On Being a Step-Parent

Ok, so I had NO IDEA.  None. How can one single thing be so so hard?

Let's get this out of the way right up front.  Their Mom?  She's great.  She's a wonderful mother, and she's been a step-mother, had a step-mother.  She's knows it. 

I liked her before I met her ex-husband, and still like her.  So, this really isn't about her.  I mean, it is, of course, but really it's not.  She doesn't make my life hell, she doesn't poison her kids against me, or any of the myriad other nasty ex-wife/real mother stories that are out there.  It's a complex relationship, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't bumpy, but we all have it pretty good.

And WondefulMan?  He's great too.  He backs me up, he works with me to parent collaboratively, he tries to walk that very difficult road between being her ex-husband and father of her kids, and my partner and co-parent.  He holds me when I cry and gets upset that he can't make it all better.  And he changes his processes to meet my needs, just like I change mine.  Wonderful.

Here's what is hard.  These aren't MY kids.  These are kids that I get to love, that I have to/get to help parent, that I share a home with, that I share a love with. But they aren't MY kids with WonderfulMan.  They are HER kids with WonderfulMan and I am, at best, SecondBest.

So, that's me.  SecondBest.

The kids like me.  Which is nice.  And they don't enact open warfare.  Which is also nice.

But I'm SecondBest and it is so so so hard.  I don't want to replace their mom.  She's a good mom, she loves them, takes good care of them, and she should always come first in their mind.  But you know what?  I don't love their kids second best.  That's not how I'm built.  I love them the same.  I worry about their health and safety like I worry about mine.  I lie in bed worrying about them, and they take up just as much time in my head as mine do.  So being SecondBest?  It's hard.  And it makes me cry.

And so I went looking for information, and research and stuff to help me figure out how to handle these emotions.  And most books tell me how to make it easier or better for the kids (which I'm pretty ok at doing), or tell me how to be a better communicator with their mother (which I'm also ok at), or how to put my marriage/love first (hard to do with kids everywhere, but we manage pretty ok at this too).  But they don't tell me about ME.  They don't tell me how to make myself feel better.  Or how to reframe things.  And so many delight in bashing the first mother, and I don't like/want/do that.

This is so very very hard.

(and wonderful.  because I love the dad that WonderfulMan is.  And I love sharing his joy over his kids, and I love seeing tons of shoes tumbled all about at the door, and I love that my kids wonder and ask when his kids will be back from their moms, and I love that sometimes I get a special moment with the kids where I can feel the love bond grow, and so much more...)

step-parent, blended family, ex-wife, step-mother, stepmother,

Update

It's been a over a year since my last blog, and a fairly momentous year too!

Tomorrow I turn 35, and I find each year is better than the last. No one tells you that growing oldER is a joy, but truly it is!

The man I fell in love with (to be known as WonderfulMan herein) is still an amazingly beautiful man, and I can say this past year has been one of the biggest for personal growth. We moved in together last May, and we have been together for a year as of December 8th. We have been working hard at loving one another, managing a large (!) blended family, and still holding on to our personal autonomy.

On Previous Topics (this is an update post, after all):

Queer Girl dates Man: I no longer feel conspicuous or out of place walking down the street holding hands with a man. However, my social community has definitely changed. My queer friends continue on with their lives, and we don't see eachother as often. While I understand that is part of what happens when you couple, it feels a profound loss to me and I often feel alone and a little lost. My partner is amazing, but he isn't, and has never been, queer. It's hard to share a world with him that he doesn't relate to and has little impact on his life.

Tango: I've reached new places this year, and I am so thankful. Tango isn't angsty anymore! What a relief. SERIOUSLY. I fall deeper in love with the music and find myself in deeper introspection. And it is lovely to share tango with my partner. I heard so many warnings about dating/loving in the tango scene, but it enriches my relationship with tango, and also with WonderfulMan.

Parenting: My role as a parent has expanded. WonderfulMan and I now parent 10 kids:

• My two biological boys (ages almost 15 and 10),

• my live-in foster son/adult (19),

• my former fosterson (22--and he'd probably bristle at the idea that I'm parenting him still, but I am even if he doesn't know it),

• and WonderfulMan's children: ages 5, 8, 9, 12(the only girl!!!), 13. WonderfulMan also has an 18 year old son that doesn't live with us that I get to love.

WonderfulMan's kids are with us almost half-time. It has been a lot of (rewarding) work on everyone's parts to learn to become a family, and we are still working on it. But, I think, overall, it's been a really lovely thing.

Surrogacy: The twins turned two right about the same time WonderfulMan and I, and our families, moved in together. They, and their brother, are amazingly beautiful, and the older I get the more warm glowy my heart gets. I continue to value the relationship with their parents in a way I can't really begin to explain, except to say that there are many things that I am proud of in my life and that bring me joy, and carrying those kids for that family is way up there at the top.

I am looking for a new family to carry for, and it's been interesting beginning this process again. I have been looking informally for about 6 months, and have talked with many people, but haven't found the right ones just yet.

I hope to keep up a bit more with the blog, but life is full. I also imagine it will take on more of the (dreaded) MommyBlog thing, as I work through parenting littles again. I appreciate you hanging out with me, and understand if you bail.

