90 Days of Play

I've been thinking a lot lately about play. In June, as we neared the end of the school and extracurricular activity year, I asked Stellina if she wanted to continue with tap dance in the fall. This conversation took place in the dance school bathroom as she suited up for her final class. "En. Oh!" she said with uncharacteristic fervor. "I thought you liked tap?" I said. "I like it OK, but I just want to do nothing. No classes, no nothing." She made big X gestures with her arms. "I want to be home, just go where I want, see you and Daddy, play with Posy and Meow Meow. Just PLAY."

Then I read this, and a couple weeks later heard this, and realized there's a collective "En. Oh!" being shouted at the moment. As defined by Dr. Stuart Brown of the National Institute for Play, "Play is something done for its own sake. It's voluntary, it's pleasurable, it offers a sense of engagement, it takes you out of time. And the act itself is more important than the outcome." Yet, it seems that as a society we've overscheduled, goal-oriented and enrichment-activity-planned ourselves and our children into a corner -- a corner decorated with color-coded wall calendars, sticker charts and payment installment reminders.

Now, Moses and I already are big on leaving our kids' unstructured time that way. My stepson has always been inclined toward team sports, but similarly resisted additional planned activities. We let him quit violin lessons and chess club (though he still plays the latter on occasion), to allow more unscheduled breathing room (a.k.a. time to play Nerf guns, paintball and xBox). Most days after school, Stellina free-ranges around the house or outside, watching an episode of something via the PBS Kids app, making art, jumping on the trampoline or giving the cats relationship advice. Occasionally, her teenage pal Addie comes over for a ukulele "lesson," which means three minutes of fingers on strings and 87 minutes of playing with her Calico Critters. For most of the summer she's been at Audubon camp all day (since her dad and I both work full-time-plus). Her time is pretty activity-packed there, but the activities are of the play-based, exploratory, running through the woods, feeding injured birds of prey variety. She comes home calm and filthy and bug-bitten, with cicada shells and dried owl poop in her pockets.

But how do we, as grown-ups, rate on the play-readiness scale? Moses is far more skillful at it than I, both at playing with his kids and at engaging, per Dr. Brown's definition, in things he enjoys that take one "out of time." In contrast, I usually just feel out of time -- as in, that there isn't time to play. I prided myself preparenting on being that childcare provider or full-grown friend who joined kids on the swing set and kept a stash of dress-up costumes on hand. Now that I have ultimate responsibility for the survival of, and share surnames with, legal minors, however, I take things far more seriously than is probably healthy or useful. Even when wearing my best R&R face, my Virgo inclinations to fret and keep shit in order are ever-perseverating just under the fun-times, tattooed surface.

 I've realized I respond to "Mom, will you play with me?" not always, but too often, for me, with some version of "No." Usually I phrase it as yes-like as possible: "I'd love to, but I have to finish this [fill in the blank work-freelance-task at the computer]." Which is a total dodge, because after that's done, then it's homework-shopping-cleaning-chores-dinner-bath-reading-bedtime, and playing just ain't happening.

So, I've decided to play, just play, every day for the next three months. I started out calling it "100 days of play," a la the "100 happy days" trend making social-media rounds, but I like the ring better of 90 days, since it's that magical-yet-proven recommended time frame for forming new, good habits (such as exercising daily or not being a drunk). Plus it's shorter. Though, of course, the point is to play every day (one day at a time) for all the rest of my days.

 So far, that's involved hula-hooping; playing Twister (past bedtime!); doing somersaults and handstands in the neighbor's pool (despite feeling pretty certain that I'll die whenever in water deeper than the bathtub); and asking Moses to reteach me to play cards, resulting in many, many hands of Gin -- and an evening that felt like a lovely, impromptu, at-home date, during a summer when we've been working and parenting largely in shifts. Another pearl from Dr. Brown, from this NPR story a couple days ago: "The couples who sustain a sense of mutual playfulness with each other tend to work out the wrinkles in their relationships much better than those who are really serious." (Especially important: Yelling "Gin, MOTHERFUCKER!" and then realizing it wasn't, actually, and having a partner who mostly thinks you're cute when you act a fool, and being able to laugh with him, at yourself, in a way that feels like it heals some less charming, dictatorial know-it-all moments from the past.)

