Blissfully Blended Bullshit

by Rebecca Eckler

  Although she was enraged, she did somehow manage to contain her disappointment. She continued to wait for something (a card, a kiss) or, at least, for her husband to say the actual words.

  Just when she was about to cave and admit that her Mother’s Day was a disaster, her disappointment turned into elation. “When we got back to our house, there was a huge, beautiful bouquet of very expensive-looking flowers outside the door,” my friend explains. “I thought, Y-E-S! My husband must have called to order flowers for me and they were just delivered very late in the day! I thought maybe he hadn’t said anything because he, too, was wondering when the flowers would show up. They were absolutely beautiful. And I immediately felt like an asshole for thinking my husband hadn’t thought about doing anything for me on Mother’s Day.”

  But then she opened and read the card. She was beyond floored.

  The gorgeous flower arrangement wasn’t from her husband. The flowers weren’t sent “from the kids” via her husband either. Guess who had sent them to her? Well, the flowers were from … her husband’s ex-wife.

  “The card read, ‘Thank you for taking such care of my children when they are with you,’” my friend tells me.

  My friend, of course, was flabbergasted, not just because her husband’s ex-wife did this very considerate thing, but because his ex-wife was the only one in her blended family vortex who acknowledged her on Mother’s Day.

  “How gracious was it that his ex was so thoughtful, and remembered me on Mother’s Day, and went out of her way to send me flowers with such a nice note about taking care of their children, while my husband didn’t do a damn thing for me?” she asks. Of course, there was an ensuing fight.

  That was the start of their un-blending, she reflects. “He didn’t get why I was so upset. I just kind of thought, how can I move on from this? Was every Mother’s Day going to be like this for the rest of my life? It sounds so immature, but Mother’s Day mattered to me, and it should have mattered to my husband because it mattered to me. I fought for us for three more years. But Mother’s Day was ruined for me. It wasn’t something I could forget. I could never quite forgive my husband for what I expected to be a wonderful day. After he didn’t even acknowledge me on Mother’s Day, I started to see all his faults and I started to notice how much he was always letting me down. So, yeah …” she trails off, because there’s not much more to say. In this case, her now-ex’s non-action spoke louder than words.

  Like me, she detests Mother’s Day.

  So, while I also can’t seem to lower my expectations, I have learned to create my own celebration, since my birthday always falls on the same weekend as Mother’s Day. I simply book a ticket and head to our condo in Mexico, either solo or just with my daughter, so I’m not around and, thus, can’t have any spoiled expectations, and so I can enjoy my freedom. Freedom from my blended family. Freedom from worrying if I’m going to get a “Happy Birthday” message or “Happy Mother’s Day” texts. Freedom from worrying about why I was so worried about not being acknowledged. Freedom from putting Boyfriend in the middle of me and his biological children, who he would have to remind to text me. Freedom from expecting nothing and everything. Freedom from having to be the bigger person, and freedom from having expectations.

  Many of my friends just do lower their expectations in their blended families. Or they really don’t give a shit if they’re acknowledged or not. Or at least they say they don’t care. So either they are saints or liars. “My stepson would never make me a card for Mother’s Day, which is fine because he has a mother and she should get the card,” one of my girlfriends says. She has two biological daughters with her husband, who has a son from his first marriage. “I think if I didn’t have any kids of my own and was only caring for my husband’s child half the time, I’d feel differently about this. On the other hand, I do call my own stepmother on Mother’s Day because she raised me and my sister and doesn’t have kids of her own.”

  The secret to happiness in blended families, it seems, is to have low expectations. Unfortunately, it’s quite hard to accept the fact that other people might never have intended to let me down, but that doesn’t mean I’m not let down. When it comes to expectations within a blended family, sometimes you just have to pull up your ugly granny pants, be the bigger person, and recognize that what others consider their best is just … less than you expected. But if I hear the words “You need to lower your expectations” one more fucking time, I may just explode.

  I’m constantly reminded of my friend who told me that you have to have an enormous amount of love and devotion to your partner and have a really big heart to let the kids “really in.”

