Over and Out

Well time flies, eh? Another proud Stepmother Moment, when Dylan was drafted into the Richmond Football Club last November. (Go Tiges!) We have another potential Cazaly in the wings, but that important drafting day is a few years away yet. ...And a lot can happen between now and then.

So it's time to say adios amigos to this blog.

It's time to start a new one: about me as a writer, not as a stepmother. (I need an identification shift.)

Well done, Dylan. You make a stepmother proud.

Adieu.

Happy Birthday to us!

2 X 50 = 100?

HARK THE STEP KIDS' ANGELS SING

When it comes to step families, Christmas traditions can be complex minefields to negotiate. Here’s what I did, what they did, and now what we all do.

MY family’s Santa tradition:

When I was young, Santa would leave a pillowcase filled with gifts at the foot of my bed. I don’t remember the age when I sprung Santa, but the deal was that once the game was over, the sack no longer appeared. I wasn’t traumatised by this (not that I can recall!); it was simply the tradition of our family.

When I became a mother, this Christmas tradition was then passed on to my daughter. As she moved from toddler-hood to primary school-hood, the Christmas catch cry was “Once you no longer believe in Santa, he doesn’t leave presents anymore”. Much to my delight, Santa remained elusive and magical to her until she was ten years old. From then on she shared in the magic as spectator to her younger brothers’ Santa glee, and as fellow Santa-conspirator with me.

THEIR family’s Santa tradition:

When I met my husband, who came with a brood of six, their Santa came with no ‘expiry date’. Santa would generously leave all six of them a Santa Sack filled to the brim with knickknacks, useful stuff and fun stuff, no matter what their age. The eldest of my stepchildren back then was fifteen, and she was, by far, the most excitable when it came to Christmas: the first to count ‘how many sleeps till Santa comes’, the first to wake up Christmas morning, and the first to squeal at the sight of a full Santa sack.

What to do? Deny my stepchildren their tradition, or reinstate Santa to my daughter, who by then was sixteen?

The latter, of course! (Her Christmases had, quite literally, all come at once.)

OUR family’s Santa tradition:

Back then, adopting their Christmas tradition seemed like a good idea, but as the kids got older we had to make a few modifications.

When they were all younger we could get away with lots of cheap Santa sack fillers (such as socks, undies, silly stuff) and a few bonuses that wouldn’t break the bank. When the youngest child admitted to Cracking the Santa Code, we had to rethink the budget and the time spent coming up with more useful, rather than useless, gifts from Santa. So the first change we made a few years ago was to downsize: from sacks to stockings.

But still, filling nine stockings (they’re not much smaller than a sack, really) was still a challenge, time-wise and money-wise.

As Christmas approached this year, we realised that the kids may not be getting too old for this, but we were! So this year, as our youngest boys turn fourteen, it is time once again for a change.

Without taking away the fun and chaos of Christmas, here’s what we came up with:

Each child (young and old) has received

1. A note from Santa asking for their help to fill a stocking for _ _ _
2. The recipient’s Christmas stocking
3. Some cash for them to buy the goodies to fill the stocking.

They all thought it was a great idea, and as I write this, shops are being scoured for bargains and stockings are being filled.

My stepdaughter, who is now 23 years old, is still the most animated and excited around Christmastime. Her joie de vivre reminds me why Santa still visits our house, no matter what the age of our children.

I’m excited, too. I can’t wait to see what ‘Santa’ has brought everyone. Maybe he’ll even re-visit me one day? Now there’s a change to tradition I could embrace!

Footy Fervour

It was November last year that my stepson Jack was selected to play for Melbourne Football Club - a life-long dream come true. After patiently nursing injuries for most of the year, he finally makes his debut on Sunday 31st August.

That, in itself, is worth a blog entry for Jack alone.

(And for his proud dad.)

Go Jack!

One Man's Loss... Another's Gain

Having no father was an awkward thing to explain as a six year old, so I told my new grade one class-mates that my dad had been killed in the war.

I liked the ‘killed in the war’ story because my best friend Susan had a father whose arm had been blown off in some war somewhere and the government gave him money for being a hero. Losing an arm was nothing – I’d lost a whole father! And besides, the idea of a bullet-infested father dying for his country, like the soldiers on the telly in Combat, was a better story than saying ‘He left when I was little’.

I don’t remember Mum announcing that she and the man we called Uncle Richard were getting married, but I do remember waiting eagerly at the front gate and standing on tippy toes until I could see his head bobbing over the hill as he walked home from the railway station. ‘Uncle Richard’s here! Uncle Richard’s here!’ The best thing about Uncle Richard was that at the age of seven, I was getting my own, real, permanent, dad.

My brother and I called Uncle Richard ‘Dad’ from the moment he and Mum were married. Even though Mum had explained that he was technically our stepfather, and we his stepchildren, I was glad to drop the step bit, and with it, the images of poisoned apples and dark forests.

So now I technically had two fathers: one absent, one present; I also had two surnames: one old, one new. On the first day of grade two we all sat on the floor with our legs crossed, looking up in anticipation at our crotchety new teacher as she called out our names. As each name was called we were to stand up and say Present! in our loudest voice.

