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.

HOME ALONE

My husband loves a house full of children – big and small – and unlike me, doesn’t like to be alone. Opposites attract and all that stuff.

When, on those rare occasions the house is empty, I stand still for a moment and soak up the sounds of nothing and of no one. This silence rarely lasts more than an hour; sometimes only a few minutes. And before a long a car door slams and the sound of stampeding feet shatter all notions of quiet.

Once, not long ago, the entire clan were going to watch rival football teams play at the MCG. Me, being a football non-enthusiast, declined the offer to join the throng. By declining, I could see before me at least five blissful hours of ‘my time’. My time to watch a chick-flick, soak in a bath, play my music loud – or soft; my time to play ‘Queen of the Remote’ and change TV channels at a whim. I even envisaged the freedom of walking naked from bathroom to bedroom with complete confidence.

Football Friday couldn’t come quick enough. My in-laws were travelling from their home in the Alpine Ranges to attend the event. It was going to be a great night all round. (Pic of Don and Liz above.)

Any sniffle or sign of floundering enthusiasm from the children as Friday approached was met with a fistful of vitamins and lots of over-abundant hand-clapping about how magnificent the MCG was, how awesome the crowd will be, and how crucial it was for my children, as Richmond supporters, to fly our flag against the heavily weighted Melbourne Mob.

Before long, it was Friday. My night of silence and solitude was so close, I could smell the bath salts.

The footy dinner was prepared: meat and salad rolls, savoury biscuits, fruit, and a bottle of water each. It was all crammed into a back-pack, along with a thermos and tea bags for the oldies. Finally, everyone and everything was ready to go.

I did the numbers in my head: ‘Will you all fit in the one car?,’ I asked my husband.

He did the count: ‘Me, Dad, 1,2,3,4,5,6 kids. Yep, we’ll fit in the Land Cruiser. And the girls are driving themselves in so they can go out afterwards. Easy.'

‘So who’s taking your mum?’ I asked.

‘Mum? She’s not going,’ he said. ‘I thought you knew. She wants to stay here, where it’s warm, and watch the match on TV. That’s okay, isn’t it? You didn’t have anything planned, did you?’

‘Well, actually…’ But what could I say? That I wanted my 76 year old mother-in-law, who’d just come from seeing a cardiologist about her up-coming triple bypass operation, thrust into a winter’s night to sit on a hard seat in a blasting cold grandstand?

I know what you’re thinking: that yes, that’s what I really did want, given that the myth of mothers-in-law share the same mythological platform as stepmothers. Well, that’s just what they are: myths. And as far as my mother-in-law goes, I’m her biggest fan. This woman not only raised eleven children of her own, but also took in foster children and then her dementia-suffering mother-in-law. If anyone deserves an elephant stamp around here, she does. I have great admiration and love for her. From the moment we met, she opened her arms and her heart to me, and she’s been a constant source of encouragement and wisdom ever since.

So no, I didn’t really mind that she wasn’t going.

Not much, anyway.

Besides, there will be other nights I can spend alone. Other nights I can be naked without scaring anybody; other nights I can rest in the quiet heat of a bath, surrounded by candles, trying to avoid water smudges on my book; other nights when I can watch a soppy movie and cry without embarrassment, dance to loud music, or just sit in meditative quiet…

If not this decade, the next.

Sticks and Stones

I'm supposed to be at a book launch sipping champers, cheering the author on and inhaling 'essence of Carlton' with its abundant folk and Italian fare. Instead, I'm at home with an unwell son.

The book launch is for a great memoir I've just finished reading, ‘This is not my beautiful life’ by Elly Varrenti. It was a passionate, rollicking read and resonated strongly with similar vignettes from my own life as a writer, performer, mother and stepmother.

And it's Elly's book that's got me fired up to write on one of the many unspeakable step parenting topics: name calling. More specifically, about 'those stepparents' who insist their stepchildren refer to them as 'Mum' or 'Dad', when clearly, they already have their own, one-off, loved, blood-related, irreplaceable mother or father.

To put my hissy-fit into context, here is an excerpt from the book – a brief exchange between Elly and a girlfriend:

“‘…Just thank your lucky stars your ex’s wife is not a monster who hates children.’

