Redefining love - 2011

Summer holidays and plenty of time to think has brought me back to my rants in 2011 with a fresh approach.  

 

I have stated more than adequately that there are multiple challenges facing a step parent. I have indulged in my fair share of self pity and blame-laying and moaning - much to the amusement of many of you - however now it is time to get down to the real purpose of the rants. The scene has been set, the foundations laid, the problems identified. 

Now to start sorting the whole darn mess out. Slice by slice!

The key to understanding a person, I believe, is to really get to know them. What makes them tick, what are their favourite things, what are they afraid of, who do they admire, what do they want to do with their life? 

How do we get to know a person better? Spend time with them, observe them, chat and listen.

Sounds easy enough. 

So what are the obstacles to this process of getting to know someone, or entering someone’s world?

Aside from the everyday distractions of being tired, busy or working, what springs to my mind is a term I learned when I attended the Landmark Forum about 100 years ago - it’s a phenomenon called ‘Already, Always Listening’ (AAL). This pertains to the way in which we view our reality and daily events. It suggests that our perception is filtered and/or obscured by our previous experience which therefore renders our vision of current circumstances subjective rather than objective. This in turn profoundly affects our relationships and situations we find ourselves in on a daily basis. We are responding to immediate circumstances based on beliefs formed by our recent and/or long-term history. This AAL model really makes a lot of sense, and to free myself from the albatross step parenting has become for me would certainly make life here in the country a whole dang lot betterer!  

So, while I will still tell it like it is...I will also be solving each situation as it arises. I will not be completely overwhelmed, frustrated, devastated and phenomenally irritated. I have put the boarding school literature away in a (easily accessible) drawer; I have unbookmarked the adoption agency page in the phone book, and I have taken the pins out of the blonde, blue-eyed doll stashed in the bitch box...I will endeavour to understand, feel compassion, rise above, and lead the way constructively when the red rag that represents my stepson’s idiosyncrasies is waved in front of me. I no longer consider Gordon’s to be my best friend, and finally I resolve to only water the flowers, not the weeds! 

Wish me luck - and watch this space! 

P.S. I must confess that the stepson has been away for the week at his grandparents...I am feeling calm and having increasing moments of clarity...long may it last...oh flowers - not weeds...flowers...flowers...

Taking it up the arse on a trip to town

This is an old story, but one that really defies belief and must be shared if we step parents are to unravel the mysteries of step parenting and god-dam-it, support each other!!! 

One of my stepson’s mates had recently had a birthday party which my stepson couldn’t attend as we were away that weekend. So one Saturday arvo we grabbed this mate and headed to Hastings; destination - the golden arches of course...I know, I know...but it’s all about the playground! Have you ever slithered around in those glowing tunnels - it’s the closest us humans will ever get to being a red blood cell...

Anyway, great excitement was had by the two brats as they ordered their Crappy Meals and selected seating close to the entrance of the artery-like playground. Much debate followed about whether to consume their French fries before heading off to the primary-coloured wonderland, or whether to disembowel their cheese burgers first...I fled to the urbane ‘wing’ of the establishment and ordered my third flat white for the day...desperately looking forward to the drive home when I could swing by a liquor store and grab a medicinal Gordons!

Now I must point out that excitement and anticipation were already off the scale during the trip up to town; remember that the nutritional content of what we had fueled these kids on was hovering somewhere between the goodness obtained from a bag of sugar and a cardboard box; remember that my stepson is loud, bossy, controlling, dominating, excitable, inappropriate and rude...(as I write this I can read the collective minds of you all...why would we take him to such an establishment...read on...NEVER AGAIN...)

Sitting opposite us, just beside the entrance to the playground, was a gracious-looking middle-aged lady with a sweet little girl who I presumed was her grand-daughter. The lady seemed very protective and doting of the wee girl, and there was a sadness emanating from them that put me of a mind that perhaps some tragedy had befallen the family, maybe the child had recently been orphaned...

