happy belated mother's day

Brigitta,

Imagine this in the card I should have sent you:
"This is late because I've been busy SAVING THE WORLD!"
Except, really, it's because I was on vacation (finally!!) and am forgetful.

I just want to say Thank You for the card. You always have a way of touching my heart. Thank you for appreciating me.

You are a beautiful Mom and I simultaneously don't want summer to come and can't wait for summer to come (which is only a couple of weeks away). I can't stand the thought of Eliza being away, from me and especially from Joe. Yet, I cannot wait for you and Eliza to get to fall back into your routines as mother and daughter.

You, as her Mom, are one of her biggest heroes. Her heroine. Not the drug, but the girl hero- apparent by the added "e" (I checked that on google). She talks about you constantly.

My mom makes French Toast with oats on it. My mom would rub my face like this when I was little. On family bike rides my mom.... My mom loves this song. We read this book when I was little...

This is always both beautiful and difficult, as a little jealousy always sneaks in, even though it is completely unwanted. It's beautiful to hear her speak of you so intensely. Nothing can replace a Mom and I just hope that I can provide some sense of Momness. Thank you for sharing this beautiful girl with me. She's changed my life.

I loved having you here because I witnessed the bond between the two of you. The words that didn't even need to be said.

Happy Mother's Day
I love you too.

and she has NO IDEA

they are playing and giggling- attempting to do handstands underwater, her little skinny brown legs kicking just at the surface. she never makes it into the full handstand.

she has NO IDEA what i am going through so that they can play with their Littlest Pet Shops in the pool. and she has NO IDEA that right this minute i am SCREAMING OBSCENITIES IN MY HEAD. of which i will spare you, just know that they are some serious obscenities. words i have never said in front of my mother. at least they are remaining, for the most part, in my head. just a few of them tumbling out in little mumbled whispers so that the other parents at the pool won't give me dirty looks and run screaming from the pool dragging along their children and covering their ears.

why all of the screaming in my head? i am on the brink of insanity. the brink.

the wind blew my pens off of my paper. pens, plural. it was strong enough to blow them off of my one loose sheet of paper. this vile act of God allowed the wind to blow my paper into the pool. i was aware of this possibility and was carefully holding the paper while i transferred data from my client's binder onto the paper. this is a tracking paper that i will have to completely RE-DO. joe called and i let go of it, setting 2 pens on top of it to answer the phone. 2 pens. 2 pens are not weighty enough, apparently. joe you did this.

luckily, eliza and her friend were taking a break from swimming and were standing by my table when this happened. her friend ran and jumped toward the paper in the pool, attempting to save my important work. it's not saved. you can't save chlorine pool soaked and crumpled papers with important dates on them.

the wind is still blowing. i have a scowl on my face. which i better stop NOW or i will get unsightly wrinkles in between my eyes. the scowl wrinkles i have been avoiding by wearing sunglasses at all times.

the pool transformed from a slightly unbearable pit of despair to a monstrosity that only belongs in the fiery depths of HELL. there are now teenages throughout the entire pool. LOUD teenagers banging boogie boards over their little brothers' heads. F@#*king monstrosity. Damn you all. STOP HAVING FUN AT MY EXPENSE! DON'T YOU KNOW MY VERY IMPORTANT PAPER AND MY HAIR IS RUINED?!?

she just brought me another scrap of my paper.

are you laughing? are the heavens laughing?!

why are there children laughing at the pool? SHUT UP! STOP IT! NOOOOWW!

today

i feel like lying in bed. ALL DAY.
i do not feel like catching up with school work.
confused? you were on a 1 week summer break, you say?
yes, well a 1 week summer break, during which i was supposed to complete the intro and method section of my thesis, complete a grant matrix (don't ask) and catch up on my client's paper work.
i don't want to do any of that. and i didn't finish any of it during my 1 week summer break.
ONE WEEK SUMMER BREAK.
what a joke.
monday i am back to the grind. with meetings from 2:30 to 5:30.
i have to finish these things TODAY.
and i am at the pool watching eliza and her friend play
trying to get some of this done.
but the wind is not agreeing with me.
it is driving me insane.
the wind is blowing my papers.
blowing my hair.
the sun is irritatingly shining onto my laptop screen
the sun is ignoring the fact that i sat in the shade to avoid that.
the children are splashing.
the sun is shining.
it should be nice.

Confessions of a Step-Mom

I think the original title of my blog was Confessions of a Step-Mom. This was changed to The Chelle Box after I realized I was writing about myself in general more than as my role and experiences as a step-mom. Sometimes writing about the emotions involved in this role are too difficult to discuss on my blog. Sometimes it would lead to me writing things I would regret. And sometimes, I just can't let it be my entire life. Eliza and Joe are my entire life, but the "step-mom" title is not. If that makes any sense. Well, today I divulge a bit.

