I know Rowan’s grandparents worry about their one and only grandchild and how she’s managing going from being an only child to having a new biological brother and two bonus sisters and another male figure in the house. Yet, while Rowan’s amazing grandmother will ask things like, “Do you think she’s made new friends?” or, “Do you think she needs a tutor?” she never once asks me how Rowan is holding up in her new blended family or if she gets along with Boyfriend’s children, and never anything about her new baby brother or Boyfriend. I think Rowan’s grandmother just doesn’t want to seem like she’s prying, or perhaps she thinks I don’t want to talk to her about my present family makeup because I might think it’s none of her business. Most likely, she simply doesn’t know what is acceptable and not acceptable to ask.
It’s not that Rowan’s grandmother doesn’t care that Rowan has this larger family. I think she really does care and truly worries about how my daughter is adjusting and continues to adjust. She’s the most kind-hearted person in the world. I’m quite positive she wants to know how the most important person in her life, Rowan, is handling these new people in the house, or how she’s dealing with life in a blended family, or how she feels about Boyfriend, because I’m 1,000 percent positive she wants to know that her only granddaughter is nothing but happy every single second of every single day. So, no, she doesn’t ask, and I don’t share this part of my life with her either. We are both nothing but amateurs when it comes to talking about my blended family and how Rowan is dealing with it. Often, I do want to reassure Rowan’s grandparents that their only granddaughter is just fine, but that would mean I would have to bring up Boyfriend and his children, and I still keep my old pre-blended life and my new life compartmentalized.
Rowan’s grandparents and my parents still talk on the phone occasionally, and sometimes, when they are in town visiting Rowan, they’ll invite my parents to go out to dinner with them, or my parents will invite them out for a meal. More often than not, I’m not even invited to these dinners, only finding out afterwards that the grandparents have made plans and gone out as a foursome, along with my daughter. Maybe only once have my parents gone out with Boyfriend’s mother or father. My parents, too, in many ways are still living in the past.
Rowan’s father never asks about Baby Holt either. When we talk, just like when I talk to his mother, it’s like Holt doesn’t exist, and neither does Boyfriend or his children. I don’t think this is because Rowan’s father doesn’t care. Rowan’s dad is not one to pry, and he’s also a super private person. (He’s not on any social media at all! Who in this day and age isn’t on social media? Rowan’s father, that’s who.) He doesn’t interfere with my life, and, maybe a small part of him wants to forget that his daughter has all these new people in her life. It may be easier for him and his parents to act as though they don’t exist and that the blending never really happened — sort of like a dream you have and you’re not sure if it really happened or not.
Still, I do feel the need to reassure all of them that they need not worry, that Rowan is still very much loved and is doing well in my blended household. Even after years, they still never ask about Boyfriend, his children, or Baby Holt. Even after years, I don’t bring up Holt’s name. Perhaps they ask Rowan about her brother and new sisters when she’s alone with them, but I do not know this for certain. I have never asked my daughter if the rest of our family comes up in conversation with her father or grandparents, because I don’t want my daughter to feel like I’m snooping for information. That, and also, frankly, I don’t really want to know what they truly think about the choices I’ve made.
This uncomfortableness, or pretending that Rowan is still an only child, never goes away. It’s been there since the first day we blended, and it’s still here now, years later.
One night, years after Boyfriend has moved in, I find myself in a bind. Rowan is now on a soccer team. Her father is in town and wants to see her play. She also wants me to see her play. But I don’t have anyone to watch Holt this one evening — Boyfriend has plans. I don’t want to disappoint my daughter, but I also don’t want to bring Holt to her game because Rowan’s father will be there and I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable. Truth be told, I don’t want to feel uncomfortable either, having him watch me mother another kid who’s related to his daughter but not to him. I call my mother.
“Can you and Dad come over and watch Holt this Tuesday night?” I ask, telling her how Rowan’s dad is also coming to the game. My mother gets what I’m saying immediately.
“Yes, we will come over and watch Holt. It will be way too uncomfortable for you,” she says. Well, fuck, it turns out my parents do have some sense of what it feels like to be in a blended family and have your past and present lives collide.
Rowan is blissfully unaware of the uncomfortableness that we adults feel because of our blended family. She wants everyone to come, for example, to visit her at her overnight camp on Visitors’ Day.
“Can Holt come?” she begs. “I really want him to see my camp.”
“We’ll see,” I say, knowing this is never going to happen, because Visitors’ Day is three hours long, and by bringing Holt along, it will take away time her father wants to spend with her. So I make up an excuse, though it is also true.
“You know how he is. Holt gets bored easily. And you know how he is when he gets bored. He’ll want to leave after twenty minutes,” I tell my daughter.
At my daughter’s overnight camp, there is another day for divorced parents — exes who can’t get along, even for three hours, for their children. But Rowan’s dad and I do get along, and so the outside world, or at least her counsellors, have no idea that Rowan’s father and I aren’t together and that back at home I have another family, and so does Rowan. I don’t invite Boyfriend, either, to Rowan’s Visitors’ Day at camp because I don’t want her father to have to share these three precious hours with Boyfriend, even if he has been part of her life, and my life, for years.
