So Baker Day is a thing...

Baker Day, oh sweet Baker Day! The latest perk of being a step mother. Where have you been all my life glorious, money making and completely unnecessary occasion.

To some my ignorance must be shining as brightly as a new coin, the thought of Baker Day leaving many parents grimacing at yet another errand to add to their already full lists of things to do - then there's me. Newbie mom.

Pinterest, my friend...

Baker day is Friday. That's two sleeps away & I'm relatively calm, excited actually. Daddy wants to purchase goods from the local store, but that's cheating and you know it.  I've decided to keep it simple, I'll try my hand at muffins - just add water and an egg, right? Wrong.

Muffin fail just happened, did I mention I don't bake? "Too doughy", they said "Too cheesy" says the youngest. FML! Perhaps now's a good time to tell you that my mother never let us bake with her growing up, we were always expected to stay out the kitchen. I get it now in retrospect, kids slow down the process, it wasn't like she was trying to be mean but mom you could have given me some kitchen basics....yikes! I knew I should have taken Home Economics over Art in High School, too late now!

So, doughy, cheesy muffin fail behind me, I turn to Pinterest, you know, as one does for some inspiration. Immediately I'm convinced that 3 marshmallows on a skewer would be easiest. I'll pop through to the store tomorrow, purchase said marshmallows and maybe melt some choc over the first few for effect. What turned out to be a simple browse through Pinterest, turned into me getting to bed at 2 a.m considering Krispie treats, donuts, smores, OMG where do I begin? This - is - awesome!

It got better when I got to the store

If you had seen me walk into that store, you would have sworn I had just won the lotto. Chest puffed out, I'm in the Baker circle baby! I'm doing the mom thing, whoop! I've arrived and I'm ready to rock this, nodding my head in slow motion, smug look on my face as I knowingly wink at the mom's entering the store. 

First aisle and I see the marshmallows, dammit, that wasn't supposed to happen for another 3 to 5 aisles. Oh well.

I stand staring at the Marshmallow packet and I envision the perfection that is my completely unique, never been done before, type A designed marshmallows on a stick. I play the process through my mind, a woman next to me nudging me to the left of the shelf while I'm engrossed in the images passing through my mind. 

It looks like this: I purchase marshmallows, I put them on sticks, I send to school, small children eat them - in a hurry. OMG, it's stuck! I envision an episode of 1000 ways to die, the episode when a teenager chokes on a wad of marshmallows during a pajama party. "Chubby bunny" she joked and then they all melted in her mouth and lodged down her throat to her demise. I'm a murderer! Scrap that...what else was on Pinterest?

I wish I could have seen my own face, by now the lady next to me has walked away and I'm playing hot potato with the packet of mallows in and out my trolley as I reason my way through the preparation of a perfectly innocent snack with a bad rep. I put the mallows back, I can't do this, maybe I should just stick to small bags of meringues. How the hell do you make meringues? My hand darting into my bag (again) for a Pinterest recipe. Geez I suck at this.

"In and out, it will only take a couple minutes"

So 45 minutes later I'm still standing in the confectionery section of the store. People are starting to stare at me. I've put in, put back and swapped out plastic piping, 4 different food colourants, some fondant, those little Hundred's and Thousand rainbow balls and a pack of skewers. 

I left that store with more junk food for my trip home, than I did for the actual purpose of my visit. Typical isn't it. I was so excited to get home, I'm gonna nail this, I'll be the Baker Queen of the Universe and they will love me FOREVER, or so I thought. In my efforts of keeping it simple, I decided to scrap the 'dangerous' marshmallows and opted for caramel choc popcorn.

Trial and error biatches

Cover large tray with foil, check. Pop the corn, check. Transfer hot popcorn to large tray to cool, check. Melt caramel choc, check (I've seen this on Jamie Oliver or something, you can't just chuck it in the microwave - ha, ha! You thought you got me didn't you! I melted it in a pot of hot water in a glass bowl - boom! Whose a kitchen genius NOW!)