Lately I feel sub-par filling this step-mom role. A little less patient. Busier, so a little less 'around.' But, as always, the disciplinarian. I'm suddenly no fun. Whenever she sees me she's in trouble for something (like hiding dirty socks under her bed) Or at least, that's how it feels for me.

It all makes the impending departure that much more dreaded. She's going to remember me as the Wicked Step-Mom while she's away with the Fun Mom. (enter the complex and conglomerate emotions of jealousy, love, and fear)

It didn't help that the birthday party wasn't as exciting as I had hoped. While panicking over whether any kids would show for Eliza's party (no one RSVPs in Florida), I had the following text messaging exchange with my hip, texting mama:
-Did you have those days that you just wanted a break from being a mom?
-More often than not.
-Thanks mom. I feel so overwhelmed by it today. I feel like I'm the only one who feels that way sometimes.
-You should [feel overwhelmed]. It's the most important job in the world. It will bring you the most joy- and the most pain.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eliza's 9 now. She has accumulated 9 years of experience as of April 21st. Quite the accomplishment. This means that I have been in this step-mom / other-mom / sort-of-like-my mom role for close to 5 years. FIVE YEARS. That is 5 years of being a mom instead of the reckless 20-something. Five years of staying home to read stories. Five years of jealousy and heartache. Five years of loving someone more than myself. Five years of teaching and molding.

Stop. I can't breath.

Eliza's 9-years-old. This terrifies me. This means she is that much closer to wanting to be independent. That much closer to choosing where she lives (it might not be with us?!). Getting closer to those times when she will, without a doubt, undermine all of her parents between visits. That much closer to driving and crashing cars. Nearer to the age of boys. Closing in on the days of heightened drama and sassy-ness. I know, you are wondering how, HOW, could she become any sassier? It's coming. Watch out world. Eliza is COMING!!!

She is becoming beautiful instead of adorable. She is becoming witty. She is becoming.

And it is at once frightening, depressing, exalting, and exciting beyond words.


*the birthday post, birthday shopping pictures, and other recent photos are coming, I pinky swear*

gone baby gone

Eliza is in Utah with her Mom for Christmas. She flew out this past Saturday. Joe was working so I took her to the airport. She was so excited and nervous about flying alone that the day before....

That is a post I started to write way back when in December. I never finished the post because, no surprise, it's difficult to write about. I sobbed the entire way home from the airport. I could barely leave her at the gate with the attendant. You have my child!! GIVE HER BACK. She gets carsick. Make sure she has a puke bag. She has snacks in her back and a movie player and paper and markers and books and and and.... make sure she remembers to eat.

I sobbed and cried and called Joe to sob and say "I forgot to have her call you before she got on." sob sob sob. 

Joe had a hard time having her be away. (Once again, insert "real" Mom thoughts here: she is MINE. how do you think I feel?!? and insert my reply: I'm sorry. I love her too.)

Jump to today and why I am continuing a post I started 4 months ago.... a similar, but more difficult departure is rapidly approaching. She leaves for Utah FOR THE ENTIRE SUMMER after school ends at the end of May. That is less than 2 months away. OH MY GOD I CANNOT DO THIS OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER. (again insert the same imaginary dialogue from above).

I wish there was a way to impress upon you the beauty of Joe's relationship with his little baby Eliza Jane. He has cried when she had the flu. He cries when he has the slightest reminder about her upcoming absence. He may not like that I am disclosing his crying here. It is not obscene amounts of crying. He is manly, I swear. But, I wonder how he is going to enjoy life without her here. He teaches her to love bugs and to eat her dinner without taking a millennia to do it. He watches her baby her cat with a shake of the head and a tear in his eye. He encourages her astounding creativity and to get dirty. He wants to protect her from scrapes and mean friends, and silly boys-- but knows that he can't. So, he teaches her to understand the world instead. 

 

Eliza the photographer took this on one of their daddy-daughter beach trips

when you need a shopping list, use EXCEL

I love my dad. (and you too, Mom)

I mean, he taught me to put the toilet paper roll on the proper way. If you don't know which way that is, it is when the loose sheet hangs down in the front of the roll, opposed to the back. This way you do not have to reach and try to find the loose end. It is always, conveniently, appropriately, right in front of your face.

He taught me *try* to not worry about too many little things. I remember kneeling at my bed- trying to think about enough things to pray long enough- and then looking over at him to see if he was still praying about important things. If he didn't look finished I would think of more things to pray for (I was little, it was usually for things). Sometimes I would discover an important, urgent, mystery of life. Like, when we die do we get to (fill in the blank). His answer was often this: If you don't know you just put your question away, into a little treasure box. Then, when you get to Heaven you can ask your Heavenly Father. This was always comforting. Reassuring. Even if my perfect dad didn't have an answer to a question someone out there did!

I still worry about too many exacerbating and often ridiculous things throughout my day. I mean when am I going to find the time to organize the fridge? because it is not organized... well enough... right now. and that matters. to me. I created a bar graph instead of a line graph for a client. Is my professor disappointed in me? What if he talks to my old supervisor and tells him that I made a bar graph, not a line graph? What will happen to the world?! I worry about wearing the right outfit. I'm almost 28. Why do I care about the right outfit? I don't know, but sometimes I still change my clothes countless times before leaving (late) to a meeting or class or client session...