Teen Talk

Here's my new approach:

When listening to my teen's continually rude and grating, know-it-all, how-dare-you-even-consider-disturbing-me tone of voice, I will attempt to hear it like I would hear a foreigner's thick accent. And I will attempt to respond with the patience and care I would gladly extend to a foreigner I was having a difficult time understanding.

Because I'm pretty sure I don't contemplate strangling heavily-accented foreigners every time they open their mouths.

Treat me like I'm...

AlmostGrownChild*: I'm going to stay late and then I'll be home.

ManyMom: Actually, I'd like you to please be on the next bus home. You broke curfew yesterday and then were sneaky today by waiting until I had left the house to leave, when you were on restriction and I had specifically said no to you going to your meeting early. You need to come home now.

AlmostGrownChild: Hmph! I wish you'd stop treating me like a 16 year old and start treating me like a 17 year old!
*slams down telephone, hanging up on me*


chuckle, snort, giggle. hahahahahahahaha!

__________________________________________________________________
*This is my current fosterteen. He turned 17 a couple weeks ago. He's lovely, and has been with us since August, and I really enjoy him.

In the Hospital

Well thanks to a small complication, I've spent the last couple of days in the hospital. I'm ok, and the babies are great, and I'm glad we all caught it before it got too far along.

It seems that my cervix is shortening, and so we put in a cerclage. A cerclage is a band of suture that goes through or around (mine is around) the cervix to prevent if from opening prematurely. It is a necessary intervention in our case. We'll remove it around 34-36 weeks, and let labor happen on its own. And hope that we don't go into labor before that.

This means limited activity for me, and at least a week of full bed rest. At home, at least. It means a whole lot of sitting and laying around. This will be a new experience for me, because, I don't know if you can tell--but, I'm kind of a busy person.

It will also mean board games in bed with my kids, extra snuggles, reading books together, quiet time, and bonding with my cat. It's not how I wanted it to work out, but an excuse to lay around and hang out with my kids sounds ok too. I haven't had time to have that kind of one-on-one with them, that kind of dedicated, nothing else we need to do, kind of time in a loooong time. That part of it will be nice.

This also means no more tango for this pregnancy.

Man to be

My 12 year old amazes me. He is this crazy blending of physical traits, motions, thinkings...some I recognize, some I see are completely his own.

Sometimes he gives me glimpses into the man he'll be and they leave me breathless. The other day I was laying on my bed, reading a book, and he comes into my room with a glass of water. He sets it on my bedside table.

12 yr old: Mom, are you thirsty?
ManyMom: no?
12 yr old: I brought you some water.

I thanked him, but he stood there waiting.

ManyMom: Sweetie, do you need something?
12 yr old: Mom, you should drink some water. Pregnant women need to drink lots of water.

Now, that in and of itself is amazing, but what is really amazing is that when I was pregnant with Tor two years ago, I offhandedly mentioned to him that he should remember that pregnant and nursing women need to drink lots of water, and that if he ever has children to not ask the mom if she wants it but to just bring it to her and remind her to drink.

He remembered.

For Sunshine

Ok, so I picked Child A up from his weekly D&D game at a friend's house and we were talking about Ozzie Osbourne (I don't remember how it came up) and I asked him if he even knew who Ozzy Osbourne is. And he said no, except that he is old.

Which led to a conversation of what constitutes old.

Apparently 60 is old.

A few beats later,

"Mom, that means you are half old."

A few beats later,

"Actually, you are over half old."

and I think, really I think, that there was a bit of a self-satisfied smirk on his pre-teen face.

DHS RANT

Please feel free to bypass this rant.
It's part of the reason I am C R A N K Y.

Tomorrow is the first day of school. For everyone except my foster son, because at this juncture we don't know WHERE he will be going to school.

For those of you that don't know the system, by the time they become teens, most kids have been in and out of foster homes, have some kind of history of bad stuff (abuse, violence, drugs, stealing, etc.), and don't go to regular public schools, blah blah. Maybe this isn't true about all foster teens, but I only take the hard to place teens, which means there will be some significant back history that makes schooling challenging.

When I took this teen in (mid-way through July), I said that I wanted schooling addressed as soon as possible, to be able to work on creating a success story before he even walked in the door. Knowing where he would be, visiting, meeting teachers before, helping them understand how to manage his behaviours, giving him an early idea of what to expect. Mental preparation. But in August we got switched to a new case worker, we can't sort out who his prescriber for meds is (so he's out), his special care nurse has not called to make an appointment, AND WE STILL DON'T KNOW WHERE HE WILL GO TO SCHOOL! Because of his situation, we can't just walk in and enroll him in a school. His records need to be gone through, multiple meetings need to happen to determine the best placement, etc.

So, what this means is that we are starting out in the red. Negative Balance, here. No meds, no mental preparation, and lots of stress and anxiety.

His case worker is wonderful. Really. And doing the best he can, but he has over 200 kids on his case load, and he's supposed to be caring for ALL of them. It's no wonder nothing gets accomplished.

Sigh.

