I was very naive in my perspective on co-parenting, a subject about which I am still passionate. Yet, I must eat some crow.
First, let's back up. This particular Waffle House Theory of Blended Families has become a living blog of sorts due to the continuous changing through my personal journey. My whole premise of co-parenting and blended families came from experiences with how my biological parents interacted and The Waffle House Experience. In 1997, I never imagined that I would be a divorced parent. When I divorced in 2009, I never imagined that I would be a step-mother one day. I was content to live in my bubble of my relationship with my son and creating a positive blended family with his father, his bonus (step) mom, and his (step) sister. Yes. My Next-Wife-In-Law is my son's bonus mom and his step sister is his sister. That is our terminology and his feelings towards the both of them for the last five years.
I felt really lucky because my son was so close to his new sister. I was, too, for that matter. It wasn't the easiest transition towards his bonus mom; in fact, he was down right awful to her in the beginning. I viewed her as a friend and a co-parent. Although my ex-husband and I were divorced and easily argued about things, I still felt that he was my friend and that, despite the marriage being over, I had an extended family. My motto was that "Family is Forever." At the time, that meant 24- hour access and communication with my ex-husband and his new wife whether it was good, bad, ugly, fun, or just boredom.
And then, reality slapped me once again with....
"Between-Home Boundaries: Dealing with a Meddling Ex-Spouse" by Ron L. Deal . This article shook me up a bit and made me see things that I was not too happy about seeing in myself. The introduction of the article gives an example of a couple and their struggles with the Ex-Wife-in-Law. Deal writes, "Nicole never saw it coming. Since she had a respectful, decent working relationship with her ex-husband, she never anticipated how intrusive her fiancé’s ex-wife, Sharon, would be. While Nicole and Tom dated, Sharon seemed to keep her distance. Nicole naturally assumed that once she and Tom married, Sharon would decrease her texts, late night calls, and “show-up-at-the-front-door-unannounced” behavior. She was wrong. In fact, as soon as she and Tom were married, Sharon’s troubling behavior increased." Upon reading this, I hung my head in shame. I had not given the space for them to grow and for us to find our natural groove.
Boundaries eluded me.
It carried on this way for years.
Here are a couple of examples of my poor boundaries behavior:
I would sometimes just stop by to visit or pick up something my son had forgotten.
I would talk openly with both of them about personal things without gauging what topics were appropriate to discuss.
I would call or text any time of day or night for whatever reason. This included meal times and times that they were on dates.
I wasn't trying to interrupt their life or be disrespectful to their marriage. Have we had our parenting tiffs? Of course. However, I was always happy that my son had stability and a whole new family that he loved. Yet, my actions seemed to silently speak the opposite of that sentiment.
One would assume that the above boundaries would be easily understood by an Ex-Wife-in-Law (me). NOPE!!! It wasn't until I gathered a bit more experience that I realized how intrusive and demanding I had been.
Lucky Me
My Next-Wife-in-Law has shown me a lot of grace and patience through my journey. I would like to think that because deep down she knows that I do genuinely care about her and her family; I also have a tremendous amount of respect for her on many levels.
I swear that wasn't my goal, but I can laugh at myself.
Our relationship, as dysfunctional as it may have been at times (especially with some crazy ex wife showing up at the door at the crack of dawn because her son forgot something...sorry), we never participated in actions that would hurt my son or his "sister from another mister."
There weren't the horror stories of mind games, emotional blackmail, competitiveness, and attempts of parental alienation that you so frequently hear about from divorced parents. My Ex and my Next-Wife-in-Law have never lied about me to my son nor have their revealed things about my past (or theirs) that wasn't necessary for a child to know.
The Journey Continues
As I have shifted into the role of a Next-Wife-in-Law, I have learned what a delicate situation blended families can be.
As I move forward and learn something new about the complexities of families each day, all I can do is strive to do better and really respect boundaries.
I can also be thankful that I was given such grace and hope that karma is kind to my backside.