As it turns out, predictably, playing takes work! Or effort, rather. It's an effort for me to play versus to play-teach-correct-coach. That's uncomfortable to see in myself, and to say. Teaching-demonstrating a new activity is part of play sometimes, but I default so fast to a hands-on-hips stance (whether literally or in tone) that it admonishes the fun out of anything.

Last night I came home from work to childcare pal extraordinaire "Uncle" Diane hanging with the kid, clothes strewn about, Play-Doh and snippets of Barbie hair on the floor (some was pinned into Diane's hair, I think), Princess Mononoke on the TV. I admit that my first, internal reaction was not, "Look at the fun! Look at the creativity!" but rather, "Where's the vacuum? And why isn't she in her PJs yet?" But I persevered, faking my way into a dance party. We sang "Lucky Star." Diane had an impressive Cha Cha Slide debut. Stellina was on the dining room table at one point, wearing tap shoes and a vintage men's straw hat, legs still covered with mud from a ponding expedition at camp. While boogying down I calculated the time until lights out, if allowing for a quick bath and two chapters of our current read-aloud book (Betsy-Tacy). 55 minutes. I am getting better at pretending to play, anyway! Not bad for Day 5.

Why I'm Not Telling My Child About Sandy Hook

All weekend I have opened my mouth to tell my five-year-old daughter, in age-appropriate terms and at just the right moment, about the shooting in Sandy Hook, CT, a town not so far from our own. The moment wasn't ever right, and tell me, what are the appropriate terms with which to relay a massacre of schoolchildren to anyone, no matter their age?

From my daughter's school administration to friends who work professionally with children to peers with kids the same age or close as mine to bloggers and psychologists,  all sorts of sources are urging parents to "frame the conversation" ourselves, to not let school, classmates, the cashier at Trader Joe's, CNN or whomever do it for us, for her.

But my husband and I don't think we should be the ones to introduce this idea that is sure to evoke anxiety. Does this mean we're putting this burden on someone else, or are too afraid of our own feelings and can't deal with her emotions, never mind our own? No. Are we shielding her from inevitable knowledge that the world is a sometimes scary, often unpredictable and, on occasion, desperately sad place? No. (She gets that, having already experienced death, natural disaster and creepy Halloween displays.)

What we're doing is opting not to clue her in to the fact that the building where she spends five days a week, with its cubbies for outdoor shoes, easels, picture books, planet Earth rug, window-box gardens, lovely, kind teachers and first friendships -- this place called "school" where she will be for the bulk of the next 13 years of her life -- is less than the second-safest place in her still-new and small (for now) world.

Are we keeping her from information she may glean tomorrow morning or next week from a source other than us, at the risk that it may be delivered in a confused or confusing manner? Yes, we are, and on purpose. Because we are her parents and she is five, and thus -- regardless of the cred her fine educators and Sesame Street and in-the-know older neighborhood kids carry -- the information we convey has the weight of authority because, let's face it, we are the authority at this point in her life. If we of whom she was born tell her, in even the most general and positively spun manner, about this tragedy, then we aren't just received as the bearers of bad news; we're the bad-news makers.

(What's that saying, "Parents don't just push your buttons; they installed them"?)

Were she a kindergarten student in the next classroom over just a few towns away, yes, we would have had this conversation Friday. But we wouldn't have "framed" it for her, under those horrible and graphic circumstances, either.

We choose not to frame it for her now, because we have the choice not to -- because unless the danger is eminent or personally relevant, at no age is it appropriate to needlessly scare or introduce a sense of being unsafe to a young child...especially where it may not be introduced otherwise. And if it is, we will listen to her concerns and her questions, correct any misinformation, attempt to make sense for her of information that is all too correct, and reassure her that we are safe, she is safe, and everyone in her world is doing all they can to keep it that way. Which feels comforting and right to hear, at any age.