The disquieting backdrop to this stirring scene was the antics of my stepson and his mate through the non-sound-proof glass wall. Their booming volume and thoughtless clowning around caused the eyes of all our fellow diners to flicker in a disturbed manner between the playground high jinks and our food-slathered table where my partner and I sat like lambs to the slaughter.

I was overwhelmed with the urge to declare loudly that the child’s defective gene pool was nothing to with me but decided against it in order to support my partner and experience that delicious solidarity that couples madly in love are swathed in...

My partner promptly announced that he was heading outside for a cigarette, won’t be long darling. 10 minutes stretched to 20 - and I know damn well that a fag takes 8 minutes to smoke! The devil-spawn and his mate were now harassing the lovely lady and the girl - trying to get the lass to ‘play’ with them.  My appeals to ‘shhhhhh’, and ‘don’t do that’ and ‘come here’ (or I will fucking wring your neck...), were to no avail. These brats had gained so much momentum they weren’t going to be allayed by my feigned calmness and authority. I was well out of my depth. Where the hell was my partner???

With the boys clearly approaching the zenith of their high-jinks, I finally had had enough. The humiliation was coursing through my veins and threatening to blow my mind. Not only had I had too much caffeine I was also battling that blend of rage and panic you experience when you are wondering where someone is, but unsure if some ill-fate has befallen them. Surely lung cancer doesn’t strike that fast???

I nervously gathered up the brats and their uneaten crap and headed out to the car park where I found my partner mucking about in the boot of the car wrapping a parcel that we were to drop at the couriers. Through clenched teeth I inquired as to what the beep beeping beepity beebing beeb he was doing. Oh god, he replied. I was so embarrassed by the childrens behavior in there; I just had to get away from it, and couldn’t come back in...

Thank god for Gordons...

Making assumptions

So, God help me, I made an assumption yesterday! 

It was relatively minor, but none-the-less my skewed perception of things was enough to kill any passion that night...and got me a lecture of sorts about putting two and two together and getting 55. 

I don’t know if it is just because we live so remotely and have minimal human contact, but my partner and I do seem to have a very intense relationship; we both want to be the boss, and well, as everyone knows – there is only space for one at the top... 

My partner is traditional, ‘old school’; the man wears the pants and the Mrs (yeah me and Madonna have had to bear this title...) does what she is told... meanwhile I am an independent career woman, who only had one child for very valid reasons. I prefer to have a cleaning lady rather than change my disheveled interior decorating expertise and I most certainly have never been subservient. 

So this is all gets quite interesting when I start dissecting the series of incidents and thought processes that led to my assumption-making faux pas. As I started exploring the ins and outs of assumption-making I came across a very wise chap, thanks to the internet, by the name of Don Miguel Ruiz – and I must say that I found great comfort in the fact that it seems pretty much everybody is guilty of these fantastical imaginings. Ruiz say’s and I quote “Don’t make assumptions - Find the courage to ask questions and to express what you really want. Communicate with others as clearly as you can to avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama. With just this one agreement, you can completely transform your life.” Ruiz puts forward that one of the reasons we make assumptions is because we are fearful of asking questions. 

I like his philosophy, and it further got me thinking about what has possibly happened to me here in the country. Have I become an apprehensive shadow of my former self? Could I now list acquiescence as one of my foremost personality traits? Or was this merely a justifiable case of the speed-wobbles as I attempt to morph into someone’s Mrs...?

More words from Ruiz – “If you don’t understand something, it is better for you to ask and be clear, instead of making an assumption.  The day you stop making assumptions you will communicate cleanly and clearly, free of emotional poison.  Without making assumptions your word becomes impeccable.”

Eeeeew - emotional poison. Sounds toxic, but does kind of ring true eh? I do find myself squirming uncomfortably (as I am sure many of you are too) while I expose this blatant flaw in my character. To think that what goes through my mind and eventually comes out of my mouth has its origins in 40-something years of emotional poison is enough to send me fleeing to the comfort and warmth of my bed to pull the covers over my head in order to really think things through.  