I very recently got divorced for the second time. My first
marriage, the one that resulted in my beautiful boy, could be a full novel; the
short of it is that we were married entirely too young. Rarely does marriage
work in this country, but the odds of two 20 year olds making it “till death do
us part” is almost silly. By the time we were 30, we were very different
people.
My son was 2 years old when we divorced, so he has no memory
of his father and I being together. His father married his childhood sweetheart
and I married an old college friend within two months of each other around a
year after our divorced was finalized.
My son has seen a relationship forged between his parents
that is based on his best interest and being co-parents. All of us,
step-parents included, worked very hard and through many challenges to come to
a place where we could co-parents and friends.
When I got married the second time, it was an impulsive
elopement after a romantic weekend in Eureka Springs. Although I was nervous, I
felt that it was a practical match built on a strong friendship with love.
Where I am an emotional, bleeding-heart, extroverted loudmouth, he was stoic,
calm, reserved, and an extreme introvert. Focusing on an Austen-esque
mentality, I thought for sure that it was a “prudent” match.
There is only one Darcy and he will forever be the fictional love of my life.
After a short four years of marriage, it was not a prudent
match at all and we made the choice to return to being friends. Yes, I am
probably one of the friendliest ex-wives in the South.
My current Austen-esque mentality
Through all that, my little boy had lost someone from his
life and it had to be dealt with quickly. I will forever advocate co-parenting
if possible because his father and step-mother helped in ways that I couldn't
begin to imagine. Although my kid was sad and had to adjust, he also had already
been given the basic answers that he needed, which were:
You will forever have the love of your mom and dad.
Divorce is never a child’s fault.
Things will change, but it will be okay.
When you feel sad or angry, let someone know.
To say that it was immediately the easiest adjustment would
be a lie. There were many tears, fits of
anger, manipulations, clingy tactics, mild regression, and typical responses to
losing a step-dad with whom he was very close.
My support team (my parents, friends, and my boy’s
co-parents) helped me to maintain consistency with enforcing rules and not caving
to negative behavior. This seems like a no-brainer, but it takes conscious
effort in the middle of a divorce. Part of that is because you are in your own
post-divorce haze and part of it is because you want to take your child’s hurt
away.
Falling into that haze, encouraging bad behavior, and
reinforcing the regressive behavior would do nothing, but prolong the effects
of the big life change.
I think we all try our best as parents and it will take many
years to see how it turns out. Every day is different and a challenge, but I
hope that my son learns that life is pretty much that way and you just have to
do your best.
The things that I learned through this process are:
Some days are good; some days are not. It doesn’t
make you a failure as a parent.
Use your support system, especially when they are
blunted.
Love yourself because your child is instinctively
aware of your hurt no matter how much you smile and hide it.
I often refer to the teenage version of myself as a
hooligan. I was certainly not the worst of the worst, but I caused a great deal
of heartbreak and havoc. Due to a combination of chemical imbalances and childhood
traumas mixed with teenage hormones and an inability to express the hurt and
anger that I had carried for years, I was a one-girl team of destruction.
This is not a blog about casting blame on anyone, so don’t
jump to the conclusion that I may reveal some big answer about why I was so
out-of-control. I can’t, and if I could, what purpose would it serve? The most
simple and most accountable answer that I can give is that I had pain, and for many
years I handled hurt through displays of anger and aggression.
It was the 1990s and I was diagnosed with a myriad of
disorders, some of which are no longer recognized in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). There
was no place for me and my behavior was becoming increasingly dangerous to
myself and others, so I was placed in a variety of residential group homes.
Change in Philosophy
I believe in the power of education and the cliché that
knowledge is power. A strong education and a good work ethic can help anyone
change their situation. When you are a teen, you have a choice to start building
the life that you want to have regardless of the life that you were given at
birth. Literature was my path, my salvation, my escape, and eventually, my
career.