  I have to ask myself, Have I truly not fully accepted Boyfriend’s children into my heart, like fully? It’s definitely possible. I know they have seen it that way.

  “Hey,” reads a text I sent to his eldest daughter a while back. “First off, I absolutely don’t hate you!! I love you and your sister very, very much!! xo. It’s my fault that I’ve been out of it. Started writing a book and when I do that my mind is only half in reality so that’s why I’m probably acting odd. I love you and your sister so very much. I probably don’t show it enough, but I do. You are my family. Anyway, let’s forget this and we will hang when we can for sure!! But do not ever forget that I love you.”

  I’m not sure what prompted the text, to be honest. I’ve been skimming though some old messages and stumbled upon this one, and I’m racking my brain trying to figure out what prompted it. What the fuck did I do that made her think I don’t love her? I must have committed some offence that caused a slight she was feeling, which she shared with Boyfriend, who then shared it with me like we’re gossipy girls in high school. I obviously, too, felt that I had done something wrong, because I had apologized.

  Obviously, I love Boyfriend’s children, so why don’t my actions always show this? Did I not open my heart fully to them? And if I didn’t, was there a way to do this, years after blending? I know that, like most teenagers and children of divorce, they can be manipulative (and I’d say this about my own daughter), but Boyfriend’s children have never been malicious.

  As much as I do genuinely care about them, I can see how they may think that I don’t. Lately, because I can’t always leave on a jet plane when the going gets tough, I only find peace hiding out in my bedroom. It may seem like I’m hiding from them. It may seem like I’m hiding from Boyfriend. But the truth is, when I’m alone in my bedroom, with the door shut, I can turn off my brain from overthinking. I think I am also depressed and on edge, and that sick feeling in my gut isn’t going away. I just want to be left alone. I’m so tired of feeling let down. I’m so tired of feeling like I don’t matter. I’m tired of fighting with Boyfriend over the same issues. I’m tired of worrying whether how I’m acting is normal. I’m tired of feeling like a nag. I’m tired of never getting an “I’m sorry.” Pretty much, I’m even tired of myself. And I’m definitely tired of trying to make blended splendid. And so I sleep. A lot.

  · THIRTEEN ·

  I’m not a hoarder. But I’m now a … hider? The bedroom and my car have become my hiding spots. And I don’t mean my place to hide things. I mean my place to hide myself, although it’s not a very good hiding place, since everyone knows where I am.

  I spend so much time in my bedroom these days that I’m starting to feel trapped. At the moment, I’m lying in my bed wondering how I can get a snack from the kitchen to bring back to my bedroom without anyone noticing me. I think of texting my daughter, “Can you please bring me up a cookie or something?” since she is at the kitchen table on her iPad, watching inappropriate YouTube videos. But I’m not at a hotel (although I often think of checking myself into one) and there’s no room service, and anyway, I know someone eventually is going to need something from me and that I will feel guilty for hiding. Eventually, I will have to leave my bedroom.

  Sometimes I lie on my bed, wondering how much time I have left to be alone in my bedroom before Boyfri
end knocks on my door to tell me that dinner is ready or asks if I plan to get out of bed. On those nights, I have to come downstairs and face my blended family and pretend to be happy. There is something to be said for faking it until you make it. But my vibe is … off. And I think everyone can sense it, like a dog can sense if someone is scared. I actually start to believe that, by hiding myself, it’s just better for everyone.

  I don’t always hide in my bedroom. Sometimes I hide in my car.

  “Are you coming inside?” Boyfriend texts when he busts me, watching me from a window as I sit in the driveway checking my text messages, talking to friends on the phone, anything to avoid stepping my foot in the house.

  “Yes, be right in!” I text Boyfriend back, sighing a guttural sigh. I take one deep breath and slowly exhale. It seems like a very long walk to the front door, and, at the same time, all too short.

