For Cathy and Sassy

I have spent some time recently, thinking about my stepmother and wondering about her experience as the new mommy of a three year-old. It never seemed odd having an extra-parent and I never questioned the dynamics of my unique situation. But after ten years of being a mother myself, I am starting to grasp the strangeness of an extra daughter. I told a friend that children are like drunk midgets and not to worry because the condition might not be permanent. But I forget that I worked my way into that stage, building up a tolerance and maybe even encouraging that freak-show circus of the preschool years. I didn’t get tossed into that pit of alligators……….I jumped in. (Sorry Sass)

I suppose she wasn’t much more than nineteen when I met her, but I doubt that I concerned myself with her age. Most three year-olds tend not to get themselves involved with the mortality of others, focusing mainly on the world in front of them like goldfish and suffering from three minute memories. Like goldfish, preschoolers unknowingly move throughout their day in a state of Aquatic Alzheimer’s – Children live a life every ninety seconds –

I wonder what she thought about dating a twenty three year-old guy, who already had a daughter and an ex-wife. I assume it would be overwhelming, finally breaking away from your own mother and then becoming one all in the course of a summer. A long time ago, I asked my mom if my stepmother’s place in my father’s life bothered her in any way? Assuming there would be some sort of condemnation, I was surprised and comforted by my mother’s honest reply. She said, "I was never so happy to anyone, as I was to see your stepmother. When she came into your life and into your father’s life, I knew she would keep you both safe."

It seems twenty three year-old men and three year-old girls are nearly the same age in the common sense department.

So what if Dad lets me swim MN lakes in April? Who cares where we crash, hitch-hike or camp for the weekend? Why should it matter if a fight brakes out in Dad’s frat house and some drunk co-ed drops a glass full of whiskey into my bathwater? What’s the big deal if the glass breaks into a thousand shards as it toasts the ceramic tub on it’s way to my naked (and soapy) butt. It’s not a big deal if dad goes to his 9am class and leaves Jon Belushi to babysit his toddler. And everyone knows that Cracker Jacks mixed with pepper, the contents of an ashtray, stale beer and dish-soap are likely to have some nutritional value. (By the way ….they also start on fire by themselves.) Who cares if I walk around in my Dad’s t-shirts, talk around the clock like a miniature ginned-up hobo who can’t find a comb or a toothbrush.

I suppose I should have been upset when my stepmother came along with her crazy ideas like, hypothermia is bad and children need structure. Maybe I should have rebelled against her theory that weekends of brawling, glass-diving and bomb making might be dangerous, especially when the babysitter has a blood alcohol level of .38 I probably should have submarined her for constantly insisting on regular bedtimes, healthy vegetables and adult supervision, but I didn’t. By the time I was three I was sick of partying, and I was ready for the quiet life of G-rated movies, Sunday trips to the zoo and normalcy. I liked knowing that the mother in charge of me on weekends had the full approval and confidence of my weekday warden. My mothers couldn’t be more different, and there were times when I felt like I lived on two planets, but it was always made clear that I was the common ground and ultimate goal.

It’s very important that kids understand this………it makes everything else stay put.

The Good News

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So yes Virgina, children are insane and their antics appear to be the tragic result of a head injury, but eventually it all works itself out.

I don’t remember what the nail polished couch even looked like anymore. The ant poison dried remarkably quick and I’m typing this entry from the very same computer. I never saw the stupid woman who believed Little Scholar’s tales about bears eating kids again. The cat was eaten by coyotes, thereby making his tail seem quite minor. As a whole, they were just little adjustments….I sewed more curtains, found a math tutor and quit taking her to church so often. At least she didn’t try to burn down St. Cloud State University while making herself breakfast.

There were days, when I felt like I was riding a psychotic horse towards a burning barn, but then I realized the horse wasn’t as stupid as he looked and I began trusting in his innate sense of self preservation-

Go Well