But, he has taught me to make a list. Tackle one thing at a time. Try not to perseverate on things that really are quite inconsequential. Focus on the important things. Cherish the beautiful moments. Find time to run a few miles, just for me and my sanity.

I may not tuck questions into a treasure chest for a Heavenly Father- but I do set the unknowns aside and recognize that it is o.k. I am o.k. I am o.k. I am o.k.

I was talking to him on the phone. I was tired and stressed. Full of angst. I just finished a research session with absolutely no results. I was feeling inadequate. a disappointment. I used to be a B student. I am now an A student in a Master's program. Now, I am on the verge of a B in physiological psychology due to spreading myself too thin. I am not achieving what I should. Even though I know my professors are still impressed, my husband, my dad, my mom, my friends are proud. I should do MORE. MORE ALL OF THE TIME.

He told me he had been crying because he was looking at pictures of Kristen. I do the same. I put away the pictures for a time. Then, when I feel brave, I look at the pictures all at once. and I cry. I cry, and cry, and cry. Sometimes it's a sob. Bordering on tantrum. IT'S NOT FAIR.

He was crying because he misses her. and us. I miss them too.

Then, he said something that made me stop- and think. I often stop to not think. He said that I almost know how he feels. I almost know how much he loves me, because I love Eliza. That I will fully understand when I have my own.

I think he's right. I can't imagine the love that parents feel. She's my step-daughter and I love her with my entire being. I love her so much it aches sometimes. I feel like I will never be normal again because of the fear and anxiety I have watching her grow up. Because of the joy I feel when she smiles or laughs or writes "mom" on a note to me. ME. her step-mom. To think that when Joe and I have our own children it will be more than this is unthinkable. but probably true.

It makes me miss my mom and dad. Instills refreshed gratitude to them for raising me. For struggling through my stubbornness and frequent silence and lack of gratitude. It reminds me how special Brigitta is to Eliza and how I will never fully understand what Eliza is to her. Even though I love her. Even though I care for her. Even though she is everything to me.

"many happy returns of the day,"

said Pooh to Eeyore and Eeyore to Pooh.

Eliza and I are reading Winnie the Pooh, which my mom also read to me when I was a little girl.

do da do, do da do, do da do (picture Wayne's World) ... begin flashback:
Kristen and I are in our beds, in our room. Kelli is in her bed, in the room next to ours. Jake, who is always the lucky one, because he's older and because his room is in the loft, is sitting in the hallway with a pillow and blanket by Mom. Her voice carries as if by some sort of magic to all of us while our eyelids become heavy and our breaths more steady. As she reads each word takes me to another place. I fight to stay awake so that I don't miss any of the story. My eyes won't stay open anymore. Pooh is stuck in the tree. With the bees. Christopher Robin says lovingly, "Silly Ol' Bear" and I can see him shake his head. I'm asleep, dreaming of fields of carrots and honey pots and lost Eeyore tails. My mom read many books to us this way. Her voice bringing us stories like the Mouse and the Motorcycle, poems from Shel Silverstein, and more. Each night her voice would actually become other voices. Eeyore's gloomy yet calming voice would lull us to sleep. Ralph was in my room, asking me to let him ride my toy motorcycle. I will never forget how she imitated Pooh, Piglet, Eeyore, Kanga, Roo, Rabbit, and Christopher Robbins' voices. As I read it to Eliza I try to do the same for her. Paint watercolor scenes in her mind for each story. I try to make their voices distinct, unique, and am disappointed when they do not sound like my mom's did. I hope my young age is what made these words read by my mom so magical and that Eliza feels the magic of words at bedtime.

awol

I just devoured a KitKat.
I have an exam tomorrow. I am not prepared.
I haven't posted for some time and here is my excuse:
-- Eliza's mom was in town.
Not much of an excuse, I could have still posted.
Here's really why I haven't posted:
-- My life has been boring.

Here's the scoop, the dish, the update:
--Eliza's mom visited over her Spring Break. Eliza was happy as a clam (I do not know why we assume they are happy, but she was happy nonetheless). In fact she was elated. She was floating on clouds. I like her mom. She's beautiful (even with her hair totally gone), she's a great mom, and she's Eliza's hero (tied with her Dad). I did my part by trying to stay out of the house so that they could have alone mommy-daughter bonding times. I hope it helped. It always makes me horribly sad to see them say goodbye- to watch the closeness between them and then watch her leave, knowing that it's MY FAULT it's like this. Brigitta may read this and think "you're sad?! Don't tell me about sad. She is MY DAUGHTER." And I will think back "I'm sorry."

--I tried to spend time with Eliza on Saturday, the day her mom left, but I had to take a difficult physiological psychology exam that evening online. It was awful, by the way. Mostly I studied that day and told her that Sunday we would just do awesome things together ALL DAY. Me and her and her dad. Enjoying each other and the beautiful weather we've been having.