During my fourth year of teaching, I met R. I have had many
students who were wards of the state, so when I found out that she was in a
group home, I gave her the same speech that I give all the kids in that
situation. It is essential, “I have survived the group home circuit. You can
make something positive of your life if you chose to do so. I will have high
expectations for you during your time here, because that is my teaching style,
but if you need additional resources, please let me know.” Other than that and
providing occasional supplies, I had not gotten involved in their cases.
R and I looked similar, had similar literacy (high) and math
(low) scores, and a similar sense of humor. I gave her my speech and was going
to leave it at that, but she wrote me a letter detailing her life experience so
far. She had no one. I wrote back a list of survival rules/pep talk quotes. It
was pretty cheesy stuff like, “Sometimes you will feel like you can’t go any
further, but you must always put one foot in front of the other and eventually,
you will look back and the struggles will be behind you.” I really thought that
I was sharing seriously sage advice at the time.
R’s story was so outrageous that I started to suspect that
she was manipulating me for some reason. I called her case worker and
discovered that the most disturbing things that this young lady had written were
true and that she was, indeed, in need of someone to care about her well-being.
I decided to be her mentor.
I believe that God put that child in my life. I wanted to
stop her road of destruction and hurt. I wanted to help her realize that she
was just as valuable as every other person breathing air and that she had every
reason to love herself. Maybe I was trying to save myself or right the wrongs
of my personal history through sharing my experience as a teen with someone
else. I don’t know, but as time goes on, it is reaffirmed that R was put in my
life for a purpose. I hope that I am serving a purpose in her life, but that is
not my story to tell.
I failed miserably at being a mentor. I could not simply
give her advice that she would follow; I could not fathom why she would not
accept what I said and just do what I suggested. For a long time, I was
temporary to her. Naturally, being failed
by everyone else in her life, she looked at me as another person who was going
to let her down and make her feel inadequate. I understood it, but I couldn't stop
it.
Eventually, she left my town for another placement.
I maintained contact with her caseworker and would hear from
R every few months. For awhile, she stabilized and was thriving in a new foster
home. Still, like most teenagers and like all children who have suffered in
life, she started to push boundaries, made some mistakes, and had to leave the
foster home for a group home.
This particular group home was the last one that I was in as
a teen. It was 1996 and I was 17. I did not give a single damn about working any
aspect of the therapy and was simply buying my time. After six months, the
program informed my parents that I was not going to be successful in the program.
I left there and didn’t really look back too often.
I wasn’t successful there at all, but I did learn a lot
about myself and there were words that rang in my ears years later from three
very dedicated and hardworking professionals there (H, A, and E). The first
time that I drove to this facility to pick up R for a visit, I became very
saddened and angered. I have cried every time that I have dropped her off at
the facility. I have cried for her and her lack of options right now and I have
cried for my younger self.
I am not nearly as glamorous as Brittney when I cry and drive
I finally understood tonight.
R has become a part of our family over the course of our
journey. She has made some mistakes along the way, but we have watched her struggle,
grow, and change. We see the good in her and believe that she can succeed. She
still cannot see that in herself, aside from moments of sheer defiance to prove
all the people who didn’t believe in her ability. Because she has been systematically
failed her whole life, it is hard for her to trust that people will be there
for her no matter what. Sometimes, she pushes people away as a method of
self-preservation. You know, the whole, “I will hurt you before you hurt me”
bit.
Tonight was one of those nights. She felt inadequate and
frustrated. She was tired of living in a group home instead of a real home. She
wanted normal teenage freedom and felt like all of her work has been fruitless.
Again, I understood all of her points.
She started to tell me that she didn’t want to go on passes anymore
because she didn’t want to let me down and she didn’t want her counselor to say
that she was co-dependent on anyone. She eventually calmed down as I listened
and I explained that it wasn’t necessary for her to push because after all this
time, I was not going to bail.
And then I said, “If you think I’m giving up on you, you’re
crazy.”
There it was.
My dark shadow of unresolved lingerings that
will never be answered and healed.
