Catching Up

After a month of fighting some strange bug that began as a sore throat, morphed into serious lack of voice (which, of course, my students loved), then transformed into coughing fits that wouldn't let me catch my breath, I recovered just in time to have my reconstruction surgery on the 18th. (By recovered, I mean stopped coughing enough that my gorgeous plastic surgeon wasn't worried that I'd rip out my stitches--I'm still having trouble breathing normally and get winded really fast, like one flight of stairs fast.)

All of that is my way of explaining why I have failed to keep my goal of posting at least every two weeks.

So, this will be a short, transitional post as I continue to mull on how to edit a topic rolling around in my brain that could easily become a chapter in a book rather than a 500-word blog entry.

Let's talk about my gorgeous plastic surgeon, Dr. G. Last spring we discovered that the lump in my left breast, which we had been monitoring for a couple of years, had metastasized. Given my past history with Hodgkin's Disease and radiation therapy, the likelihood of another tumor beginning in the right breast later on was quite high, so Hubs and I agreed to take the aggressive, preventative measure of a double mastectomy, with immediate reconstruction.

Now, if you've read any of my posts at all, you know I am currently obsessed with Darren Criss (of Glee! fame and People magazines' Sexiest Men issue). Imagine my amazement when Darren's doppelganger walked into the exam room and introduced himself as my plastic surgeon. He's a little bit taller, a little more refined than Darren, but the dark curls, amazing eyes, infectious smile--yup, they are all there. Hubs even has a bit of a man-crush on him. This is a man who can pull off a blue-and-white-striped seersucker suit (I didn't even think they still made them)! At my last appointment he was wearing corduroy pants and a tweed jacket--all perfectly color coordinated.  Sigh.

I remember briefly coming out of the anesthesia after the mastectomy. Dr G. had done the closing because, after the other surgeon removed the breast tissue, he placed the tissue expanders that would prepare the chest for permanent implants later on. I heard his voice before he left the room, then I heard the surgical nurses comment about how "dreamy" he always looked. I swear, they said "dreamy."

You can understand, then, that these doctor appointments are actually bright spots on my calendar. Because of complications and an infection that developed on the left side last spring, I had to have that expander taken out and spent the summer lopsided. Surgery two weeks ago was to put in a new expander and begin the process of stretching muscle to make room for an implant. I can now look forward to seeing Dr. G. every two weeks for a few months, and then again for the surgery to replace the expanders with the permanent implants.

Combine all that with actually seeing Darren Criss on Broadway in 44 days, and 2012 is already shaping up to be a fantastic year.

(Yes, this is a short entry. I might be constitutionally incapable of saying anything in fewer than 500 words.)

Missed Opportunity

One afternoon last spring, I received a flurry of text messages from my sons’ step-mom. Seems a neighborhood girl had found her mom’s Victoria’s Secret catalogue in the mail and was showing it around. B. was one of the boys who looked at it. How step-mom (G.) found out is beyond me, but my ex was out of town and she wanted me to talk to B. about what he had done wrong.

If only she knew the kinds of sex-talks I have had with my boys.

I caught that opportunity to help him be more comfortable with his sexuality. Of course, I asked him about the catalogue, about why he hadn’t told me when he was supposed to, and about what made G. upset. Then I asked him, “Did you think you were doing anything wrong when you looked at it?” He said no, and I agreed.  We discussed why I thought it was perfectly normal for him to want to look at the pictures and that I did not share G’s thinking that he needed to be punished.

Thanks to Glee, (Because, really, you knew it was going to be mentioned somehow, didn’t you?) I’ve had another important opportunity: to discuss homosexuality. We’ve talked about what it means to be homosexual and defined “gay” and “lesbian” because those questions came up as the boys watched some episodes with me. (Their dad and step-mom don’t like the show. Imagine that.) Kurt and Blaine and Santana are characters who are gay. This doesn’t mean the actors are. Once B. had mulled over that idea, he asked about it being weird for a straight actor to play a gay character; specifically, he wondered how Darren-as-Blaine felt about kissing Chris-as-Kurt. While we talked about the difference between acting and reality, we also discussed attraction, and how some people are born to be attracted to the opposite sex, some to the same sex. We even discussed bi-sexuality a little, but by then he had a lot to process.

