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

CHEERING FROM THE SIDELINES

I’m only his stepmother and I can’t profess to claim any part of his success, nor can I pretend that I’m a lover of football – the opposite, in fact – but that doesn’t stop me from feeling proud. And right now I’m the proudest stepmother of all time, as Jack, my 18 year old stepson has been selected to play AFL football with the Melbourne Football Club.

The news was met with cheers and tears; it’s been a gruelling few months, speculating over his probable future somewhere – anywhere – in Australia that was to be decided on the morning of Election Day. I’d gone to Daylesford to finish writing a book; bad timing on my part, when I could have been one of the criers and cheerers at his mother’s house, along with his seven siblings (five of them my stepchildren), his father, stepfather, and stepsister – my daughter, who, unlike me, is a mad keen football follower.

But on Saturday 25th November I was a long way from home and a long way from football mania, telling Jack’s success to any strangers who’ll listen and any shop assistants who have to listen.

Jack was eleven years old when I first met him. He was a mini-me of his dad, and now, as a young, tall, athletic adult, he is his clone. Jack was always playing footy: inside, with a small, soft and spongy red and blue football , or outside, with his leathered Sherrin football in shivering winter and blasting summer, kicking and marking the ball as he commentated to an imaginary crowd: ‘And Grimes gets the ball. What a mark! He kicks… it’s a goal! The crowd goes wild!’

Whenever I asked Jack what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would always say ‘play footy for Melbourne’; the standard dream of all my stepsons.

It’s been a curious, anthropological study for me, this observation of sports-mania. I’ve never played competitive sport in my almost fifty years and I’ve never understood the oxymoronic term ‘football game’, as it is, at any level, far from a game. Footy is serious stuff. It’s rough and it’s for the tough. Winning is the goal; defeat is to be avoided, or at least endured. ‘Loser’ is a common word flung about.

I remember once, for a short time, every one of my stepchildren – six in all, stepdaughter included – played football. Their dad (now my husband) has been treasurer for the local football club since I’ve known him. He’s driven children to various games, some at the same time, to locations that were neither close nor well timed, in the wettest and coldest of mornings. I’ve watched him scrub filthy, mud-packed footy boots, which then stood like battle-weary soldiers on the laundry window ledge, drying in time for footy practice. As a football father, he’s tended more than his fair share of bumps and bruises, treated groin injuries and sore muscles; called me from hospital when on more than one occasion an injury from a ‘game’ has ended in an ambulance. And I’ve watched my stepsons slump into listlessness once the footy season is over. It consumes them. Devours them. Football is them.

I can count on one hand the number of football games I’ve been to in my life. I’m the black sheep of my family: my parents and siblings are all footy supporters of varying degrees of madness. I’m also the black sheep of this ‘blended’ family: I’d rather watch a movie or read a book, knowing that no matter how tragic or triumphant the story, it’s still fiction and the punches aren’t real. However, I can confess that I once attended a Grand Final at the MCG. But only until the game started: me and the rest of the choir were shuttled off before the starting siren blew.

But from now on, as an official football stepmother, you’ll see me in the stands, watching Jack play, cringing and worrying when he gets hurt, wanting to defend him when he’s abused by strangers, or worse still, by fellow footballers. However, the experience will be bittersweet, as there will also be acclaim, cheers, encouragement and reward. But most of all, what I will be seeing is my stepson living a dream.

No matter what my stepchildren’s dreams are –whether they be in art, sport, trade, academia, parenting, travel… the list is endless – I’ll be on the sidelines, cheering them on, and boasting of their successes to any who’ll listen.

And even though I may only be the stepmother, I’ll be as proud of them as I will be of my own children. Just like I am now, of my stepson Jack.

SOMEBODY BAKE ME A CAKE

Somebody bake me a cake
‘Cause I’m all dried up from giving
Somebody write me a card
Before I get sick of living
Somebody give me some thanks
Just a little to get me through
Somebody give me something,
To stop me leaving you.

Somebody tell me it’s fine
That so far, I’ve done pretty well
Somebody stop for one minute
And see through my eyes, this hell
Somebody, sometime soon please
Give me credit that’s long overdue
Somebody tell me something,
To stop me leaving you.

Somebody rewrite the stories
Of stepmothers, all of them bad
Somebody think up a new one
Write quickly, before I go mad
Somebody write a good ending
Of happy kids, stepmothers, too
Somebody write me something
To stop me leaving you

Somebody stop blaming me
For all in your life that is wrong
Somebody try to remember
How it was before I came along
Somebody give me a break
Cut me some slack, as I do for you
Somebody, help me, do something
To stop me leaving you.