It's my job to help this kid be successful, but I can only go so far, and the State is not supporting me. Not because they are bad, or because it's personal. It's not. But this system, our foster care system, is BAD. It's diseased. It's amazing it works at all.

Judgment

This week I am dealing with what I see as judgment from someone I love immensely.

This is supposition on my part, but something happened that left my friend feeling used, disrespected, unheard and maybe a whole bunch of other things. And I feel judged, unheard, disrespected and angry.

I'm not really looking for feedback or comment on the situation with my friend, but I wanted to write a bit about my role as a mother, about peoples' judgments of me, and about where I am with that stuff.

I'm not the best mom in the whole world. I'm not even close. And I've been a single parent for enough years now that I can't even remember what it was like to share parenting. I had my kids young, and so most of my adult life has been as a parent. I've done a lot of my growing up right along with my kids (bless their patient little hearts.)

I was married to an abusive mentally ill man. It started to get really bad before I was even pregnant with my second, but I loved him and wanted him to have the love and support, and knew we would/could work through it together. And we tried. But the pregnancy with my second child was traumatic. My husband was beyond my help and really struggling and it was ugly. And so while my son gestated, my house was full of yelling, anger, threats, fear, and intensity. I feared for my life at times. 9 months after our second son was born, friends refused to let me go home to him, or to take my children home to him. It was a full scale, we-don't-think-you'll-live-through-the-night-if-you-go-home Intervention. And so I didn't go home, and my marriage ended.

But let me assure you, the guilt did not. Neither did the abuse, not for a long time after. But the guilt. My younger son was so angry. His first several years, it was his defining characteristic. Did I make him that way, exposing him to all that stress in utero? Did I not protect him enough? Did his father's illness warp his precious baby years? My older son witnessed those ugly scenes. Did he learn that was the way to treat women? Did he feel like he had to protect me? Is his withdrawn serious nature because of all the scary things he witnessed? Are my children ok? Will they despise me for being so weak that I exposed them to the abuse?
And I Let It All Happen.

My oldest rebounded (at least outwardly) pretty quickly. My youngest though, Stupendous Child; It was hard. We went through years of counseling. Me learning parenting skills and how to manage his needs. We went through batteries of tests, looking for a diagnosis. None fit. Person after person looked at me and told me something was wrong with my child, except my counselor. Who told me he was incredibly smart and just bigger than his body. She taught me to keep up with him, to take care of myself, to not take his stuff as my own and to be ok with who he is, even when everyone around me was convinced that there was something wrong. But she couldn't erase the guilt.

Pre-school and kindergarten were hard. Really hard. Cry myself to sleep every night, falling asleep mid-sob from exhaustion hard. Bruises from having to restrain him so he wouldn't hurt himself or others. 1st grade was a little easier. He was beginning to be enough in his body to be able to actually choose. Not always, and not perfectly, but there were glimmerings. Last year was second grade. I think I actually only had to pick him up from school for behaviour stuff less than a handful of times. He's grown and matured so much, and has really learned how to respond the way he wants, not just to respond from panic. He's still a handful, but he feels good about himself now. It's a major achievement.

[Guilt, fear, never enough, more to do, dirty house, haven't shopped in a couple days, forgot to send in the homework, never enough money, have to ask for help, dishes in the sink, screaming child, just want a break, gotta go to work, another babysitter, how did you get that cut (why don't I know he has a cut? what kind of mother doesn't know her kids gets a cut?), overdue bills, never enough, here watch this movie so I can collapse, here--these smell ok, never enough, never enough, never enough.]

And here I am. I am a single mom of 4; 2 bio and 2 foster. I LOVE being a parent. I love that I make mistakes, I love that I get exasperated, I love that my kids have their own timeframes and personalities and wants and quirks. I do a wonderful job. I have a gift with listening and making space for the kids to feel heard. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed and exhausted and have too much on my plate. My house is never clean. I have 300 projects going on. Each kid could use a little more one-on-one time. I would like to be able to teach them more. But you know what?, I love them completely, for just exactly who they are, and they know it.

And yet, I still judge. I am my own hardest critic. I make a mistake and I grind myself up. I say something that shouldn't have come out of my mouth, and I dwell on it. I see someone's disapproving glance and I wear it for days. A friend disapproves of something and it shakes my foundation enough that I question myself for days. I'm not going to do this anymore, friends.

Last night my foster son called me to talk him down from a fight with his biological parents. He Called Me. Because he feels heard, because he feels safe, because he knows that I will listen to him. My 20 yr. old asked me to be his mother. Because he knows I mean it when I tell him I love him. My 12 year old is integrous, funny, and self-assured because he grew into that for himself, because there is space for him to explore who he wants to be. And my 8 yr old is in control of himself and is learning to trust and feel pride in who he is because I made space for him to grow even when it was hard.

The proof is right there, and I have been ignoring the obvious because I wanted validation from the adults. I needed to convince the ones that don't believe in me. I wanted to prove that I could be the good parent. But the proof is right here in these kids, and how we are together. And I'm not going to ask for anyone else's approval. Not even my own. It's the kids that I have to listen to.

Jesus, Zombies

Stupendous Child: [completely sweet, innocent and sincere in this question] Mom, if Jesus rose from the dead, does that mean he's a zombie?