One Tomato at a Time

Apparently, a key to homesteading is being home enough to do it. When I returned to work full-time a year and a half ago, I was able to maintain our gardens, chicken coop and home projects largely on weekends and with a bit of attention during the week. Michael, out of work with an injury, was home more than I, and our shift of most roles happened fairly organically. He's been working more these days, and I've had a bumper crop of freelance work lately, which have had a positive effect on all aspects of our lives except our modest homesteading efforts.

There are cucumbers in the garden bigger than my cats; withered tomato plants have collapsed under the weight of their unpicked fruit. Some tomatoes lay disemboweled on the ground nearby, as if having hurled themselves in protest of the shameful neglect. All will likely be lost to a frost tonight, unless I manage to pick it.

Worst of all, we forgot to close up the coop last night, or maybe the last three, and all that's left of Kiki Jones is enough feathers to know she flapped mightily in alarm before making her great escape, or was mightily shaken by whatever abducted her. Do raccoons eat chickens, or just steal their eggs and scare the feathers off of them? I suspect the hen harasser and a recent home invader may be one and the same.

A couple weeks back I woke up to find muddy paw prints on the kitchen floor, walls and counter that were far larger than those possibly created by any animals supposed to be inside our house. Said creature had also torn open a box of -- wait for it -- animal crackers, ripped the limbs from a decorative, desiccated sea star, and shed longish black hairs on the windowsill below the cat door, its obvious point of entry. Since the door had been set to "in only," I had to assume George or Rosemary Cooney had either 1) jimmied the closure or 2) was still in the house. I hadn't heard a racket in the night ... but I've slept through two fires and a hurricane in my life so that might not be an appropriate measure. No one else heard the rampage, either, and we're all in pretty close proximity to the kitchen.

Then a few nights ago I was up late and heard the bell of a cat collar. As we'd already undressed one of the kitties for the night and left her collar on the windowsill for tomorrow's outing, I knew it was feline #2 coming in for the night, and went to the kitchen to lock the door behind her. Instead, a raccoon had poked its head and front arms through the flap, where it was hanging out, shaking the collar with one paw like a tambourine. "HEY!" I yelled. It looked up at me casually, stared at me for a good 10 seconds while it finished its jam session, then slowly retreated, making off with the rhythm instrument.

We moved the cat door the next day to a less accessible window for those creatures not adept at vertical leaping. The kitties firmly believe they are in this category and loudly complain as they hover on the outside stairway that runs by the kitchen window.

Death, neglect, invasion, protestation...all of a tedious, low-grade variety, with comic relief courtesy of the Cooneys. Frankly, everything feels out of whack right now. Michael and I are tag-team parenting and homemaking, we haven't had a date in...I don't know how long. We're still playing catch-up, barely covering our expenses. As a family we share maybe a meal or two together each week, after years committed to converging nightly at the dining room table. The stepkid's grades are down (but at least this has spurred his dad, he and I to check in on Sunday nights about school and schedules for the week ahead). Stellina has to have oral surgery in two weeks. I can't stand the thought of my five-year-old, with her tiny impacted Chiclets, undergoing general anesthesia followed by a good deal of discomfort. But it's doable. We can do all of this.

The day is predicted to be sunny and in the high 60s before tonight's much lower temps. Michael is working all day. If I opt out of attending the stepkid's football game, my daughter and I just might be able to put the gardens to bed, and attend to the hens, and even play on the trampoline quickly filling with fallen oak leaves.

Beauty and the Abuser

 I brought Stellina to see Beauty and the Beast a few weeks back, newly released in 3D (though we opted for a glasses-free screening). It sounded like a dreamy, ideal mom-daughter date on a cold Sunday afternoon. I ignored the quite loud and incredulous inner voice that begged to differ. I reasoned that it's useless to try to fight the Disney princess influence; rather, I've matched every dress-up costume with a drawing pad, encourage puddle stomping, and have introduced her to Pippi Longstocking and the feminist anime oeuvre of Hayao Miyazaki.

