My step-son is getting married next fall.
At the ripe old age of twenty-one.
To the girl he's been dating since he was fifteen.
A stable sort, my step-son. A good boy man.

Their marriage will probably be fine. Two worthy, if unimaginative, sorts doing what is right and necessary day by day, with enough good will and mutual respect to keep it going in a companionable way. For years. They may not be burning up the world with passion, but they're solid, kindly, grounded.

I am dreading the wedding.

Just dreading it.

Where shall I start?

With the ex-wife's alcoholic dad? No, not likely to be a problem, since when he's in his cups he (reputably, I've never met the man) gets quiet.

Unlike the ex-wife's mother, who, when in her cups gets loud and aggressive. Usually the aggression is directed against her husband. (Hence his quiet retreat to the friendly haze of alcohol, one surmises.)

Though of course, knowing the conservative bent of the happy couple, the reception could well be dry. Where will that leave them?

With the ex-wife? Maybe. She's been known to go off the deep end at weddings, but since she's recently remarried and, so we hear, very happy, perhaps her general good feeling about life will translate to good behaviour. It may, however, translate to too much bonhomie -- barbed, of course -- directed our way. This has been known to happen, and it is not comfortable. She is a woman who, if I saw her on a bus, I'd sit as far from as possible, fearing the possibility of a loud an inappropriate conversation.

She usually delivers.

So there's that.

It could be the ex-wife's SIL, who hates, hates, hates my husband. Because he was supposed to be a failure, and he didn't fail. Instead, by her standards, she did. Unhappy marriage, stalled career, no publications, no children. And she, like all the womenfolk in her family, is loud and aggressive.

Then there's the ex-wife's brother, who, unlike his dad, gets loud and aggressive when in his cups.

There's my eldest step-daughter, who has very little control over her tongue or her temper. Less when she's drunk. Which is mostly. She also hates her dad. We're not quite sure why. Even her siblings are not sure why. Apparently, he 'ruined her life'. Her ruined life has nothing to do with the alcohol, or course, nor of her chronic abuse of her mild-mannered boyfriend. (Verbal, emotional, and physical. She's a big girl.) When she's angry, which is mostly when she's drunk (which is mostly), she is not just loud, she SCREAMS. She can be heard blocks away.

God, I hope it's a dry reception!

And all those people? The ones who like being angry, who rage and scream, make barbed comments, delight in unkindnesses small and large?

They loathe my husband, for divorcing their daughter/sister/mother. Even though it's been 15 years. Even though she's much happier now. Because they like to have someone to loathe. Pouring contempt on people is fun, fun, fun.

And me? They've never met me, but I hear, through the endlessly un-self-censored grapevine of my step-children, that they hate me. They're curious about the bitch "he" ended up with, the one who (despite the year and a half gap) "broke up" their daughter/sister's "perfectly good" marriage.

Oh, goody.

"Bracing" does not begin to describe what I'll need to get through this ordeal.

god

Oh, dear.

There's stuff going on. Family stuff going on. Stuff that I'm not quite ready to write about. It's all too, too dreary and wearying right now, and I'm quite, quite sure I am not yet capable of making it entertaining in the very slightest.

It may never be entertaining.

Suffice it to say that some of my stepkids have revealed themselves to be not only insensitive, but among the most vicious and malicious people it has ever been my misfortune to have in my life.

You know how I've said before that, for all the small conflicts and stressors, we've been remarkably lucky with our teens, that we've never had the pure unadulterated hatefulness and hostility some parents experience?

I can't say that any more.

When was the last time I was so angry?

Hmmm... I'm not sure. I'm not a woman prone to anger. I don't really enjoy stewing in righteous rage, not, at least, as a way of life...

But tonight?

I'm furious.

Diva Daughter, the eldest stepdaughter ... you know, the one who has had NOTHING to do with us for over a year because we dared to suggest she might attend a family dinner without the boyfriend of three weeks attached to her hip? The one who, despite having lived with the boyfriend for six weeks (a whole three months after that conflict -- the girl was not letting any grass grow under her, er, feet) was NOT having sex with him? That step-daughter?

The other stepkids are with us for a couple of weeks. They are chatting at the dinner table. And they tell us such funny stories about that daughter. She's just so funny, that girl. She tells the funniest stories. Her favourites, it seems, told "hundreds of times" to all sorts of friends and family, revolve around conflicts I had with her middle sister. Conflicts which had me in tears, most often. One of which had me in tears on the floor, that's how much fun I was having.

