One Woman's Leftovers

Child's Head Revisited

Myth 1: Eventually, you grow out of it.
Truth 1: Like adult acne, zits don't have to go away by the time you start counting wrinkles.

Myth 2: Atheists and anarchists fundamentally are unburdened by morals of "biblical" proportions (i.e.: thou shall not, do unto others...) and therefore don't experience "catholic" (i.e.: burdensome, self-flagellating) guilt.
Truth 2: The hell you say. Confession can feel like a run at redemption. An inherent vigilant conciousness of right and wrong, and all that grayscale in between, dictates how even the godless tabulate actions on a personal balance sheet which in the end, the soul's bottom line resides. This "boundless" freedom of choice can actually create a crippling state that leaves you vulnerable and empowered at the same time. Questioning all the time is exhausting!

All contrition aside, I hope I'm not alone. Don't we all nickel and dime ourselves through day-to-day choices, keeping a running tab on whether we're slipping into the red, desperately trying to avoid spiritual bankruptcy. My hunch is that life is easier when you have unwaivering faith in something greater than yourself. Ultimately, what that is is perhaps irrelevant. What truly matters that comforting feeling of faith.

I know she's still in here somewhere.

It's afternoon, I'm on the couch as usual with the fucking tv on. Waiting to feel some fraction of self-content. Or at least for the drugs to kick in... I'm watching a DVR recording from BBC Jewels: Joe Jackson. And when Joe starts into the bridge of "Is She Really Going Out with Him?", I feel the slightest tug of memory. A comforting old feeling is buried in my abused grey matter and I want to re-experience it, so I close my eyes desperately rummaging through my memory banks for that spirited young girl I once was. She gleaned so much "adult" meaning and moony teen butterflies from this sarcastic Joe Jackson song. Its smart cheekiness informed my psyche, at the brink of adolescence, portending the mixed emotions and punishing complexities of grown up life.

That was so many charmed summers ago. I spent them in a state of euphoria: developing serial crushes on country boys, riding horses all day long, building hay and log forts, hanging out with my dozens of country cousins, trying on a variety of identities - suspended in a Rocky Mountain High - so far away from my suburban metropolis home. It was in that protective, unscrutinized bubble where the radio fashioned a colorful 70's and 80's soundtrack that painted the world in groovy Brady colors, therefore depicting my expectations of what was yet to come with a growing interpretation of life itself. Of me. I thought I wanted to become a marine biologist, borrowing the idea from being privy to my Mom's thesis fieldwork. I wanted to be a gymnast (a la Nadia Comaneci). And most secretly, a performer of some kind: singer, dancer actress?! Daydreaming, hmmmnn... so delicious. Nothin', except my shyness discouraged me from imagining myself as "Benny" in Elton John's "Benny and the Jets". Engaging in these fantasies was so fun, seductive even! Though I didn't know it at the time that "electric boots, a mohair suit" were never going to be in my future. But oh, how I miss being her!

Which may explain my ennui, or dysfunction, lately.

I feel like at 39, I should be proud of my life, along with its many illuminating detours, legitimate accomplishments, the people I've known (loved and learned from), my intellectual and emotional capacities, etc... Whatever makes a person - shouldn't I find some satisfaction in owning this ephemeral thing called identity. This thing called me? Somewhere along the way, between those sunny summer days to now. I've lost my way. My ability to bounce back from a setback or disappointment is becoming increasingly hard. I feel helpless and useless. I end up trying to make sense out of each senseless day. I hate myself for what seems like frittering away all that intellectual capital my parents invested in me and that I worked hard at in my 20's and 30's to accrue. It feels like I'm leading someone else's life, now. My personal equity has been misspent or lost somehow, left behind, back at the last fork in the road.

I'm going to look into this... 'cause I don't want to keep feeling sorry for myself. It's fucking boring.