During my stay at this same group home almost twenty years
ago, my biological father sent me a letter. I had not heard much from him
during my time in group homes. In fact, the last time that I had seen him, I
had severed our relationship in an attempt to gain a solution that I thought
would fix all of my hurt.
My parents had me when they were very young and they
divorced before my first memory. My father was immature and emotionally
distant, but there were things that I look back on in life that tell me that he
loved me. There are songs, places, and memories of things like dancing on his
feet that bring tears to my eyes. In fact, the best summer of my life was spent
with him in Savannah, GA. He was a park ranger at Fort Pulaski, and on his days
off we would go to Tybee Island and play at the beach.
Things change.
My mother, step-father (whom I typically refer to as Daddy),
and I moved 8 hours away. I began to convert from a tomboy to a girlie-girl and
this was completely alien to my dirt-digging (archaeologist) father. His way of handling
all things uncomfortable was to shut-down, cut-down, or make a joke. We were
losing the frayed strings that held us together. He also married my
step-mother, who hates me to this day (to her credit, I was such a terror to her
from 12-15 years old during a total of three
visitations that she has never been able to recovered).
This picture is for satire only. My step-mother is a blonde.
On a side note, his daughter is more than a sister. She is
one of my best friends. We developed a secret relationship over six years ago
because she was warned by her mother about me. I never turned my sister into a
devil-worshipper nor did I try to sacrifice her to the underlords. Plus, she is
an adult now so we don’t have to hide the fact that we have talked three to
five times a week since she was 15.
Nature wins over Nurture
My father and I speak once or twice a year. When he does
call, he says, “Jaimie, this is your father.” His formality is so reminiscent
of Darth Vader that it is funny, but otherwise, it hurts. When I was a
struggling teen, I didn’t want to leave my mother, but a part of me wanted my
father to save me. He probably couldn’t have because many people tried and no
one could stop me from destroying myself except for me. I spent many years in
the confinements of whatever facility that I was in thinking that he was going
to come “rescue” me.
I understand why he didn’t. I was uncontrollable and he had
small children at the time to protect; my mom was in that same boat. Having a
small child of my own made me understand how precious those early years are and
how vital it is to protect them from hurt, abuse, and confusion. This was
something that I didn’t understand until I became a parent myself.
He wrote me once. The letter came during my stay at R’s
current placement. I remember two things: he told me that as I get older, more
doors closed and he told me to listen to “Just Wait” by Blues Travelers.
Without a second thought, I quoted a line from that song to
R tonight.
I have rarely listened to it over the years because I argued
with it (or rather argued with my father’s intent on sending it). At the time,
the lyrics offended and hurt me. “If you think I’ve given up on you, you’re
crazy. If you think I don’t love you, then you’re just wrong, “ is sung softly
in the song. I would hear those lines and think, “Really? Why didn’t you come
get me? You haven’t loved me in years.” And so the negative thoughts would roll.
I have softened quite a bit towards my father since the passing
of my grandmother, our only real connection during my adult life. Yet, we don’t
have a relationship. I forgave him years ago for not “saving” me or making me
feel loved enough to counteract the burdens that I had carried.
But, tonight, I understood him differently than before. It
is one of the hardest things to watch someone you love start to self-destruct
and not be able to do anything to save them other than say, “eventually you
will stop hurting yourself.”
There are no real answers in life and one thing that my
father has always said is, “Your mother and I did the best we could with what
we had at the time.” I am doing just that with R – trying the best I can with
what I have.
So, I sit here with an ache in my heart for the hurt and
helplessness that parents (my father, my mom, and my daddy) felt. I ache in my
heart with a new-found empathy that I have for their situation so many years ago.
Not being able to help someone that you so desperately want to reach is
devastating.
But most of all, I ache in my heart for R because she has yet to
understand all the beautiful things that can come from an ugly life.
So, like my father, all I can think to do at this point is
to write and tell her to, “Just Wait.”