Many Mom: [completely sweet, innocent and sincere in this answer] Yes, dear, Jesus eats brains.

this morning.

This morning I started my day shushing my newly-20 yr old. awwwwww....... I got to be irritated with my 20 yr. old way too early this morning. It's totally made my day.

Yesterday, 19-yr-old turned 20.

I hadn't talked to him in about a week. I came home from work, and my 12 year old says, "Mom, call 20-yr-old." So I do, at the provided number, one I don't recognize.

20-yr-old: Mom*, I'm stranded in Springfield.
ManyMom: Happy Birthday!
20-yr-old: Thanks. Mom, I'm stranded in Springfield.

[...]

Long story short, he wants me to come rescue him. so i do.

******

At midnight, as I am bleary eyed and going to bed, he is chirpily making impromptu plans for a party the next day. AT MY HOUSE. clever child. I missed all the details, warm and fuzzy in loving him; who says no?

At 7:22 am, I suddenly bolt out of bed, remembering no one put out the garbage.
"20-yr-old, go put the garbage out." Which he does, good lad.

20-yr-old: Mom, can you like, get up and clean a little?
ManyMom: What? What? 20-yr-old, no. I'm not up. You're seeing things"
[pause]
20-yr-old: Mom, they're gonna be here at 9.
ManyMom: WHAT?!? You knowingly invited people to be here, at my house, at 9 IN THE MORNING? Why? Why would you do that?
20-yr-old: [flipping explanation deleted, because it was not even remotely a good enough reason]
ManyMom: WHY did you think that would be a good idea?
20-yr-old: Well, at 3:42am, when we decided this, it seemed like a good idea.
ManyMom: sigh, yes, I guess it would.

I remember those days.

So, I remind him that NO ONE gets to talk to me until I've had coffee and he'd better go meet his friend at the bus stop and NOT bring him home at 9 am. In exchange, I will cook for them, get snacks and promise not to embarrass him too much in front of his friends when they return LATE in the afternoon.

20-yr-old: Mom, um, can I, like, have some money...for bus fare?
ManyMom: I don't have any money right now. You have to plan ahead. I haven't been to the bank yet. I have no money. Hey, where's your money?
20-yr-old: Well, can't you just, like, write me a check or something?
ManyMom: For bus fare?
20-yr-old: Mom, can I make you some coffee or something?

Goodness, but I love being his Mom.

UPDATE: They showed up at 10am. TEN. /exasperation!
_______________________________________________________________
*Last week, 20-year-old, after emptying my entire refrigerator, sidles up to me and stares over my shoulder while I'm catching up on your blogs, until I turn around with eyes wide as dinner plates to tell him to STTOOOOOPPPPP IT.

"um, can I like, call you my mom? Will you be my mom? Like, can I tell my friends that's who you are?"

/melt, melt, melt

"of course, i would love if you called me mom. now go put the dishes away."

Parenting & Tango

My dear friend and an inspiration, Johanna, asked "Have you found that Tango has had any effect on your parenting, either good or bad?"

I think of this a lot. Tango came into my life at a time when I was crawling out of survival mode. I was releasing the mantle of sacrifice, asturity, and anger that had dogged me my entire parenting experience. It was the thing I was finally doing for myself.

This also coincided with my children growing a bit, old enough to be home together for a couple hours. Old enough to allow me to go be a grown up beyond a parent.

And so tango has become part of my life, and that of my kids. They tolerate it.

Mom, didn't we listen to this cd, like, 8 times yesterday? I can't hear that one song one more time. I am going to scream. Yes, mom, we can all tap out the beat. Yes, mom, we can all hear the delicate melodies. We want to listen to Weird Al now.

It was only 4 times. I want it in their souls. Tango is good for them. The music; it will make them ....more.

Mom, don't you have tango tonight? You should go dance. You're beautiful when you dance. You always look so happy when you come home. Go dance tonight. Can we have ice cream while you're gone?

Really?, you think I'm beautiful? Ok, I'll go dance. Ice cream? uh, do we have any? sure, go for it. beautiful, really?

No, mom, we won't dance with you. Go find some old guy to dance with. Mom, stop. You're embarrassing me. I won't move. I'm not gonna move. You can't make me. I don't care if all I have to do is walk. Mom, get away from me!

But it couldn't be sweeter to have a dance with my own son! The girls will think it's hot. It will make you interesting! Hey, where are you going?

Tango has become part of the very core of my being, and I know my boys feel it. I know they see it as the thing I love for myself, the thing that keeps me happy, the thing that fills me up. I was worried they would feel jealous when they began to know the passion I have for tango, but I think they don't mind sharing me.

I think they like that I leave them home 3 or 4 nights a week to play video games while I dance my heart out.

So, Johanna, yes, it has effected my parenting, but not in any different way than it's effected everything else in my life.

Joys of Parenting HaHa

This post from blogger Kym is so funny and dead on about parenting that even if you think kids are snot-nosed wastes of youth, you'll still think it's funny.

Read her post. It's Titled: To the Person who found my blog by
Googling:

BabyLove

This amazing essay was written by Christen Clifford and is the basis for the off Broadway show, BabyLove.