--Sunday: UTI. Urinary Tract Infection. GROSS. PAINFUL. UNCOMFORTABLE. I stayed in my pajamas all day. What a baby. Did nothing with Eliza. or Joe.

--Monday / today: Another horrible exam tomorrow (and Thursday). I have, of course, procrastinated. Took data for a project. Worked with my adorable client. No time with Eliza. or Joe. But, I did accomplish getting my antibiotic. Explained to Eliza that I am not necessarily a horrible step-mom, but just having a week with loads of tests and headaches and shoulder aches and tummy aches and urinary tract aches. I am not always sick. I just have too much stress. Joe thinks something is wrong that I am not healthy. I do not know a healthy graduate student. So, my dear Eliza, we will play on Friday and Saturday and Sunday. I SWEAR. I PINKY PROMISE WITH A KISS ON TOP.

sick of it

messy rooms.
my own impatience.
whining.
crying.
procrastination...

messes.
laziness.
myself.
others.
everyone...

togetherness.
aloneness.
competitiveness.
social isolation...

painting
my face.
not painting
pictures.
writing
notes.
not writing
creatively...

f. that's all.

"blue tray"

I found this picture today at http://burcuavsar.com/. It cracked me up. Literally, pieces of me all over the floor. My fingers remained intact and fully functioning. Like the chicken moving with its head already cut off. So feel lucky that you even get to read this post.

That was totally beside the point. This picture conjured up some memories of making Eliza's lunch for school. She has grown past this, but I seriously used to number her food items so that she would know what to eat first. Anything labeled with a '1' was a required food item. A '2' was still important, but could not be eaten until '1' was gone. '3' was optional, a treat. '3's of course, were not to be eaten until '1's and '2's were both gone. The best part about this is that she liked it. She had actually been getting stressed out about what she had to eat.

She is a proficient lunch eater now and numbering is no longer necessary.

little girls are mean

When I say "little girls are mean," I am not referring to the blunt comments made by Eliza. (She used to poke me and inform me that my ass is "squishy").

Little girls are mean to each other. They create and revel in drama. As long as they are on the giving end, that is. Eliza has relayed "mean girl" instances as early as pre-school. At 4-years-old, Eliza had a friend who informed her that she won't play with Eliza if she (Eliza) has other friends. Little grown-up Eliza informed her, very practically, that she (Eliza) can have however many friends as she wants, and that they can all be friends together. In kindergarten similar issues arose, but not too frequently. First grade, not much drama. One particularly nasty incidence occurred where the group of 5 girls temporarily split apart after one called another fat. (IN FIRST GRADE).

Second grade… much worse. I would pick Eliza up from school and notice that she was quite grumpy. One day in particular, I suggested going out for a treat. The mere thought of this brought on some frustrated replies of "Well, I wouldn't even know where to go," and "I can't even think of a treat I would want because it's rainy and I would have wanted ice-cream." Tears obviously followed such statements. It took the rest of the day to pry the real source of upset out of her little lips. During dinner, she finally exploded—her best friend told her she couldn't play with them at recess. I was heart-broken. I wanted to call that bitch's mother and tell her what a little bitch her daughter was. I wanted to go to class with Eliza and beat up any bullies. I wanted to fix it.

Third grade, at a new school. Eliza has always been social and makes friends easily. Since she started school, she's made new friends every day. Today she seemed fine when I picked her up. She seemed happy. She didn't explode at the thought of choosing an after-school snack. Then we started working on her project. She was suddenly in tears at every question that she had about the assignment. I asked her a couple of times what was really wrong with no success. After it had become completely ridiculous I told her to just get ready for bed. That did it. She finally told me that the homework was not the real problem. "I really didn't have a good day." This led to the confession that one of her new friends that she plays with during after school care has been mean for the past few days. Again, I want to call that mom. I want to hold her hand all day at school. I want to tell that girl to be nice. I want to fix it.

The difficult thing about this parenting thing is that I can't fix it. All I can do is hold this little girl in my arms while she cries and tell her that it will get better. That it always gets better. I remind her that sometimes things in life get worse, but they do get better at some point. Either she'll make other friends or this girl will get over it and they'll be friends again. But that just doesn't feel like enough. Maybe tomorrow I'll escort her to class and tell that girl to tell her mom to meet me on the playground after class…

step-moms unite

{I have to add an aside, a pre-script, if you will. I found another step-mom site, Step Chicks, that is also positive and reassuring.There are some inspiring step-moms out there that are the creating and providing best possible situation for their families. Best of luck and wishes to all of you out there. I added the link at the bottom of the page under "moms."}

I Recently took some time to look at blogs and forums for step-moms. "Stepmother's Milk" is the only one I found that I really enjoy. Izzy is witty and insightful. She has the unique ability to bring step-moms together in a positive way. Part of the reason I enjoy her blog is because she is a successful and independent woman who does not use her blog to vent. She relays no hostility or jealousy of the children's real-mom. (I like to call Brigitta the "real-mom" and me the "other-mom.") A few years back this would have been like being lost at sea and finding the only buoy. At this point, it's simply enjoyable, since Brigitta and I seem to have created a positive relationship.