What children need
most are the essentials that grandparents provide in abundance. They give
unconditional love, kindness, patience, humor, comfort, lessons in life. And,
most importantly, cookies. ~Rudy Giuliani
Grandmothers traditionally hold a very special place in the
heart of a child, even after the child grows into adulthood.
My grandmothers were builders of my foundation and I was
lucky enough to be close to them in my life.
MAMAW
Grandma Hammond
My maternal grandmother was Dorothy “Dot” Hammond. I knew
her as Mamaw. My early childhood was spent being spoiled to perfection by her.
In her home, her grandchildren could do no wrong, which gave the grandkids a
safe haven from the consequences of our bratty and often outlandish behavior (for example, I set
some magazines on fire and from my recollection, my grandma saved my rear from
being switched beyond recognition).
My Mamaw (when using my formal register, I called her
Grandma Hammond) spoiled the grandkids every chance she got, which was normally
while our mothers were at work during the summer. She could not play with us in
the traditional sense of playing due to various illnesses, but there was
climbing on her lazy boy chair to watch Wheel of Fortune, wrestling (including The Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling), and Days of Our Lives. I learned to spell,
talk pre-fight smack, and be a drama queen all on the arm of that chair.
She took us to Vacation Bible School and was very proud of
her “babies.” I do, however, wonder how she felt the day that I decided to sing
“Super Freak” by Rick James when the minister asked us to “sing the praises of
the Lord.” I was four, so it did not occur to me that the Lord or the Southern
Baptist congregation may not have an appreciation for the line, “She’s a very
kinky girl…” My mother was swift to administer the dreaded “church pinch” and
evil eye, so I was never able to give the church a full performance.
Whenever we had to go to the Sunflower grocery store with
Mamaw, she would always buy us a Whatchamacallit. I know that I am deeply
Southern, but that isn’t just a phrase. It was the most delicious piece of
chocolate covered goodness that ever existed. The best part was that it didn’t
matter what our mothers had dictated to her about our diet for that day. We
were going to get what we wanted because we were the grand-babies. It was that
simple.
She was funny, too. She would do silly things like stick out
her dentures and shake them at us. Yet, my favorite thing that she would do was
an act after eating at the catfish place. My Mamaw loved to eat frog legs. Once
we were home, she would call us into her room and tell us that she couldn’t
sleep because the frog legs were making her jump. Then, she would jerk her body
like something was trying to lunge out of her belly. I personally found this
terrifying and was probably an adult before I determined that fried frog legs
had no such power.
The greatest gift that I learned from my Mamaw was loyalty.
She was a spit-fire, especially when holding a broom and hollering out, “Damn
it all to hell!” However, she truly believed that you were to love Jesus and
never turn on your family.
She passed on January 4, 1997. She was only 64 years old.
G-ma
G-ma
My paternal grandmother was a whole other breed of Southern
grandma. I also spent a great deal of time with her during the weekends and summers because
my father often had to work during his visitation.
Yes, G-ma earned her moniker by acting much like this.
Whereas my Mamaw was always
having an asthma attack of sorts, my G-ma was always chain smoking.
G-ma was short for Gun-Ma due to her job as a bondsman and
how her large gun looked against her 4’11” frame. It is said that she chased
one of her bails down an alley when he was trying to skip out of town with her
gun focused on his back. She was the grandmother that had wild stories from her
past and some less-than-traditional ideas about the universe (Aliens and voodoo
were real).
He is really holding a switch.
She was the most independent, hard-headed, and hard-loving person
that I had ever known. Of course she spoiled me to some degree when I was
little, but she was also quick to come after me with a switch. She could yield a
switch like a Samurai; she was stealth, swift, and left you begging for mercy. I
had developed what I thought was a smart tactic; I began to scurry up the
Magnolia tree to get away from these switchings. She would open the door, wave
her twig of doom at me, and say, “You have to come down sometime.” After she
tired of me hiding in the tree, she would hide her switch and come sweetly to
the door offering ice cream. I fell for it every single time and as soon as I
stepped over the threshold, the switching commenced. She did, however, give me
my ice cream.