Before I became a mother, I believed that motherhood would change me: my maternal instinct would smooth me, balance me, make me patient, give me a nurturing generosity. I'd become a better person but I wouldn't lose myself. I'd breastfeed exclusively but still find time to write. I'd make homemade baby food but still fuck. I had it all figured out.

I bought all the new books on mothering that I read about in The New York Times and The New Yorker — Bitch in the House, The Mask of Motherhood, The Myth of Motherhood, The Price of Motherhood, A Life's Work, Fresh Milk, and a book a friend recommended — Fermentation — the only erotic novel I could find that featured a pregnant woman. But no one else's narrative could prepare me for the next stage of my sexuality.

People always tell you that becoming a parent will change everything, but what I didn't count on was that it wouldn't change me. The problem is that I'm still the same person, a sex-obsessed neurotic facing a new reality: my husband and I love our son more than we love each other. It's like being in a permanent threesome, the kind where one person — not you — gets all the attention.

How do I summarize my sex life before the baby? Well, I had one. I lost my virginity at fifteen, had four partners by the time I was seventeen. I considered myself pansexual, theoretically as open to getting turned on by a coffee table as a person. I had boyfriends and a few girlfriends, some serial monogamy with lots of fucking around in between. I reveled in being provocative. I instigated group sex at parties, usually fueled by alcohol. I tried everything I could think of: oral, anal, BDSM and beyond.

I met Ken when I was twenty-five and he was thirty-four. What we had was probably typical: in the beginning it was all love and lust, fucking in bathrooms and trains, dancing all night, having sex all day, experimenting madly and believing we couldn't get enough of each other. Eventually, of course, we did get enough of each other and slowed down. We reserved weekend mornings to do nothing but fuck and eat and read the paper. Then weekend mornings became more and more about reading the paper.

When I hit thirty, we decided we were ready for a baby. Sex without birth control was hot. I hadn't fucked without a condom since I was eighteen, and the skin-on-skin friction was arousing, but so was the idea of sex as an extension of humanity, of something bigger than just us. I had one of those dream pregnancies — I exercised every day, felt great, and looked fabulous. It suited me, and I reveled in it. I had new tits that I absolutely adored. A certain type of man paid me a lot of attention. The hormones were like being on E all the time; my husband and I had sex every day. At parties I listened politely to the horror stories of couples who didn't have sex for four months after their babies were born and was privately dismissive: "That'll never happen to us."

But we were, in fact, just like everyone else: our sex life went down the toilet right away. It started with the birth, which didn't go as planned. Felix was premature, so I had him in a hospital with labor-inducing

It was quite a shock to be injured, and to be injured there.

drugs, not in a hot tub with a midwife. I was in diabolical pain and shat everywhere, including standing up on the bed while barking at the nurse, "No I'm not having the baby I'm just taking a shit put something underneath me now."

The worst part: I ripped open, requiring more than twenty stitches. I'd never had stitches anywhere before, had never broken a bone. It was quite a shock to be injured, and to be injured there. When I finally got the courage to look, it was a huge relief to see that my clitoris was still there, and in the same place. But I discovered a womb with a view. The rumblings I had heard from women, not in complete sentences even, just mumblings of "never the same again" — this is what they were talking about. A swollen mass of red flesh. A gaping hole where tightness had been. I swear I could see my cervix.

I felt disfigured and damaged. I didn't cry, I shook. This isn't happening, I thought. No one must know. I blocked any thought or feeling below my waist, wore cleavage-revealing clothing, encasing my milky breasts in black lace bras under ripped-open tank tops. I became obsessed with Kegel exercises.

Eventually, I felt around and masturbated, tentatively. As I became aroused, my breasts squirted milk. That was cool. I felt like a teenage boy trying to see how far he could shoot. When I told this to one of my mommy friends, she said, "You should try masturbating while breastfeeding. It's amazing."

I didn't want to miss out. I went home, got out my mini-massager and settled into the Glider rocking chair with Felix, then a month and a half old, at my breast.

Then the doorbell rang.

It was the FedEx man. I buzzed him in, but he couldn't get through the second door, which sticks. So I went to the door in my bra and yoga pants and signed for the envelope with Felix still nursing. When the FedEx man turned to leave, I realized I still had the vibrator in my hand, not my keys, and the second door had closed behind me. I was now stuck in the vestibule with a vibrator and a baby. I rang the bells to my neighbor's apartments and no one answered.

I started to cry hysterically. It was sleeting and below zero and I was barefoot and practically naked with an infant and where could I go like that and what the fuck was I doing anyway? Only a sick person tries to masturbate with a baby, for God's sake. And I'm locked out of the house and everyone will know what I was doing and . . .

Noticing my distress, the FedEx man rang the bell at the house next door. My neighbor — a blue-collar father of three fond of revving his motorcycle at eight in the morning — waved me over. I hid the vibrator under the rug and ran. He settled us on his couch with a blanket and asked if my kitchen window was locked. I whimpered "no," and he went to break into my apartment. I looked at his kids' Crayola drawings and hoped he didn't find the vibrator, or worse yet, step on it and break it.