In a later conversation, we talked about why his grandparents do not feel the same way about homosexuality.

These are the opportunities I seized and believe I handled well. The boys know almost no subject is taboo with me. In fact after my mastectomy last year, B. asked if I still had nipples (although he wasn’t quite as direct).

So, I’ve been doing my best to raise an enlightened, tolerant child comfortable with sexuality.

Then, last weekend, I blew it.

As I was driving the boys home after a weekend with me, they started ranking music artists. They decided that Pink and Kelly Clarkson and Adele were definitely influential; Brittany Spears was yesterday’s news (did I mention they are precocious and funny?). For the male artists, they chose Usher, Eminem, and some others; then, J. mentioned Justin Bieber. J. defended his choice by saying that while he doesn’t like Bieber, as a musician Bieber is important. B. just declared “He’s gay.”

I was in shock. My initial reaction was to ask why B. thought that and to remind him that Beiber dates Selena Gomez (B.’s first celebrity crush). B. told me many kids in his school were saying it; one had even supposedly read it in an interview. I lectured B. about the danger of spreading gossip and saying mean things about people without truth, but then the conversation moved on.

What I should have asked him is “Why does that matter?” By suggesting that calling Justin Beiber “gay” was an insult, I just completely reinforced the notion that homosexuality is bad. I can’t believe I undercut all of my previous lessons. I don’t want him to become one of those kids who mutters “that’s gay” about anything he doesn’t like or with which he doesn’t agree. Sure, this probably won’t destroy all I’ve done, but it makes me aware that I still have a long way to go myself. 

Over-identify Much?

I promise this isn’t going to become an all-Glee all the time blog—but right now the show is on my mind a lot and is often a source of conversation between me and B. (which will be another post about having a dialogue about sex with your 10-year old son). So, if you hate Glee, come back later for another post. If, however, you are interested in figuring out how this middle-class, heterosexual, 40-year old woman over-identifies with a wealthy, homosexual, 17-year old male character, grab a cup of coffee and curl up. This is going to be a long post.

Some background might be in order. Last season Glee introduced Blaine Anderson, the lead vocalist for a competing glee club. He was confident, charismatic, and hot. By the end of the season he had become the romantic interest for Kurt, one of the central original characters. They seemed to be on equal footing, although Kurt is far more outgoing in all aspects of his personality (not just in that he is the more stereotypically gay). On stage Blaine exudes control and commands the spotlight; off stage he seems happy to fade into the background and openly admires Kurt’s individuality. Blaine avoids conflict and tries to please people; Kurt refuses to be cowed by anyone.

(Of course, all that is how I interpret the characters. If you wade into online fandom, you’ll find myriad other views. But this is my blog, so my interpretation.)

This season Blaine transferred from his school to Kurt’s. Now, instead of being the uncontested star of the choir and surrounded by peers who almost idolize him, Blaine is low man in a group filled with competing egos. His attempts to work with others are shot down by a co-captain who feels jealous of Blaine’s talent. Even worse, another group member uses Blaine as a scapegoat for her attempts at sabotaging the group. Blaine has gone from hero to *almost* zero in the show choir hierarchy. From what we’ve seen in the show, Kurt is Blaine’s only friend in the glee club.  

Shift scene to my life six years ago. Shortly after separating from my husband of 11 years, I joined Match.com and met an awesome man. Then I did exactly what one is not supposed to do after a divorce and jumped into another serious relationship. A few months after the divorce was final, I packed up and moved 200 miles to be with this man. (Spoiler: it all works out and we’re married now.) I gave up a good job, a new house, and custody to my children.