And indeed, Stellina swooned at the news, then donned her "Belle" outfit (a hand-me-down from a friend, it's the tiny tulle gown that started it all a couple years back), post-haste. At the theater, she perched at the front of her seat, butterfly boots crossed at the ankles, shimmery yellow skirt fanned, popcorn bag the same dimensions of her torso on her lap. It was some unparallelled (or nonpareil, in concession-stand parlance) cuteness.

The film started out promisingly enough. Belle is a book-smart young woman who longs for a life beyond her village, respects and admires her solo parent and isn't impressed by the brawn and swagger of the town hunk, Gaston. While beastly, he isn't the Beast of the title, the cruel prince who mistreated the wrong old lady, who in turn turned him into the tormented Sasquatch he'd remain unless relieved of the spell within x number of years by experiencing, yes, True Love. Along wanders Belle's Dad, seeking refuge from a storm at the Beast's castle (as the sorceress had years earlier). Does the raging ape, having learned his lesson, offer the elderly gent a room for the night? Of course not. Worse than turning him away at the door, he imprisons the guy. Soon enough, Belle bravely sets out, a one-woman search party,  fighting off wolves and fierce weather -- so far kicking some serious (fairy) tail. When the Beast encounters her, does he think, "At long last, someone who could possibly break this spell and restore me to my former and less hirsute self, if I impress her with kindness toward her Pops and put them up in my super-swanky, not to mention enchanted, digs?" Alas, no. The Beast agrees to let the father go only when Belle offers herself up as a hostage in exchange.

What follows is basically the Disney version of the Patty Hearst story but with dancing teacups. The Beast continues to act like one (despite the admonishments of his servants-turned-animated home furnishings, who would like very much to be returned to human form, along with their boss); Belle softens to his brutish (and brutal) ways, in classic Stockholm Syndrome fashion. Oh, but he IS changing ... as demonstrated when they learn Belle's father is sick, and he allows her to leave. Releasing the prisoner to go it alone again in the hostile wilderness: gallantry at its finest. God forbid he use his cursed stature for the sake of good, for once.

And she goes back! She goes back to defend the Beast against Gaston and his mob of hunters, rather than let the two horrible suitors take each other out, as justice (and common sense) would seem to beg.

If you've never suffered through the film, you can still guess the ending, with its nick-of-time life-saving, shape-shifting kiss, and subsequent wedding.

 (Fast-forward six months past the credits: Belle's at home alone, pregnant. The prince is down in the village, getting drunk and screwing the twins who were hot for Gaston in the opening sequence. All the servants quit within weeks of the royal wedding. After regaining his handsome looks, scoring a prisoner-bride, and discovering the village tavern, their employer had become beastlier than ever. The cook-turned-teapot-turned-cook begged Belle to leave with her, but she refused. He comes home in a blackout; when she inquires as to his whereabouts, he commences to beat her to death with the candlestick formerly known as Lumiere the maître d'.)

Suffice it to say I spent 1-1/2 hours whispering an alternative/corrective narrative into my girl's ear, stuff about bravery and kindness and choices about our behavior, and not putting up with abuse from anyone, anywhere -- not even in fairy tales.

P.S. Last weekend we went back to the multiplex for the smart and gorgeously animated Secret World of Arrietty -- no running commentary needed!

Show-and-Tell

The UPS man gave props to our chickens the other day. I was going from our backyard to my car, latching the gate and bidding adieu to the biddies, who stampede toward me like paparazzi at every sighting. I know better than to take their apparent adulation personally; I am merely the One Who Fills the Feeder. But I admit: I liked it when the package-delivery guy chuckled at the sight and commented how cool it was to see chickens in the 'burbs. Then I got nervous that they were so visible from the road -- they usually hang out deeper in the yard, out of sight of passers-by. I don't want anyone to harass them. Besides me, that is. I had harassed poor Betty Bock Bock into a wicker picnic basket bedded with straw and brought her to preschool just that morning.