Drizzled caramel choc, I'm loving this - Baker Day rocks!
Caramel choc depleted, repeat process and use Salt n Vinegar seasoning in second batch. Boom, versatile!

I love popcorn

Large tray to cool

Caramel Choc

Hmmm!

The end result

14 packs of personally, hand wrapped caramel popcorn followed by 19 packs of Salt n Vinegar later (I got so excited that I didn't calculate this process, which is so typical of me and the exact reason to my muffin fail)  

Kids got home, eldest said thanks and now they're in bed. All of that and I'm super proud of myself with nothing more to show for it other than 33 mini bags of popcorn which will all be a distant memory by 11 a.m tomorrow. I just hope they think he's awesome because of my efforts, please God let this go down well. *Imagines kids saying "Wow, your mom makes the BEST popcorn ever!" Sigh.

I think I'm ready to pop into the store for a convenient alternative for next months Baker Day, maybe daddy has a point here. Perhaps I will, but maybe not before I try those killer 'mallows first :P

The day I got out the car

Let me not try fake my way into your book of approval by telling you all the things I want you to read. Things that make me look bigger, braver and bolder than I am. I'm no pushover, I'm not a wilting flower either.

I'm a lover

I'm a lover by default, factory setting and origin. Even when I tried martial arts for 3 years, I never managed to grade past the first three exams. If I'm honest it's because I just didn't have the personal discipline to get involved or pursue a sport that included me hurting people. There were many times that I would be reprimanded by my coach for smiling while sparring, a defense mechanism or perhaps, that I just saw the fun in jumping around a ring while neither of us took shots at the other.

Don't get me wrong, there were times that I won gold in my division and even provincial colours for my weight and grade category, but I'm not a fighter.  



Up against Goliath


I have no doubts about the physical contact possibilities that could erupt the day I get out of the car. The days when we have fetched the boys from their mom, I have stayed in the car, not from fear so much as respect for daddy. If I get out the car, I may regret it. I have to think of the children.

We're not dealing with a civil situation here, I have witnessed the many physical brawls that the ex has engaged in. We're talking punch up's with family and kitchen pan's being used as weapons. These people are the opposite of lovers. They are of class and culture that encourage fighting. They are the dog eat dog of our society. And I'm over here blogging - just saying.



The anticipation will kill me


Today I decided that I was going to get out the car. Not because I wanted to fight but because I wanted to get it over with. I needed to see what this mother of 2 children really looked like after her grief, guilt, pain and separation from her kids. I wanted to see the face of anguish. I was tired of waiting in the car every time with baited breath, worried that an extended fist would ambush me. 

Personally when I get angry I don make up, I work out, I feel sexy.
I knew she had been running around the neighbourhood over the last few months during her 'job search'. The version of her that I remembered, had been of a petite woman, with long pitch black hair that she flat ironed at her best. 

Her frame is much smaller than mine, in fact, eldest has actually asked daddy a couple months ago why men have smaller legs than woman. I cringed thinking my thunder thighs has contributed to that question. 

I recall my most recent break up and remember how I flung myself into 2.5 hour gym routines, personal spoils and spa sessions. I bet she looks amazing. She holds their hearts as their mother, perhaps I was competing against more than just emotional rights, perhaps she was the sexy, stellar vixen that had left me with the scraps of a man who had been downsized by her all his adult life. What if I get out the car and she's so fit and trim and takes a swing at me with her defined arms. What if, because I'm so unfit of late, she gets me on the ground and pummels me to oblivion in front of the children.

Even worse, what happens if her whack-job sister comes at me with a knife, or glass. She does this, all - the - time  so my fears are real and valid. Today, I'm getting out the car because it's time to introduce the kittens to each other. Time to let them hiss and spit and soon they will be friends. 

Now when I'm backed into a corner, feeling down or hard done by, I put on make up. I have no idea why but I put about 1 hour longer into my routine than I usually would. Last Sunday I felt horrific, sinus that turned to a chest infection and then bronchitis had me feeling (and looking) less than super confident. 

It was 15h30 in the afternoon, I had been laying in PJ's all weekend. Believe me this effort was necessary, I was about to face Goliath, and if I was to land up in hospital, I'd like to at least look shit hot. 