  Yep, I’m a hider, loosely defined as someone who finds ways to avoid all human contact in their own home. It turns out that a lot of us who are in blended families are hiders. Many other adults in blended families also hang out in their bedrooms and their cars or take epic pees or absurdly long showers, just to avoid what awaits us. I thought I was the only one who did this, blaming it on being depressed, but it turns out I’m not that special or unique. In fact, it’s a pretty typical characteristic of blenders. Some people become hiders immediately after blending houses. Some of us become hiders after years of trying to fit in and attempting to lower our expectations and finding we can’t. So we hide, because it seems like the easiest option, and maybe our only option to not feel disappointed again.

  Our bedrooms become both our sanctuaries and a sentence to solitary confinement. We hide to disengage, which is not a good sign.

  “The minute I hear his car pull into the driveway with his biological kids,” one friend tells me, “I start counting down the days until they leave. When they are here, I spend an inordinate amount of time in my bedroom alone, watching reality television, so I can see other grown-ups also acting like children, much like I act when everyone is here for the weekend.”

  It’s not just us adults in blended families who see no other option for dealing with stressful blended families. Children in blended families, I learn, often do the same thing. “My son spends most of his time in his room avoiding his stepsisters, much like I do,” admits another friend. “When they leave, that’s when my son and I come out of hiding.”

  When I admit to a friend that I sometimes race upstairs to pretend I’m napping, she commiserates, admitting, “Some days, when I’m already home, when I hear my partner pull up with his kids in the car, I race upstairs to pretend that I’m napping too. My partner thinks that I just love napping, which I do — I consider it one of my hobbies — but really, I just need space.”

  Another friend, who isn’t in a blended family, laughs when she happens to call one late afternoon and I whisper into the phone, “Everyone is here. I’m in hiding!” But it’s really not that funny, feeling like you’re cornered into hiding, paralyzed with fear because you don’t know what may start another argument and are afraid you’ll feel low down on the priority list.

  I wonder if there is some sort of witness protection program for the times when all the kids are here or when Boyfriend and I argue. It’s not that I hate hanging around his kids — they are good and outgoing — but I know that when they are around, I no longer exist. Or I do exist, but I feel sort of like a mistress — a woman who pines for a man but also knows he will never leave his wife, though he promises he will. I feel like that woman who endures excuses why he can’t, but keeps hoping things are going to change. But at this point, my head is spinning, racing, trying to figure out what I can do to ensure my happiness while ensuring everyone else’s happiness.

  Add becoming a “hider” to the long list of things that happen in blended families that failed to make the cut in any books or articles I read from so-called experts.

  I once told a friend that I hide in my bedroom, and she literally screeched like a four-year-old who hears an ice cream truck coming. “That is so, so me! I can’t believe you do that too. I’ll do anything to avoid being around when everyone is here. I love my husband, and he thinks I’m distant sometimes and doesn’t get it, but I don’t have the guts to tell him that it’s not him, it’s everybody, the whole situation, that makes me run and want to hide.” Amen!

  For many of us, we honestly can’t explain why exactly we end up hiding in our bedroom. It’s not like we’re mad at our spouse over something and slamming our bedroom door shut. There’s no one reason we hide. We don’t even know how, or why, we turned into hiders. As my friend tried to explain, it’s just the whole … situation. Even with the help of therapy, I haven’t found a way to explain why I have this overwhelming urge to hide.

  I know, I know. You’re probably wondering what kind of woman hides from her family. But then I remember when I was a kid, how my mother would take two-hour long baths, and my siblings and I knew to stay the fuck away from the washroom. And my parents have been happily married for fifty-plus years!

  Still, for me and my friends who also have blended households, the bedroom is really the last and only room that we feel is still ours, a little slice of life before blending.

  I lock myself in by locking everyone else out. Blending is harder than I ever could have imagined, as is dealing with the feelings that boil over when it seems like everyone has taken over the entire house and I am like a stranger or a guest in my own house. Maybe I just feel outnumbered? Many times, I feel like the people in my family just don’t care about me at all.

  “Oh, I get it,” one of my friends says when I tell her I hide in my bedroom but can’t really explain why and I don’t want to have a deep conversation about it or overanalyze it, because no matter how much I try, I can’t explain it. Maybe some of us are too sensitive to be in a blended family. Maybe I’m too sensitive to be in one?

