Robin
I watch Susannah as she reads the Santa composition, waiting with tragic excitement for expressions of amusement, and indeed for outbursts of laughter. I am increasingly bewildered by her silence, and also by her stiff posture – almost as if she were playing the game ‘Statues’. Embarrassingly, I begin to make pitiful interjections: ‘That part about the twinkling eyes is really funny, isn’t it?’ Finally, realising I am flogging a dead horse, I also lapse into silence. I can’t remember what she says when she finishes reading. I have already given this particular ploy away as a lost cause.
Susannah
Robin’s campaign intensifies over the weeks, climaxing with her offering the phone to me while talking to Tim one evening. ‘Do you want to say hello?’ she mouths, bringing the phone yet closer to me. She is surprised I don’t take up her offer. I am floored she made it.
But there is perhaps another, much bigger reason I am so reluctant to meet Tim: Dad.
I am terrified of telling Dad about any of this. At the beginning, I didn’t think I had to: after all, I was only writing a better letter to my birth mother, resolving and finishing things. I didn’t need to risk upsetting Dad over that. But now I am not finishing things, I am opening them right up and the fact that I haven’t told Dad is starting to eat at me. I don’t want to keep things from him but I fear his reaction: what if he thinks I am betraying him, and worse, betraying the memory of Mum? I worry that he will be hurt and then maybe angry, maybe so angry that he won’t want to see me. That is too much to risk, so I don’t say anything and I begin to fudge my replies when he asks what I’ve been up to, how things are. How things are? They are crazy: my son is on the final stretch of his VCE, still battling illness; my husband is building an exciting but challenging new business; and I am doing somersaults in my head as I try to work out my new reality. And I’m not telling my father.
Meanwhile, Robin continues her campaign of family integration and I wade in deeper and deeper with my blood family, increasingly feeling I am cheating on my life and love family.
My family and my biological friends
Susannah
Within my family, only Oskar and the kids know about my reunion with Robin. Oskar is completely supportive but increasingly alarmed at the speed and intensity of things, while Emma is enthusiastic and curious. Edvard is simply uninterested. ‘If it makes you happy, Mum, that’s great,’ he says. ‘But I don’t want to meet them.’
And fair enough too. At eighteen, Edvard is more in the separating-from-family phase than seeking out more, and I have no desire to force anything on him. From time to time, he asks how things are with my ‘biological friends’, as he has named them, but he is never looking for a long answer and I never give him one.
Emma on the other hand wants to know all about them, what they look like, how they are, what they do – and whether she would see herself in any of them.
‘I always hoped you would do this, Mum,’ she says one day. ‘I would never have told you but I’m happy you have.’
This surprises me and makes me happy – Robin isn’t the only one who wants everyone to be together. Yet I am careful not to force anything on anyone. It has been a huge year for my family, yet soon both my children will head off to the other side of the world, Emma to spend a term at a Swedish school with her cousins and Edvard to a music course in London.
Poor Oskar, bless him, thought our six weeks of trial empty-nesting would be a couple’s paradise – but he hadn’t counted on the whirlwind of the biological dance, and he is already a little taken aback by the turn of events.
Oskar has suffered the most, really. There he was one moment with a stable, competent, if at times over-thinking wife who was just writing one letter to her birth mother – and then BAM! Competent, stable wife takes over-thinking to a new art form and spends most of her time either talking to said birth mother or talking about her. Meals are cooked, kids are wrangled and work is done, but his wife is consumed by this woman and these people who to him – and let’s face it, to me – are complete strangers.
‘It’s like you’ve been kidnapped,’ he says one evening after I get off the phone from another long call with Robin.
‘No it’s not!’ I say, more than a little defensively.
‘You’re here but you’re not,’ he persists.
‘No!’ I protest. But he is right. And now with even more biologicals looming on the horizon, I know I am going to impose even more on my poor husband.