At first, it worked wonderfully. My new job was invigorating. I was still teaching high school but now working with juniors and seniors instead of freshmen. My Principal gave me free-reign in revising the curriculum and adding an AP course, finding money for almost any request I made. It was teacher nirvana, and my professional and personal confidence were at all time highs.

Then, a job opened up closer to home (I had been driving 90 miles round trip). Combined with the knowledge that enrollment was falling at my current school, this opportunity seemed too good to pass up, so I decided to interview for and take the new job. Worst decision ever.

The Principal at my new school was practically antagonistic toward change and toward the idea of challenging students. Although I was still working with upperclassmen, these students had slid by their first three years with little effort. They found it hard to believe when they discovered that an assignment done at the last minute was not deserving of an A, or even a C. As in any situation, some relished the opportunity to really learn and be pushed, but most resented the level of my expectations and what it was doing to their G.P.A.s

So, professionally I was beating my head against a brick wall. On top of that, I cut my hair. Short. I can’t explain what this did to my personal confidence, except to say that nothing has made me feel less feminine or attractive—not even my double mastectomy last spring. Like Sampson lost his physical strength when Delilah cut his hair, I lost my sense of sexuality when I cut my hair.

All this threw the balance of power and respect out of whack in my relationship with Hubs. I was completely dependent on him to affirm my worth as a teacher and as a woman. That kind of dependency just isn’t healthy for either party in the relationship.

At this point he began texting and instant-messaging an old flame from college, and I began looking for job openings closer to my kids. We would work things out for a while, but then grow apart again. After six months of this, I told him I was moving out. Best decision ever.

When I reasserted my independence—moving out, dating (younger men)—I restored the balance. Our separation didn’t last long, but we both learned a lot about ourselves and each other and what we needed in a relationship.

Cut back to Glee. I see Kurt as Hubs, possessing an in-your-face je ne sais quoi that draws people to him. I am Blaine, uncomfortable with conflict, outgoing when in my element.

In the most recent episode, after Kurt complimented Blaine’s performance in the school play and said he was proud to be with Blaine, Blaine replied, “I hope so. I want you to be,” with a quiver in his voice that made me ache for him. I don’t want Blaine to need Kurt’s approval so badly. Even more, I don’t want Blaine to doubt that he deserves this approval.

I miss the self-assured Blaine of last season, and I hope the writers bring him back soon. Until they do, I’ll never be totally comfortable with this fictional relationship because I’ll be seeing myself at one of my lowest points and completely over-reacting.

Evil Step-Mothers

Hollywood has rediscovered fairy tales. While I’m excited to see Once Upon a Time and Grimm, I can’t help but think about how fairy tales treat families. Ever notice how fathers are generally absent, leaving the children behind in the wilderness, or, worse, present but under the influence of an evil step-mother?

Now, I know that in the realm of archetypes and psychology (and, frankly, natural instinct) the evil step-mother type makes sense. Mothers are instinctively going to be more protective of their biological offspring. But as the “nuclear family” is continually redefined, I’d like to think that we’ve actually outgrown some childhood stories.

Then my step-daughters hide a basket of laundry in their closet rather than finish the chore or admit that they didn’t finish the chore.

Yes, on occasion I’ve been the evil step-mother. Following the hidden laundry basket incident, I aired our dirty laundry on Facebook (the pun just could not be ignored). I wanted all their family members to know how irresponsible they had been.

Did it get the laundry done? Nope. It didn’t even motivate them to finish their laundry the next weekend.

Did it make me feel better? I have to be honest; it did a little.

I keep thinking that if they were my children they would have been more responsible, but that is a fallacy. My boys have to be told to do a task multiple times before it actually gets done. Truth be told, they are more likely to talk back or question my instructions than Hubs'.

The problem with being a step-parent is finding the discipline boundaries. I can joke around with my step-children; when I’m treating them like my students our relationship is great. Thanks to me the girls love Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and I even have one considering my alma mater for college (Augustana).

