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!

Oh NO!!! I'm an Emo...

Today I decided to cowboy the fuck up.

I don’t know which queue I was in when the powers that be were handing out the tough, resilient, never-say-die genes. I know I got my fair share of brain cells as I was able to be relatively lazy with my studies but still get good grades; fast muscle cell twitch allowed me a measure of fame due to my swift sprinting ability; I am almost always the life of the party (that combination of good looks and quick wit never fails...), and when I put my mind to it I can cook up a good feed and have even been known to produce an edible pavlova (the REAL measure of a successful woman!!!)

However, I appear to be spectacularly deficient in the balls department. That is not to say I can’t negotiate my way out of a tricky situation, stick up for myself and anyone else in need of protection, argue proficiently, or be a right bitch at times, but the automatic ‘tragedy’ button in my brain seems to be triggered at the merest hint of trouble. To say my coping mechanisms are disabled is an understatement.

I have pondered long and hard about this phenomenon. My two younger sisters aren’t complete wimps like me, so does this mean that my individual genetic makeup is responsible for my character, or was I parented differently from them? There is interesting research about birth order dynamics, and to some degree this offers an explanation about my character. There is the dethroning of the first born when the next child comes along; there is the inexperience of the parents with the first child; there is the fact that the first child takes their cues from adults, while the younger kids look to the older sibling/s as role models. Feeling that they never measure up to the adults can lead to low self-esteem and self doubt in some first born children. It’s all very interesting and to be honest, it is sometimes comforting to pin your multiple neuroses on some logical and evidence-based explanations.

So how does all this waffle tie in with my Politically Incorrect Guide to Step Parenting? Well the fact is that my partner’s nick-name in his family is The Grinch. The Grinch swats wimps in the same manner one goes at a persistent mosquito. And likewise, after being shunned or scorned or ridiculed for my emotionality, I find myself vanquishing the desire to commit violent crimes upon his tyrannical person! It is difficult to imagine that this man wasn't raised by the devil himself such is his capacity for cruelty and spite. The rule in our house is 'no tears unless there's blood!' Thank god I am still menstruating...

Now while the Buddhists tell us that in order to attain nirvana reincarnation will continue until we have learned all our lessons, one has to question when exactly do we draw the line between struggling on in order to learn these lessons, and when do we say enough is enough. To what degree do we as individuals compromise our sanity and happiness in the hope of reaching enlightenment? Or am I approaching this all arse about face?

One of my favourite quotes (enter Buddhism again)... is

"There is no way to happiness. Happiness is the way.
There is no way to peace. Peace is the way.
There is no way to enlightenment. Enlightenment is the way."

When I think about these words, I find myself having an ‘ah-ha’ moment. An epiphany. At last I can finally cowboy the fuck up! I am not supposed to run from my lessons and challenges. I don’t accomplish anything by whingeing about my situation and wishing things were different. Lessons are everywhere and constant and perfect. I need to embrace them, stop pushing against the laws of nature and the universe, and most importantly, getting frustrated with myself, and my living situation. Mental peace and inner harmony are more forceful than any stern words and scowling face.

Q. How do I know I have cowboyed the fuck up?

A. I feel stronger already!