He came back with one of my coats and asked if I wanted to finish feeding. I mumbled "No, thank you, thank you," still crying. I ran home, retrieved the dastardly vibrator, threw it in the back of my drawer and fed Felix tenderly from the other breast, apologizing to him the whole time. I vowed never to masturbate again.

But an hour later I was already thinking how hot that was of my neighbor — taking control and saving me, all knight-in-shining-armor-like, when I was so vulnerable.


That incident crystallized the whole madonna/whore thing: the feeling that as a mother, I wasn't allowed to be sexual. My black bras and obvious cleavage were meant to counteract that notion, and they may have fooled other people, but I couldn't trick myself into feeling sexual, or even sexy. I desperately wanted to subvert the image, but I was just like everyone else.
When Felix was two months old, I decided that my husband and I absolutely had to have sex. I didn't feel like it, but I was so paranoid about us losing our sex life that I started something. We fooled around on the couch while Felix took a nap in the bedroom.

I was terrified that it would hurt, that I wouldn't get turned on, that I wouldn't be able to come, that it just wouldn't work. I was scared that he was so turned off by seeing a baby come out that he wouldn't want to go in. And he didn't. He

I watched Lez Be Friends, but the close-ups just made me think of changing diapers.

found my clitoris and stayed there. We had a gentle session of mutual masturbation and regained some sense of intimacy.

But still, no intercourse. Despite my doctor's reassurance that I was healing well, I had convinced myself that sex would be unbearably painful. At the suggestion of my shrink, I gave myself a "sex hour" while the baby napped. The idea was to experience the pain I anticipated by myself, so I would know what to expect. While Felix gurgled in my arms, I got everything out and ready to go. I put a towel in my rocking chair. On the coffee table I lined up two dildos, a butt plug, some lesbian porn, three vibrators and two bottles of lube. I was nothing if not prepared.

As soon as Felix was asleep and situated in his crib, I put in Lez Be Friends. But the close-ups just made me think of changing diapers. I used a lot of lubricant and inserted the narrowest dildo carefully. It didn't hurt as much as I thought it would. I was determined to get turned on, and when I did, it felt like it was happening to someone else. I came, but not in that supercalifragilistic-Prince-song-sex-relief way that I used to. My orgasm was almost in spite of itself.

At a yoga class a few weeks later, I felt my muscles, my bones, my skin, for the first time in months. I realized that I literally don't feel my body anymore. Before I gave birth, every bump and bruise would send me to the chiropractor. Now I was sure my back was screwed up from hunching while nursing and carrying car seats and strollers, but I didn't even notice. My body was no longer mine.

I knew that no one has sex for months after having a baby (except teenagers, my doctor told me). I knew most of my mommy friends weren't having sex. Felix demanded my attention day and night. So why was I still obsessing over it? I had used sex to fill every possible hole in my life up until the day I gave birth (actually, even on the day I gave birth — I gave Ken a blowjob right before we left to go to the hospital). Now I didn't have any room left; I was full of Felix. The constant motion of early motherhood actually decreased my neuroses. I didn't have the time to worry myself sick by cataloguing my humiliations. I was doing something important: keeping this tiny human alive with milk from my breasts. My body was doing what it was meant to do. I didn't need an orgasm to slam me out of myself.

Still, I missed my husband. One night in bed, I said, "I think you need a non-sexual tour of the region, so that when we do have sex again, you know what you're getting into. Literally." I spread my legs and directed the reading light between them. I opened my sex with my fingers and showed Ken the ridge of scar tissue that stretched diagonally from the right side of my vagina to the left side of my anus. I took his hand so he could feel the area just inside the right wall of my vagina. "This still hurts. That great move you have will have to wait."

He was tentative. "I saw a baby come out of there, " he said. "It's not for fun anymore."
It was understandable that I didn't want to have sex, but wasn't he supposed to? My mommy friends were starting to complain about their husbands' libidos. Gisele told me she kept Ernesto happy by giving him a blowjob every three days. I knew that Ken was as busy as I was, as tired and cranky, and in shock at being a father and responsible for our little family. But I hated him for making me feel so undesirable. I hated myself for not talking to him about it. I hated that it was up to me to initiate sex. We occasionally talked about it, but even talking about sex was uncomfortable. Ken seemed completely turned off. Part of what I love about him is that he has a sensitivity that's almost feminine. Now I wanted him to be more of a man.


Seven months after Felix was born, the three of us came home from an afternoon walk. With Felix still asleep in his stroller, I said, "How about we take a chance he'll stay asleep?" We were both tentative. Ken undressed and got into bed while I went to the bathroom. I didn't want him to see my body, so I took off my jeans and socks, then got into bed and slipped off my underwear, T-shirt and bra. We didn't look at each other, just hugged hard and tight for a long time, then loosened up and kissed. I took his ass in my hands and noticed it was softer. I was glad that I wasn't the only one who was out of shape. I had forgotten that just the feeling of his cock in my hand could turn me on. He put his hand on me, opened me, found the wetness inside, rubbed my clitoris until I told him to fuck me. He put on a condom and entered me gently, missionary position. I kept asking him to look at me. I wanted not to be invisible.
It was a little uncomfortable, but not the body-wracking pain that I expected. I relaxed into the pleasure of being fucked. After awhile he came, looking in my eyes, then lay next to me and used his hand to get me off.

