Winnipeg Free Press

It’s unforgivable that I haven’t blogged in ages. First my computer died. Then the Red River Ex came to town. Puppy classes began. Basketball and dancing lessons ended. And so life goes when you’ve got a mix of five kids and a couple of dogs.

So here I am typing on a brand new computer, the queasiness in my stomach from riding The Fireball at the Ex has subsided and I’m looking forward to a weekend of camping.

Next week my youngest son graduates from junior high, my eldest has finished his first year of university and the three girls will complete Grades 1, 2 and 6. Lots to celebrate. Perhaps not of equal significance but nonetheless cause for celebration is the fact that my puppy is finally going poop-y outside, mostly. She still thinks the girls’ room is a litter box and is now barred from going in there, but otherwise has gotten the hang of going outside. It’s such a relief to not be constantly crawling around on all fours scoping out the source of the poo smell wafting in the air. Things are looking up.

Hubby and I are coming up to five months of marriage and things are almost as good as ever once again. I remember before getting married feeling prepared to tackle the challenge ahead and confidant it would be a smooth transition. Wrong. I guess there are some things in life where it doesn’t matter how much your head prepares, your emotions will take their own sweet time arriving where your head wants them to be.
I recently read that when remarriages fail it’s rarely because of the couple falling out of love and usually because of external issues and pressures facing the marriage. This encourages me because external issues can always be fixed; heart issues not so much. I think back to my first marriage and see how the break-up was the result of growing apart and falling out of love. Not much you can do about that. I mean, at one level I believe love is a choice, but I also believe people change, grow apart and fall out of romantic love. Now, with my second marriage, I feel I’ve married someone I can love and laugh with for the rest of my life, but requires one hell of a commitment to not letting the external issues get the best of us. So, with pen in hand, the other day Hubby and I listed all our issues and are figuring out ways to overcome them.

For starters, we’ve decided to narrow the gap between our two sets of kids by becoming more like a united couple raising kids instead of running parallel households. This means I need to get off the sidelines more often and onto the field in parenting his kids with him. Up until now I’ve been cautious about getting too much in the girls’ faces and have strived to give them space and time alone with their dad. However, we’re starting to realize that my hesitation and fear of crossing any boundaries with the girls has caused too much division is ultimately not conducive towards our end goal of creating a blended family. Boundaries are probably one of the biggest issues facing stepfamilies and I’ve realized the rule books are more just guidelines and every unique family needs to establish unique boundaries. Whatever the case, I think my time has come as a stepmom to roll up my sleeves and get more in the game.
Another area where we’ve covered some ground is our understanding and acceptance of each other’s ‘Sunday afternoon moments,’ you know, the ways you like to spend your downtime. For me, I’m happiest sitting outside with a good book and an hour of quietness. He, on the other hand, is an 18-hour fireball of commotion and on a typical Sunday afternoon is simultaneously painting the living room, building a patio, talking on his cell phone, coordinating the drop-off of 18 tonnes of gravel and refereeing a fight between his two youngest girls. Bridging this gap calls for some compromise, a bit of acceptance and when all else fails a trip to the nearest hot yoga studio.
One by one, as we resolve our issues, we’re creating room to breathe more life and love into our marriage. And as a bonus, the air we’re breathing no longer smells of dog poop!

Eighteen. That’s how old I was when I brought my first baby home from the hospital. I was uneducated, broke and living in a one-bedroom suite furnished with an assortment of odds and ends bought at a second hand store. But I was hell bent on giving that baby a good life. Still am today.
That baby just finished his first year of university, has a good job, a lovely girlfriend and a bright future. Still, I worry about giving him a good life. I was sad when I divorced his dad, wondering if it was contrary to my commitment to giving him this good life. I was anxious when I remarried and became stepmom to three little girls. Would my kids be okay? Am I still giving the best of me?
Maybe that’s why I have a hard time setting rules or being firm with my sons, especially the eldest, because, well, because he’s an adult. And for the most part an amazingly responsible and admirable one at that. It’s not that I expect the moon, just some cooperation and consideration. And maybe from time to time a bit of help around the house. Unload the dishwasher. Pick your clothes up off the floor. Put your backpack down someplace other than the front entrance. A call once in a while letting me know your work schedule so I’m not up late with worry. Pretty basic stuff.
One friend of mine who is wise beyond her years confessed that her parents threatened to charge rent past a certain age if she treated their home like a hotel. She offered this as a solution to my complaints that I’m frequently playing maid to my 19-year-old.
I don’t think I could ever charge my kids rent, at least not as long as they’re in in school and working diligently towards building a future. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll re-establish some house rules and then send them out on a text message.

