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...
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