As an adult, my G-ma became my best friend. I called her
almost every day. She was funny and never judged me; although she did gossip
about me to the rest of the family because that is just what Southern women do.
Whenever my life would fall apart (and that happened all too frequently in my
twenties), I could go to my grandmother’s house and spend a couple of weeks
getting perspective, love, sweet tea, and chocolate pie.
She ran her own business until she became ill. Ann Cornelison Miller was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer (in her liver, but not liver cancer) and passed nine weeks later on January 2, 2011. Telling her
goodbye before she passed (and was still lucid) was the hardest moment of my
life. I cherish our last conversation greatly, but I still feel the loss of her
presence daily.
She taught me the importance of being able to take care of
yourself and how to love unconditionally.
My mother, step-father, and I moved six hours away when I was 9. This move brought us to our home, but took me away from regular visits with my grandmothers.
Shortly after we moved to Little Rock, my pregnant mother
and I met a lovely woman who lived next door. She was a widow and had lost her
only child in a plane crash. I was a rowdy tom-boy who was more than jealous
about the impending life-change of a baby sister. My mother knew no-one and my
dad was busy trying to start his business. She came over with some pie and that
started a 26 year relationship.
Granberry
She quickly became my mother’s best friend. For over two
decades, they shared wine and conversation every afternoon. My middle sister’s
first outing was to her house. She became our surrogate grandmother.
She was educated, liberal, and witty beyond compare. She did
spend a great deal of time with me during those years. She would walk with me
in the woods behind our house, she would talk to me about Arkansas history, she
let me go to her book-filled office and bang on her type-writer, and she would
listen while providing subtle advice.
After about a year, she let me borrow her set of Anne of Green Gables. I read those books
for so long that she eventually had to repossess them. She was an English
teacher prior to retirement, so it is absolutely perfect that the woman that
introduced me to my love of reading inadvertently led me down the same career
path that she choose.
Choose not to focus on the '90's fashion, but rather the happy little girl in the chair at her Granberry's house.
For my sisters, she was so much more. My sisters do not
remember my maternal grandmother and their paternal grandmother, who also lived
hours away, was not very involved in their upbringing. They did not have
biologically what I had had.
Granberry gave them that openly and daily. There is never a
time in their life that they don’t recall running to her house next door for
games, conversation, ice cream, and "grandma" time.
She was very sweetly patting my angry baby sister's knee to help calm her.
Evalena Berry passed away at the age of 93 on May 15, 2014.
My heart ached. Still, no matter my own sadness, I hurt far more
for my sisters. I knew the pain that they were feeling and what that loss meant
for them. Their grandmother was gone.
That relationship will never be replicated in the same way and the lessons learned
from their surrogate grandmother will stay for a life-time. I hurt for my mother, as well, because
she lost the truest and dearest friend of her life.
On the day of her visitation, I signed the traditional book.
This was probably the most painstaking moment for me personally. Granberry had
a river house on the Little Red River. We spent many holidays there. She would
always have a guest book by the door and it was required that you signed it.
The significance of that was lost on me until the moment that I was signing one
of her guest books for the last time.
I looked at my sisters and mother – all trying to stay
composed in their own way. I had no exact comfort to offer and none of us like to be held
when we are trying not to cry. I had no magic words to alleviate their pain from experiencing the grief at the loss of a grandmother. It is an individual experience and in most
cases, it is not an easy one.
However, I know something that my sisters have yet to learn.
Honey
They will experience the love of a grandmother again when
they see our mother with their own child. My mother and I are as different as
silk and wool and we work each other’s nerves like no other. Still, she and my
son have a special bond; it is a bond much like what I had with each of my
grandmothers, yet unique in its own way. Their connection is strong. They share
little secrets, tell jokes, and create fantasy worlds with dirt, wood, and
paint. My son refers to her as, “My Honey” and is not above kicking me out of
their house so that he can get properly spoiled by her, as all children should.