I’ve heard it said before and it’s a line I absolutely hate, but maybe I’ll find a way to rewrite the old adage, “My house, my rules.”

I think I’m finally through with it. Those awful winter blahs. All it took was one Sunday afternoon in the backyard, sun on my face, and the funk was officially over.

As an added bonus, the sunny day happened to be Mother’s Day, which was already shaping up to be one of my happiest mom’s days in a while. I guess that’s the beauty of having a big family of biological and stepkids, you have more to celebrate.

Plus Mother’s Day had stretched out to being more of a weekend thing, with the first of the celebrations on Friday prior to the girls leaving to be with their mom. And even though my boys were with their dad for the weekend, they came home to spend much of the day with me until later when I did the hand-off back to him.

It’s hard to believe there was a time when those hand-off moments were filled with tension and anxiety. Time has fortunately reduced all that into a vague memory and left in its place a respectful and cordial bond based on a common goal of raising kids.

It’s a good place to be with an ex. I hated that feeling of being at odds with the only person in this world I could share remember when stories with about our babies’ beginnings, walking the floors at 3 am or first days of school. Not that we often reminisce about the past, but the comfort is in knowing we could.

Getting to this utopia co-parenting stage didn’t come without effort and is the end-result of striving to maintain a mindset of fairness while deciding how to split assets and co-parent kids from different households.

I’m not saying there wasn’t animosity as each of us struggled to come to terms with what is fair, but in the end I think fairness prevailed. It also involved getting rid of a lawyer or two along the way.

My experience has taught me there are many old-school divorce lawyers who fail their clients miserably with a ‘winner takes all’ approach. What they seemingly don’t understand is this screwing over mentality perpetuates bitterness, increases hostility and continues to pit one parent against another. How can this be good for anyone?

Yet, long after the lawyers have pocketed their $10,000 to $30,000 (or more!!), the divorced couple is left with the lifelong task of co-parenting their kids. The exes are forever linked by their children and in most cases will be seeing each another at big and small occasions for years to come. I know many people who struggle to be in the same room as their ex simply because one person’s spirit of greed was exacerbated by an even greedier lawyer.

It’s especially sad when the kids pick up on the tension and it overshadows the special occasion that brought them together in the first place. If there’s a bright spot in any of this, it’s the increasing popularity of divorce mediation and family conciliation in recent years that is less costly (in some provinces, including Manitoba, the cost of mediation is subsidized or offered at no cost) and when done successfully is far more beneficial to the kids than a winner-takes-all battle in court.

You can find more information about mediation at www.gov.mb.ca/fs/childfam/mediation.html or by contacting the Family Conciliation branch at 204- 945-7236 or toll-free at 1-800-282-8069.

I think I need to put an end to something; an affair that started long, long ago that still lingers in my life today. You see, before hubby came into the picture I had a constant companion with me between the sheets: My laptop! It was one of my single-girl habits to take my laptop to bed in the evening and use the last hour of my day to catch up on writing projects, read emails or surf the Internet. And from time to time, I hate to admit, I would use my laptop as a DVD player and watch Sex and the City videos before falling asleep. Sad but true. Anyway, since becoming married, this old habit of mine doesn’t seem to fly. Just the mere sound of my laptop being fired up or the clicking of my nails on the keyboard puts hubby in a coma and he’s fast asleep before I can even say good night. I mean, there is a plus side in that I can get a lot of work done, but romantically speaking, it is a killer. I haven’t consulted the plethora of self-help books on my night table on this one yet, but I’m guessing the experts would agree. Maybe tonight I will try to finish blogging before bedtime.

Speaking of endings, I have another farewell to make this week. One of my best friends is moving away. Second one this year! What is it about Manitoba that drives many talented, professionals away from here? The only bright spot is both friends moved to Ontario (not Alberta, thankfully. If I lose one more friend to that province I swear I will start a boycott!) and it will make visiting the two of them easier.

I know, there’s a saying, when one door closes….well, it closes and you need to adjust and get used to the change. One thing I’ve come to realize is that change is a bugger no matter what. Despite my best intentions and preparations, there have days since exchanging vows and becoming a stepmom to three beautiful daughters that I’ve pulled into my driveway at the end of the day and wondered, do I really have a husband and five kids in that house? It’s similar to when I was pregnant with my sons and, despite my best attempts of preparing and planning for the change, my emotions still went for a ride. Becoming a stepmom has been kind of like that, only without the burden of the baby fat, late-night feedings and post-partum hormones. Assuming responsibility and creating space in your life for any kid is an awesome job – whether it’s part-time or around the clock; infant or teenager. Change is a reality, but taking a deep breath, opening the door and walking into new surroundings is never worse than sitting on the sidelines with doubt and fear. And when all else fails, having the ear of a good friend can do wonders in seeing you through change. I guess I’ll be upgrading my long distance plan.