‘Fiona Hilliker.’ That was me. I stood up.

‘Present!’

I sat back down. A few names later:

‘Fiona Trembath.’ That was me, too. I stood up again.

‘Present!’

Mrs Gillespie shushed the giggling class, and glared at me over the rim of her glasses, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

I quickly told her that Mum had married during the summer holidays and that I had a new surname. She struck her pen through the first name and from that moment on Fiona Hilliker no longer existed.

A few years later we got a sister and then a brother. I didn’t know it back then, but with the arrival of our half-siblings, our family had officially blended.

Fast forward thirty-five years and it was my turn to now become a stepparent. I don’t know what event precipitated the phone call to my mother in those early, catastrophic stepmother days, but I knew I had to call someone for survival tips.

‘How did Dad do it?’, I asked Mum.

‘Do what?’

‘How did Dad take on the role of stepparent, without cracking up, like I think I’m going to do?’
‘Maybe you should ask him,’ she said. ‘But I don’t remember it being an issue.’
I called Dad and asked him the same question.

‘I just did it, that’s all. You and your brother were part of the package. I loved your mum, so there was no question that I wouldn’t love you as well. Besides, you were easy. Great kids.’

I didn’t feel any better about my own perceived shortcomings as a stepparent after the conversation with Dad, but it did cause me to reflect on the thirty-five years he’d been in my life.
Dad was only twenty-two years old (seven years Mum’s junior) when he embraced the role of stepfather to a seven year old and nine year old; he’d also overseen and supported our education and careers; he’d loved our mother (even though they divorced 20+ years later); he’d given us the gift of another brother and sister; and, as a journalist and poet, he brought the love of words and writing into my life.

That was a lot to be grateful for, I realised, and I’d never once taken stock of it. …Until now, as I stood in similar step parenting shoes that he had worn thirty-five years before.

For the moment, surely I could put my woes behind me and express a little gratitude to the man who’d helped shape my life? So I called Dad back and thanked him. Really thanked him. (He still insists it was easy. I still don’t believe him.)

As much as my biological father’s absence shaped who I was to become, so too, did the presence of my stepfather, my ‘dad’.

Because when a daughter loses a dad – in a forest, in a war, or in any inexplicable circumstance – a stepdad can the next best thing. Well it was for me, anyway.

Thanks again, Dad.

From Good to Bad to Better

I’ve just returned from the airport to wave my almost-twenty-four year old daughter goodbye as she flies across the Pacific Ocean to the USA for a six week holiday. There’s nothing so remarkable about that: this is her fourth trip to New York. What is remarkable, however, is that her stepsister – a year younger than My Girl – is joining her for the last half of the holiday. Seven years ago, the distance between Melbourne and New York wouldn’t have been far enough to get away from each other.

It was fun and wonderful at the beginning, when My Girl was 16 and His Girl was 15. They became instant friends with echoed cries of “I’ve always wanted a sister!” . You can imagine how relieved Steve and I were. Things were fine; great, even, for the first year. The end of the honeymoon coincided with the introduction of two major events: our two families ‘merging’, with us moving into their family home, and at the same time His Girl bringing home The Boyfriend from Hell.

With reassurances of what a great guy he was, we applied the ‘benefit of the doubt’ creed and initially overlooked the dreadlocks, the outbursts of expletives and his smile-less, attitude-full face. We didn’t want to rain on His Girl’s parade; she was, after all, truly, and very madly, in love with this boy.

Initially, My Girl was happy for her step sister. Besides, she’d introduced them to each other, and was pleased for both of them. Unfortunately, the two girls shared a loft-style bedroom, separate from the house. And given Hell Boy visited us often and stayed late, privacy, awkwardness and boundaries all became a little blurry. Steve and I were in spot-fire control with our new co-joined family of eleven (twelve, if you counted Hell Boy’s constant over-stayed welcomes), juggling two businesses and the shared parenting with ex partners of seven of the children, we took our eye off the ball for too long with the two eldest girls. In a short time, a small crack had become an irreparable shatter.

My Girl hated coming home, hated her room, hated her stepsister, hated her stepsister’s boyfriend, hated school (where Hell Boy also attended), to the point of crying uncontrollably and saying she couldn’t live with us anymore.

It was gut-wrenching – not to mention guilt expanding – for me to see that what we had thought was going to be a wonderful thing for our two daughters had turned out to be The Biggest Disaster In Stepfamily History.

It’s a biological instinct to protect our children, so my first thought was to scoop up my three, abandon Steve, leave him with his six (plus Hell Boy) and go back from whence I came. But I had no whence to go back to. I felt like such a failure to My Girl who I had raised almost solo in all of her seventeen years. How could I manage to stuff up something I had so carefully and mindfully stepped into? What delusion was I under that I thought all this could possibly work and we’d all live Happiest Ever After?

But My Girl didn’t want me to up and leave. She wanted to leave, and was happy to, as long as she got away from her stepsister and Hell Boy. Before long, the car was packed. I was angry and outraged at the mess that had come of all this. But mostly I was sad and afraid - for all of us. When I said goodbye to My Girl at her cousin's place, I cried all the way home. Whatever or wherever home now was.

