Every Rose....

Let me first state that I am not interested in having another baby. No, really, I'm not interested. I know I'm 32, and now's the time if ever, but I'm not even THINKING about another baby.

Except, that I am.

I'm serious when I say both of those things. How crazy is that? I'm torn. On one hand, I would love to have a child with my beautiful partner. Would love to see his face in a child that came from me. On that same hand, I would love to be at least one of the women in the world with whom he had the experience of fatherhood. Sometimes it hurts, the disconnect between his and mine. Because there is one. Not one that is so large it causes resentment or anything like that, but it's there.

On the other hand, I could do without contributing further to the overpopulation of the planet, without the two years of donating my body to another being. The endless marathon you run as a mother. Going through all of it again sounds just.... well...

But, maybe it all seems so alluring because 1) every woman within 100 yards of my partnership is pregnant or has recently given birth - and there are a few of them, and 2) it's impossible.

That's right. My boy is snipped. For better or for worse. So, is this a case of a rose having thorns, or sour grapes? Up until recently, I thought the snipping was for the very much better. But now, I'm not sure what I feel except slightly nauseous. I know that I wouldn't want another child with anyone but C - which he can't do. It's like The Gift of the Magi with no heartwrenching gift. Just emptiness.

Did you choose not to have a child with your partner? If so, why not, and have you ever questioned your decision?

The MamaTrip

My three year old is driving me crazy.

Overemotional.
Tattletale.
Crybaby.
Clingy.
Cheeky.
Sassy.

It's gone from the occasional sassy that's somewhat cute, to full-blown obnoxious. "CB, don't touch the sanitary napkin trashcan!" said in a theater bathroom elicits a melt-down of epic proportions. Simple requests for picking up after herself are met with deaf ears and cheeky glances (so you know she does hear you). Everything is a reason for her to melt-down. H took her chair, she doesn't WANT to pick up her room, R won't let her use the computer, she can't have more milk.

So, I went dictator on her tiny little person.

Not ACCEPTABLE! Not COOL! Not HAPPENING! Time OUT! No STORIES!

I heard echoes of my father's authoritarian approach and my mother's hysteria. And, after I put her to bed, I cried my eyes out from exhaustion and frustration at having to be a hard-case. It's the hardest part of parenting, I think. The part where you have to draw a hard line and then figure out your strategy and stay consistent despite exhaustion and wanting to just give in to get a little peace and quiet.

You want it to be effective without harming their burgeoning personalities. You want them to understand appropriate from inappropriate and differentiate between respect and disrespect without breaking their spirits.

And, in the process, sometimes this little person breaks your spirit and your heart all at once...

Then, in the morning, you go in to wake up this child, still bracing for terrific frustration, your shoulders standing sentry at your ears, your abdomen taut, body in battle formation.

What you find is an angel there, where the demon went to sleep. And the angel is loving and snuggly and kissing you all over the face, telling you she loves you. The angel is docile and sweet and simply gorgeous and your heart overflows, and the walls of frustration melt into rainbows like you were on some kind of massive acid trip.

And, that's how I'd sum up motherhood, at least today.

A really effed up acid trip... but it's happy acid...the kind you'd drop again next week.

My Boys

C's kids are my boys. I didn't give birth to them, but through circumstance and their sheer awesomeness I have grown so attached that my heart couldn't possibly grow any bigger to accommodate more love. Except that it does. Every day. They break my heart with their sweetness and sometimes they just plain break my heart.

The frustrating thing about being a stepmother, a member of the "tribal village" or a "vital parental figure" to a child not of your womb is that you get the full-body joy and pain of raising children - NOW with added boundaries! An already difficult road is made muddy, sometimes.

Being a mother myself, and having the shoe on the other foot with a former lover and his wife, I'm very sensitive to this. I don't want to be called a stepmother because of my own sensitivity to the back-end of that word. I am lucky in the fact that C and I share our perspective on this and our view on the collaborative aspect of his children and my child vs. the weight of responsibility is very similar. We are letting this family grow in the way that is right for us.

But.

(There is always a but.)

When things go awry (or things go awry in the other house that makes up the world of your family) you are stuck with biting your tongue till it bleeds, as LOM so rightly put it, ages and ages ago. And that is tough. You have to live with the decisions that are made, but aside from discussions with your partner half of the equation, you cannot control the outcome.

I was thinking about this frustration and my diplomatically expressed opinions about these precious souls for whom I feel so deeply, and it made me think: Perhaps this will be good preparation for surrendering to the helplessness of loving these children when they are adolescents and adults.

To learn to love fierce and well without control or agenda. That must be valuable! Oh, the difficult and varied avalanche of gifts the road less taken heaps upon your soul.

growing

So, looking through all the old photos and videos, I saw CB and R and H grow up before my eyes all time-lapsey. I heard the bass notes start to enter R's timbre. I laughed with tears in my eyes at Charlotte's stilted language. I saw H grow inches.

I thought of how fleeting this time in their lives is. And, how much we've all grown together. This is the second year I've given my little buccaneers Valentine's gifts. I was surprised at how sweet it was to do something for the second time. Usually, I'm more blown away by the firsts.

Two nights ago, two small boys came one after the other into the kitchen for a big hug and a kiss goodnight. "Oh!" I said, startled before settling into a grin that ran the width of my face. C walked in a couple of seconds later and saw me surrounded by small arms, my lips buried in shaggy hair and he had the same reaction I did. "Oh!"

It was a first. Not the first time I've given them hugs and kisses goodnight. But, the first time that I was not the initiator. They wanted me. They sought my arms.

There is a sweetness to the repetition of new traditions, and a sweetness to the adventures into new frontiers of family-ness. It is the beauty of watching growing things, including my own ever expanding love.

...but she's ours!

We arrived home from our big weekend in Chicago with CB in tow, fresh from her stay with her Dad, his wife M and his whole family for a week. When I say fresh, I mean it the same way my mother used to say "Don't use that fresh tone with me, young lady." She's fresh, alright. Freshly spoilt. It's to be expected. But, dealing with it isn't a rose garden.

Getting your child back from their other parent is a double edged sword as with so many things in loving your child. On one hand you feel complete, an aching hole is filled, the world is brighter. On the other, your head feels like it is in a vice with the constant whining, jokes you don't find funny (but the child's other biological half clearly did) and the general exhaustion that can strike anytime, but seems to strike harder when you've had a week of peace and quiet.

I've done this before, so I know that my patience runs thin that first week, despite my joy at having my girl back. When my mother asked if she and my dad could take CB for the weekend right after she returned, I didn't hesitate with my "yes."

My sister KW decided to come out from Philly for an impromptu visit and take CB up to my parents' house for them, a day early. Monday night, sitting around the dinner table, I mentioned KW's visit and CB's subsequent departure. Much to my surprise, H got indignant. "So, CB is going away AGAIN?" he asked. I said yes. His voice went up two octaves and he said "But, we just got her back -and now she's going to leave again?!" I explained that my parents hadn't seen her at Christmas. He went on: "But, she's ours! She should be here with us, not going everywhere else!"

H's indignant response was music to my ears. So is the way he'll quietly take CB under his wing and teach her things, or the way he'll patiently play Candy Land with a two year old who has the attention span of a gnat because he sees the value of teaching her to love board games, knowing that it's an investment in years of beating her at chess. For my part, I think she'll give him a run for his money.