I confess: I have been, well, chicken about holding the hens. It doesn't make sense; I've wrangled feral and stray cats; I was a "cat socializer" in a shelter with truly antisocial felines; for years I had a pet-sitting service and confidently cared for typical household critters plus rats and iguanas. I've been bitten, scratched, and dragged once on my ass along icy pavement by a zealous standard poodle puppy. But the hens' skittishness makes me skittish; I jump when they flap. Also, I feel badly about handling an animal that displays such a desperate resistance to being handled. I picked up Captain Pecker once, but she was about to die and gave as much resistance as a supermarket broiler. But I had volunteered Michael to bring a bird in for circle time at Stellina's school and he had to work, and showing up with picture books and a dozen eggs just wouldn't cut it. I gave myself a stern talking to, put on a pair of work gloves that made me feel less vulnerable (vulnerable to what, I don't know. They have no teeth; being pecked is about as painful as being poked with a pair of kid's scissors).

 (Betty, center. Notice the vicious pit bull lounging to the left.)

Betty is a minorca with beautiful blue-black feathers, and truthfully not the quickest of the flock in either acuity or agility. I scooped her up and held her tight, tucking her under my arm. I actually think she liked it -- not getting caught, but being held. She hunkered down in her portable nest and I tried not to think about how many fried-chicken meals may have been transported in that vintage, gingham-lined, ample picnic basket.

Upon our arrival, Stellina's classmates were already seated around the edge of the Earth-motif rug, and teachers Miss Karen and Miss Annie were reminding them that the Montessori ethics of grace and courtesy extend to guest with feathers. Stellina helped me unpack our props -- cartons of eggs, a photo book of unusual chicken breeds, containers of pine shavings and layer pellets, a travel-size waterer -- to which the kids gave a polite, cursory look, but all attention was on the rustling basket. I spread a towel on my lap and made poop jokes, always a guaranteed hit with the 3-to-6-year-old set. And then I acted like I'd held a chicken on my lap more than once (that one time being en route to the vet with a failing Captain Pecker) and Betty seemed calm, like she was a regular attraction on the education circuit. Or she was catatonic. I don't think so...but what do I know of the emotional life and body language of poultry?

The children were quiet and gentle -- all except Stellina, who found it challenging to share a parent and a pet at the same time. In my mind she threw a Tasmanian Devil-caliber tantrum, yet all the while the rest of the kids stroked Betty and asked questions, and her teachers gave me reassuring looks, mouthed "it's okay," and calmly redirected her. As literate as I am of the emotional life and body language of my daughter, she is so central in my consciousness, as symbolized perfectly by her stomping in frustration in the middle of the continental carpet, that I can't possibly see (or hear) her objectively. Miss Annie later assured me that Stellina was composed and cooperative within moments of Betty's and my exit. As for Betty, when I unlatched the basket back at home, she hopped out and joined her flock without incident for a session of bug-hunting among the autumn oak leaves.

Welfare Wedding: Part 1

The real reason the baby daddy and I waited so long to get married was money, or the lack thereof. We nearly headed to town hall and called it a day a while back, just to get the legal deal done, but 1) our Town Hall doesn't officiate marriages, and 2) we have kids who are old enough to both participate in and remember the occasion, which seemed particularly important for my stepson. Let me rephrase that. The only opinion he ever expressed about the wedding was the shrugging of one shoulder, over which he said, "That's cool, whatever," as he headed into his Man, Jr. cave. But the concept of him standing up for his dad and witnessing our community witnessing our commitment to each other and our family...that just felt correct, and solid, and worth a few grand. Because sometimes our family of four still feels ad hoc.

The stepkid came to live with us suddenly and via circumstances that were out of his control, and out of control, in general. He hadn't lived with his dad since he was a baby, but his dad stayed within visiting distance (often walking distance), seeing him on weekends and more if possible. "Possible" depended on the cooperation of, and answering of the telephone by, all parties involved. There's a slew of info that isn't mine to share so I'll stop there. Suffice it to say that when the opportunity -- the imperative -- arose for his son to live with him, it was an answered prayer (despite his avowed atheism).