But I can’t undo the lessons of their real mother or father. Their cleaning habits will never be the same as mine, and they are accustomed to no one following up to see if they have done their chores.

All of this makes me respect my sons’ step-mother even more. Her parenting style is about as far from mine as Rush Limbaugh is from Bill Mahr, but she is consistent in how she parents all her kids. She was a single parent of one before marrying my ex, and, for reasons I won’t go into, could never have more children. My boys, she told me, are her “bonus children”; she’s told them the same thing. At all their events, she is taking pictures and preparing their scrapbooks.

(We won’t talk about my photo-taking lapses or lack of interest in scrapbooks; I’m happy to share that parenting duty with someone else.)

So maybe Snow White’s step-mother was tired of Snow White borrowing her cosmetics and hair products. And maybe Cinderella’s step-mother had washed one too many loads of laundry. Sadly, they both missed out on the blessing of “bonus children.” Which makes me believe maybe we can learn something from the old fairy tales after all. 

It's Daisy Duke's Fault

When my ex and I first separated, I made several poor financial decisions. Within two weeks of his asking for the divorce, I was in the process of buying a house. At the time this seemed empowering. He earned almost three times as much as I did, so to demonstrate that my income and credit rating qualified for a mortgage felt like a necessity. By the first of October (we had the conversation Labor Day weekend), I was signing papers and packing boxes. 

Looking back, I wish someone had told me to take some time and rent for a while. I bought the house in 2005. Less than a year later I was moving out of town. Remember the housing market in 2006? Yeah, I didn’t sell the house for almost two years and eventually had to settle for a short sale, which ravished my credit rating.

As much as I regret the decision to buy a house, I don’t regret my other incredibly bad financial decision: I traded in a one-year-old, paid-for car on a new Jeep Wrangler. I took on a car loan and really poor fuel mileage, but also fulfilled a life-long dream.

Remember The Dukes of Hazard? I am convinced my obsession with Jeeps is Daisy Duke’s fault. One of the few female characters I remember from childhood, Daisy embodied sex appeal and sass. She could keep up with the boys, charm the bad guys, rock the short-shorts, and drive a manual transmission. I begged my dad all through high school to buy me a jeep. Not happening.

During the early stages of our dating, Hubs and I went looking for a new truck for him. He was set on buying a Dodge Ram, and Dodge dealers are typically Jeep dealers also. After I mentioned my thwarted dream, Hubs said he thought owning a Jeep would be fun. Finally, someone who didn’t think I was out of my mind. That little bit of encouragement was all I needed; a month or so later I was in a 2006, school-bus-yellow, extended length Jeep Wrangler.

My boys, two and five at the time, called the Jeep my “super hero” car. In this bad-ass contraption I felt as sexy and powerful as Daisy Duke, and it must have shown. While I was cleaning the Jeep at a car wash, a biker-type older man began flirting with me. This was not a normal experience for me. At all.

Another unexpected benefit of owning the Jeep was the “cred” it gave me when I began teaching in a rural school. Just as my tattoos had impressed my urban students, my Jeep with 30-inch off-road tires wowed the truck-driving country boys.

Unfortunately, the equation of 15 miles-per-gallon times $4 a gallon times 1,500 miles a month equaled more than I could afford. My gas expense was as great as most people’s car payments. Hard as it was, I realized I had to “cut my losses” and make a more practical purchase.

That was almost five years ago. My heart breaks a little every time I see a Jeep, especially a yellow one. While Hubs plots for the day he will be able to invest in a classic muscle car, like a GTO, I have no such desire. Nope, no sports cars—old or new—for me. When my children are grown and I have discretionary income again (yeah, right), I’ll be looking for Jeep and heading out mudding. 

Fourteen Again

I have a list of topics more directly related to parenting (being a step-mom, Sunday junior football, etc), and this post will eventually get to parenting (I promise), but first it is going to meander through my “perpetual adolescence.”

