Once again, Mother's Day is here, and I admit to feeling a little...conflicted. As a mom, I am grateful for my daughter, think of her as a best friend and feel truly blessed to know her. As a step-mom, things are a bit more complicated.
I have three step-daughters. Two only recently entered the picture, in that I was married to their Dad several years before meeting them. The third I've known almost as long as I've known my husband. Except for one of them, one time, I've never been acknowledged on Mother's Day.
I get it, though, and don't blame them a bit for ignoring me on this Hallmark holiday. I'm guessing Mother's Day causes equal confusion for step-daughters, who are put in a potentially awkward position vis a vis Mom/Step-Mom. After all, how would I feel if my daughter paid the same respect and attention to her stepmother as she does to me this day? I might feel a little...jealous, or threatened. I suppose it's different if you're helping to raise young children, or your step-children live with you. Then the step-mom role is bit more defined, more involved, more "card-worthy."
In my case, all three were adults or near-adults when we met, so these are fully-formed young women with their own lives and ideas. All three are quite close to their respective moms, and as far as I can see, rely on and cherish that relationship. Which is as it should be.
Which leads to the conflict or confusion of this day. Where does that leave me? Am I supposed to be more like a special "aunt" or is "friend" possible? I don't always know what's right. I do know, "stuck in the middle" is a familiar feeling, as conflicts arise between father and daughter or husband and ex-wife. Most times, that is a "lose-lose" deal for me, so the best strategy is to listen, give advice only if asked (and even then very cautiously), and try to be supportive without being judgemental. So, it's like walking a tightrope, blind-folded.
My relationship with my step-daughters is a one-step forward, one-step sideways, one-step back kind of thing. I feel like we tip-toe around each other a bit. As the years go by, and these relationships mature, I am hopeful that genuine feeling can grow between us. I think that will happen if we can view each other as individuals in our own right - not "my father's wife" or "my husband's daughter" but as unique women with experiences, opinions, feelings and fears that are worthwhile and deserving of respect.
I am very fortunate to have that kind of relationship with my own daughter, and it's very gratifying. There's real respect there, and trust, and a sense that we can rely on each other for emotional support. I think a similar relationship with my step-daughters is possible. I don't want to infringe on the special bond they have with their own moms. I just want to have a more meaningful relationship with each of them.
In the blockbuster movie, Avatar, the Na'vi people of Pandora greet each other by saying "I see you," meaning they look beyond the surface and acknowledge each other's inner being. Corny, I suppose, but it sort of captures what I'm thinking about today.
Meanwhile, I got a chuckle from the Mother's Day card my daughter sent. The hand-drawn message from my two grand-daughters tugs at my heart. Flowers from my husband adorn the dining room table. I reflect on the blessings in my life, and realize that includes my three step-daughters. I remember that every relationship is a two-way street, and pledge to do my best in the future.
So to all you step-mom's out there, Happy Mother's Day. "I see you."
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Stuck on a Big Red Bulls-Eye
They say the first step to healing addiction is to admit you have a problem. So here goes...
My name is Laurie, and I am a Target addict.
It started innocently enough. Occasional visits to buy clothes for the grand-kids or stock up on storage bins. Soon, the need escalated. I would madly rifle the Sunday paper for the Target sale circular. Find any excuse to pop-in "just to see what's new." When the cashiers started greeting me by name, I knew I had a problem.
But can you blame me? The comforting "whoosh" of the automatic doors; those cute red plastic carts; those delightful dollar bins; the sassy bulldog mascot, dazzling commercials, and surprisingly chic discount fashion. These guys are good! That giant red bulls-eye sign? Well, I finally realized the Target is ME!
I'm not a church-goer. I'm not a joiner of reading clubs. I don't do group-think. But at Target, I feel like I belong. Yes, I know the store is cleverly designed to pull me deep into Small Electrics, but wandering the aisles is a mini-vacation, a break from dull routine. As I cannily scan the endcaps for the best "Clearance" merch or daydream of mountain streams in the Camping aisle (I've never actually been camping but that's the addiction talking) I believe anything is possible, even CHEEZ-IT's for $2.94!!
Anyway, I know this has to stop. So I've embarked on my own 12 Step Program to rid myself of this terrible Target compulsion (with apologies to AA, I'm a bit impatient, so it's actually 5 Steps):
My name is Laurie, and I am a Target addict.