I think the solution might be for him to meet Robin, so he will become part of the whole thing, not just an increasingly alarmed observer. So, I suggest that he comes up to Longleaf and spends some time with Robin and me. Longleaf is one of Oskar’s favourite places in the world, where he truly relaxes and where, I reason, he will be the most relaxed to meet the woman who has hijacked his wife’s head and heart. And he can ride his motorbike up to join us, a long beautiful ride, filling him with calm and a love of life. It will be perfect, I think. I am wrong.
Robin and I arrive first, so when Oskar roars up the drive of Longleaf on his motorbike, we both come out to meet him. Robin looks a little nervous as Oskar, somewhat menacing in his leathers and black helmet, moves towards her saying, ‘Hello, I’m Oskar.’ ‘Hello, Oskar,’ she replies. ‘I’m Robin.’
I note, a little worriedly, that neither hand nor hug is offered by either. Oh well, I think, softly, softly. Things will warm up.
And they do, but not in the way I hope for.
Unpacked and inside, Oskar seems displeased at things around the house; he identifies issues that are invisible to me yet, it seems, are my fault. He also seems oblivious to the fact we have a guest. It is excruciatingly embarrassing for me as I watch my husband lose it in front of Robin, minutes after meeting her.
‘Why have you put the heater on?’ he demands.
‘Because it was a little cold,’ I answer.
Grunt. ‘Have you turned the watering system on?’
‘No.’
Grunt.
‘When,’ he demands, holding a small tap nozzle, ‘did this break?’
‘I know!’ I say. ‘We only just got it. It came off yesterday, not sure how.’
Grunt. Grunt. Possibly a growl.
Let’s be clear, this is not my husband stomping around our little weekender finding fault: this is some grumpy force on whom seemingly calming bike rides have no effect. I am unsure what to do to head him off, to calm him down. And then I see the cap-gun mini-explosives I bought thinking they might come in handy to distract or amuse a visiting child. They might work, the perfect distraction.
‘Look!’ I cry, possibly overenthusiastically. ‘I bought these. I thought they might be fun.’ And then Oskar literally goes ballistic and starts throwing the caps. At me.
This is too much. I need to get him out of here, away from Robin. What on earth must she be thinking? ‘Oskar,’ I say, ducking his last missile. ‘There’s something else broken outside.’
‘What?!’
‘Nothing too bad, just this thing,’ I say, heading out the door, hoping I am luring him out too. ‘Come and look. It’s outside.’
‘You’ve broken something else?’ he growls, glowering as he stomps towards me, falling for my bait.
No, but I’m about to, I think as I go outside and head into the garden, Grumpy stomping behind me. When we are safely out of earshot of the house, it is my turn to unload.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I ask.
Oskar looks stunned. ‘What do you mean?’
I am stunned he looks stunned. ‘Why are you finding fault with everything, with me, in front of Robin, minutes after meeting her? Why is that a good idea? And why were you throwing explosives at me?’
‘They’re not explosives, they’re actually just caps …’
‘Oskar!’
‘Well, they’re not – and what am I finding fault with?’
‘Heater, watering, tap.’
‘Ah,’ his face soften
s a little. ‘Well, maybe’.
‘So, what are you doing?’
‘I don’t know, sorry.’
I think I do, though; by criticising me, Oskar is doing his impression of a caveman dragging his wife around by the hair in front of other, potentially threatening, cave people: She is mine, I can do what I want to her, she’s not yours. Deal with it. But I didn’t marry a caveman, I married a lovely and enlightened Swede whom I loved – and whom, it seems, I have now pushed to the limit. I feel sorry for him, my poor neglected husband, and now it’s my turn to soften.
‘Oskar, do you think if we go back inside you can be more normal?’
‘Nothing about this is normal, though, is it?’ he says, and I sense his anger rising again.
‘No,’ I concede. ‘But can we try anyway?’
‘I am trying …’
‘Not today you’re not.’
‘Okay, fair enough.’
I give my poor husband a hug. ‘Well,’ I offer, ‘at least it’s not me being mental for a change.’