And I think, yeah, I know, but can’t she be just a bit of a monster, and can’t my son call her by the name her Austrian parents bestowed on her and not ‘Mummy’ because that’s my name and I waited forty-two years to get it.”

Kafka said that ‘A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.’ Elly Varrenti’s book came with an axe which struck me on page 253 above.

Whenever I hear of a stepparent insisting their stepchild refer to them as ‘Mummy’ or ‘Daddy’ – when the biological parent is not dead, and present in the child’s life – it pushes all my audacity buttons.

I am not a mother to nine children, I am a mother to three children and a stepmother to six. My stepchildren call me Fiona. And why shouldn’t they? They already have a mother. They don’t need – nor want – another one. My children’s stepmothers (my sons have one; my daughter, another) have never requested or desired for their stepchildren to call them anything other than by their first name. They are ‘Mum’ to their own biological children; to my children they are Judy and Lynda.

It’s a tough gig being a stepparent. We’re forever chinking away at the historical myth of the wicked stepmother/mean stepfather, doing our damndest to elevate ourselves above the stereotype. But the stepmother mentioned in Elly’s book puts us way back in the middle ages when the word ‘step’ meant ‘bereave’ or ‘orphan’ (see link below). In other words, the stepparent was replacing a dead parent.

This definition supports my belief that only if the parent is dead, non-existent, or permanently absent, that the stepchild can be requested, not commanded, to call their stepparent Mum or Dad.

My own life is an example of this. I too, am a stepdaughter and have been for more than forty years. My biological father left when I was one and a half, and my brother three years old, never to return or to be seen again. When I was seven, Mum remarried and my brother and I embraced our stepfather with great relief and gratitude. We’ve called him ‘Dad’ ever since, because that’s who he became. And he stayed.

Another example of ‘okay-ness’ of the Mum/Dad reference by stepchildren is of a friend of mine who has three children: two from her husband’s first marriage and one from their own. Her two stepchildren call her Mum because their mother died when they were very young. This doesn’t mean they have denied the existence or the love and memories of their mother: quite the opposite. She’s referred to as ‘Mummy in Heaven’, to distinguish her from their father’s wife who has been their mum now for the past nine years.

Stepmothers are often seen as a threat – perceived or real – to the biological mother, but surely this comes from insecurity and fear that their children will love another woman more than us, and that we’ll ‘lose’ them? Usually (I use the term loosely) as time goes on, the mother realises that their children’s stepmother is not there to replace her, nor usurp her role; she’s there as the partner to the ex husband, and as a friend, supporter and cheerer-on-er of the stepchildren.

The word ‘step’ doesn’t mean ‘orphan’ or ‘bereave’ anymore. It went out of vogue long before wood-mills replaced woodcutters. Perhaps instead, the word ‘step’ is a metaphor or symbol for ‘one step away from being a biological parent’; or a ‘step up into a more complicated and complex life’; or perhaps it’s a ‘stepping stone to creating a safe and loving relationship with someone else’s child’. It’s a big step, nonetheless, but there’s no point in making it bigger than it needs to be with archaic and unrealistic expectations thrust upon the stepchildren.

Tonight at the book launch, had I gone, I would have liked to have told Elly that I understood her incredulity at what her son’s stepmother insisted; I would have reminded her that no matter what her son calls the stepmother that she, Elly, is his mother – his only mother. The ‘other one’ is out of line and out of date.

Sticks and stones may break our bones, but names can hurt us more. Especially if that name is Mum.


http://www.readings.com.au/product/9780670071982/this-is-not-my-beautiful-life

http://www.bonusfamilies.com/articles/bonus-living.php?id=177

SLEEPERS

'Only three more sleeps,' my stepson said on Tuesday. And then yesterday, trying hard to contain his excitement, 'Only one more sleep!'.

This is not our youngest child eagerly awaiting his birthday; this is my eldest stepson, all six-foot-six of him, counting down the days till he moves into his own house. And today’s the day.

He’s 21 years old and has moved out before: once, to his mother’s house full time a few years ago, and then for a short stint sharing a house with a mate, before courageously taking off to work and live in Darwin at the end of last year. However, a few months later he returned with shattered dreams and a close encounter with his own mortality, to the safe harbour of our almost full-to-the brim house.