For our first two years together, we lived around the corner from the stepkid and his mother and baby half-sister. Our relationship -- the stepkid's and mine -- was friendly if distant. I knew from my own childhood experience with steppeople neither to come on too strong nor to infringe on his time with his father. If they invited me to all do something together, great, but I never made that assumption. I certainly never minded when my boyfriend opted for time with his kid over with me. In fact, it would've been a turn-off otherwise; his commitment to his child was one of the first things I loved about him. Let's be honest: I was in the market for a future coparent, and it was assuring to know from the get-go that he was capable of both making a kid and caring about it. I'd also learned from the success of my mother's relationship with my stepmom the importance of cultivating the stepkid's mom's trust and being clear about my role -- particularly that it wasn't hers. This grew complicated when he suddenly lived with me and she was unavailable for a while, and her son was in need of some parenting the likes of which weren't my boyfriend's forte. Like establishing a bedtime and introducing the concept of a "family meal." Don't get me wrong -- this stuff didn't come naturally to me, either. He and I ate dinner, often take-out, at 9pm. We spent our nights at jazz shows and movies, not helping with homework.

The day we found out he was coming to stay, I opened the fridge, surveyed the contents (soy milk and batteries) and wondered what people with kids kept in their pantries. I probably Googled it, then went shopping and hoped for the best. (Beyond the domestic learning curve was the fact that I was vegan at the time and had literally never cooked meat in my life, while he and his dad both liked a side of meat with their meat.)

We had moved to our suburban homestead just three months earlier, a two-flat we cohabitate with my aunt. The idea of an extended-family domicile appealed to us, and afforded us more space and the chance to have a dog after our tiny rental apartment. We were also fairly freaked out by being 30 miles farther from NYC, and homeowners. But the stepkid had his own room, which proved precient when he went from spending four nights a month to moving in. Honestly, we'd picked the location largely with him in mind, whether on a part- or someday full-time basis. The neighborhood is multicultural and mixed-income; the school system is excellent; the town's a few shades more laid back than Greenwich, where he lived at the time, the only kid in his peer group to live in an apartment, a residence the square footage of his best friend's foyer. He was just becoming aware of class difference when I met him. I remember the shock on his face when he learned that most of the world does not, in fact, live in homes with indoor swimming pools. But knowing this is different than experiencing it, and I can't help but think it's more comfortable to now have a group of friends with a true array of cultural and class experiences. Or maybe it just makes me more comfortable...

So, money and marriage. We'd been hobbling along on Michael's carpentry salary plus unemployment  benefits plus some freelance income since our daughter was born (my company had closed shortly beforehand). We could barely cover the bills, never mind fund a wedding, when my mother and grandmother offered us $3,000 toward the cost. Now, I know some brides spend more than that on a gown alone. But my groom and I both agreed that the most -- really, only -- important thing about a wedding gathering was quality eats. And my one Bridezilla demand was a caterer. I'd do everything else myself on the cheap or for free, but if we tried to cook the food or have a potluck I'd either feel stressed out or like a miser. Then we set a date three months out so it would be summer and we could do it outside, before the stepkid's football season and all the back-to-school brouhaha started. Then I booked an ice cream truck. Unsure what to do next, I Googled "how to plan a wedding."

None of the legion of downloadable prenuptial to-do list offered online, however, include "Apply for Food Stamps." But my fiance would soon be out of work for the next three months (and counting) with a back injury-turned-back surgery, following two years of barely scraping by in professions (and hours and paychecks) deeply impacted by the recession.

(They don't actually look like this anymore. Recipients are assigned a discreet debit-type card, much to the ire of conservatives who think people ought to bear a big, scarlet $ sign in the grocery check-out line.)

Let's pause a moment here. Are you as uncomfortable as I am at the mention of welfare? Or of personal finances, in general? Did that $3,000 a couple paragraphs back make you squirm, or is it just me? I get as embarrassed hearing a person's financial specifics as I would the details of their sex life. Wait, that doesn't embarrass me, even a little bit! In fact, nothing feels as private a matter as the state of one's bank statements. Which is why I'm writing this, really. I feel shy discussing money, but I feel shame for being poor, especially poor and a parent. Yet, politically and intellectually, I balk at that reaction. There is nothing shameful with using "the system" as it's intended: a safety net for the welfare, the well-fare, of citizens when they need it. Funds for food have got to be some of our government's most sensibly spent dollars, when one considers illegal wars and bank bailouts and $74k teacups and what have you.