The other step-mom sites I found are discouraging. I stopped looking at them because they tend to become "bio-mom" bashing episodes. I was surprised at how many step-moms out there write to the world about how horrible and difficult the real-mom is. They discuss on public forums the faults and shortcomings of the mother of their step-children. They even use alienating terminology used, such as "bio-mom," with the guise of allowing for anonymity.


Perhaps it is unfair that I criticize these blogs. I was definitely there. I'm just glad that I reserved my hostile venting for my dear friends. [These friends were my salvation during the first, most difficult, years. I could not thank them enough for all of the unpleasantries that I allowed to consume our time together.] Who knows, maybe blogging these frustrations is better than pouring it onto a friend. I understand that talking about the feelings experienced as a step-mom is helpful, because I would have been institutionalized by now if I wasn't able to do that. I just feel that publishing this animosity onto a public domain is not the healthiest option. I would feel ashamed at merely the thought of the real-mom stumbling upon my blog.


Looking at these blogs reminded me of how difficult being a step-mom can be. Some of their questions and experiences are so similar to what I experienced. It's emotionally confusing to be the "other-mom." At times, you feel like you can't fully discuss your feelings with your husband, because when you do they feel guilty for creating the situation. The spouse has no way to know how it feels to come second, they are a real parent. No one, other than a fellow step-mom, knows how it feels to be incessantly compared to the "real-mom." It's difficult to have everything compared to the real-mom's perfection. You already know that you will never take the place of their mom and you are constantly reminded that you also don't measure up. Feelings of jealousy often rage inside, and knowing that your child loves you doesn't take that completely away. I love Eliza as my own, and knowing that I am not "her own" is difficult to embrace.


This is why I understand these blogs. I respect that they are trying to create a safe place to vent. There are real benefits of feeling a sense of community and having other step-moms to consult. Because as I mentioned, there is no one else that will understand your situation quite as well.


It's still unsettling to see so many women becoming trapped in a community where their anger and jealousy is nurtured and reinforced. I cannot see what benefit that has in the long run. In the end, I hope or believe that every step-mom wants to create a stable relationship with the real-mom. You are all parents of this child (or children), and maintaining a healthy relationship is the only way to ensure the best environment for the child.


It took me a long time to reach the place I am now. For the first year or so, I saw everything that Brigitta did in relation to Eliza as selfish. Everything appeared to be for her convenience. When situations would arise between her and Joe I would become defensive and angry, as if she had personally offended me. Everything was personal. Everything seemed to be about me. That may be the biggest difficulty with transitioning into a blended family. Each parenting decision made in Brigitta's home was open to attack. I loved Eliza and all of the decisions we made in our home was for her best interest, but I was failing to see that that could also be the case in her Mom's home. I failed to realize that while I was struggling with the transition into a blended family, Brigitta must have been as well. At times, she may have been selfish, I don't know. But that's exactly the point, I don't know. I can't assess whether any of her decisions were good or not. It's not even my place to do so. Maybe that's the real point. It's not my place, and as a parent we all make mistakes or decisions that no one else gets to weigh-in on. At that time especially, it was not my place to worry about parenting decisions made in her home. Even if there were times that decisions were not ideal, I could have allowed her the understanding that she was transitioning into a complicated, newly blended family as well. Instead of pining over the top position, step-moms should be trying to understand that the real-moms are undergoing similar difficulties. In fact, some of her struggles may have been more difficult. I can't imagine the anguish she must have felt when Eliza would mix up "Mom" and "Michelle." As a real-mom, knowing that someone else is spending more time with your child than you cannot be easy. Far worse would be the moment you realize she views that "step-mom" as another mom. It was difficult for me to be incessantly compared to Brigitta. Again, I failed to consider that she was also being compared.


With all of these difficulties there are legal difficulties, there are questions of changing living arrangements, methods of disciplining, and other endless concerns. Many of these decisions, if not all, were difficult to sort out in the beginning. For a while, I dreamed of moving far away, away from her… far enough away that we could have our "own" lives. Then, things changed. They changed slowly, but looking back it seems to be almost overnight. I began to respect her… One day, we sat down for coffee. I explained some concerns I was having at the time. I was surprised to find that she was very pleasant and discussed the situation honestly and openly. From there, I began to let go of that consuming jealousy. I still find myself comparing myself to some of her accomplishments or attributes, but I loosened my grip of the jealousy of her relationship with Eliza. I began to appreciate what she has gone through as a mother. I was able to respect her decisions and opinions fully. I no longer felt weighed down by anger.