Then I opened the door


I sat in the car outside the driveway. Her crazy sister was parked inside the gates. My heart, pounding to say the least. How the hell would this go down? Was it too soon? I felt like it was the right time in my heart, I just felt that the plaster needed to be ripped from this festering wound and heal naturally, fresh air and dry blood. 

Taking a deep breath I opened the door, unsure if the shaking of my knees was adrenaline or perhaps the bronchitis kicking my butt. "I'll stand at the boot", I thought. This is where everyone usually all congregates. I mean, this is MY car after all, so I do have rights to open my own boot. Can you hear me reasoning with myself. 

Perhaps I could just open the boot and return to the front passenger seat. Like running to the out of bounds area at school and returning to safety just to say you did it. I would have felt far more in charge and confident in my drivers chair. But, love conquers all, I keep reminding myself.  This is the reason I'm standing facing the back side of my own car waiting for the axe to fall as the boys run to greet me and mom follows. 

She's never greeted me. She wouldn't, it's not her style. Her style is hate. Mine, love. We are the complete opposite of the other. She hates me. I feel compassion for her, not to say I like her, don't misunderstand me. I have enough resentment to fuel a small forest fire. But, I have compassion for her pain because it is the lack of light within her that makes her so, incredibly mean. I will shine, I will shine and hopefully keep all my teeth. 

And then she saw me. 

Her sister stood behind her, hardened face and scowling as if I was a dirty secret, the mistress, the concubine that broke up her "loving, pure and healthy" relationship with daddy. In fact, she referred to me a couple of months ago as a Jezebel. I was impressed, I didn't realise her vocabulary was that evolved. 


"The Monsters turned out to be just tree's" - Taylor Swift


I managed to calmly release a "Hello HER NAME HERE* and she mumbled in response. I knew I was doing the right thing. Her frame, still small, and although our eyes never met, my womanly radar managed to scan her once over in an instant. Her hair now cut into a frumpy bob above her ears, puffed out and blow-dried like an old woman. Her face devoid of make up, how could she have left out the make up? It's not like she didn't know I was going to be there, she always does. Where's the warrior paint? What is the trick up her sleeve or her version of strength and integrity?

As we climbed back into the car and drove off, I was injected with the rush of facing my greatest adversary. For years, even when daddy and I were not together, I would speak of her and her unsavory decisions to drink and drug through her pregnancies. I would refer to her when speaking to people about the effects of such. She was and still is, my greatest lesson. My greatest mirror.

Today she had set me free. Free from my own idea of how I was failing, heck, I was winning at this, I was winning at life! I had make upon, my war paint, AND I was the nice person who had persevered through the name calling, hours of comparison in my mind and feelings of failure. I had let myself down, beaten myself up and left myself for dead. It was never her that I needed to face, it was me.


I rejoiced!


Once alone I had a chance to speak to daddy about my new found insight in a way that wasn't conceited or boastful. I was giddy like a high school girl that just found out her crush liked her back. 

I asked him if he saw her hair - her hair, the lack of make up, OMG her hair!! He nodded and mentioned he had seen it in court two weeks back. He didn't mention it to me, did that mean he liked it? Did it mean it was so trivial that he didn't care to? 
I wasn't bothered, I was too happy and high on life because I had realised that I was in fact, the complete package. Not because I'm better than anyone else, not because she wasn't wearing make up, not because she had a crappy hairstyle but because I had released myself from the comparison war inside myself. I was good, happy and beautiful on the inside AND out. 

Later the conversation leaked further insight to their lives together. She never wore make up, ever! She never hugged, cuddled or kissed him. She never returned "I love you's" or reciprocated his efforts of sexual intimacy. She was devoid, incapable and detached from him. Once again my heart went out to her, once again my ego took a back seat and compassion stepped in. This is what happens to addicts, they let themselves go. They leave their self care at the door of addiction and get dragged down a road of decomposition. 