  “It fucking stings when I see my husband and his children take over the entire couch as they watch a movie. There’s literally no room or space for me. It’s a double whammy because they moved into my house,” one of my friends tells me. “They know I’m there, but no one offers to move over or asks me to join them. What am I supposed to do? So, yeah, a lot of the time I end up alone in my bedroom, bawling my eyes out, because I don’t feel welcome, or I don’t feel they care if I’m there or not. How come I feel so lonely, even with so many people around? And this is my family!”

  Boyfriend and his children, and even my daughter, have started to notice that I now spend a lot of time in my bedroom. How can they not? I don’t want to spend so much time alone, retreating like this, but no longer does Boyfriend bring out the best in me. So I’m proactive and hide, because I don’t like who I’ve turned into. This way, no one has to see me in a mood or in a funk. I truly believe, at this point, I’m actually doing my family a favour, but I will realize that disengaging like this makes me feel even worse. Is it better to be the hider than the seeker? Or is it better to be the seeker than the hider?

  “I either magically find errands as an excuse to leave, or I hibernate in my room. I hate it. I wish I had a time machine so we could go back to living in our separate houses and dating. That was a great time,” another blended friend tells me.

  I know it sounds like we do, but we don’t hate our partners’ children (well, maybe some of us do, but I don’t). Many of us just feel … annoyance, and not for any good reason. We realize it’s wrong, like being pissed off when it rains because you had kick-ass outdoor plans. It sucks and it’s irrational, but that rain can fuck itself! That’s kind of how I feel when my house is filled to the brim with children, and sides are chosen, and I no longer exist as I once did. So I hide in the bedroom. When I’m there alone, no one can hurt my feelings. I can’t overreact or have someone lose it on me for some perceived slight. I can’t get angry when I am locked upstairs by myself. The only one I can get angry with is myself, and I do. All. The. Time.
Still, I am off-duty when I close my bedroom door. Nobody’s home.

  Frankly, many of us don’t know what to do when shit inevitably hits the fan and you realize that all the investment you’ve made in the family over the years has yielded a very low interest rate. We just want to avoid the risk of any awkwardness or fights or irrational thoughts. We just want to not have to nag our partners because they aren’t paying attention to us and we feel underappreciated. This is when many of us not only start to hide but also start to self-medicate. Clonazepam and Ativan, prescribed by understanding doctors, becomes our lifesavers.

  Frankly, many of us just want to avoid the risk of awkwardness and fights by playing hide and seek like five-year-olds. But it’s really the saddest game of hide and seek ever. While everyone knows where we are hiding, eventually, everyone stops coming to find us.

  Today, I’m not in hiding. I’m excited to leave the house! Boyfriend is driving me and his daughter downtown, where there is a long stretch of cute boutique clothing stores. Boyfriend’s daughter has asked me to help her shop for a prom dress. I’m beyond thrilled that she’s asked me to come along. This is a big deal! I think Boyfriend’s daughter must think that I have good taste in clothes and really wants my opinion. Or maybe she thinks that, because I live downtown, there are more boutiques nearby, as opposed to where Boyfriend’s children’s mother lives in the suburbs. I am excited and up to the challenge of acting like a personal shopper for Bonus Child.

  We go into a number of stores, where Boyfriend’s daughter comes out of the dressing room showing off her perfect body. She looks stunning in all the dresses, each time coming out of the change room looking better than the last reveal. I gush over how beautiful she looks, feeling not only proud, but also happy that we’re bonding. We’re actually having fun!

  Over the last little while, for some reason, while my relationship with Boyfriend’s children remains civil, it seems like it has also become more … professional? Like we’re office buddies who forget about each other during non-work hours. Even our tone when we ask each other “How are you?” sounds like we haven’t lived with each other for years. We sound, instead, like we are greeting a great aunt we’ve only met two times in our lives. That’s how it feels to me. So, this invitation to help her shop makes me beyond happy. Maybe this will reboot our relationship, back to the days when we were comfortable together and chatted like friends.