Grunt. But it’s a happier grunt this time and we head back to the house and Robin.
Robin
I have been looking forward to meeting Oskar but now I am a little startled by his behaviour. I sense he is not his normal self, but I feel for Susannah, for her humiliation in front of me. When they both return to the house, however, they appear to have sorted themselves out and the squall that engulfed Oskar has abated. He comes in smiling and sets about preparing drinks.
Susannah
Things improve (they could hardly get worse). Oskar plays host and Robin is brilliant at drawing him out about his work and his beloved ‘Longie’. By the time we are sitting on the verandah watching the sun set magnificently behind Mount Alexander, there is even something approaching conviviality.
Robin
The next morning, Susannah and I take Oskar to the dam to view the water lilies she has purchased, inspired by a vision of a wonderland of floating colour. Although, looking at the rather sad, half-submerged plants it requires a lot of faith to believe in this vision, Oskar, in a generous attempt to atone for his sins of the previous day, overcorrects, and extols the lilies so hyperbolically that it is almost as disturbing as his fault-finding flurry had been.
I start to realise the conflicted feelings Oskar must have over Susannah’s and my reunion and how threatening it is for him. Unfortunately, I am still not sufficiently sensitive to his feelings and I undoubtedly further spook the poor man by declaring, as I give him a farewell hug: ‘There will be more!’
In retrospect, I see how ominous this must have sounded to someone already valiantly struggling to cope with the ‘less’.
Balancing the biologicals
Susannah
By late spring I have met Matilda, her two gorgeous daughters Ada and Aziza (how brilliant to have two daughters with palindrome names) and her soon-to-be husband Jason. It is undeniably fun, but I am still trying to pace myself and my introduction to Robin’s – my? – family. Robin seems less interested in such caution: she is now keen for me to meet her youngest daughter Marian and, as I am learning, a keen Robin is a hard Robin to say no to.
We are at a cafe over on her side of town one morning when Robin receives a text message.
‘Oh no! She’s terrible!’
‘Who is?’ I ask.
‘It’s Marian,’ she says. ‘She wants to know where we’re sitting.’
‘She what?’ I splutter.
‘She says she’s driving past the cafe and is trying to see us but can’t!’
I have to try very hard to overcome my impulse to dive under the table. ‘She’s outside?’ I ask. ‘Here?’
‘Yes! I did tell her what cafe we were meeting at and now it seems she’s doing a bit of spying,’ replies Robin. She seems to find this drive-by espionage amusing: I find it unnerving.
‘I really want to meet Marian,’ I start, ‘but I need just a little bit of warning …’
‘Yes, of course, Susannah,’ replies Robin. ‘It’s fine.’
Hmmm fine. That word again
Ping! Robin receives another text.
‘It’s Marian again,’ she says. ‘She’s given up and driven away.’
I relax but also realise that resistance is useless.
So, of course, when Marian and I do meet, it’s only fitting that we return to the cafe of surveillance. Robin, Marian, her cherubic son Levi and I chat over coffee. Robin gently guides the conversation to start with but it soon gathers a momentum of its own. Marian is lovely – kind-hearted, quick-witted and funny – and, although held somewhat hostage to the will of a one-year-old who can’t decide whether he wants to eat or wear his muffin, we talk easily. I recognise in Marian the same way with words that seems to make everyone in this family so easy to talk to, and to warm to. Immediately I know I like her and I want to know her better.
So, I have the idea that the four of us – Robin, Matilda, Marian and I – might all do something together before I leave to spend Christmas overseas. I offer a Christmas present of a relaxation massage for us all. If ever relaxation is a good idea, it is now, with this family. The idea is embraced and the next week we all enjoy a fun afternoon, first being gently pummelled by masseurs and then amusingly entertained by each other as we talk over coffee and cake. It is relaxed and easy and, driving home, I have a sense of contentment that has been eluding me recently.