Somebody bake me a cake
It’s your turn to do all the giving
Somebody buy me a card
I’m sick, so sick of living
Somebody give me some thanks
For having your wishes come true
Somebody give me something
To thank me for not leaving you

By the Book

On the eve of my lapsing internet dating membership, I received an email from ‘Soul Man’. He wrote well, made me laugh, said he was recently separated, handsome, self-employed, lived on ten acres and had six children. Six children? Man oh man! Who’d want to get involved with a father of six? Not this ‘Wonder Woman’, that’s for sure. But I replied anyway.

From his emails, Soul Man sounded like a great dad: dedicated, committed, and fully involved in his children’s lives. To me, any father who chucks in his city job to spend more time with his children is indicative of a well-intentioned and loving dad. Plus, I liked his ‘self employed’ status… as long as it wasn’t a euphemism for flogging Amway.

After writing to each other for about a month, we decided to meet at a small café in Warrandyte, a place familiar to us both. A tall, lean man with blue eyes and Sean Connery hair walked towards me. This was Soul Man up close and personal. His name was Steve and he was yummily handsome.

I’d bought him a small gift: a book of my father’s poetry. Steve also had a gift for me: a Dr Seuss book. After a moment’s embarrassment and awkwardness, it only took a short time for us to be at ease in each other’s company.

A few months on, our mutual attraction only served to complicate our feelings for each other, given his six and my three. You don’t muck around with each other’s hearts when there are so many children to consider. Besides, the idea of nine children in my life was a ludicrous one anyway. I’d only ever planned on having two children, but the birth of my twins five years earlier put the tally up to three. But then the inevitable happened: Steve and I fell – cascaded, tumbled – in love.

One year after that first meeting in Warrandyte, we decided to join forces. It made logistical – if not numerical sense – that me and my children moved in with them, into their family home. We were sure we could make it work with some minor juggling and major lateral thinking of space and bedrooms. Besides, Steve still hadn’t finalised matrimonial settlement, and with looming financial and custodial disputes, D-Day could be some time off. And given my business was easily transportable and his wasn’t, it just seemed to make sense for the four of us to uproot, in preference to the seven of them.

With pragmatism, logistics and lust aside, Steve and I were determined for this relationship to be better and different from our past relationships, so went into the merge with our eyes wide open. We surfed the internet, joined on-line support groups, signed up for newsletters, and read every book available on step parenting, all of which were either bursting with bright optimism, or full of forecasts of doom.

The experts warned us that the fantasy of ‘happy blending ever after’ was naïve and short-lived, that the dream of us all living together in perfect harmony was unrealistic, and to remember that ex-partners – good or bad, happy or sad, friendly or mad – were going to be around for a long, long, time. Like Nostradamus, these author-ly experts also predicted challenging dynamics of step-siblings: of the jostling and nudging to re-establish pecking order, plus the resentment, anger, never-ending disputes and constant compromises.

They also cited statistics of stepfamilies taking, on average, five years to equalise and to become a solid and unified identity – five years? – and that we’d most likely live in denial, not wanting to know about these statistical, evidential challenges of stepfamilies. And finally, the clincher: ‘Never move into the family home’.

Steve and I were confident that these negative sweeping generalisations wouldn’t apply to us, and opted for the more positive outlook, convinced that our love was strong enough to endure any obstacle that might present itself. Besides, our children weren’t carved from horror stories, and we both had enough self-awareness and resourcefulness to ward off any possible disasters.

We were wrong; the pessimists – realists– were right. Riding the waves of emotional turbulence, adolescent adversity, with the strong undertow of ex partner wrath, was tough and exhausting. It seemed that whatever bad and horrendous deeds we had obviously committed in a past life had returned in full karmic force, as every possible curve ball was thrown and every Jerry Springer-like scenario bombarded us and our supersize family.

Steve’s ability to withstand the constant challenges thrust upon him without losing his dignity was admirable. I constantly strived to do the same, although many times I wailed to the sky 'What have I done?', and longed to return to my peaceful and quiet house in the mountains. However, we did as best we could, keeping our relationship connected and strong, and making sure we remained focussed on the children’s safety and wellbeing, no matter what was thrown our way. Despite our best efforts, there were casualties, nonetheless.

Eight years on, I can look back and know that the books were right on all counts; a stepfamily has its good, bad and ugly times, just like any regular family. As in any kind of parenting, nobody can predict the future of your family, nor of its dynamics, challenges, victories or disappointments.

You may read others’ books on the topic, but you can only write your own as you go.