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.
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