Since I’m cutting out my bedtime writing hour, I may not have an opportunity to get back on this blog before Mother’s Day. So, let me end by wishing all the women who have given a piece of their heart to a child – whether it’s their biological, foster, step or any other kind – a wonderful Mother’s Day!

After taking a 48-hour nap, I finally feel ready to reconnect with the world. Or at least brush my hair and get out of my pajamas.

My journey to Edmonton as a chaperon for my son’s grade nine band trip was a success in that I made it home alive last Friday and with a portion of my sanity in tact. But let me tell you, on day one of the trip I wasn’t as confident we’d have a happy ending. The journey that began at 6 am last Monday had a smooth start but took a turn for the worse somewhere around the Alberta border as we drove into that province’s worst storm of the season and had to white-knuckle it for the last five hours of the bus ride. I remember standing in a Tim Horton’s in Lloydminster and overhearing the locals talk about how they received more snow in the last 24 hours than they had the entire winter. Surely, I thought, that would halt our mission in its tracks. But the ice-covered highways, blowing snow and near white-out conditions were no match for our feisty Greyhound driver and zealous band teacher. Needless to say, sometime around midnight, our crew of 84 kids and a dozen chaperons rolled into Edmonton and the next day the kids brilliantly performed in the festival. Not even the clarinets were squeaky! But just when I thought the drama was subsiding, the hotel we were staying at was robbed and two of our kids witnessed enough of the getaway from their hotel room to provide a precise eye-witness account to the police, which led to the subsequent arrest of the two bandits. (I’m not making this up either!)

Apart from meeting my quota for adrenaline, there were a few things I learned on this four-day trip. For starters, teens are, generally speaking, all about living in the moment. This is a good thing if you’re among the millions of people (myself included) enduring Oprah’s book of the month trying to understand the power of now.  After a few hours with these grade niners, I decided to throw my copy of the book out the window and learn from their example instead. They don’t ruminate about the past or fret about the future. They seemingly give the current moment their undivided attention. And if the next moment is met without the right plan, they improvise. I don’t think adult life could always be that way, maybe just sometimes. Secondly, I think they generally expect life will work out in their favour. Maybe that’s why they don’t worry about the future. I was struck by how confidently they approached each other and each moment with the expectation of laughter, good times and acceptance. When you think about it, it’s quite the contrast to how most adults approach life.

Speaking of approaching things from an adult perspective, you’ll recall from my last post that I was hoping time apart from hubby would be a good thing. What was I thinking??? How could getting on a bus with 84 kids and traveling halfway across the country be good for any relationship? Fortunately, hubby is good at recognizing what sleep deprivation and caffeine overdose sounds like and paid no attention to my semi-incoherent text messages and voicemails along the way. And even though upon my return to Winnipeg I looked as though I belonged on a bus, he picked me up, hugged me and showed me the true meaning of for better or worse.

As a self-admitted groupie in my younger days, I used to fantasize about what it would be like to go on the road with a band. Well, I’m about to find out. Although this road trip will likely be even louder, even more raunchy and even more absurd than in my wildest dreams.
I’m hitting the road Monday at 6 am with 80 Grade-niners, a band teacher, a school principal and seven other chaperones for a four-day trip to a band festival in Edmonton. I signed up for this endeavour on impulse before the notion of sitting on the bus for 15 hours, the squeaky clarinets and all the other drama that will surely accompany this trip had time to sink in. I also did it without the full support of my 15-year-old son. He reluctantly agreed to letting me come on the trip as a chaperone on the condition I don’t embarrass him.
As if I would do that? I got it. No stories about when he was a baby. No talking about how I learned to type on a typewriter, teased my hair with a backcomb and thought the Commodore VIC 20 would someday take over the world. I’m not the kind of mom to embarrass her children…at least not unintentionally. The threat of embarrassment is a trump card with kids, and one I’m not above playing. One bit of attitude, and you never know, details about that little chicken pox scar on his behind might slip out.