When a prodigal child returns after experiencing the big, wide, adult world, it is not out of desire, but of need: the need to save money, the need for safety, for shelter, or the need to mark time until another independent opportunity surfaces.

I remember needing to move back into the family home when I was a single mother in my 30s, in between one financially and emotionally disastrous relationship and the next. Living once again with my mother was a humiliating last resort, and turned out to be both regressive and regretful.

Once again I had to account for any absence, be home on time, eat everything on my plate if I wanted dessert, hang out the washing, feed the chooks… In other words, to become the girl that had left home more than a decade prior. I despised the imposition of rules after I’d had worldly tastes of freedom and responsibility on my own terms for so long. I was a few days short of resorting to pigtails and skipping on the front veranda when I found a house to share with a friend.

My indignity, of course, was immature and unreasonable; after all, it was my mother’s house, not mine. I know that now, but I was clueless and careless back then. (Hindsight and wisdom are great companions, but always arrive too late.)

So before my six-foot-six stepson moved back in after his adventure, my husband and I, in the need to be pro-active about an inevitable shift in family dynamics and pecking order, prepared a ‘List of House Rules’ that we gave to all the children, giving us and them the opportunity to agree, disagree, negotiate, and clarify rules that, in the past, had only been verbally expressed. It also gave Six Foot Six the chance to change his mind about moving back home.

To paint a bit of a picture of these rules – so you don’t think Steve is Captain von Trapp, nor I Julie Andrews – here are a few examples: Hang up used bath towels; If you make a mess in the kitchen, clean it up; Ask permission for friends to stay over; and No smoking on the property (Six Foot Six was the only smoker and has since given up, thankfully).

One rule in particular worth elaborating on, and which may appear very ‘von Trapp-ish’ to some, but which has saved the day – and our sanity – on more than one occasion over the years, is this one: ‘When a boyfriend/girlfriend stays the night, they are to sleep on their own in a spare room or bed’. We have good reasons for this rule, and have had many passionate discussions in the past with some of our older children over such. Here’s what we told them:

Reason Number One: This rule is to convey that a sexual relationship is not to be taken lightly or snatched up at a whim – especially as an adolescent/young adult – and that being sexually active comes with responsibility, respect and a certain amount of sacredness.

Reason Number Two: We have young, influential children living here who look up to their older brothers and sisters. Whether the older children like it or not, they are the younger ones’ role models. If we had no rules about who sleeps where and when, then so it would follow with all the other children as they got older.

Reason Number Three: We have too many children already. We don’t want to have to feed more, care for more, worry about more. By relegating guests to the guest room and not their lovers’ bedrooms, they remain guests. Guests don’t overstay their welcome (generally speaking!); guests also treat hospitality with gratitude and respect.

Reason Number Four: Because we said so, that’s why. And because this is our house, and this is our rule.

This ‘sleeping’ rule has worked in our favour, compared to some other families. Some have permanent live-in boyfriends and girlfriends, with no sign of either child or partner moving out. Why would they? The rent is cheap (or free), they have home cooked meals, and sometimes, if they’re lucky, they even have their own personal laundry service. I even know of a middle-aged, widowed mother who moved out of her own home because her son’s girlfriend wouldn’t!

When I ask other parents about their own ‘sleep’ rules, many of them say that if they didn’t allow it, they would worry about where their children 'did it’! Safe sex, in this instance, is more about location than lubrication. Do they really think their child will ‘do it’ in a gutter full of AIDS-infested needles somewhere? Or up against a wall in a dangerous dark alley? The list of locations for creative and safe sexual expression is endless.

We figure that if our adult children want to have a permanent sexual relationship with someone, then they can experience the responsibility and commitment that goes with that by moving into their own place. Until then, if they want/need to explore their sexuality and sexual expression, they can do it where we used to when we were growing up – which didn’t include in the family home.

We have our list of family rules for many reasons: for safety, consistency, respect, and functionality, as well as to promote communication, responsibility and fairness between all of us. We also want our children to be fully expressed adults out in the big world, and by keeping our ship tight and perhaps restrictive for our teenage and adult children, they will more readily see the benefits of moving into their own place and space where they can live their own independent lives.