My Girl may be gentle and sensitive, but she’s also very strong, and despite it all, managed to successfully complete her VCE whilst sharing an apartment with her cousin during that tumultuous year. I’m sensitive too, but I wasn’t so strong. It was hard to let her go too soon. And I only got to see her a few times a week.

It took a long time for the stepsisters to even be in the same vicinity. But very slowly the ice thawed, and wounds were licked and healed in their own time as they eventually, albeit tentatively, orbited around each other at family gatherings.

At last, at last, Hell Boy was gone. For good. His Girl was distraught, broken into little pieces, inconsolable. Sometimes it takes a breaking down for things to build up again.

On our wedding day, just over six years ago, the girls put aside their hurts and celebrated with us, radiating beauty and making us both proud. They have grown into delightful, successful women, with kind hearts and happy friends. His Girl has a new boy now, and this one’s from heaven.

Last night at My Girl’s Bon Voyage dinner, she and her stepsister giggled like schoolgirls about what they were going to do and see in The Big Apple and LA.

This will be His Girl’s first overseas holiday. She’s excited and nervous about travelling so far and for so long. But thankfully she has her stepsister to meet her at the other end at JFK; one who will look after her and look out for her, just like any big sister would.

That’s what’s remarkable.

My girl - June 08

His girl July 08

Step-dogging

This is our dog Ossie, who died a few months ago. He was our tenth child. When I married into this ready-made family of six children (with my own three children Velcro-ed to my side), it didn’t take me long to realise that Ossie was another on the list to love and look after. The fact that he was a dog didn’t make much difference; he was low maintenance and instantly loved me. Dogs are like that. Stepchildren take longer.

Ossie wasn’t just an ordinary dog; we highly suspect he was a human stuck in dog form. I know you’ve heard that before from other dog-owners, but they’re speaking metaphorically – I’m speaking from actual evidence. You see, Ossie could talk. It’s true! Whenever we arrived home he’d open his German Shepherd-Crossed happy mouth and say ‘hello’… or in Ossie-talk, ‘harro’. Once, he even said he loved me. Well, close enough. It sounded like this: ‘Ar rar roo’, to which I replied, ‘And I love you too, Os.’

Just over a year ago, my 13 year old cat, Phoenix died. My three children and I loved Phoenix; my step children and husband did not. Nobody ever talks or writes about step-animals. It’s a complex union, that of blending families – animals included. When my stepson brought a pet rat home from school one day it was hastily sent to live at his mother’s place; and even there it didn’t last long.

Phoenix the cat entered this blended family with two strikes against him: one, he was a cat, and two, he was a furry cat, and the only thing worse than a cat was a furry cat. It was upsetting to hear disparaging comments about Phoenix, and even more upsetting that he was so easily dismissed and forgotten. He was also relegated to the cool and barren end of the house; in winter it was icy cold down there and in the summer, stinking hot. I could only love him from long distance.

And then one day – for some unknown reason – there was a change of heart. It was now okay to let Phoenix join the rest of the family at the happy and warm end of the house. He loved curling up near the heater ducts at night, or sneaking into a bedroom and kneading the doona to spongy perfection. He also left more fur for me to clean up. But I didn’t care. The children always left their stuff lying around, so I didn’t see it as much different.

Phoenix was only to enjoy the fruits of acceptance and warmth for a short time, as he began to become listless and scraggy-looking with the onset of illness. Before long, he wouldn’t eat, couldn’t eat, resulting in his furry-coated cat skin hanging like a wet paper bag from his body. Phoenix was dying. Every morning I’d wake in hope that he’d died in his sleep, but it didn’t happen. So I took his life in my own hands. At the vet’s advice, he was to be euthanised. It was, by far, the hardest decision I’ve ever made and the most difficult thing I’ve had to do.

So Phoenix died, and not everybody was sad.

Then, a year later, it was Ossie the dog’s turn to leave us. He too, was thirteen. Despite the unlucky number, Ossie was fortunate enough to be loved by everyone. All eleven of us.

To me, Ossie was the epitome of love and acceptance into this large, blended family. He always had enough doggy love to go around. He would sit next to me on the outside step when I’d cry with despair in the early days over the too big a bite I thought I’d taken on in becoming a stepmother to six children; and he didn’t discriminate: although he was part-human, he didn’t take on any of the false beliefs that others had of me, in coming into their world.
Ossie would keep me company in the garden whenever I weeded and planted, lying down on a patch of soil with a ‘humph’ and contented sigh. And he was always pleased to see me, even if I’d spoken to him harshly not long before.

He appreciated his morning Schmako, his water bowl being filled, the tummy rubs, his new bed, the warm, roast lamb bone, the kind words, the walks – as much I appreciated him and all his doggy goodness.

The clearest and most memorable dream I’ve ever had featured Ossie the Talking Dog. In the dream, he spoke to me rather eloquently and clearly, telling me he wasn’t really a dog, but a human in dog-form, just as I suspected. He said he’d come into my life to teach me to ‘stay’. (Ironic, coming from a dog.)

So I stayed.

We can learn a lot from our step-pets.

Phoenix the Cat