Yes, I rejoiced. The monsters turned out to be just tree's. I had been my own worst enemy, imagining that Kim Kardashian herself would pop out down the drive way with Louis Vuitton bag in hand. She'd be carrying tresses of well looked after hair around her shoulders and perfectly manicured fingernails that I hadn't had the privilege to afford since I took on this role. 

I imagined she would greet me with white teeth and sparkling eyes, that her life would be better, greater and more awesome than mine because she was looking after herself these days while the kids lived with us. She was their mother, surely this meant she was better than me?

I imagined smooth skin and long black eyelashes, that she would smile sensually at me and then daddy with this look of 'You know you want me' as she bent down to pick up the book that had fallen from the youngest's school bag while squeezing her pert bum cheek. 

But she didn't, she didn't because she's not. And if she was perfect and composed on the outside, I would have needed to extend myself just the same as I had with poise and grace.
I've extended the olive branch. If she decides to replant it, or use it as firewood, this is her choice and I can live with mine. My slate is clean, my heart is open and I'm sorry that I've been so incredibly hard on Me! 

I got out the car and with that I got out of the cloud of deception I'd been living in for so, so many years! I am good enough. Hell, I'm the best version of a mom without her own kids I can be and that, is why I got out the car in the first place.

The darkest day so far

I think it's probably a culmination of a couple of things but it's safe to say I may just have reached an emotional breakdown.

After my last post - Broody,Guilty,Mad - it seems I've opened up Pandora's box to a recessive memory bank that has been burst open with past recollections, emotions and, yes, guilt. 

Resentment emanates from every one of my pores. Suddenly the fun, loving mother I'm trying to be has been replaced with an ogre, a silent ogre, but ogre-ish nonetheless. 

So how did I get here again?

This time it feels different. Littlest one comes to me in the kitchen and starts reciting how, "mommy drank lots of wine when I was in her tummy", the lead up from our dinner table family time where he had shared his dreams of abduction and monsters. I'm mad as hell all over again. 

I dart back and forth between these emotions, like an mental institute outpatient. Seriously, I'm battling to find the normality in my circumstance and if this needs to be said then I'll admit that I'm really not coping. There, happy?

We pack away the dishes and the kids are now both standing in the small space we could call a scullery, even the cat has managed to weave his way through 8 legs attached to the bodies towering above him. 

The eldest is included in this conversation and I share memories of how daddy had invited me to see him as a 3 week old newborn. I held him in my arms and with each gurgle, I held back tears of remorse - I was envious then, but relieved that his wayward daddy wasn't part of my picture, I was going places remember?

I was 22 at the time, it could have been our child, but it wasn't and I had buried that notion and decided to celebrate his new family with him, instead of make this about me and my issues. The ex, even back then, snatched her new child from my arms. She never did like me, alas, I digress. 

As we swap stories of their individual births, I'm suddenly isolated by the disconnected memories that have nothing to do with me. His words cut to my soul as he spoke about cutting their umbilical cords, how the youngest was 3 months premature and stillborn and how doctors had resuscitated him in surgery. Daddy stands there enacting dangled, lifeless arms and my rage toward the circumstance is fueled once more.

I knew all the facts, but every time I heard them, it I feel branded, tarnished and disembodied. They always felt like dirty secrets, beautiful little souls with a dirty parental secret - the drugs, the alcohol, the still birth. Yet, here I was standing in this conversation feeling like the glitch in their family tree, the rotten apple in the midst of their perceived awesomeness. It was all a lie, yet it felt so authentic every time I heard him speak. 

It all went pear shaped thereafter

By now the feelings and questions have returned. Why did this have to happen? Why did we have to share a 7 week old fetus that was supposed to, or at least could have been a 15 year old by now. A 15 year old reminder of love, a bond, a lifelong connection.

I could feel the fury burning in me, the tears welling up from my throat, never mind my eyeballs. 

We tuck the kids in for the evening, love is shared, kisses and prolonged hugs that linger long after they are received. It is time now to go over legal documents and I can feel my mood souring very quickly, I'm expecting foul play - as always. 