Afterward, I asked the million-dollar question. "Does it feel different inside?"

"Not really . . . maybe a little . . . To tell you the truth, it's been so long . . . "

We laughed. I realized I missed the afterwards as much as the sex: the hormone high, the smell. After that night, we had sex every week or two for a few months. Then it dwindled away again. Felix grew. He needed more; I had less. Our romantic little family was actually a small corporation. We were really tired. Familiarity breeds contempt. Resentment builds upon resentment. We lost our humor.

And I realized that I love my son more than I love my husband. I know Felix's body better than I know my own. Right now, his ear is exactly as long as my middle finger from knuckle to tip. He has a patch of dry skin on his left shin. His fingers still splay like starfish, hot against my skin. I lean in too close; I want to get a whiff of his breath. When I read him a book, I surreptitiously press my lips to his hair over and over, very lightly so he won't notice and bat my hand away. He knows I'm too into him. When I feed him, he pushes my face away. He wants the breast and the milk, not the mother. I'm terrified he'll grow up to be one of those boys in high school who only look at women's breasts, not their faces. I worry that I will be jealous of his girlfriends.

Sometimes I'm afraid I go too far. I linger a little too long when I look at his little dimpled ass. I enjoy it too much when I put lotion on after his bath. I know everybody loves a naked baby; I know children are inherently sexual; I know it's normal to be turned on by your infant. One fatherhood book has a sidebar that tells new dads not to get freaked out if they get a hard-on. But this is tricky territory. Is it wrong to encourage him to touch himself? Is it okay to think of my baby when I masturbate? Is that just a manifestation of his all-consumingness? Babies are like a gas — they expand to fit all available space.

But I worry that I'll subtly cross the line, that the sexuality I share with Felix will fuck him up. (My parents never talked to me about sex; my son may have the opposite problem.) In my mind, I can fuzzily see the progression from our innocent play to abuse.

People always say of breastfeeding, "It's sensual, not sexual." But it is sexual.

They are little, they are yours, you forget that they have their own wants and needs, you think you can do anything with them, for them, to them.
I would never abuse my child, but I understand a little those who do.

Sometimes when Felix takes his nap, I get out the Hitachi. I don't think about my husband. Nor do I think about Johnny Knoxville, or that butch dyke at the coffee shop, or being taken from behind by a faceless stranger. Right after the baby was born, I imagined mothers licking my wounds. Now I think about other men who are fathers. Sexy men, new men, but fathers. Tackily enough, my friend's husbands. They would understand the leaking breasts, the extra pounds around the hips, the moodiness.

But always, my thoughts turn to Felix. I have a hard time concentrating on my clitoris, even with all that roaring power on it. I start thinking of when his next doctor's appointment is, or how cute it is that "yellow" and "sausage" are his first multisyllabic words.

For someone who has, for better or worse, gotten strength and power from being desired, I am now operating unsuccessfully in two parallel universes. On one hand, I have never been so desired in my life. Felix ravages my breasts as no one else ever has. It's not sexual hunger, it's actual hunger. Even now, at a year and half, he runs from across the room at the sight of them, tackles me onto the floor or couch, climbs up my body until he's within reach, then draws back and takes a good look, grins and goes in for the attack. People always say of breastfeeding, "It's sensual, not sexual." But it is sexual. He nuzzles and paws at me, grunts, throws his head from side to side as he latches on, his pink mouth warm on my nipple. He tries to get as much as he can into his mouth as his whole body burrows into me, his little heels digging into my thighs and still-soft belly. He kneads the breast he's nursing from with his hand to get more milk, and uses his free hand to tweak, twist and pull on my other nipple. I wonder if he's holding onto it protectively, so no one else can get it.

Who would give up being needed like that? Not me. Because the opposite universe is the one in which no one wants me. I'm a mother; I have little to no value to the outside world.


In keeping with our Felix-centered life, two months ago my husband and I invited thirty-two babies and their parents to a Valentine's baby brunch. We bought cases of cheap champagne, and the parents we know from yoga and work and the playground ate quiche and bagels, got drunk and pretended it was a kids' party. I started drinking at two. By nine-thirty, after the last guests left, I slurred to Ken, "I love Felix more than I love you."

It was the first time I'd said it out loud. I continued: "And you love Felix more than you love me. What's up with that? I want you to love me more than you love him, but I still want it to be okay for me to love him more than you."

Despite my drunkenness, he was patient. "It's different, that's all," he said. "It's a different kind of love."

"It doesn't matter," I said, then passed out. Happy Valentine's Day, honey.

My husband and I are fully in the cult of the kid. Our culture now rewards long-term breastfeeding and spending $800 on a stroller. We are supposed to sacrifice everything for our children: certainly sex, even romance. But I want to have a romantic life with my husband. I don't want to wake up when Felix is in school, or going off to college, and not know who Ken is. I want to be a model of erotic love for Felix to learn from.