My mind commenced a frantic whirling sequence as I realised that this assumption-making characteristic is also intertwined with the Rose-coloured glasses trend, the Vulcan tendencies of the step-parent, and the necessity for me to ‘take it up the arse.’ Confronting ones propensity to assumption-making means being conscious every second of every day to the fact that other people just don’t see the world as we do. Ruiz’ advice to ask questions when we are unsure suddenly sounded like a wearisome and limitless commission. My stepson asks why, why, why a million times daily, and it sure as hell wasn’t helping us ‘avoid misunderstandings, sadness and drama.’

Indeed this an interesting topic, and one I do need to gain some clarity about if I am to get a cuddle tonight. I think I shall make like a Carmelite for now – quietly contemplate my emotional poison and keep my gob shut!

Oh and cling to this pearl of wisdom...’the only correct assumption, is that your initial assumption may be incorrect’.  Love it!

Redefining love

It’s all very well to repeatedly pass comment on the world according to Leisa, but from time to time one must look in the mirror and...well...reflect! So, I reluctantly need to confess that, in a similar vein to my partners donning of rose-coloured glasses, I am probably guilty of sporting a pair of shit-coloured ones of my own. 

Without a doubt, this unpleasant shortcoming is the fault of my parents. They spoiled me rotten; gave me and my sisters the most perfect kiwi upbringing imaginable - we were treated like three little princesses and hence, we developed into pampered brats...the upshot of which is that I have a difficult time when things don’t pan out as I imagined, desired or anticipated.  

Needless to say, on a daily basis here on the farm, roughly 98% of events don’t swing in my favour. This is due to many, many variables, not the least of which is my partner’s rose-coloured glasses issue – there’s nothing wrong with his son... my shit-coloured glasses issue – everything is wrong with your son...and the fact that both of us will often take the path of least resistance in order to keep the peace and prevent a full-blown (almost) 8 year old tantrum. Compromise is now my middle name and resentment is my closest companion... I even bought myself a jewelled tiara for princess-moment purposes and while my house mates found this amusing and kind of cute, they didn’t kiss my feet, or lay the red carpet. 

Now dinner time in our house can be a real circus (I most certainly will elaborate about these ruckus’ in another blog...), and this is fuelled by the fact that I am finicky about table manners and other rituals that go along with meal times. These include coming to the table when it is announced that dinner is served, not eating like a pig, not answering the phone if it rings during a meal, and abso-bloody-lutely no farting at the table. It is fair to say that dining with me has been a learning curve for my stepson (bearing in mind I don my shit-coloured glasses as we sit down to eat), and to his credit he does try hard most of the time. This does not, however, eliminate frequent indigestion-inducing mealtimes in our house! 

After a particularly acid-forming feast one evening, I was emailing a dear friend in Wellington, bemoaning my plight and stating in very base language that this step-parenting thing just wasn’t getting any easier. In fact, it was steadily becoming untenable. The rewards were negligible and the tax was high. I am sure that my excess of anger and bitterness at this time were palpable in the living room where my stepson and partner were sitting,  and indeed, I truly felt that my heart was slowly turning to ice...

I was abruptly jolted from my malevolent messaging by the penetrating call of my stepson from the couch – "Leissssssa, Leissssssa..." he sprayed. "I love you!" Toothless grin.

Now I have had a few experiences in my life that could count as instant karma. Divine retribution. Universal lessons that just had to be delivered by a lightning bolt; but this one really clocked me fair and square between the eyes! Clearly the ‘powers that be’ intended to smash my shit-coloured glasses. Mission accomplished. My humility was complete. 

With my ‘vision’ now unobscured, I, for pretty much the first time (the school concert did alert me to comparable feelings), had a glimpse into the mysteries of successful and authentic step-parenting. The adoration and tenderness I had felt for my own son as he was growing up (and indeed still do) was to be my spring-board for redefining love for a child in the context of step parenting. While the path leading to genuine affection and the deep well of maternal feelings was vastly more convoluted with my stepson, it was apparently still there . Waiting patiently.

My stepson it seemed, was going to show me the way. Bless.