I tried so very hard to make connections, to be a resource in their lives, but this particular child (a child who has, over intervening years, become quite a delight) had NO interest in a positive connection with me those first few years. This child was determined to be in conflict with me, and nothing, I gradually learned, was going to prevent her from doing so. Not promised treats, nor coaxing, nor firm discipline. It was a matter of loyalty. Mommy was queen, and thus, I had to be The Enemy. (Mommy said so.)

It was not a happy time for me. Eventually, after a more than a few heart-breaking episodes, I learned to disengage. Thus, instead of becoming the Crying Stepmother, I undoubtedly became the Remote and Evil Stepmother. I'd call that being caught between a rock and a hard place, me.

And now, years after the fact, years in which I have formed a good relationship with the formerly problematic middle daughter, years in which the eldest daughter turn nasty (to her dad; by then I'd learned to keep out of these things); turned nasty and eventually left, I learn that eldest stepdaughter has been using these long-ago, miserably unhappy episodes as opportunities for the spotlight, as comic anecdotes for the entertainment of (hostile to me) friends and family.

Just warms my heart, that does.

And her siblings? Her siblings are too STUPID AND INSENSITIVE to know that telling me of these stories, repeated many times down the years, to know that I have been the butt of malicious jokes and embarrassing stories, many times ("hundreds of times") over years, would be at all hurtful or embarrassing to me.

Gawdalmighty.

I held my tongue. I did not retaliate. I did not laugh, mind you, but I did not burst out with anything hurtful, either.

But I fantasize. I imagine telling an equally "funny" story about how my son's then 17-year-old friends would ask before coming over, "Is your step-sister going to be there? The fat one? Because if she is, I'll come another time. I don't really want to have my leg humped today."

Because a couple of years ago, the eldest step-daughter had some flirtation/hormonal issues, and was a serious embarrassment to herself. We tried to direct her away, gently, but subtlety was not her forte. So my son's friends,knowing what awaited, simply avoided the house when she was around, so intense and persistant was her desire to have their attention and desire.

But I did not say, "Oh, that's so funny! Hey, that's almost as funny as when D's friends wouldn't come around if his oversexed step-sister was likely to be in the house. Because they were afraid -- oh you'll love this -- that she'd be humping their legs! Yeah, they actually SAID that!!!"

Isn't that HYSTERICAL, kids? Just as funny, EVERY BIT as funny, as knowing I've been mocked and ridiculed by your BITCH of a sister for YEARS. Ha, ha, ha, fucking ha.

I didn't say that, because I am the grownup. Just barely, today.

And when might I expect THEM to grow up?

Gawdalmighty.

"LAURA!!! Laura, Geek Boy spat on your bra!"

Damn. I should have known that would happen. As you know, the girls are substantial. The cheap bras from Zellers are just not up to the job. Nope, I need the expensive (and, such a happy coincidence, very pretty) ones from La Vie. (See that beige one? I own that one. I also have the same one in black.) One does not toss such confections into the laundry with the sweatsocks and blue jeans. One coddles them. One lavishes TLC and Forever New upon them, and soaks them delicately in the bathroom sink, prior to pressing the water out gently and hanging them to dry over the bathroom rail.

And then one's youngest stepson spits frothy toothpaste foam onto them. Guess he didn't notice that sinkful of bubbles and lace an inch in front of his navel. Guess it didn't occur to his empty head to launch that gobful of sputum into the toilet rather than onto a hundred and some odd dollars' worth of lingerie.

Ugh.

Welcome to my summer.

Five extra children pile into our home for four out of the first six weeks of summer. Lazy summer days are a dream.

It's getting better, year by year. My eldest lives on her own now, and the next two children - my son, and Matthew's eldest - have jobs and are very autonomous. Matthew's daughter, Drama Girl, has lived up to her cognomen very well this year, and in a passionate flurry of "I HATE having parents and I'm NOT a child" (a very childish flurry, I might add), she has, at the age of 17, pretty much flounced out of both her parents' lives, and lives mostly with her boyfriend. Gawd help him.

(I keep out of these things. But do I miss her? Does her absence leave a gaping hole in the fabric of our lives? Not so's you'd notice. Even at her best, her energy level is well-described by the DSM, under "manic". The house is much calmer without her.)

Still, that leaves four teens in full-time residence, with another two who live here officially and make regular appearances.

Six. Teens. (Nineteen, eighteen, sixteen, fourteen, fourteen, and thirteen.)

For the most part, they are cheerful, easy-going, biddable. They don't party, they don't play music at ear-shattering levels (thank GOD for MP-3 players; if any ears are being shattered, at least they're being shattered privately), they don't drink, they don't do anything more illicit. (Or if they do, they're very, very discreet.)