Bad day. Sorry to be gloomy. Maybe, I'll dig through my cd archives and listen to something to defibrillate my soul.
N

Just get to postin', already!

The following post is about a month old. Well, what can I say? It took some time and guts to navigate toward this whole blogosphere thang. Well enjoy (?), the original title for this was going to be: Another Motherless Child. The tag: A Bio Dad and Custodial Stepmom trying their darnedest to balance children on the fulcrum of a senseless custody seesaw - or - The dramas of a family in “the blender”. You can see why I had to self edit just prior to pushing "publish".

New content to come - I promise. My ego and bored unemployment are very strong motivators. If you are a stepparent in any form, but especially a custodial stepmom, this will be the place for tea and sympathy, to commiserate, rant, laugh, unload your secret feelings about your charges - after all, we are raising the world! Thanks, Nicky

Late February 2008 /
I’m trying really hard to be relieved that that bitch-on-crack, Sonny’s "bio-hazard" (my husband's exwife the bio-mother), turned down visitation this weekend. It would be make-up time from last weekend when my mom was in town to celebrate a late, late xmas, my 30-ish birthday, and an early b-day for Sonny (name changed for obvious reasons). We intended for him and his sister to hang out with us and "Grandma Cali" (again, a nickname to protect the innocent) in our fabulous winter wonderland cottage. Well, BM (Bio or Birth Mother - although it could stand for something else more accurate - if you get my gist…) is estranged from her own mother so the kids are down one grandma. My mom, soft-hearted and immensely generous, who readily adopts strays as her own, makes for a legitimate gramma upgrade for the kids. Anyway, I think it’s courageous for anyone to be truly “down with OPC” (other peoples children). Even though I haven’t given her a “real” grandchild yet, she has always treated MM’s kids (Mountain Man, my man) as “real” grandchildren. A real grandmother. A real mother. Real. Hmmph. It’s a loaded term I’ll save for commentary on later.

Oh, I realize I’m trying to get too much info into this one first post, (and may speak parenthetically way too much) but this is my first foray into blogging, so please bear with. I’m figuring out style and techniques as I go.

Anyway, it’s great Sonny won’t be delivered into the pit of hell that is his mother’s home (a friend of ours calls visitation between divorced parents “transferring the hostages”). On the other hand, I so look forward to the weekends MM and I have alone together. I cherish them. I crave them on afternoons I’m on after school duty. We pretend to be childless on really good ones. Those hedonistic, long, lost-in-each-other weekends. I’m sure you can imagine the nature of life with a man who has full custody of his children from a previous relationship gives even a realistic woman a sense of romance deficiency, from the “I do’s”. Honeymoon Interrupted. But I knew this job was dangerous when I took it. I just don’t understand why we have to choose between healthy adult one-one-one time and our children’s well-being! I mean, this is my second marriage after all, and my ex had a son. So I had pretty good idea of the type of baggage I would be inheriting, right? (Yeah, and I totally ignored some warning signs because I truly believe I found my soulmate – but that’s another story). However, in our defense, we did take things slowly and dated for a couple years and tested the home environment together, before tying the noose, I mean, knot. But, in my loveblindedness I didn’t factor in the mental health, personality, and morality of the BM, that specter of a woman, which will inevitably undermine the structure and quality of the newly forming, beautifully fragile blended family. Picture the four of us grappling toward family attachment, all the while a jealous, untreated bipolar is taking pot-shots at us and using her children as dirty bombs.

Well, at least we did have some fun this morning going to breakfast at the dual-purpose greasy spoon/local news and weather center CNN (Country News Network) and this afternoon we tested out MM’s new Nikon D40X SLR. We’re practically snowed in, he couldn’t get to work, both snow shovels are broken, all the snowblowers in town are sold, and well, screw it! We need to exploit anytime we get to just fuck off together. Below is one of the shots we took on the way home from TrueValue.

Till next time,
AM (Acting Mother, or, SWEN – She Who Earns the Name)