His approach is careless and with it his attention to detail. He is not bothered with fighting over 'menial things' like dates and times, he omits necessary specifics in his agreement that leave me even more bitter and resentful. She wants everything on her terms and has done very little to return, sustain or even be present in their lives - but she wants the kids, she wants to cut daddy out to the point that she gets away with it it all. 

My childish retort just came out of nowhere

By now I'm snappy, I don't mean to be disrespectful but daddy's contesting my insistence to include exact dates for school holiday delivery and collections. I know it's going to come back and bite us if we don't. He doesn't see the point, "This affects me, me and my life too!", I growl at him. I should have just stopped there, I won't share my personal low, I'll just tell you that I threatened to leave when I shouldn't have. It's a pet peeve when people threaten to leave, but it came out of my mouth. He lay on the bed facing the ceiling and remained in the same position while I sobbed in the shower. 

We went to bed in silence. We woke in silence. 
A cold shoulder with civility and moments of a polite "Good morning" and "Have a good day". I feel I've failed. 

This too shall pass

So while I spent the most of this morning in tears, I have, through puffy eyes and swollen nose, managed to track down a therapist. In doing so, my thoughts return to a friend who is in a similar situation. Although we are close, I won't discuss it with her, I like keeping my wounds hidden and as I lick them in private, possibly causing more damage as I brood.

Everyone has that one person that has the answers, maybe not by qualification, maybe not even through experience. But just as I was about to put my foot in the shower, the very same friend picks up the phone and as I answer, squeezes in a "What's wrong?" as I say "Hello".  There is a support team waiting for you, if you're willing to be (even more) vulnerable to receiving help. 


I decide to share my hurts and pain with daddy, he holds my hand sympathetically as I weep. It's all too much, I miss him, I miss us. This is all supposed to be our honeymoon period of our relationship and the reminders of my own failings haunt me as I learn to live with someone else's children. 
They should have been mine, ours, his with me.

As the night comes to an end I think I literally heard God whisper to me, "I never said it would be easy, I said it would be worth it". It's going to be alright, I'm exactly where I'm meant to be.

Tomorrow is a brand new day to be an awesome step-in mom. 
Let's do this. 

Broody, Guilty, Mad

Since I took on this instant family feat, everyone has been a critic. 
My own father brazenly chirped in the beginning that I had chosen this life and that I should live with it. Clearly he had forgotten that he took on my mother who had 3 young boys when she married him. 

So I haven't been honest about something, yep, I have a dirty secret.
Seeing as this is a nameless, faceless blog, I'm happy to release my burdens to the world without any real repercussions. 

Broody - Prima Donna Me 

So I never thought I'd say this but I offered to put a child to sleep, rock him to be exact, while at a braai with friends. The baby was a stranger, so were his parents. But, I offered. Offered. Seeing that we're being honest with each other, let me tell you that I just wanted to feel what it was like to entirely be in the moment of inconvenient motherhood - and I think I'm ready, really ready for a child of my own.

Ask me a year ago and I would have told you that broodiness is natures way of tricking you into conceiving a child - can you say jaded, but the reason will follow. There I stood smiling like the world had just blessed me with a thousand gifts of emotional bliss. His little head rested on the bend of my forearm as I gently swayed him to sleep, rhythmically tapping on his bum and humming ever so quietly to myself. Perhaps a neon sign had erected itself above my head, as a stranger at the braai yelled over to me, "Broody aren't you!" 
I was crushed that I had been caught out while relishing in private, and yet there it was for all to see, quite publicly it seems. (Note to self: Work on poker face) 

Previously, there was a very palpable annoyance that I experienced when it came to the challenge of putting a child to sleep. I'm sure there are many parents out there scoffing as they read this, thinking "My God, she's got NO idea what it's like to accept that challenge at 01:30 am after 2 hours of sleep!" and maybe they're right. But, right now, I'm yearning for this, albeit the serious guilt, remorse, sadness and a hint of anger I feel about the following dirty secret.

Guilty - My dirty secret

What I haven't told you is that daddy and I met 16 years ago. He was my first love and I was his. I didn't know then what I know now. Firstly that he reciprocated the cocktail of (slightly obsessed) emotion that I felt for him and secondly that we would share the next 16 years together, in one way or another.