Sunday morning

I am still in the process of attempting to get my head around my partner’s hereditary RC glasses trend, and therefore I am undertaking lots of background reading on the topic. For this reason I decided not to continue my pontificating from the previous two blogs just yet...but alas, denial did rear its exasperating head in our house again this morning, and I feel the need to get this conversation off my chest. 

My partner and I were having one of those yummy Sunday morning chilled-out pillow-chats in bed; lightly dissecting our life together, reminiscing about the halcyon-days when we realised we were first falling in love; and having a chuckle over my ‘list’ of attributes that my perfect man was ideally to possess. Remember, (from my first blog), I had put out to the universe (I had recently come into possession of the book de jour – The Secret ) that he was to have a child...my thinking being that men with kids tend to be more evolved than those without...we agreed that while the fundamental requests of my list were most certainly met, there was clearly justification for ensuring any future wish-lists were 2000% more thorough and precise...the small print ladies and gentlemen, the small print!  

My partner shows me no quarter when I bemoan the fact that our life together is dictated by the limitations of his son’s conduct and our lack of extended family support, which respectively impose upon our enjoyment of family outings, and on our social and private life as a couple – not to mention both of our mental health!!! The fact that we have the little tyke full-time, the fact that he is young (I didn’t specify an age for my perfect mans kid to be...I recommend...18 years upwards to any women contemplating step parenthood...), the fact that he is hyperactive, the fact that he can be rude and cheeky and demanding and in your face 24/7 – all these variables that I just didn’t consider when conjuring up a life with my dream guy. The fact that I get no sympathy doesn’t, however, stop me bringing the topic up. And this morning I was having a moment of exceptional clarity...really the situation couldn’t be any worse from my point of view. It is more than any woman should have to cope with. Mother Teresa, at a push, would have relished the role, while the rest of us flee to the local library and bring home books about demanding children with (not so) subtle titles such as ‘Only a Mother could love him’, or ‘Should I medicate my Child?’ 

This morning my darling partner, listened to my commentary – which was tinged with a particular flavour of self-pity as we had spent some time yesterday with friends who have what I term ‘normal’ children, and responded with the following...

He (the tyke, hellion, skulk, little shit – you know who I mean), was the perfect specimen of a human off-spring. He is physically strong, fast, agile, cute looking (blonde hair, blue eyes – Hitler would have been very proud...). A true ‘hunter’; were he a caveman he would be head of the clan... I really can’t say out loud where my thoughts drifted off to with this comment...except that I plan on heading out to the hills later today to look for large holes in rock faces...

Yes, my stepson does possess all the above attributes, but the reality is that he is a bit like eating a perfectly ripe, chilled watermelon in the blazing heat of summer–the first bite is delicious; until you encounter all those goddam pips...and then the enduring question is...does one swallow them, or spit them out...

For more info on the 'hunter' justification, see a book called The Edison gene...certainly can give parents of 'busy' children a positive slant on a bit of bad fortune...

Rose-coloured glasses - part two (warning; contains foul language...)

So there I was earnestly expressing my concerns about the aberrant behaviour of his son, and really being pretty flaming reasonable considering the circumstances, when my partner blithely informs me that he thinks I am over-reacting. WTF??? Wham!!! That freight train feeling again...!!!

I kind of gasped in a breath of air, and shot him a quick glance – surely he was jesting; trying to lighten things up a bit. Any moment now he was going to take me in his arms and whisper that we could go and visit the adoption agency tomorrow...

But no... out of the blue the entire room took on a hazy pinkish tinge, pigs flew in their dozens past the window and my partner looked me fair and square in the eye (well as fair and square as is possible with 2 foot thick rose coloured (RC) glasses on...), and stated that I shouldn’t leave my prized possessions laying about, unsupervised in the car. I was informed that what he thought most likely had happened was that the little fucking darling (gag!) had been ‘fiddling’ with my treasure, accidently broken it, freaked out and as a consequence of this had stashed the various bits of my treasure in his bedroom.