I don’t know if Boyfriend feels left out on Visitors’ Day. Maybe he does. Maybe he feels like I felt on his daughter’s prom day. Some days are reserved for biological parents. That has been my experience, even if I wish it could be different. But I guess that’s how it should be, even though it fucking sucks when you’re the one left out. Boyfriend doesn’t bow out of Visitors’ Day, nor does he really press to come. The difference, though, between prom and Visitors’ Day is that Boyfriend was never invited in the first place. But it still sort of stings when he doesn’t even bother to ask if he could tag along. Maybe he knows that I’ll just say no. Or maybe he just doesn’t miss my daughter like I do, or like he misses his kids when they are off at camp. I’d say it’s fifty/fifty.
Back at home, my bedroom still offers me respite when I’m in hiding mode, but it is now causing issues with Boyfriend and my daughter. She’s now used to not sleeping with me anymore, but she still comes in every night to cuddle with me before she heads to her room. She comes in more than once to say goodnight, lingering like the last guest at a party. While personally I don’t mind how often she comes in to say goodnight or the fact that she wants to cuddle until I have to kick her out, which always makes me melancholy, Boyfriend gets annoyed with how many times she does it, always coming to my side of the bed and trying to sneak in under the covers. And he doesn’t bother to contain his annoyance. Coming in to say goodnight once is okay. Even twice is fine. But, by the third time my daughter comes in for one last goodnight, or if she overstays her welcome when she says she just wants to cuddle with me for one more minute but ends up staying for ten, Boyfriend gets really miffed.
“Rowan,” he’ll say, peeved. “You’ve already said goodnight four times. It’s enough already!” Boyfriend is much more comfortable trying to discipline my bio child than I ever am with his. I don’t think I’ve ever once even tried to discipline his children.
“She just wants to stay for one more minute,” I’ll say, irritated with Boyfriend’s irritation, feeling a powerf
ul need to stick up for my daughter, as always. I want to make it clear to my daughter that it’s not me who is making the demand that she stop coming in, but I also want to make it clear to Boyfriend that I understand why he’s frustrated. As an outsider, I do understand why he gets annoyed. But as Rowan’s mother, I really don’t think it’s such a big deal that she wants to say goodnight numerous times.
So, while Boyfriend often feels torn between his children and me, I, too, often feel torn between my daughter and Boyfriend, especially at nighttime. I love cuddling with my daughter, but I also know that I need to spend some adult time with Boyfriend, watching one of our favourite televisions shows together, without interruption, without having to pause what we’re watching every ten minutes as my daughter constantly pops in and out of our bedroom to say goodnight one last time.
Researchers or so-called experts on blended families and relationships speak out of both sides of their mouths, too. Many say you need to make your partner a priority when you’re in a blended family. Other “experts” say that kids should always be the priority. So which fucking is it?
It annoys Boyfriend when my daughter interrupts us while we’re watching one of our shows, so should I be making him a priority and tell my daughter that she can only come into my bedroom to say goodnight to me once? Or should my daughter remain my priority, and I should tell Boyfriend to “chill the fuck out” when my daughter wants one more cuddle with me? The truth is, I like when my daughter comes in to cuddle, and so I need to find a way to show Boyfriend he is a priority, even though, obviously, if push came to shove, I’d take my daughter’s side, and Boyfriend, deep down, knows this. Just like, deep down, I know that if push really came to shove, Boyfriend would, and does, take his children’s side. I mean, I’ve seen it too many times to count: he says he’s on “my team,” but his actions show otherwise. There are many nights he spends with his daughters in their bedroom, watching a movie with them, without asking me to join. I don’t think he realizes that he’s making the assumption that I don’t want to join them. Either that, or he simply doesn’t want to extend an invitation.
“How would you feel if my children were constantly coming into the bedroom every night?” Boyfriend asks, his tone filled with disdain, when my daughter enters our room for a third time one night.
“That’s a moot point,” I tell him. “You always go downstairs to say goodnight to them. They have never come in here to say goodnight. Rowan is younger than them and has always come in to say goodnight to me.”
This routine of Rowan coming in and Boyfriend being annoyed by it has been going on for years. Nothing changes. I wonder if it ever will. I don’t know why he doesn’t just get the fuck over it. But Rowan knows he’s annoyed. She only kind of cares, though. But she does leave, saying goodnight only to me before I remind her to say goodnight to Boyfriend, too.
“Goodnight,” she’ll huff to Boyfriend, clearly pissed off that she’s being kicked out of the room, holding her head and slamming the bedroom door behind her.
I feel Boyfriend tense up when Rowan whispers, not so quietly, into my ear, “If I can’t sleep, can I sneak in bed with you?” And I whisper back, “Of course!”
· SIXTEEN ·
I should pad my bedroom walls. I’m on the brink of a blendedfamily-fuelled mental breakdown.
When Boyfriend’s daughter gets her driver’s licence, I’m extremely proud of her. Before she goes in for the driving portion of her test, I text her very early in the morning: “Happy driver’s test day! Just flash them a smile. And soon you’ll be free! (Driving that is!),” adding a heart emoji.