Similarly, I think that Brigitta underwent some changes. As time went on I think we both matured in respect to how we viewed each other. I hope that I am not wrong in saying so. It just seems that we both became accustomed to our new family, in its entirety. In fact, I think we both began to appreciate and care for each other.


I could write about the development of our complex blended family endlessly. The major point here is: although it has been difficult, we did it. I realize I have just some of my family and close friends reading my blog, but just on the chance that some step-mom out there might stumble upon this…. We did it. So can you. Don't waste your life feeling angry and competitive. Don't throw things onto your blog that you'll wish you could take back. Use your family and friends for support, and get on with your life. Vent, but remember that eventually you might feel hypocritical for any judgments you cast. Try to find empathy for your counter-mom. She just might do the same for you. She brought that beautiful child to life, and no matter how many reasons you believe you have to be angry and even combative, nothing changes that. As the mom she deserves more. As the step-mom, so do you. Create a bond. Find reasons to love her. She will be in your life forever.

just you wait

I would cry, inconsolably. I would feel as although I couldn't take a breath because the crying was consuming. Dad would hold me close, gently rocking. "Michelle, what's wrong?" He would beg me to tell him what thoughts were going through my head. The tears would momentarily subside. The thoughts would become clear within my mind. I would not voice any of these thoughts. In my mind they were not clear enough. Still too jumbled. It wouldn't make sense if I say it out loud. It's just giving up. He wants me to say it out loud and I can't. I just can't. The cries would start again, but louder. Dad would be frustrated, lovingly so. He would get up and ask me again, to just tell him why I'm so upset. "I'm upset because I can't tell you! I'm upset because my thoughts are trapped inside of me." I just sit there and cry. Too upset to look at him. He probably thinks I'm ignoring him. He tells me, as if he just lost a battle, resigned to the fact that I'll not talk to him, "I can't just sit here if you're not going to talk to me." He leaves the room and I'm heart-broken. He's given up and doesn't even realize I was about to say it! I was about to open my lips and explain myself! I sob uncontrollably until I fall asleep.

Later on in life... I always had a messy room. As did most teenagers. I still believe that Kelli's was usually messier than mine. Either way I loved to tell my parents, "It's my room! Don't open the door if you don't want to see it." My parents would usually say something to the effect of "You just wait until you have your own kids." Statements like this (from any parent) always imply that one day they'll get their revenge. Your kids will be worse. Or worse, the same. You will understand why they make you clean your room once you're the parent.

For me it reminds me of the pain and frustration I often brought upon my parents. The crying would ensue over shoe laces that were not tied just so. I liked the loops and tails to be of even length. It would begin over sibling arguments. Over bumps in the hair. Over pennies lost in a store. I've heard these stories many times throughout the years. Always with a look of relief that I turned out so well. The "just you wait" reminds me that my own future child may be just as emotionally inept.

Eliza is not this way. She's not biologically mine. But at times, remembering what I felt like in those "trapped words" moments, helps me to understand her. Her first day of first grade she cried because her khaki pants had a bump above the button hole. She was afraid that the other kids would see this. I assured her that everyones jeans do this. That it's "normal" for the button hold material to stick out a bit at the top. She said "I've never noticed your pants doing that." I remember how I liked my socks rolled a very particular way and just try to reassure her that no one else will know that it's bothering her.

We were at our favorite pizza joint last night. Eliza was so hungry she was getting quite ornery (That I understand all too well!) Looking at the menu, I ask her "Do you want meat on your pizza?" She says "No." Joe asks her, "So, you just want vegetables on your pizza?" She looks exasperated... "Well, I don't even know what there is to have." Her voice has gotten quiet. Tears are on their way. Joe asks, "Do you want pepperoni?" She looks a little relieved and nods. "Did you know pepperoni is meat?" "No." Okay, we've gotten somewhere. By this point I am quite frustrated. If you don't know that pepperoni is meat, then what do you think it's classified as? If you want pepperoni and don't think it's meat or vegetable than just ask for pepperoni!

We ask her if she wants mozzarella sticks. We get a shrug of the shoulders. We ask again. "I guess," she responds as if she's given up on food altogether. I say, "Eliza, what does that mean? Do you want them or do they just sound okay? Would you rather have something else?" This was way too much! "I want mozzarella sticks!"

After dinner is through I find out that she really wanted bread sticks.

These times I have to remember that sometimes our words are just stuck in our minds as children. Sometimes as adults, too. I have to remember that asking extended questions doesn't help. I have to remember that little girl on her daddy's lap just wanting so badly to say what's in her head. I have to remember to wait... to find new ways to ask what she wants on her pizza.

behavior analysis

I love seeing the principles of behavior analysis at work in my daily routines (and in others'). On the most fundamental level, behavior analysis operates on the assumption that behaviors are preceded by certain antecedants or stimuli and followed by a consequence. This consequence can either increase or decrease the likelihood that this behavior will occur again. If it increases the likelihood of the behavior it is a reinforcer and if it decreases the likelihood of the behavior occurring in the future than it is a punisher. That is enough information for me to get on with the fascination. Eliza has, knowingly, been a case study of mine since I am constantly using the principles of behavior to my benefit in parenting.