In the end, I’m sure this trip will end up being memorable for both the kid and me, and a lot of fun. And besides, when I return home to hubby I’ll have that road rash and sleepless look, which is always sexy on woman of my age. Speaking of hubby, it’s with mixed feelings that I’m leaving him behind on this trip. On one hand, I know I’ll miss him like crazy. And on the other, I’m hoping the time apart will be long enough for us to hit the reset button. What is it about marriage that turns a perfectly good boyfriend who is non-stop adorable, lovable and sexy into someone who makes you want to light your hair on fire? Don’t get me wrong, I love him to pieces and on most days love being married to him, but wow, can we ever whack a few hardballs around. I always knew that, long before I even met hubby, marriage would be a challenge for me. I’m cranky, love my space, am sometimes moody and almost always bossy. I’ m also very independent and have high expectations of myself and others. And as for his flaws, well, it’s typical guy stuff that in the light of day hardly seems worth mentioning, let alone getting worked up about. In fact, I think everything we’ve been experiencing is typical newlywed stuff that is maybe compounded by the fact we’ve got kids and dogs and stuff coming out of nook and cranny of our lives. But the thing about hubby and me is we both want an amazing marriage more than anything else, and we’re both crazy in love with each other. So now, together we’re on quest to learn how to not let the stupid stuff ruin the good stuff. We’ve discovered so far that a marriage needs a tolerance for imperfection, lots of sorrys, sometimes an appetite for crow, and lots and lots of time for love.

The warm weather and melting snow has made me eager to get out of the city, stretch my legs and breath some fresh country air. So this weekend, hubby and I are packing up the gear and going camping. Sort of.

We’re staying in Riding Mountain National Park, so technically it is camping, but in a heated chalet with a whirlpool and fireplace that is a stone’s throw from a world class spa. And the gear we need to pack includes a corkscrew, bubble bath and a few romantic comedy DVDs.

After booking this indulgent weekend getaway for two, we told the kids we were going camping and vaguely made it sound as though we’d be roughing it in the woods with tents and sleeping bags and eating wieners and beans heated over an open fire. We did this to avoid the guilt trip that surely would follow if they knew the reality (“so soon after your honeymoon,” and “when is it our turn to have a vacation”) and to make sure they wouldn’t want to join us.

There was just one little kink in the whole plan. The resort called the house yesterday to confirm my husband’s relaxation massage and my mud wrap appointment and, much to my chagrin, my 15-year-old son took the call. Needless to say, his voice dripped with gleeful sarcasm as he passed along the message about our spa confirmation during our weekend of ‘camping.’

In the end, we came clean about our plans but agreed not to feel even the slightest bit of guilt.

Since the adult-to-kid ratio in my family is severely tilted towards the pint-size set, I often find myself on the losing end.

Let me start by saying that I don’t entirely run my house like a democracy and ultimately believe the ones that pay the mortgage get final say, but I’m always open to suggestions. And that’s what got me into trouble in the first place.

The trouble I’m referring to runs on four legs, has black and brown fur and comes up just past my ankle. Yes, to add to the mayhem of my new life in a blended family, I conceded to the pleas of all the kids and teens under the roof with and bought a pup. Her name is Ella, she’s a Jack Russell-Chihuahua and coincidentally born the day I left for my honeymoon on February 3. Technically, she’s my youngest son’s dog and was originally promised last year when we needed to get rid of his cat because of allergies. It was a fair compromise and he was willing to wait until this spring for his puppy.

So now, in case you’ve lost count, there are seven people and two dogs living under one roof! (The second dog is a three-year-old Shih Tzu that we have joint custody of and get him every second week when we have the girls.) Even though Ella is likely no more than three pounds and by far the littlest of all creatures and humans running around the house, she’s undoubtedly the most demanding and aggressive. From the second her little eyes pop open in the morning until she falls down from exhaustion around 7p.m., she’s a whirling ball of playful energy. Her favourite toys include my coffee table, living room furniture and my slippers, her favourite pastime is chasing dust, making the older dog run for cover and whipping the kids into a frenzy of one part laughter and one part fear for their tender ankles, which she loves biting.

Yep, it’s complete mayhem. Right now her and I are in a bit of a tug-of-war in determining who’s the alpha momma, but this is one battle I don’t plan on losing. She’s starting to get it that biting ankles is not acceptable, showing her teeth is not going to intimidate and there are some things best saved for outdoors. With much persistence and possibly even a few lessons at puppy school, I think she’ll get it.

Truth be told, for every moment of chaos she brings, there’s harmony. My hope was the pup would get my teenage son away from the Xbox, be a good playmate for the Shih Tzu that is growing more sedentary by the moment, and get the entire family outdoors working towards a common goal of caring for the dogs and enjoying life together. So far, on all accounts, mission accomplished.

There’s something about a dog that bring out the best in a family and marks the arrival of spring with a much needed burst of energy.