So, I have little to complain about, right? No petty crime, no horrific rebellion, and, apart from Drama Girl, no significant conflict.

Just six teens. Which means 27 pairs of ENORMOUS shoes cluttering the small entry way at every moment of every day. We have a shoe rack that would fit about 21 pair. The shoe rack currently holds three pairs: my sandals, my runners, and Matthew's runners.

It means socks littering the house. (Yes, they're still doing that.) This weekend, setting a new record in sock-strewing, we even managed to leave a balled-up pair of dirty sweat socks on the NEIGHBOUR'S lawn.

Thankfully, I spotted them before the neighbour (I hope), and sent the offender out to collect them.

But, Ugh.

It means enormous amounts of food consumed. Which means food, food containers, and food consumption mechanisms also litter much of the house. (I might add here that my children keep food consumption to the dining room.)

It means six people in the house who can and do stay up far, far later than Matthew or me.

Which meant that last night we were woken at sometime after 11 - a good hour and a half after I went to bed - by a tap at the door, and a teen telling us there were ants in his bedroom.

No! Ants?!? In your BEDROOM? Could this have anything to do, anything at all, do you think, with the plates still littered with crumbs under your bed? The plates that I have repeatedly asked you NOT to bring into your room - because you'll get bugs???

And now, at eleven-something, he wants someone to leap out of bed and fix it for him? NOW?

Ugh.

It means no space to sit. This is a small house. I wander the house with a book and a cup of tea, looking for a spot to have a quiet read... two teens fill the two love seats in the living room to capacity. Two more lounge at the dining table. One is on the front porch. One is in the (sole) bathroom. I find myself holed out in my room for much of July and August...

Ugh.

I do love summers, really, I do. And I'll love them even more five years from now.

I do not understand my husband's ex.

She's ultra-religious. To church twice on a Sunday, and in various church groups through the week. Most of her friends are church folk. Now, no faith-bashing, Christian-mocking here. I consider myself a Christian. I was even 'born again' as a teenager, though my beliefs have changed a helluva lot since then.

The ex-wife is what Andrew Sullivan terms a 'Christianist'. She doesn't have much in the way of a genuine, vibrant, giving faith; she seems to have no Christian principles at all, certainly not in her dealing with people she doesn't like. (I am counted among that number.)

What she does have are a lot of Rules. (Rules which only really count when someone whose opinion she values is watching, mind you. Which does not include her ex, and certainly not me. However, it seems not to God either, who, one would think, is always watching...)

So. The Rules say, "No sex before marriage."

Which had been no problem for the eight or nine or so years following her divorce, because there were no takers for Her Bitchiness. Meantime, her ex (my sweetie) and I were shacked up without the blessings of Holy Matrimony. The self-righteousness that came our way via the children and various comments and emails for the first year or so were sickening in their moral superiority.

And then - wonder of wonders! - she found herself a boyfriend.

After two or three years of steady dating, they are still not having sex! We know, because the children assure us of this fact. Their mother has told them so. They are not having sex. Even when they go away for weekends together. Even though they spent an entire week at his cottage last summer. Imagine the self-control! Even though mom's boyfriend not a Christianist, even though they each have their own home, even though they have every other weekend child-free -- the relationship is platonic.

We don't argue, obviously. One doesn't undermine a parent to the children, and there'd be no point in it, anyway. They wouldn't believe us.

However, the mother does believe that sex before marriage is wrong. (Which justifies lying about it to one's children, because of course, lying isn't a sin...)

So, when her children get to be sexually mature, ready for dating, she of course impresses upon them the importance of modesty, caution, self-restraint.

Well, no. Those are Principles, and this is the Rule Lady.

I must explain for those who've just popped in for this one post. I am not opposed to adolescent, pre-marital sex, providing it's respectful, loving, and they take appropriate precautions. It makes me a bit nervous, of course, because teens are young and make stupid mistakes. But I don't think it's a sin. I don't think it's a moral evil. It's just sex.

So, the Rule Lady tells her kids:

1. Pre-marital sex is wrong.
2. Don't ever come home telling me you're pregnant, or the girlfriend is.

That's about it. Useful guidance for a teen who's sure he/she has met the love of their life, but is under legal marrying age, don't you think?

I understand all that, though. Despite the hypcrisy of her position, it's consistent with a life lived guided by Rules and other's opinions rather than by principles and internal integrity. I've seen lots and lots of people like her.

But here's the part I don't understand.

Her just-turned-seventeen-year-old daughter has a boyfriend. They've been going out three weeks or so. He's nineteen, a university student. With his own apartment. When she was out with him earlier this weekend, she phoned an hour after she was expected home, asking if she could spend the night. We said no.