Oh, oh, yes, yes that’s without doubt what happened...of course it was; that’s just the way the kid explained it too, only with different words and an entirely different meaning. How bloody dim-witted of me to not be able to see the ‘hidden’ message, the plea for mercy and understanding, the blatant and repeated bashing of my compassion/empathy button from the little fucking darling (gag!).

Good lord give me strength (or 10 tequila slammers!), the complexity of the dynamics at play in our house was farrrrrrr farrrrrrr worse than I ever thought. I was seized by sporadic and asphyxiating sensations of having stumbled upon some type of child-worshiping cult. Zombies whose belief systems were based on a deluded, rose coloured perception that my stepson was a deity of some kind who was to be, cloistered, revered and frankly mollycoddled.

I need to give a bit of background here because I sense that this RC glasses phenomenon (read...DENIAL phenomenon) is perhaps the key to the convoluted process of forming a ‘blended family’; the very DNA, as it were, of how my partner and I are going to construct our family and our life together. Delusion and denial are powerful psychological disturbances. They can be insidious, which I believe is the case in our house, and with my partner’s family. Denial seems to be rampant, and while the collusion is unspoken, it is most certainly consensual. Be afraid newcomer, be very afraid...

So, some background...

My first real glimpse of the magnitude of the RC glasses phenomenon within my new family was, and this is a bit of a sensitive topic, during one of my partners mum’s visits to stay with us. I had in my possession a rather descriptive and not altogether flattering report/assessment from my stepson’s school. It outlined behaviours and incidents that, to put it bluntly, wouldn’t be acceptable on the America’s Hardest Prison’s TV show. I must admit that I felt kind of vindicated by this report. For the past several months I had felt as though I had fallen into a whirl pool – well it’s all there written in my early rants. So, in a kind of disturbed, frustrated, desperate and, in hindsight, naive way, I was looking for support and solutions from this close and caring family member.

Once again, I have to say that it didn’t go well. In summary...and take heed future stepmothers...it just is not a good look to sit opposite your new mother in law, who has just cooked a magnificent dinner for you, and force her to listen to your over-zealous, alcohol-fuelled diatribe (which, cringe, necessitated dodging random blobs of flying spittle), as you try and get her to acknowledge the possibility that her adored, and only, grandson has a future career as a psychopath...enough said!

Now while I will happily accept oh...75-80% of the responsibility for this regrettable exchange, my mother in laws overall tone of justification, defensiveness and minimalisation of the contents of the report - before she hastily left the table to escape my haranguing - afforded me a foreboding glimpse into the unyielding and closed ranks mentality that was rallied around my stepson...

I had to ask myself, do I really want to go swimming with the piranhas’? The answer it seems, is yes!

Ain’t love grand!

Rose-coloured glasses - part one

I have (well had) a gorgeous, and quite elaborate, necklace that had a darling picture of cherubs on a pendant decorated with light blue and clear shiny crystals and a few more shiny bits on a neat vintage-looking chain. The whole ensemble was striking, and indeed I inevitability received compliments about the necklace each time I wore it. It would not be an exaggeration to say that this was my favorite adornment.

Now, from time to time, I will sometimes grab some jewelery, clothing accessories or makeup on my way out of the house in order to finish getting dressed in the car. I have confessed in an earlier blog to pathological lateness, so I have these rituals that serve me and my tardiness well. Ha! Update; they used to serve me well. That is until I became stepmother to a child with no boundaries and very little respect for other people’s belongings...let me explain...

Over a period of several weeks I had wondered, both quietly to myself, and out loud to whoever the hell was listening, that I couldn’t find my cherub necklace. This perturbed me as I relied on the striking loveliness of it to give me that je ne sais quoi that is sometimes needed in your early forties...or if you are having a bad hair day. Nobody it seemed knew a thing about my treasure, and eventually its absence would slip to the back of my mind once more, and that was that.