Today, being ‘No More Sleeps Day’ for my stepson as he plans his independent life with great enthusiasm, reminds me that it’s only two thousand, two hundred and sixty five sleeps before the youngest of our nine – potentially – leave home.

But who’s counting?

A Picture Tells Eight Hundred Words

Here is a family photo. The year: 2004.

There are eleven of us: my husband and me and our nine children, standing in a long chain, shoulder to shoulder. I’m dead-centre.

Kate, as tall as me, is on my immediate right. She’s twenty now, still smiling, still beautiful; the first of our children to reach adulthood, and the first to let go. If you look closely you can see my arm around her shoulder, though she’s leaning away from me a little, uncomfortable with too much closeness. We are like each other.

Next to Kate are two of my stepsons: one eleven, one nine. The eleven year old is proudly wearing his new tracksuit, the one he got for his birthday the week before. He worries too much about how he looks, with his hands folded awkwardly at the front, his smile tentative, guarded. He stands alone, with space around him, touching no-one.

On his right his younger brother is leaning forward, patting our dog, Ossie, sitting at his feet. He’s a freckle-faced cutie, this stepson of mine. I’ve been his stepmother for almost half his life, and it’s with pride that I watch him bloom. He reminds us often that he’s the best at most things at school. He probably is. I hope I can teach him humility.

My twin boys are next in line and because there’s intentional symmetry in this photo, Sam, being taller than his brother, is first. He is standing to attention, wearing a stuck-on smile. Happiest when he’s playing the piano, or sitting in the front seat while I drive, I suspect Sam would prefer to be an only child. I see myself in him with his need to please, his need for recognition masked by shyness; his introspection, his musicianship.

On Sam’s right is his twin brother, Alex, holding his little dog, Indy, in his arms. Where Sam quietly observes and studies the world around him, Alex has been drinking life in hungry gulps since he took his first breath – a delayed breath – after they’d pulled his blue-tinged body from my belly. Because he’s small for his age, I can still pick him up for a hug. I savour these moments with his legs wrapped around my waist, his arms linked tightly behind my neck, and his head resting on my shoulder. When I think of Alex, I smile.

Back in the middle, on my left, is my thirteen year old stepson. He’s squished in between his dad and me, unperturbed by the closeness. Adolescence suits him and he wears it well, with his baggy pants, hair gel and the rumour of a girlfriend. His world is often turbulent, and one I understand. I am close to him.

Steve, my husband, is next in line. He’s a striking man with an open smile and salt and pepper hair, and often mistaken for a famous Australian cricketer – a mistaken identity he quite enjoys. He’s leaning into his thirteen year old, holding him with a warm tenderness, one arm around his shoulder, his other hand lightly touching his elbow. Steve nearly died not long after this photo was taken. He says I saved his life, yet I wonder if he knows how many times he’s saved mine.

Next to Steve, on his left, is a younger replica of himself: his fifteen year old son standing with his legs apart, confident, smiling wide. He says he is taller than his dad, and here is proof that he is. Just. In our early days, this son and I had a perceptible closeness, until he suddenly shut down and moved away from us and back to his mother’s. We don’t know why he left, but he’s slowly returning. This much is evident: he turned up for the photo shoot.

Next to him is his older sister; they are as tall as each other. She’s nineteen and pretty, with perfect teeth and long brown hair. The photo has caught her laughing, looking across at her boyfriend who is watching us being photographed. She and I have laughed and cried about each other, and for each other; it is our step-mother/step-daughter dance.

Last of all is my eldest stepson, striking in his height, some five inches above the tallest three. He’s a dude, a man of confidence, though not officially an adult for a few weeks yet. He grew up too fast, too many years ago and I’m surprised he stayed for the photo, but pleased he did.

Behind us is the vista of a tree-covered valley that our house looks across. The sky is cloudy, threatening rain, the grass green and lush. Living on top of a hill is often wild and tumultuous, but on this day the breeze is gentle.

This is my family.

Blending.

PS Fast forward: Father's Day, 2007. Bigger, bolder and still blending.