(We refused because:
- we had hardly seen her all weekend, and a sleepover means we wouldn't see her till early afternoon the next day.
- we have not had a serious sex talk with her, and have no idea where she is on the subject.)

We've talked about sex and birth control with all our teens, of course, his and mine, but it hasn't gotten personal with this one yet. It's all been theoretical information, and she's poo-pooh'ed the possibility. Her expressed intention was to "save it for marriage". (Just like her mother!!!) Naive girls who think they "aren't that kind" are thus unprepared for the eventuality are the ones who end up pregnant. Duh. So, before she's allowed an overnight at the boyfriend's, we need to know she's prepared for the eventuality.

In the ensuing conversation, we discovered:

1. The girl has no curfew on weekends at mom's house. (We're not stupid; we double-checked this claim with the girl's mother.) The girl has NO curfew.

2. The girl has already spent at least one night at the boyfriend's house during a weekend with her mother. (We double-checked this one, too.) She has indeed spent an entire night with him.

So, we have a mother who believes pre-marital sex is wrong, who would offer no support if a pregnancy occured, who has not provided sex education, but who allows her teenage daughter to spend the night at her boyfriend.

What the HELL is she thinking?

The toilet paper is backwards on the spindle.

Backwards to the way I always put it, that is. I immediately lean forward to set it straight, to put it back properly, the way it's supposed to be. Then I hesitate.

I know what's happened, of course. If and when my own kids put the roll back on, not, lord only knows, that they by any means do this as a matter of course, but when they do, they put it on "right". So, what has happened is that one of the stepkids has replaced the roll, and put it "backwards". Except of course, to them it's not backwards; to them it's "normal", the "right way", it's been put back "properly".

I itch to correct it. This is my home, after all. Why shouldn't things be the way I prefer in my home?

Except that we, my husband and I, we want his kids to view our home as "home", too.

Not that this notion is in any way encouraged by their mother. In fact, we have been told point-blank that "It is not good for the children to believe they have more than one home. There (sic) home is with there (sic) mother." All their times with us are referred to, by the children as well as their mother, as "visits". At the beginning, when they said "home at dad's", they were firmly reprimanded by mother - solely in the interests of their mental health, of course. They have learned: the two houses between which they travel are "home" and "dad's house".

Still, the principle is important to me, and to their father. (When my children were travelling between the homes, they referred to both their dad's house and mine as "home". When speaking with me, their two houses are "home" and "home with dad". With their father, I assume, the names were parallel: "home" and "home with mom".)

No such egalitarian thinking is allowed by my stepkids' biomom, though. Thus, it is sorely tempting to say, "the hell with it. If it is not to be their 'home', then they'll have to behave as guests on their 'visits', and fit in to the way it's done here." Sorely tempting, and entirely reasonable.

My husband, however, has a principle: Do what you think is right regardless of the other person's response. (Or potential response.) He's a wise man.

So, although it irks me just a wee bit, I leave the roll as is. It's a small thing, this symbol. The children won't notice. To them, it's just normal. But I know that I've taken a stand for a principle that I believe is in their best interest. Because, whether mom likes it or not, this is one of their homes. Not their primary home, but certainly a home. A place where they have a bed, where they have clothes and belongings, where they can bring their friends.

A place where they can leave their mark.

I have claustrophobia.

It's not a sensible, neatly defined type of claustrophobia, either. Elevators? Mild uneasiness, nothing more. Closets? Not a problem at all. Teeny bathrooms in trains and planes? I can manage those, though I did get woozy the one time the latch stuck a bit. Vague intimations of fainting, firmly resisted. Caves? Well, I'll never, ever be able to manage a cave. However, these are not a frequent feature of urban life. All in all, you'd be justified in wondering how claustrophobia is an issue for me.

Would that claustrophobia were merely physical. Mine isn't, primarily. Mine's mostly psychological and auditory. Lucky me.

The Man’s kids are here and - surprise! - I’m feeling claustrophobic. It was not too bad initially - only Serious Dude, Gawky Girl, and Singing Girl were here to start, in addition to only one of mine, one being back to university and the other being off to a friend's cottage for the long weekend. (See Cast of Characters, below, if this is all too much for you. I'd understand if it were...) BigBald Boy is off to university - HURRAH! two down, six to go! - and Drama Girl was at a camp, expected back tomorrow.

The four children who are left are the quieter ones. They retreat to their rooms, leaving only a heap of shoes in the front hall as evidence of their passage. This causes a brief twinge, but is easily surmounted. I step over the shoes and out the door.