**wow, I absolutely would not let a student begin an essay like that**

Over the years I have learned that I have a tendency toward obsessive behavior. When my VCR (remember those?) died during a weekend marathon of Babylon 5, I had to run out to buy a new one. During the fourth season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I developed a fan-crush on Marc Blucas and spent the infamous Y2K watching anything he had acted in (Buffy, Eddie, Pleasantville). That was 10 years ago, and since then I’ve been fairly ambivalent about T.V. and the idea of celebrity in general. Too many reality T.V. “celebrities” becoming famous for absolutely nothing has disillusioned me. (One more topic to add to my list.)

Then, Darren Criss appeared on my screen. Those of you who already know of my Glee love might not realize it didn’t start until a second season episode called “Never Been Kissed.” Criss’s charisma mesmerized me, and I’ve been fourteen again ever since.

I’ve joined on-line forums, I’ve spent hours watching youtube videos of a Harry Potter parody and Darren Criss concert footage, I have my sons singing his song “Status Quo,” and I have now planned my first trip to New York to see him perform in a Broadway musical (112 days and counting as I write this).

Now, I would be lying if I said this fascination was only due to his immense talent—the young man is easy on the eyes, but I was 16 when he was born (the year of first boyfriend, first breakup, first battle with cancer) and have no desire to be a cougar. Truthfully, though, I am elated to see someone achieving the status of “celebrity” and actually deserving it. He plays several instruments well--including the violin which, yeah, I’m impressed—writes songs that stick in my head, sings and performs with amazing energy, and by all accounts is still humble about it. Just trying to write about him has me running out of adjectives.

So, I wonder—and this is where we get back to parenting—how does one raise a child like this? I want to sit down with his mom and dad and take copious notes. Some of it must be nature; no amount of vocal training could make me a singer, not in my genetics. Fan accounts describe him as an Energizer Bunny. That can’t be taught either.

But, how did his parents cultivate this genius? Does this mean I have to re-think my laid-back parenting approach? And how do I do this over every-other weekend and seven weeks in the summer? I’ve had one small success: After all my not-so-subtle suggestions this summer, B. has joined band. The boy (mine, not Darren, although he has great moves too) can dance like crazy and both my boys sing pretty well, so I keep showing them selected parts of Glee and planting the idea of joining show choir in high school (football in the fall, track in the spring, and show choir in-between). Unlike the world of Glee, show choir is a big deal in the Midwestern town where they live with dad.

This post has gotten long, so thank you if you’re still reading. I’m at a loss as to how to close because this topic isn’t finished. I’ve got to keep working on all my kids and instilling this philosophy (courtesy of Darren Criss): “There is nothing more badass than being yourself.”

(Actually, my favorite Criss quote came from an interview where he was asked what he looked for in a woman and he responded: “Vocabulary. You want to wake up next to smart.” Where was he when I was in college? Oh, yeah, pre-school. Damn.)

Changing Course

I have decided that I may need to change my original intent for this blog, as many of the thoughts and feelings I've felt tempted to share are not the sort of things I want my sons to read someday. Perhaps I'll need to create a separate "kid-friendly" version for them.

While taking a walk a few weeks ago (a glorious, guilt-free, hour-long walk with no concerns about what was happening at home because summer was over and my boys were back with their dad), I had an uncomfortable epiphany: I am one of those people who doesn't want to grow up. Now, I don't mean I want to be a teen again--although having my 20s back knowing what I know now about my own talents and sexuality would be nice, but that's another post. No, I realized that I don't like being responsible for anyone else.

I should have known this about myself. I've always been a bit of an introvert, and I never was a joiner. Being part of a club or committee means having to follow someone else's schedule and possibly having others depend on me.  How could I not have realized being a parent would be a million times worse? In the words of my step-daughters, I am an epic fail at establishing and keeping to any routine. In the summer, if the kids don't remind me, I will forget to make lunch. My oldest suffers from chronic constipation and needs to consume 16 grams of fiber every day. This is important, and he is just now reaching an age where he can take more responsibility for his diet, but we'll still get to the end of a day and I'll realize I haven't kept track of his intake or made enough dishes to meet his needs.