But rest assured, all you critics of the social welfare system: You would totally commend the efforts put forth by the CT Department of Social Services to discourage its use! First, no one answers the phone, ever. There are no hours or directions listed on the website. The area in which it's located would be dangerous if anyone cared enough to commit a crime, but they're too poor and tired to make the effort. Or maybe they're just lazy! Which is how my caseworker likely would have regarded me had I been someone else. But what with my ability to collect and present all relevant forms of ID and paperwork in a neat, labeled file and my Aryan good looks, combined with children to feed and negligible assets with which to do so, procuring food stamps was, all said and done, a snap. And despite opinions to the contrary, I'm thankful, for the stepkid's sake especially, that we can use a card versus Monopoly money at the check-out. He's well aware that times are tight. We've been candid, but with an emphasis on reassurance and sharing with him -- not in detail, but as evidence to that reassurance -- our plan to get outta the hole.  It's so critical to keep the fear and shame shit to our adult selves.

(to be continued...including the Vows-n-Vittles radically transparent budget.)

Grace

There are miscommunications, everyone retreating to their separate outposts with a slammed door between them and the rest of the house, whining and bad behavior (mine, not the 3-year-old's).

Then there are evenings like this: Painting at the easel with Stellina, then making dinner to NPR, open door and windows with fall breeze blowing through, the stepkid showing Stellina -- and allowing her to help him -- make a smoothie, the recipe for which he found online, to accommodate a basket of overripe strawberries that I exhumed from the Crisper drawer (which I think of as the "Rotter"). He's taking Cooking in school and has been quietly applying it at home. I am careful not to react overly enthusiastically, as not to scare him back into his man, jr. cave., yet pointedly admire the results (and the process, his cutting and clean-up skills). I'm making dinner around them, Michael is watering his fig trees and hooking up a CB radio, which he bought for $40 on Amazon with a wedding gift card. He wants it in order to get traffic reports from the truckers. And to say "You got your ears on, Good Buddy?"

stepping up

There's a new movie out called The Stepfather. It's a thriller-slash-horror film about Mom's new man who is perfect in every way except that he just may have murdered his previous stepfamily. It's a remake of a 1987 film by the same name. In 1987 I had my very own evil stepfather. He and my mother met and got married within 2 years of my parent's divorce. His name was Daniel. My younger brother's name was Daniel, so people assumed he was his dad. This infuriated me. Daniel (jr) didn't mind. He seemed to understand that having a dad-type guy around on a daily basis when your own couldn't be was a pretty good deal. He gave us rides. He had a big family that immediately included us in all its big-family activities. He took us skiing. He worked with people with developmental disabilities and took them skiing. He was kind of clumsy and goofy in real-life, but on the ski slope he was pure grace, and would practically dance down that mountain, poles swinging with elegant efficiency, a permanent grin under his frost-crusted moustache.

He didn't have a mysterious lock-box full of body parts in the basement. He didn't molest anyone. He wasn't an alcoholic. He was kind and affectionate with our mother. I don't remember him raising as much as his voice to her, or to us, though I asked for it. He chewed with his mouth open and was a bit of a slob and sometimes lacked what might be considered common sense, like the time he left my 6-year-old brother and our stepcousins at a mall by themselves for hours. I forget the circumstances. It was probably a dumb call, but he had no prior experience with kids. He probably wanted kids of his own, but instead got a teenage girl with a rotten disposition who resented him for breathing (never mind chewing with his mouth open).

Dan and my mother split up while I was in college. It was a big loss for my little brother, and for myself, too. I'd recently realized what a great person Dan was -- and how poorly I'd treated him -- and we were getting along for once. (He'd been willing all along.) Years later we met for coffee and I apologized. He teared up and gave me a big hug. Evil man, I tell you.

This psycho stepparent stereotype has got to go. I had an extraordinary stepmother as well, and am so grateful for them both, especially now. I recall their kindness, humor and patience as I stumble along my own stepparenting path with my partner's 12-year-old son, in an only moderately evil manner.