UNTIL one day my partner and I were cleaning out my stepson’s bedroom, and what do I find under the bed, in pieces, with bits broken off it, but my missing jewelery. Despite feeling as though I had been hit by a freight train I managed to, well ask probably isn’t the apt term, but I managed to gurgle out some words that sounded a bit like what the blankity blank blank blank blankity blank blank is this doing here? To which my stepson, eyes incandescent like an electrified gargoyle, replied “you were mean to me so I broke your necklace.”

Holy hell fire and smoke signals from Satan. I had to leave the room. I had to stomp, sob, and scream away my desire to strangle the vindictive little skulk. This was the darkest moment in my step parenting career.

I do need to clarify that while my stepson and I are not joined at the hip, heart, bellybutton, or any other part of our anatomy or spirit quite yet, we are slowly forming a bond and learning to understand each other. His definition of 'you were being mean to me' generally relates to the fact that he objects furiously to the boundaries I bring to his existence (this has been touched upon in previous blogs...). However, for the most part, when we are alone together, we have a comfortable appreciation of each other and indeed some lovely times which are peppered with moments of genuine affection and fun.

When I had regained my composure I told my stepson how upset and hurt I was. He seemed genuinely remorseful, and really, we just had to leave it at that for now. I did, however, speak to my partner about how serious I felt this incident was. I was concerned at the conniving processes behind such an action. I was a bit worried about what this child could be capable of as he grew older, meaner, stronger and more deviant...HERE ENTERS THE PHENOMENON OF THE ROSE-COLOURED GLASSES! Freight train number two for the day! What planet are these people from???

This, and a bit more, I shall elaborate on and delve into tomorrow...and the next day, and probably the next...it is a theme that defines our daily lives here on the farm and without a doubt, has a strong genetic component...

Taking it up the arse

I can normally see the funny side to most situations. An exaggerated sense of the ridiculous has saved my liver from having to break down many years worth of anti-depressant medications, I am thankful for that! But...my current predicament, I am sad to say, has left me bereft of a wise-crack.

I was tossed a rather bewildering challenge over the weekend. It seems that if I wish to place boundaries and limits on acceptable behaviours for my stepson, then I am to enforce and manage this myself. My partner and I have different standards, shall we say, of what is tolerable conduct from the child, and what is not. And my partner does not wish to exert any more effort than he already does in order to deal with the daily goings on. Now in my liberal, live and let live mind I believe his stance to be fair enough. His prerogative. He is the child’s dad and all that...HOWEVER there is this niggling kind of agitating kind of ever-present shrieking voice inside me that is strongly urging me to run in the opposite direction – which obviously, if this were ever going to be an option, I would have done it two years ago - however, my primal hind brain still thinks this situation reeks of a setup, and my body feels as though I have been kicked in the guts and no-one is here to help me back on my feet. A bit dramatic perhaps? I am not sure. We live very remotely, we have one vehicle that is off the road at present (my lovely, comfy old beemer), which leaves us only my partners 4WD and an enormous motorbike that I can’t handle when it’s balanced by its stand, let alone ride the damn thing – as modes of transport/escape. Is the picture becoming clear? All this amounts to being trapped with a small tyrant, oh and a very large one too! It really is no laughing matter...

I should also add at this point that things have changed a bit in our house. My partner’s current job requires him to leave the house at 7am each morning, and return home late afternoon, early evening. This leaves me in sole charge of the hellion on a daily basis. A situation that has both positive, and negative aspects to it. On a positive note, this one-on-one time is certainly great for establishing wee routines (not my strong point), getting to know my stepson better and means that I don’t have to worry about my partner looking over my shoulder, or listening to all our interactions every second of the day. However, this one-on-one time also brings very much to the fore patterns and habits and behaviours of my stepson that just aren’t acceptable to me. Answering back and arguing continually. Mucking about and not following instructions...I mean it’s not as though the routine every school morning varies very much! I find that I am up to my neck in parenting this child. A child who is difficult on a good day, and lucky to be alive on a bad one! It seems that if I really want to make a difference here, I am going to have to take it up the arse and do it on my own. Or buy some rose-tinted glasses...or antidepressants...gasp!

I’m off now – need to find my funny bone!