I'd like to be able to say that by applying the golden rule of threesomes — play with everyone and take turns — I could come to some reckoning, but I can't. I can't resolve my sexuality changing, nor the placement of my erotic longing onto my son, nor my worries about psychologically damaging him. My husband gamely says, "It's okay, it's just all about you two for now." I try out the long view and understand that this is just a phase. I will stop breastfeeding Felix eventually; he'll get older and more independent; our physical attachment will decrease; he will probably not turn into an ax murderer as a result. I'm not sure where that leaves Ken and I. Maybe we'll wind up scheduling sex, like the advice columns tell you to. It sounds more businesslike than bold. But as I recall, a ménage a trois is difficult to negotiate: all those jangling limbs and sensitive egos, desires and expectations clashing up against one another, all that excitement and disappointment keeping each other in check. n°

Foster Kids

Today I have one moving out and one moving in.

The one moving on is the one that pushed me to the Tipping Point, the one that I had for Respite and fell in love with, the one that has finally made a decision for himself for maybe the first time in 19 years, and has decided to move out. I'm not crazy about how he did it, and I'm worried sick for where he will be in 2 months. But, at least he's making a decision for himself, and (for right now) feels really good about it.

I've had him since February, and the perseverance it has taken to let him know that he is wanted and loved and respected is exhausting. I can't tell you how many times we've had soul wrenching chats, where I think that all the plaque is flaking off, only to wake up the next morning and see that, actually, it's all still there. Which is ok. We start over. "Foster child, I'm not going away. I will still be here no matter what the problem is. I will still like you, and love you, and want you to be part of my family. You are part of my family." Over and over. And I don't think he believes it. I don't know if he can believe it. But I mean it with my complete being.

So last night he calls me from the place he hangs out, and I tell him he has an appointment today with his case worker, and I remind him he needs to move his stuff out of the bedroom. And I can hear in his voice that that tidbit went in one ear and out the other. So I say it again. "I need you to come clean and pack your room. There's another kid coming in, so I need you to plan on being here all day on Friday to take care of it." His response: "Well, do you have boxes yet?" At the same time I am pulling my hair out, I totally love the teenage sense of entitlement. Part of me wants to scream, "No! You are ditching my family in a yucky way. You don't call, you won't tell me where you are living, you break agreements, you blow me off. And you expect me to have boxes for you? Nuh uh, buddy. Figure it out yourself!" The other part of me just wants to hug him really really close.

I hope this isn't the last I see of him. I hope he comes by to do his laundry, to have dinner once in a while, to borrow some money, or just for a hug.

Tipping Point

I reached my tipping point yesterday. Now, I have been gifted withpatience and a genuine joy of teenagers. And I enjoy the dance between being a kid and an adult, and I find them endlessly entertaining. But we reached the tipping point*. And let me tell you, my tipping point is slight. There's no plateau there. I came right up to it, and he shoved me over in the time it took him to utter:

"Well, you have a vehicle, don't you?"

And it is c a v e r n o u s down here. There's no visible way back up. He'll be building a ladder out of whatever he can find and lowering it down with chocolates and roses on every rung. Then, and only then, is there a possibility of finding his way back into my good graces. And if I climb back up, I will be precariously balanced on the edge of that point indefinitely. There are no more second chances, no more excuses, no more omissions.

And, this is why I love teens. Prior to this event, I didn't even know that I had a tipping point.

____________________________________________________________________
*I was so angry that I cleaned out and rearranged the garage, rearranged my patio, completely cleaned the refrigerator, and scoured the kitchen floor and hallways on my hands and knees.

Ah Yes, Our children....

This Delightful post from Okay, Fine, Dammit had me rolling but then I came to the comments. They were fantastic. These are the things that make me love being a parent. The sheer camaraderie of knowing that your child makes you look like a total ass, and that there are thousands of other people out there experiencing the same thing; that's the stuff that dreams are made of!

My kids are almost past that stage of embarrassing me by the words that they use, but they find other ways.

A couple days ago (Wednesday) my foster son announced to the people that decide his future, that he had not completed several of his classes, that he is on academic probation, and that his financial aid is suspended.....all before he told me. So there we all were, on a conference call that decides his destiny, and I am silently smacking him upside the head. His defense? "Well, I didn't lie to you....I just didn't tell you."

I thank god for those moments of stuffing OB tampons up their noses when company is over, when they ask someone why they have man-boobs, when they announce at parent-teacher conferences that I had tried to get out of coming....they prepared me for days like last Wednesday.

While I was away...

ManyMom: Stupendous Child, I will be in in a moment to tuck you in.

a moment goes by

ManyMom: (mid tuck) Stupendous Child, What is on the wall?

silence, with an air of wide eyed innocence,

ManyMom: What is it?

Stupendous Child: I was really mad.

ManyMom: Ok, but what is on the wall?

Stupendous Child: I was really mad.

ManyMom: Right, but WHAT IS IT?

Stupendous Child: I got really mad and threw my hamburger.

ManyMom: *exasperated sigh* Stupendous Child, clean it up

Stupendous Child: Well, I already tried to pick up the crumbs.

ManyMom leaves the room

* 2 seconds later*

Stupendous Child: Mo-oomm, I picked up all the crumbs now.


deeeeeeep breath