How could I have known, I was 17, as ignorant as they came and he had a reputation as a player. Such a "hardcore" reputation that it only dawned on me 8 months ago when we found each other again and recommitted ourselves to a future together that I realised (DUH!) that I was his first - you know - his first, first! Not much street cred there, how could I have been so naive and immature.

I had been so stupid, 16 years have passed. We had enjoyed fleeting moments, club hook up's and the occasional rendezvous over the next 7 years that followed. He had settled down (sorta) after being told that 4 months into his new relationship that he was going to be a dad. I won't lie, I was gutted. A couple of months earlier we had talked about a future. He wanted us to start fresh, his concerns over this new love of his worried him. He had seen the warning signs and chose to ignore them, he confided in me. 

We had discussed his worries and while I was trying to be supportive and neutral in my approach (I mean I didn't want to influence his future) I decided to encourage him to follow his heart - and he did, straight into her arms. 
In turn I endured multiple failed relationships, two failed engagements and a whole lot of heartache. 

Fast forward and here we are, with 2 children in tow. He chose me again. 
"It was always you", he had confessed 8 months ago. Words that lead me to realise it was in fact, always him too. 

So what's the dirty secret? Well, daddy and I were so crazy deep in love when we met, back when we were teens, that we failed to protect ourselves or at least take precautionary measures while doing the funky monkey - and just like that, we were pregnant. 

It was a blur, the kind of blur that one experiences when really, really traumatised. This was a big deal for a Christian girl to handle and believe me my mother took it better than expected, while my father to this day, doesn't know the truth. 

I remember wanting to just press the reset button on my life. I was the girl with the player boyfriend remember? What kind of life would this mean for me? I was the girl with the stellar future, the one going places. In my mind he was the player that was just in this for the ride. I had to press reset. 

Daddy had gone out and bought himself a cigar when I told him the news. I can't remember telling him, I just remember going for a scan with him and seeing that tiny little bean on the screen. I was too scared to be happy and when I felt compelled to join him in his happiness I felt guilty, after all, I had done a terrible thing. A thing that my very own mother had threatened me with my life with for years and years before. As mentioned, my mother had 3 kids of her own by the time she was 21. I had decided that it was a life that I couldn't handle, I was a child myself when I look back, so how I made that decision quickly is beyond me. 

Perhaps a part of me knew I was too stunted to handle the truth. After I terminated the pregnancy at 7 weeks, ironically at the same hospital I was born in, daddy went on a self destruct mission which included a life of drugs, alcohol, nightclubs and loose women. We never lost touch for the 7 years after that, he was my constant. I know everything about his sordid past and he knows about mine - it is the epitome of acceptance and purity. The epitome of friendship. 

Many people ask why we broke up in the first place. Well my dear readers, it is because we were both too young to commit, in short he and I were unfaithful to each other, both dealing with some very grown up emotions and hurt each other in the most brutal way - a way that fueled drunken nights, hardened hearts and the most bitter of associations of each other, coupled with a very obvious and tangible love and attraction that is still there all these years later. 

My dirty secret is knowing that we would have had a 15 year old child. A child that was made of the purest, most innocent love, a love that has clearly stood the test of time. Here I am raising his children with a woman who tricked him (by her own admission) into pregnancy and then drank throughout both, terminating one in between. Is this my karma or his? Is this God's timing or just the consequence of a poor decision. 

Mad - Who would have known.

Every time someone asked me if I regretted my decision to terminate I denied it. I denied it because it didn't matter, I denied it because I had a future ahead of me that didn't include my baby daddy. My little heavenly soul is taken care of. A couple of years ago an ex of mine suffered a heart attack and passed away in his early thirties, taken too soon from his family a year or so after our break up. His sister contacted me at the beginning of 2014 with a spiritual message she had received from him. She had never known of my teenage pregnancy and told me that her brother wanted me to know that he was with "the baby" and queried whether him and I had conceived. I knew exactly what she was referring to.

It took me many years to get to the point that I could talk about it, now I just want to help the youth of today with these decisions, educate them on being 'safe'.  Have I screwed up or have I screwed up - wow! The regret I feel is heavy, it weighs on my heart and squeezes my soul. Now, more than ever. 

It could have worked I guess, perhaps it would have been to our detriment? Perhaps my greatest guilt comes from not knowing how this would have all turned out. Now I'm raising two young children from another woman with a man who was always meant to be mine. Is this my punishment? God, I want a child of my own. You know my heart, my hurts and my hatred for the decisions I've made. Now that terminated pregnancy matters, it matters now because we're back together, it matters more now than I ever thought it would. 


Maybe one day


We sat together at a restaurant table recently, the kids had just returned from the jungle gyms for a sip of apple juice. An older woman sat across from us commends daddy on his strong genes.

 "Gosh you have beautiful boys" she says "perhaps you should tell mommy it's time to have a little girl" she smiles suggestively at me.  "We're working on it", daddy says, and he squeezes my hand under the table. 

Life over the last 8 months, has been the sweetest and most bitter pill to swallow. My turn will come, I'm here, we're in this together.

I may as well accept the beautiful mess I am inside, we have so much history and so much to look forward to.

6 signs you've broken through those walls

Time is an amazing resource, you either have plenty of it or wish you had more. 

The space between the time we start and, say for example today when I realised I'd arrived, takes so long to happen but seems to arrive all at once. 
If you're wondering what today is, it's the day I've been waiting for. It's no special day to anyone else, it's not day of celebration in the typical sense. 

Today is the day I write about a breakthrough, the breakthrough of a certain child in my life that has exchanged a hairy eyeball with a loving one. It is possible that I may just have cracked the armoured exterior after months of stress and struggle - but I'm here. I think. Maybe. 

How We Got Here

I realise I may have started this blog a little late, perhaps I should clarify that eldest hasn't really displayed that warm, fuzzy feeling inside when he's with me - and he's not even trying to pretend. 

Littlest brat is different, he's accepted me from day one, I'm the aunty he wraps his arms around and smothers with kisses. Right from the word 'Go!' eldest has always been visibly torn between letting me in and being 'faithful' to mom by despising me just as much as she does.  And if you knew her, it's a lot. A lot!

If you had asked me to start this blog a couple months earlier, I would have had a plethora of content to fuel at least 20 or so decent angry posts, ones filled with resentment and questions as to why and how I got involved with someone elses 2 children instead of my own.  Seeing that I started writing this far into my journey, I guess my role is in fact to help others understand their role in a blended family.

So how did we get here? When did I realise the breakthrough with said angry, Piranha child? How do I know that it's permanent, authentic love for me and not just a sick ploy to play with my emotions? Honestly, I don't know. But the good news is that I do know I've hit the proverbial gold mine with this corner I've turned and I'm so excited to share it with you.

1. I let him think I didn't care about what he thought of me.
OMG do I care. Over the last 7.5 months I've cared more about this little boy's acceptance of me than completing my outstanding logbook for my personal income tax.

I had to respect his pain, his skepticism of me and his timing - yes, his timing. I had to ignore the shoulder shrug I felt every time I extended a gentle hand toward him. I had to swallow knots every time he went to bed and didn't willingly say goodnight. What was there not to love about me, why did he hate me so much? I persevered through my own emotions because that's what love does, love doesn't quit.



2. I had to let love come out of my mouth. Even though I was thinking it, he wasn't hearing it. Isn't it ironic that when you're being openly rejected you still have to find a place within to pour out love from you mouth and mean it, I think they call the former pride and the latter, love. I learned that there are some adults in my life that needed my verbal recognition too - he was my mirror.

I realised that while I was so busy playing with his younger brother, laughing and joking - he wasn't getting any of my positive affirmation. I had learned to keep him at arms length, waiting for him to warm to me. What I didn't realise is that my absence of contact and emotional availability was separating us even further. 

So I let him into my heart and treated his wounded soul with large doses of love along with physical and verbal affirmations. He didn't need fixing for the sake of it, he needed time and patience. