinkles.)

Still, thrown by the question, I eventually stammer that I simply stopped highlighting my hair. “I’m going with natural gray highlights now, instead of chemical blonde,” I smile. The quirky bird smiles back. “Welcome to the club,” she chirps, and walks on.

And for the first time, I realize her hair is completely white.

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