Month: December 2021

Surprise

After a very busy day at work yesterday — not a bad day, just extremely hectic — I was happy to slide into my car and head for home. Our home is my retreat, my sanctuary, and I couldn’t wait to get there.

Then I remembered I had to swing by the grocery store. Dang it! Oh well. The list wasn’t very long. Soon I had grocery bags loaded in the car and was finally heading home.

When I walked in the front door, I instantly noticed three things:

  1. The house smelled divine.
  2. There was an awful lot of ruckus and activity in the kitchen.
  3. My cat was mere seconds away from imminent death by starvation, despite two previous meals that day, and he made sure I knew, without a doubt, just how hungry he was, loudly and repeatedly.

I dropped the grocery bags on the dining room table and wandered into the kitchen, followed by my howling cat. My husband was cooking up a storm. A loaf of Italian bread waited on a cutting board, and pots and pans steamed on the stovetop.

I had mentioned recently, while we were watching some cooking show, how much I love lobster bisque. My husband tucked away that piece of information, then did some shopping and got to work last night. When he called me to the table, there was a bowl of homemade lobster bisque, a small plate of toasted bread, and even a glass of wine waiting for me.

Funny thing is, neither of us drinks wine, so we laughed as we tasted it, made a face, then tried it again, thinking maybe it was an acquired taste, only to make a face again. That’s all right. The lobster bisque was delicious, and I have enough left over to pack in my lunch for a day or two.

It was such a beautiful surprise. I like that he was thinking about me to plan the dinner. I like that he paid attention to my passing comment about a TV show. I am touched that he spent so much time researching a recipe, shopping, and then cooking all of it and adding his own special touches.

My husband doesn’t like seafood, so he didn’t even get to eat any of it. He laughed and said he couldn’t taste-test as he was cooking, because he thinks lobster tastes disgusting. Well, I can assure him that it turned out great.

The day’s hectic pace quickly faded away, and I just felt so special and loved that I had to write about it. I will be smiling when I heat up my lobster bisque for lunch today!

Happy Birthday!

Today is a special day for me: it is my husband’s birthday. He always says it’s just another day, but it really isn’t. Not to me.

When I first met my husband, I thought he was unnaturally loud. That actually hasn’t changed much, but I suppose I am just used to it by now! He is booming, tall, boisterous, hard to miss. You won’t be in the same room with him and not know it.

He jokes that he thought I was stuck-up when we first met, because I was so quiet, but honestly, I was overwhelmed. I had just officially sworn off men after a dreadful relationship, and here came this guy, funny as hell, who had the sweetest way of looking so happy if he could make me laugh. I didn’t know what to think or what to do: how could I run away when I just wanted to get closer? (That sounds like the tag line on a bad romance novel, doesn’t it? But it is how I felt.)

Maybe it’s not a coincidence we both met each other after the most disastrous, unsatisfying, and pestilent relationships of our lives. We had both more than earned the right to finally be happy, that’s for sure!

We share many traits: being brutally honest. An irreverent sense of humor. Loud laughter. Impatience. Loyalty. We make up silly nicknames for each other and tease each other mercilessly. But when I need soft words and gentle arms, he is always there for me.

I am grateful that I met my husband and that we share our lives together. His birthday most certainly is not “just another day”. I woke him up by singing “Happy Birthday” as he blinked groggily and smiled sleepily, so I am not certain he even remembers that part. Given the quality of my singing, it might be for the best if he doesn’t.

I have colorfully-wrapped presents hidden in the closet for him after we get home from work. And even though he says I don’t need to make a fuss, I would like to take him out for dinner, too.

He doesn’t give himself enough credit, so I will. He is my best friend, my lover, my partner in crime, my goofy accomplice, my everything. He is a huge smartass, matching my every sarcastic comment, laughing at his own jokes just as hard as I do. But he also has the biggest, most loving, and giving heart of anyone I have ever known. I have seen him pull over to help a turtle cross the street. I have watched him turn into a big marshmallow with the kids. And I have fallen into his arms and immediately felt safe, protected, and loved.

Happy birthday to my husband! I am looking forward to heading home this afternoon to celebrate his day with him and help him feel as special and loved as he always should.

Closure

I did a lot of thinking this weekend. I believe in truly understanding myself, my feelings, and clawing to the root of a problem instead of settling for what is often just a trivial top coat.

One thing I never anticipated about being a stepparent is that it gets substantially more difficult as the kids get older. I naively expected them to automatically surge forward, shape their own lives, and shed the straitjackets forced onto them during an abnormally chaotic childhood.

I assumed that is they want to do. Who wouldn’t? That is where I went wrong. I could not live under the suffocating thumb of malfunctioning individuals. I would be itching to heave their oppressive weight from my shoulders, spread my wings, and fly as high as I could.

The kids are not me. They will react, respond, and make choices based on what they are comfortable with, where they want to be, what they are willing to accept from themselves and others.

That has been my struggle: expecting the kids to want better for themselves, to hold higher expectations for themselves and for others, to fight to rise above the behaviors modeled for them all these years, and I am completely bewildered when that is not the reality.

I am not writing this to put down my stepchildren. I love them. I do not support all of their decisions, because I feel that they are selling themselves short, but I do finally understand that they are hesitant to unfurl wings that were discouraged and disparaged, by people they should have been able to trust, for as long as they can remember. They have grown up with unquestioned norms that inflict immeasurable wounds, but for them, that is simply the way it is.

I get it. It’s more comfortable, more familiar, for them to stay under that smothering rock, to be told what to think, to continue what they have learned and what they know best: lying, sneakiness, dependency, dysfunction. It’s sad, but I do see where it comes from. It would be hard not to.

Of course I expect them to rise above that, to want to be better than that…because I want better than that for them.

I don’t give them a free pass for accepting such low standards. Two of them have graduated high school and can no longer blame anyone, no matter how toxic, for the status of their lives. Where they are and who they are now is completely up to them, no matter how much they wish to foist responsibility onto anyone else.

I recently read (about narcissistic mothers), “Without proper healing, the child will pick up where the parent left off, by self sabotaging.” That made me sad. Yes, that is what seems to be happening with three of my stepchildren: they have not been given (and have not pursued) the opportunity to honestly face their upbringing, deal with it, heal, and move on in a healthier manner. Their self-sabotage is blatant to anyone who understands the situation without blinders. The fact that it doesn’t appear to be obvious to them makes me worry even more about them, the damage inflicted on them by others, and the denial of any problem that means they will not seek a healthier, saner path.

I can’t fix this for them. My husband and I have taught, coached, lectured, demonstrated, explained, modeled — have done everything but perform interpretative dance — to help them grow and learn and want better than the hand they were dealt by people who have ultimately failed them. We have counteracted as best we could with the limited time we had.

As they get older, it becomes more and more their own responsibility to direct and steer their lives. Watching them make choices that restrict, hinder, and obstruct their own growth and happiness is nothing short of heartbreaking. It can only considered a victory by those who self-servingly stifled them in the first place.

Part of a child’s maturation process involves the parents growing and learning as well. I know it is time to let go of that steering wheel for some of my stepchildren, even if I don’t support the direction they are heading. I have offered the best guidance, advice, and instruction that I could. What they do with it from here is up to them. If they choose to follow the footsteps of the same ones who deliberately shattered their wings, I cannot fathom it or condone it, but I refuse to hurt myself by taking responsibility for their crippling decisions.

I wish them the best. I pray for the best for all of them. I will always love them. Maybe someday they will wish for better, will stand up, and will strike their own path, and finally be truly happy.

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