Getting hitched past a certain age means making decisions about what to do with all the baggage. There’s the physical variety – knick knacks, love letters, old sweaters and high school yearbooks - and then there’s all the non-tangible stuff.

Sifting through the collective cargo of mementos to determine what deserves a prominent place in your shared home is the easy part. Deciding what to do with the emotional baggage takes work.

In my scenario, my husband and I entered our new marriage each having notched up a divorce and a variety of expectations based on past hurts, scars and experiences. We share a mindset that we’ll be damned before letting anyone or anything kick us to the curb and are learning a new love tango that involves one part self-preservation, one part unconditional surrender. It’s not always graceful but we’re learning the steps and slowly finding a way to dance to each other’s rhythm. But we’re also realizing the steps are much easier when we forget the stances we once held and focus on our new direction. In other words, we’ve learned that in a second marriage the first ones are best relegated to the past. It sounds simple but in reality it gets complicated, especially when one ex is either problematic, still involved because of co-parenting responsibilities, has an ax to grind or all of the above. However, we’ve made a bit of head way and come up with a few guidelines for dealing with past relationship baggage: 1) Expectations and treatment of the new partner should never be tainted by what the former one did or didn’t do; and, 2) Bonding over shared hatred of an ex is never a good idea. Complaints or any other conversation about an ex for that matter are kept to a bare minimum.

In clearing out some of the clutter, we’re finding room in our life for more deserving relics, such as his late grandfather’s painting, my grandmother’s china and of course items that tell the story of each of our children’s lives. We’re also laying the groundwork for a new family that doesn’t hang in the shadow of the past. It takes a bit of creativity, some planning and, of course plenty of ambition. For example, this past long weekend, having decided we all needed a bit of a holiday, we packed up the car (actually a car and a truck…it takes more than four wheels for this family to roll) and headed to the States for some American shopping, dining and water sliding. When it comes to family bonding – especially when it involves children from the age of 19 down to seven - proximity is everything! We spent the entire weekend learning to get comfortable in the limited square footage afforded to us at the Holiday Inn family suite, hanging out, laughing, watching movies and creating new family memories.

When we got home from our weekend getaway we all had suitcases, overnight backpacks and shopping bags to cart into the house. I looked around at the baggage strewn about the front entranceway and noticed it’s all ours…and not surprisingly, it all fits!

With seven people and a dog now living under a roof that once housed three, boundaries have become a bit of a hot topic. In fact, determining what’s in and out of bounds is probably the single-most difficult aspect I’ve encountered since jumping into a blended family.

I read somewhere that boys often have a harder time accepting stepsiblings and stepparents than girls because they are generally more territorial and have a stronger need to differentiate themselves from the stepfamily. I was surprised to learn this but can see how it can be true, especially when the stepsiblings and stepparent move into the boys’ home, as was the situation in my case. My boys have seemingly adjusted well and I chalk it up to three things: my husband has put in a great deal of time and effort becoming friends with them and has earned their respect and trust; I still devote chunks of one-on-one time with both my kids whenever I can (and whenever they’re around – teenage boys can be hard to track down for ‘quality time with mom’ and usually requires a bit of bribery on my part!); and we got locks for their bedroom doors and established a ‘knock first’ policy.

Boundaries have created a bit more of a conundrum for the girls. For one thing, they only live with us half time and every second Friday they pack up and go to their mom’s. Living in two separate households – each with its own rituals, rules and routines – must get confusing so when they return we accommodate the transition by relaxing on the rules and making the night all about them. We try to do activities they enjoy and establish a bit of routine, such as unpacking their bags and having pizza and movie night. That part is going well. Where the struggle comes in is the areas guidance, direction and discipline. The girls are quite young and require much more hand-on parenting than my boys. Conventional wisdom tells me it’s not really my place to convey and enforce rules or be too involved in terms of guiding them, at least not for the first few years until we become more accustomed to our new family. But what about times when dad is busy, or dealing with one and not able to give attention to the others? Of course, I want to help out and be involved, but how much is too much? What about the times when his rules for his girls are opposite to my rules for my boys? Or when I’m asked to get involved and provide guidance? And most importantly, how do I not become the wicked stepmom?

These are all questions that have cropped up and, while I don’t think there are any one-size-fits-all answers, they require figuring out along the way. And talking. Lots and lots of talking!

I admit some days I hit the bed feeling beaten by the motherload. Raising kids – especially stepchildren - has a way of unearthing insecurities in even the most confident people. But this past week, I found the reassurance I needed in an unprovoked and heartfelt hug from an 11-year-old, when I was met at the door by an eight-year-old who couldn’t wait to tell me about her day and found a six-year-old eagerly waiting in bed for me to come read stories.