As much as I love my boys--I love hearing the silly jokes they make up, playing catch in the park, watching them dance, beating B. at cards--I also love the fact that I am not a full-time parent, at least not the kind of hyper-involved parent that seems to be in vogue today. Their step-mom is much better at this. She stays at home, meets them at the bus after school (a whole 1/2 block away and visible from the front window of the house) and has dinner on the table at 5:30 every night (I know this because she commented that the boys know it is their job to set the table and shouldn't have to be reminded since dinner is always at the same time).

When the kids are here in the summer, I feel like I have to be that kind of mom, which just leaves me incredibly stressed and anxiously awaiting the fall. Although, as I think about it, their step-mom stresses them out too. I'm sure it is tough for them to go from one extreme of parenting to the other, but when they are parents themselves, I hope they will realize that one does not have to live for one's children. My parents didn't, some of the parents I respect the most don't, and I'm starting to forgive myself for living my life for me.

Getting Started

me: Do you think we need to see a counselor?
him: I've already talked to a lawyer.


Almost six years ago that short conversation with my now ex-husband set my life on a course that I could have never imagined. I want to believe that my situation is not unique, but even now I find few moms who, like me, do not have primary custody of their children. When I made the decision--more on that later--I lost or at least became alienated from many friends. And let's not even go into the reaction of my parents. Suffice it to say they have adjusted and I can still talk to my mom because I didn't finish the letter from her after I saw the phrase "you are supposed to be the adult."

Maybe my experience would have been easier had I begun this blog earlier--and I don't pretend to be confident in my parenting now--but I have made great progress toward accepting the guilt and building a strong relationship with my sons (B and J.C.). Someday, I want them to understand why mommy moved so far away (200 miles) and could not be the one they came home to after school everyday. I have never been one to keep a diary or journal; what's the point of writing if you don't have an audience? So, I will share these memories and musings with you and then someday collect them to share with my boys.

This first post is just to lay out how I came to be the "weekend mom" (technically "summer mom" too as I teach so the boys spend most of the summer break with me).

When my ex expressed his desire for a divorce right before labor day weekend, I must confess that I felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from me. Things hadn't been right, and I know now that I had not been in love with him for some time, but with two very young children (4 1/2 and 21 months) I would never have been the one to suggest we split.

At first, we planned to share joint custody. That worked well until June the next year, when I moved. I mentioned losing friends, right? Well, they couldn't forgive that I moved for a man. Yes, I, who had never had more than one official "boyfriend" and had hardly dated before meeting my husband at age 23, had created a profile on Match.com and met someone I was willing to move 200 miles to join.

(Just to relieve your suspense--we've been together since and were just married on New Year's Day.)

I completely expected to take the boys with me. Doesn't the mom always get custody? After I told my ex of my plans, he left the coffee shop almost in tears and then called me later. After growing up without his father, he was determined not to let someone else raise his children. He would fight me for custody.

My choices (as I saw them): spend thousands of dollars in court and create an animosity in what had been a very amicable divorce, or admit that my ex was a good parent and that letting B start kindergarten with his friends from daycare and letting both boys continue to live in the only house they had ever known made more sense than dragging them to a new house and into the middle of a new relationship. I chose the latter.

Was I being selfish? Quite likely. That's where the guilt comes from.

Did my choice mean that my ex and I can easily sit down and have conversations about the boys and can be supportive of each other's parenting (even more than when we were together)? Definitely.

One year after the conversation that opened this post I was living in a new part of the state, beginning a new job, and struggling to reconcile the sense of freedom I felt with the nagging realization my freedom might have come at the cost of my children's happiness. Now, I believe my boys and I are building a strong, if unusual, relationship--one better than many "full-time" parents share with their kids.