Our prior apartment was two-story. At bedtime, I would tell Eliza to go get her pajamas on and brush her teeth. Inevitably she would get her pjs on and come back down. For a split second I would wonder whether she was superhuman. Then, I would realize that there's no way in Hell she managed to brush her teeth. (and if she had, certainly not for 2 mintes). I would then ask her "Eliza, did you brush your teeth?" If she answered "Yes," I would explain why I knew that she hadn't. She quickly learned to say "No." The problem behavior consistently occurred after the next exchange. I would tell her to go back upstairs and brush her teeth. This was invariably followed by an audible moan of despair, then by a stomping up the stairs I am certain our neighbors were aware of. Once, she even sobbed, "I already walked all the way up the stairs once!" As a future behavior analyst I looked for the function of this behavior. Was she reinforced by a reaction I had given her? Did she believe, from other similar behaviors, that I would let her escape from this task? I decided to take care of that right away. A behavior analyst cannot allow their child to grow up with contingencies that increase the occurrence of such socially inappropriate behavior! I began to require her to re-do the exchange and re-walk the stairs-- without the sighing and stomping. This is, of course, just one example. Clearly it worked or I wouldn't be going into behavior analysis. She no longer stomps around or moans with despair when she has to go back to brush her teeth.

Have no fear... I have not altered the essence (this word makes me groan inside as a BA) of Miss Eliza. She still rolls her eyes and yes, sighs in mock despair. I love the drama that tiny beautiful girl can dish. The sarcasm that drips heavily, like molassas, from her lips...

Recently I have been trying to increase the "loud voice." Miss Eliza's "soft voice" is well known and I am trying to get that girl to talk with confidence. We'll see... maybe I'll carry some m&ms in my pocket and give her one each time she speaks clearly. wink.

UPDATE: I may actually be carrying skittles or m&ms in my pocket. I just finished reading this post aloud to this Miss Eliza girl and she is literally drooling on my shoulder. Jumping on the bed exclaiming "Really???? Really??? I can have m&ms???" "Maybe even a big butterfinger in your pocket????"

a couple of drinks later...

I am a mother. But only sort of. I feel that I am completely a mom. But I'm not. There is a real mother who is beautiful... inside and out. I feel jealousy. I feel love for her. I feel so much of both I cry. She brought me this beautiful girl. She has a love and connection with her I will never know. One that I may only understand when I have my own child. I pretend that she is my own. I wish I could have held her as a baby. I wish I could erase the jealousy and just feel love for her mom. I wish sometimes I was as beautiful as she is. I wish I could run a marathon. Most of all, I wish I were Eliza's mother. I wish I could be just her step-mom without wishing for more. But really, I just want Eliza to be happy. She could never be happy if she didn't have her beautiful Mom. Without knowing that her real Mom loves her and will always fill that special role. I know Miss Eliza loves me. I know I enrich her life. I know I'm a good mother. I know I'm beautiful. It's just that I'm not quite enough, somehow. It's just that I wish I wasn't taking her away. It's just that I wish I wasn't always referred to as the "step-mom," because I do so much more than that. I wish Eliza wasn't so torn. So happy to be with us. So at home. So stablized. So... my little girl. But actually not. Really always missing her mom. Always someone else's little girl. I console myself with how much I provide for her, how I've been with her more than her real mom for the past 4 years, how this move will help her grow and provide stability and consistency... But, I'll always wish I could give her everything. I'll always wish.

leaving on a jet plane

I wish we really were leaving on a freakin' jet plane. No... we have to DRIVE. To Florida. DRIVE!!! Thankfully, it will be in a new car. Courtesy of my generous and loving Dad. New car does not remedy "Are we there yet?" or "How much longer?" or when we respond with a total time for the day's travel, "Well how long have we been in the car so far, then?" Rather clever little girl.

I made an "I Spy" for the road, for which Eliza will tally how many of each item she sees. It includes such items as NY license plates, the letter Z, deer, rabbits... I wonder if she'll count roadkill deer and rabbits...

Since we are leaving in exactly one week... [EXACTLY. Except maybe not. Maybe 8 days. Damn moving companies and their estimates.] ....my friend Cristi planned a little surprise dinner at Indian Oven, which even Jessica got to come up for. Our friends Christine and Steve also planned a get-together at their family's cabin in Bear Lake. My friends kick ass. Bear Lake was kick ass. Seriously. Lots of ass kicking. Lots of margaritas. Lots of lake. Lots of love and laughter.

