praying – Sweat & Sparkle

I was raised Catholic, and my mom was deeply religious, so this week has me thinking of her even more than ever. I remember coloring Easter eggs at the dining room table with my brothers, that food coloring mixed with vinegar, so that to this day, the smell of vinegar reminds me of coloring eggs. She showed me how to use a white crayon to draw a design on the egg shell before dipping it, and I marveled at my artwork appearing like magic on the colored egg (usually purple, my favorite color).

I remember her hiding our Easter baskets in the house so that we had to hunt for them, laughing and searching behind the couch, in cabinets, everywhere we suspected a basket full of chocolate bunnies and jelly beans might be stashed out of sight, while she watched and offered hints as needed.

And, of course, I remember going to church, wearing my best dress for Easter Sunday, my typically rowdy hair brushed into submission and my legs peppered with mosquito bites, scrapes, and Band-Aids. I can still perfectly picture that tiny church, sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows, the waxy smell of candles in the air, the smooth, dark wood of the pews. On Easter Sunday, those pews would be filled with pastel pinks and blues and yellows, colors of spring and hope and new growth.

I drifted away from attending church as I got older, and I know that disappointed my mom. But her influence never completely left me, and much more of it stayed with me than she ever suspected. Most people might be surprised to know that I begin each morning with a prayer for all of my loved ones: my husband, the kids, my brothers. I say thanks for all that we have and for us finding each other. My husband is, beyond a doubt, the greatest blessing of my life, and I do believe that something beyond fate led us to each other.

This Easter Sunday, I won’t be sitting down on the footstool in the living room for my father to brush the knots out of my hair, and I won’t be grumbling under my breath as I tug a lacy, frilly dress over my head. I won’t load up in the car with my brothers, and I won’t sit next to my mom at church, listening to her sing, resting my head against her shoulder and smelling her light perfume.

But I will still celebrate Easter, in my own way. I will still think of my mom, my dad, and that tiny church. I will reach out to my brothers, try to connect over so many miles in between us. I will reflect on Easter and its significance and its meaning in my life. And I will say my silent prayers, say thank you for my husband, and be grateful that I will spend the day with someone I love so dearly.

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.