When The Man and I returned from our quiet coffee break at our favourite coffeeshop, Drama Girl had returned! She is home, and her humungo sleeping bag fills one loveseat; her mega-humungo duffel bag the other; a pillow in the armchair, and assorted other bits of camp detritus spread onto the floor. I feel the crowded-tension grip me between the shoulder-blades. Drama Girl herself is in a room upstairs, and from that room comes a wall of hyper-stimulated, sleep-deprived, over-excited SOUND*. It makes the head reel, it truly does. My tension-enhanced shoulder-blades cradle my ears. The noise, it creeps into every pore.

(*A wall, of, like sound? And it just keeps coming and coming and coming and she's all, like, "It was just so cool!" and her one sister is, like, "Yeah, wow!", and the other is, "No, really??", and we heard all about the games - so FUNNY!! - and the boys and the cabins - so COOL!! - and the boys and the meals and the boys - so FUNNY!!! - and the counsellors - so COOL!!!! - and the boys and the nonsense and the boys and the play and the boys. Oh, and the boysboysboysboysboys. Drama Girl does love her the boys. And it's all just so COOL! And so FUNNY!! The girl exudes goodwill and positive energy. In waves. Tidal waves. A veritable tsunami of good humour and hormones, she is.)

Then The Man, returning from dropping Little Guy off at a birthday party, comes home with a television.

(Aside: It was a sleepover party. When did we find this out? Well, just as The Man rang the doorbell of the party, Serious Dude says, "So, I'll see you tomorrow, dad." Dad expressed surprise. "Oh, didn't you know?" Well, no, son, I didn't. Do you see a sleeping bag? Pyjamas? A toothbrush? Oh. Serious Dude hadn't thought of that... Hostess opens the door to an apologetic dad and a request for a spare toothbrush. We know she understands, because she, too, has an eleven-year-old boy. But sheesh.)

So, the television: Not a new one, not even a functional one, but a 1950's vintage, sitting-on-its-four-legs HUGE television. It was cast off by the side of the road and it amused him. I can see the appeal. It’s so retro, so stolid. A piece of furniture rather than an appliance, encased in wood, durable and sound. And large. When he plugged it in, we discovered a white screen - not even snow! - on every channel.

“Well, that’s okay, sweetie." I says. "You can just run right down to Radio Shack and buy parts.” Bwah ha. I am so funny. I’ll bet there are TUBES in there. Ha.

He thinks maybe an artist friend would like it, or maybe the drama department of Drama Girl's high school. Meantime, amusing and clever and ironic though it may be, it has NOWHERE TO GO, and sits, squat and commanding, in the middle of my very small living room. I did mention the camp detritus everywhere? So now we have camp stuff on every chair, and this immense television smack dab in the middle of the floor.

Where am I now? At the dining room table. It’s not like there’s any space in the living room. Oh, but I have to sit at the far end of the table, because for some totally random reason, Stepkids' BioMom has been sorting her pictures and has sent over some photos. Not framed, not in books, just loose - piled in bags, tumbled into boxes, literally hundreds of them, going back years. Most of them are poor quality, blurred and ill-framed snaps of long-forgotten events and places. None are dated. The Man figures it’s probably her way to process BigBald Son's heading off to university. Oh. Thanks. Let me just budge up to the far end of my dining room so I may accommodate your therapy. Gah.

The bodies, the bags and boxes and volume and giggles. I feel myself getting smaller and smaller, more and more compressed and compacted and intruded upon and crowded. I’m crowded, crowded, crowded... sigh... Why does this make me want to run out, get drunk and rowdy, maybe have sex with a stranger? Nah. What I really want to do is run away from home until it's all over - like when the kids have all grown up and left home - in about another seven or eight years. Because I cannot breathe in my home. There is simply not enough air.

Failing any of the above, I went for a walk by the river, that solace to my frazzled psyche. Watched the wind ripple the water, breathed deep and thought good thoughts. Remembered how lucky I am that they are all good kids, that they get along, that their teachers like them, they go to bed when asked, no tattoos, no exotic piercings, their taste in music not excessively inane. Take more deep breaths and enjoy the space, the quiet, the beauty. Let it seep into my soul.

Go back home. Drama Girl has gone off with friends, Serious Dude is at his sleepover, the other girls watch television (the actual small one that works) in the basement. The house is quiet.

Bung the camp detritus into the back porch with the rat.

Feel much better.



Cast of Characters for this post are my stepchildren:

BigBaldBoy, 18
Drama Girl, 16
Gawky Girl, 15
Singing Girl, 13
Serious Dude, 11

And, peripheral to this post, my own:
Zoe, 20, back to university in another city
Daniel, 17,
and Bekah, 13.