It started innocently enough. Occasional visits to buy clothes for the grand-kids or stock up on storage bins. Soon, the need escalated. I would madly rifle the Sunday paper for the Target sale circular. Find any excuse to pop-in "just to see what's new." When the cashiers started greeting me by name, I knew I had a problem.
But can you blame me? The comforting "whoosh" of the automatic doors; those cute red plastic carts; those delightful dollar bins; the sassy bulldog mascot, dazzling commercials, and surprisingly chic discount fashion. These guys are good! That giant red bulls-eye sign? Well, I finally realized the Target is ME!
I'm not a church-goer. I'm not a joiner of reading clubs. I don't do group-think. But at Target, I feel like I belong. Yes, I know the store is cleverly designed to pull me deep into Small Electrics, but wandering the aisles is a mini-vacation, a break from dull routine. As I cannily scan the endcaps for the best "Clearance" merch or daydream of mountain streams in the Camping aisle (I've never actually been camping but that's the addiction talking) I believe anything is possible, even CHEEZ-IT's for $2.94!!
Anyway, I know this has to stop. So I've embarked on my own 12 Step Program to rid myself of this terrible Target compulsion (with apologies to AA, I'm a bit impatient, so it's actually 5 Steps):
- Admit I have a problem. (See above.)
- Believe that a Power greater than myself can restore my sanity (Thanks, Suze Orman!)
- Make amends for the errors of my ways. (Hmm, this is tough. Should I return my purchases? Cut up my charge cards? I know, I'll make a donation to Toys for Tots! I'll just run to Target and buy something....DOH!! See how insidious this addiction is?)
- Learn how to live a new life with a new code of behavior. (Made good progress here. Vowed to shop Wal-mart occasionally even though I think it's ruining small-town America and I hate those goofy greeters.)
- Help others who suffer from the same compulsion. (Note: People in the checkout lane can get downright nasty when told they are addicted and need a Sponsor.)
You'll be happy to know I'm now completely free of my previous obsession. I realize that there is much more to Life than whiling away the hours in Target. Forget about "Expect More. Pay Less." I'm all about "Live more. Shop less." I'm all about Art! Music! PBS! (Okay, American Idol).
Life is short, time is precious and ...oops, hold on, I just got friend-ed on Facebook. Gotta run!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
The Masquerade
It wasn’t the kind of thing she normally went in for. Not with this crowd. This crowd really wasn’t her thing. Her people were far more interesting, certainly. Artistic types. Playwrights. Musicians. These people were, well, country club people. Not her sort at all.
But the invitation couldn’t be refused. She’d wanted to, truthfully. Make some excuse, plead family obligations. But Big Ed said no, they had to attend. They’d known the Birthday Girl too long, he said, and you don’t turn 50 everyday. They had to make an appearance. They would duck out early at least.
What a bother, this whole costume thing. She had to admit that S. looked charming, the “biergarten maid” outfit showing off her curves and gap-toothed smile to full effect. The men seemed to love it. Lucky she herself had access to the theater’s wardrobe. The “contessa” was a brilliant choice. Black lace always suited her glacial blonde-ness. She couldn’t help comparing her own elegance to the camp and frivolity around her. That ridiculous cowboy and cowgirl. The silly man dressed as a nun. At least the couple doing Frida and Diego showed some wit. She doubts half the guests even recognize who they are.
Lord, don’t tell me there’s a speech. What’s Birthday Girl going on about? Oh, yes, her family. She’s always talking about her family. Like they’re so special. Newsflash: we all have family issues. Does she ever hear me bitching about my family? Now, there’s a family to bitch about. But I have the decency not to focus on myself all the time. Sometimes, girlfriend, it’s just not all about you.
She gives Birthday Girl a hug, compliments her speech. So heartfelt, she says. Very touching. Wonderful party! Big Ed catches her eye and does an eye-roll. Checking her watch, the contessa sees it is too early for polite leave-taking. The music starts again, and as Birthday Girl gets up to dance with her husband, the contessa drinks her third cup of coffee and watches.
What does she see in him? He’s so…too much. He thinks he’s so great. Smug. With his country club friends. She’s changed, since she married him. With the big house and the trips to Europe. Insufferable, really. So damn ‘supportive’ when I was off the wagon. So earnest. Thank god I bailed doing that speech at the wedding. That’s what gave me the relapse – I just couldn’t face standing up there the next day. The fact that I showed up at all was a huge sacrifice on my part.