It doesn’t last long. I am home later than I said I would be and Oskar is, understandably, a bit put out. Luckily we are going out to dinner with friends and I hope that will diffuse the tension.
We arrive at the restaurant, order drinks and begin to update each other on our lives. The biological update is requested and given, although I try to be brief and breezy and give my husband a break.
‘You’re spending a lot of time with them, aren’t you?’ says one friend.
‘Well, yes and there are a lot of them,’ I say.
‘A lot,’ confirms Oskar.
‘And you want to meet everyone?’
Oskar answers for me. ‘She does.’
‘Not all—’ I start but don’t get to finish.
‘And if she isn’t seeing them, she’s talking to them or about them,’ my husband adds.
‘That’s not true,’ I protest.
‘Isn’t it?’ asks Oskar.
It is a bit. ‘Well, a little,’ I concede. ‘Shall we order?’ Good try, Susannah.
‘You won’t forget about us, will you?’ asks my friend.
‘No! Of course not!’
‘That’s good. It does seem they have an express lane into your heart. We’ve been here for years.’
Oskar looks gratefully at my friend. I am a little shell-shocked. She says it beautifully, but a strong message is there: We’re not sure about these biological-come-latelys leapfrogging into the inner circle, that’s our place. And we’ve been here the whole time. Don’t forget us.
And of course I won’t, I can’t. I haven’t stopped loving the wonderful family and friends I already have but clearly they feel I am neglecting them. The adoption conversation that we have been having for decades is no longer hypothetical, it is now real and not everyone is as happy about it as I am. And if my friends are thinking this, what is the rest of my family feeling? Have I become so wrapped up in my ‘new family’ that I am, indeed, not looking after the ‘old’?
Just as I realise I want to speed things up, to meet more of Robin’s family, I get the message to slow down. But do I have to choose? Can’t I have both? I’m not taking away, I’m just adding.
Aren’t I?
Throwing the stone into the pool
Robin
The addition of any new element to a situation, by definition, disturbs and changes the status quo. As a stone thrown into a pool displaces the water, causing droplets to sparkle and ripples to spread, messing with the general configuration, so the arrival of this new daughter into our family brings wonder and joy but also unsettling feelings of an
xiety and potential threat as the other three wonder where their place might turn out to be once the whirlpool stops whirling. Is more always more, or can it be less?
Anna, Matilda and Marian welcome and delight in the discovery of their new-found sister. The signs of the shared gene pool – especially with Anna and Matilda, Tim’s daughters – are fascinating to observe: not only physical resemblances, but also ways of talking and laughing that are uncannily similar.
However, every now and then, thrown up by emotional churnings below, fears and doubts break through the surface like little jumping fish: ‘You will like her more than me because she is more talented and successful than I am’ … ‘You are more affectionate to her than you have ever been to me – you never hold my hand’ … ‘She’s had her mother, why should she come and take ours?’
The ripple effect also spreads to their relationships with each other, reflecting pre-Susannah insecurities – ‘She clicks more with her than with me,’ or ‘I feel left out.’
This in turn triggers wrong responses from me, causing me to fall into the old ‘fixer’ trap, taking false and inappropriate responsibility. I step into the role of go-between, trying to negate their fears (‘No, I’m sure that’s not true …’) and to manipulate the situation by suggestions (‘Perhaps you could give her a call … she said she hadn’t heard back from you; did you answer her last text? I think it would be nice to include her in that …’).
While attempting to be a peacemaker, I too often become a managing middle-man – getting myself into trouble and making things worse all round. If there is anything at all to be learned from watching The Bold and the Beautiful it is surely the havoc caused by too much intervention in the affairs of others.
So – the introduction of Susannah into the mix has really stirred the pot! For good or for bad? Is it a wrecking ball or a blessing bomb? It is sometimes difficult to tell the difference; renovation nearly always entails some demolition. I personally have no doubt that her return to us is a blessing – part of God’s plan of healing and restoration for the whole family.
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