Early that afternoon, I receive a text back from her with one word: “PASSEDDD!”
“Woot!!! Congrats!” I text back, super pleased. Boyfriend is both happy and sad. As with most parents when their children get their licences, Boyfriend is noticing now how quickly his girls are growing up, so this is a bittersweet moment for him. But now that his daughter can drive legally and has been given a used car that belonged to a family member who passed away, his eldest child can now drive herself and her sister to us, which will save Boyfriend hours and hours of driving them back and forth, stuck in traffic, getting his children from their mother’s house to ours. Perhaps now his chronic back pain from sitting in the car so long will go away. But I know, even if he doesn’t realize it yet, he will also miss out on the hours he spends in the car talking with his daughters, since he no longer has to be their chauffeur — something you don’t think you’ll ever miss, but suddenly you want that chance back because you know it’s no longer an option. His daughter wants to drive, of course. She’s a teenager.
By now, we’re in year seven of our blended family. After seven years of ups and downs — nothing that wasn’t fixable — Boyfriend’s daughter and I get into our first wicked fight. Soon after she gets her licence and her car and has driven to our home, I overhear her complain to Boyfriend about how the car sucks. I can’t help but think, Isn’t the gift of a car, whether brand new or used, something she should be grateful for? We don’t live in Beverly Hills, where getting a Porsche for your sixteenth birthday is a given. Most sixteen-year-olds do not get their own car as soon as they get their licences, so I’m taken aback by what I perceive to be a sense of entitlement, or maybe lack of gratitude that she has her own car at all.
“First world problems,” I mutter under my breath, because I do think so, as I head up the stairs, not realizing that Boyfriend’s daughter heard me. But she has and she’s beyond pissed, and Boyfriend demands I apologize and make things right.
I’m not against apologizing, but not before I ask Boyfriend, “But don’t you think it is a first world problem?”
“You need to apologize. She’s really upset,” he says, ignoring my question entirely. Again, without meaning to, I have put him in an uncomfortable position, which makes me, again, feel like I’m the fuck-up, that whatever I say is taken out of context, and that someone is always mad at me.
I’ve started to notice, as his girls get older, that Boyfriend has become much more protective of their feelings and less protective of mine. His Dad Guilt seems to me to have intensified over the years. I think, mostly, this is because they are spending less and less time with us or him. They may spend the odd night here, usually now bringing friends or boyfriends, but Boyfriend just sees them once or twice a week, driving to them to take them out for dinner and, of course, a visit to the mall.
So I go on my apology tour, not because I think I need to apologize, but to keep the peace. In fact, if my daughter had moaned about a car, any car, given to her for free as soon as she got her licence, I’d say the exact same thing to her. I’d have no problem telling her that she was acting like an entitled brat and that it is a “first world problem.” But because Boyfriend’s children are not biologically mine — and, again, I’ve never attempted to parent them over the years and have never once disciplined them — they complain to him about me, and then he complains to me about their complaints about me.
What can I say, except thank god for text?
“Hey. Your dad tells me you are upset with me for using the phrase ‘First world problems,’” I text to Boyfriend’s daughter. “We had been joking about it earlier, because at my office we are always saying ‘First world problems,’ and so I said it when u were talking about your car. I really don’t get cars at all, so I didn’t realize that it could hurt you. In fact, I care about cars so little you can have my old BMW if you want. I’m getting my new car next week. First world problems! But in no way did I mean to hurt your feelings or anything like that. For all I care you can drive a Bentley! Anyway, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings. Wasn’t intended at all. Maybe you’ll come see the car next weekend and your parents can think about buying it for very little :)”
My car, which I have been driving for almost seven years, is still in great condition, with less than 50,000 kilometres on it, because I rarely seem to drive any farther than four blocks from the house.
&nb
sp; My text apology, and maybe — probably! — the fact that I offered my car, works, and she seems to have forgiven me. “Thanks for the apology Rebecca. I guess it was just a miscommunication. And that would be awesome (smiley face, smiley face).”
What teenager, after all, wouldn’t want to drive around a BMW?
“You excited to get your new car?” she texts me.
“To tell you the truth, I know what brand of car I’m getting but I’ve never driven one. I just picked the colours (grey outside, brown inside). Supposed to be the hottest car right now which is why it took four months to order the damn thing,” I text back. I add, “See? First world problems,” with a smiley face emoji.
“Haha, that’s too funny. But it sounds very nice,” she texts.
When I tell Boyfriend that we’ve made up and that everything is good again, I can tell that he’s relieved, to say the least. I expect him to thank me for being the Bigger Person and apologizing, but all I get is, “Good.” Just once, once, I’d like to be the one who gets the apology, not the one apologizing. But by now I know I have a better chance of winning the lottery or getting struck by lightning than to ever get an “I’m sorry” from Boyfriend. He doesn’t realize that saying, “I’m sorry you’re feeling that way,” is not a true apology. It’s like he’s allergic to the two-word sentence. And I’m wondering if I’ve become allergic to being in a blended family. I may not break out in hives, but the stress pimples break out more times than I can count.
Blissfully Blended Bullshit Page 19