Since we are leaving in exactly one week... I am stressed out of my mind!!! The margaritas helped loads. Thanks Christine! The stress is back, however. I am not only ripping Brigitta's child away from her, I am tearing Eliza away from her Real Mom. I am starting a Master's program I could utterly and completely fail. I am putting all of our lives in the hands of... wait a sec. that's not right. I am destroying everything in one leap for mankind. That's not right either. WHAT AM I DOING?

letters

Miss Eliza,

It feels like you've been gone forever! Your Dad and I utterly miss you. More than I can even explain in a blog. I think I could only explain how much with a big "I miss you" hug. I can't wait for you to be home with us, but at the same time I am so happy that you are getting to spend so much time with your Mom before we move. You and your Mom both need this time together. It's going to be hard to miss her so much when we are gone. At the same time, it will be fun and exciting and nice to be at one home for the weeks and the weekends. I think this would be so hard to feel so sad and so excited at the same time. I feel that way a little bit too. I am getting more excited about the move and more sad about being farther away from my friends and family too. I think the vacations, holidays, and summers will come before you know it and then you will be missing us while you are with your Mom.

You are such a brave girl and I am so proud of you for being able to tell me about how you feel. I want you to always be able to do that. I want you to know it's o.k. to cry and be sad about moving away, even though you might still be excited and happy about it for other reasons. Your Mom is a wonderful Mom and beautiful woman and we will always help you to be close to her and spend as much time with her as you can. We love you baby.

"you're horrible"

Being a Mom is an interesting thing. It's amazing and beautiful and I love my girl. The interesting comes in when you realize that this person looks at you like a grown-up. Enough italics yet? Seriously that is some strangeness going on there. When I met Eliza I was 23 and she was 4. I don't think the mom part sunk in for almost a year. Probably when she started calling me "Mom" on accident once in a while. Or, maybe earlier, when holding bowls for puking under her chin and washing her hair and little body in the tub. I felt a huge paradigm shift was when I was going to help with reading time in her 1st grade classroom and she assured me that her teacher and the students would think I was a "nice lady." LADY!! I actually took the time to explain to her that I am not a lady. She asked me what I was then and I told her I am a girl. She explained to me that I am not a girl. I had to concede there. I guess I am not a girl any more.

It is also quite fascinating to see your little girl become like you. When she was 4 she started saying "actually" and "although." Surprisingly, in the correct context or at least close enough. I was wondering where she got such words when I heard myself over-using them. She would say things such as, "I need a snack; although, I am not that hungry. Actually, I just need a treat." She started rolling her eyes dramatically around 5. Ask Joe where she got that. Once I asked her, "Can you roll them any bigger?" She replied "yes," while rolling her entire head along with her big rolling eyes. Most recently she said to my Mom, "You're Horrible!" This was accompanied with an impressive eye roll and sarcastic tone, after my mother said something she found to be way too silly. Since then I have heard her use this phrase on numerous occasions, always riddled with sarcasm. I wondered, of course, where she picked up such theatrical and sarcastic responses and suddenly became aware of how often I respond with "that's horrible!," or "you're horrible!" to ridiculous stories or situations. Like mother like daughter.

[picture was taken a couple of days before the wedding with my sister Dyan. I believe she also gained her love of margaritas from me.]

dancin' queen

Eliza had her dance recital a couple of weeks ago and rocked it like a diva. I won't say too much about it so that she can tell you on her blog, but I will tell you the joys of being a mom to a little dancer. I always have the pleasure of attending both nights of the 2 1/2 hour long show. There was 1 dance, other than Eliza's that I actually enjoyed watching. And I grew up dancing. Imagine how torturous the show must have been for Joe. Lucky for him he was out of town the first night or he would have been there with me. Despite the not-so-cushioned butt going numb, my legs getting restless, and my brain... well also going numb, I utterly love watching Miss Eliza dance. Her age group is still a little stiff and jumpy, but that only adds to the adorable factor. Her lanky arms and legs exponentially increase the amount that I want to run backstage and embarrass her with hugs and kisses and congratulations.

speaking of...

While we are on the subject of being the other mom...
Eliza is with her mom all this week for a summer camp. We miss her, of course. It may sound a little strange, but I miss telling her to pick up her room. I miss her expression that loudly screams "you are so weird." I miss the rolling of her eyes. This often occurs when I tell her to pick up her room. I miss her sweet hugs. I really miss reading her bedtime stories, getting her special yellow blanket tucked around her, kissing her all over her face, and telling her I'll see her in the morning. So I called her this morning to hear her soft voice and tell her I love her. I got the answering machine. Now here comes the confession... at the end of the message - to her mom - I said "Love ya... Love you guys." There are two possibilities here. Either Brigitta erased the message before she got to the awkward ending, or she listened to it all. I'm guessing she listened and thought it was a little odd. This is an automatic phrase. Yet also an irretractable phrase. This is a not entirely untrue phrase. But could be taken as strange phrase. Mostly I think this is a comical message. Later on I can have the conversation with my husband's ex-wife that my husband and I have had. The one that sort of goes like this-- "Remember the first time I told you I love you..." The conversation that ends in giggles over the sweetness and awkwardness of the whole thing. Or we could have the conversation about the stage of our relationship. The ones that go like this-- "I just don't know if we're to that stage in our relationship yet..."