This is what brings the circle to close for me and has given me peace.
This was posted originally on January 17, 2011 by exwifenextwife blog, which is now Louder Than Most Women. I feel passionately about trying to create the best situation for children in all cases, especially divorce. As this was written over 3 years ago, there will be an update on the how this philosophy has worked for me outside of a mere theory. However, the back story has to be revisited.
In late 1997, I was a low-level hooligan. I wasn't old enough for
the bars, but I certainly spent my fair share of post "ugly lights"
time at the local Waffle House. I went to drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, flirt
with slightly older, drunken men and torment my boyfriend in one fashion or another.
At no
point during that time was I considering that the future would hold a marriage,
a child, a divorce, and step-parents. Not once did it occur to me that the lady
in yellow and brown polyester would share a wisdom through her life experience
that would impact my ideas of raising a child in a divorced home.
No one gets married thinking that one day they will get
divorced. No one holds their child in their arms for the first time and thinks,
"When your daddy and I divorce, I am going to do my best to get along well
with your step-mom."
My only thoughts were of love and happiness that day.
But more than that, I do not think any woman reacts
to the news that her Ex Husband plans to marry the "love of his life"
with the thought of a 12 year old conversation with a Waffle House waitress.
I think her name was Debbie. She had severely bleached hair
with harsh roots. She was obviously once a dazzling woman, but years of grease
splatters, smoky rooms, and natural tanning had taken a toll on her. I knew
that her husband was the manager of the local Waffle House and that her best
friend, a plump brunette, was a fellow waitress. In my naive and limited world,
I viewed all of them as sad souls with nothing more to offer than coffee and
scrambled eggs (slightly burned).
When I had overheard her planning her child's birthday
party, I realized that she, her manager/husband, waitress/best friend, and all
of their kids lived in the same house. Having just gotten my first apartment
and taste of freedom, the thought of sharing a home with that many people was
too much for my 18-year mouth to refrain from commenting on. I asked, "How
can you stand that many people in your house? I know she is your best friend, but
don't you like private time?" She smiled a toothy smile and said,
"Sweetie, that is the mother of my child's brothers and sister. I can't
let her be homeless and all the kids get to grow up with their father."
Now remember, I was naive and stupid in my limited world, so
it is understandable when I said, "Oh! Are y'all polygamists?" In her
street-wise manner, she said, "I don't even know what that is, but I do
know that family is forever. My best friend is my husband's ex-wife." WHAT!!!
Hold the coffee!!! "You mean to tell me that you would let someone stay in
your house that your husband used to sleep with? Are you crazy?" She
laughed and explained that their previous marriage had nothing left but a
friendship and wonderful children. She told me that she trusted them both, but
that more importantly, she maintained a philosophy about how she wanted to
raise her children. She even added "You would be surprised how much an Ex
Wife and a Next Wife have in common." Yup! She was nuts. I imagined some
sort of perversion or dysfunction was occurring in that house, but I listened
politely, as I did not want to get my bacon served raw.
Debbie went on to explain that she did not hate, dislike,
distrust, or have any other emotions that overruled the love she had for her
child or her willingness to work her hardest to give her child a full life.
Shirley believed that her child had the right to love The Ex-Wife because she
was the mother of her children's brother and sister. To her, that was blessing
enough. She chose to focus on family and love instead of jealousy and the past.
I left around 2 a.m. that morning thinking that those Waffle
House workers needed to step away from the heat of the grill and get a reality
check. After all, hostile work environments (have you been to a Waffle House on
a Saturday night?) and dehydration can cause confusion and mental instability.
I threw that conversation in the "junk pile" of my mind and did not
think of it until 2009.
So, when I realized that The Next Wife was going to be a
part of my life, I remembered Debbie and decided to develop my own philosophy
about raising a child in a split family.
My #1 Rule of Blended
Families – Love your child more than you hate anyone else.
My next blended family related blog will be – Robert Burns
Warned Us about "Best Laid Plans"