The table around her is littered with half-empty glasses, crumbs, and the obligatory disposable camera. Someone is pointing it at her now. She declines to smile. How did she get seated here? Ah, these are the co-workers, she realizes, so she‘s relegated to former associate status. That’s rich, she thinks. She should have known, that first day Birthday Girl walked into the office and the boss volunteered her as welcoming committee, there would be…something, between them.
I was just a peon then. She was the new ‘star.’ Galling, really, considering she had no real experience. I had to pay my dues. It took me years to work up to the title they just handed her on day one. Who showed her the ropes, who told her where the bodies were buried? I sweat blood for that place. I put their needs before everything, even my family. But I had to go when I saw they would never give me the respect I deserved. I’m much better off now. I’ve made so much progress. My boss loves me.
Finally, time to leave. The countess grasps Birthday Girl’s hands, looks deeply into her eyes. Thank you so much for inviting us, she says, we wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Let’s do lunch soon, she offers. She turns, and leaves the gathering, sweeping her black lace skirts behind her, breathing a barely-concealed sigh of relief. She never looks back. As she slides into the front seat next to Big Ed, she says: The things we do for friends.
But the invitation couldn’t be refused. She’d wanted to, truthfully. Make some excuse, plead family obligations. But Big Ed said no, they had to attend. They’d known the Birthday Girl too long, he said, and you don’t turn 50 everyday. They had to make an appearance. They would duck out early at least.
What a bother, this whole costume thing. She had to admit that S. looked charming, the “biergarten maid” outfit showing off her curves and gap-toothed smile to full effect. The men seemed to love it. Lucky she herself had access to the theater’s wardrobe. The “contessa” was a brilliant choice. Black lace always suited her glacial blonde-ness. She couldn’t help comparing her own elegance to the camp and frivolity around her. That ridiculous cowboy and cowgirl. The silly man dressed as a nun. At least the couple doing Frida and Diego showed some wit. She doubts half the guests even recognize who they are.
Lord, don’t tell me there’s a speech. What’s Birthday Girl going on about? Oh, yes, her family. She’s always talking about her family. Like they’re so special. Newsflash: we all have family issues. Does she ever hear me bitching about my family? Now, there’s a family to bitch about. But I have the decency not to focus on myself all the time. Sometimes, girlfriend, it’s just not all about you.
She gives Birthday Girl a hug, compliments her speech. So heartfelt, she says. Very touching. Wonderful party! Big Ed catches her eye and does an eye-roll. Checking her watch, the contessa sees it is too early for polite leave-taking. The music starts again, and as Birthday Girl gets up to dance with her husband, the contessa drinks her third cup of coffee and watches.
What does she see in him? He’s so…too much. He thinks he’s so great. Smug. With his country club friends. She’s changed, since she married him. With the big house and the trips to Europe. Insufferable, really. So damn ‘supportive’ when I was off the wagon. So earnest. Thank god I bailed doing that speech at the wedding. That’s what gave me the relapse – I just couldn’t face standing up there the next day. The fact that I showed up at all was a huge sacrifice on my part.
The table around her is littered with half-empty glasses, crumbs, and the obligatory disposable camera. Someone is pointing it at her now. She declines to smile. How did she get seated here? Ah, these are the co-workers, she realizes, so she‘s relegated to former associate status. That’s rich, she thinks. She should have known, that first day Birthday Girl walked into the office and the boss volunteered her as welcoming committee, there would be…something, between them.
I was just a peon then. She was the new ‘star.’ Galling, really, considering she had no real experience. I had to pay my dues. It took me years to work up to the title they just handed her on day one. Who showed her the ropes, who told her where the bodies were buried? I sweat blood for that place. I put their needs before everything, even my family. But I had to go when I saw they would never give me the respect I deserved. I’m much better off now. I’ve made so much progress. My boss loves me.
Finally, time to leave. The countess grasps Birthday Girl’s hands, looks deeply into her eyes. Thank you so much for inviting us, she says, we wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Let’s do lunch soon, she offers. She turns, and leaves the gathering, sweeping her black lace skirts behind her, breathing a barely-concealed sigh of relief. She never looks back. As she slides into the front seat next to Big Ed, she says: The things we do for friends.
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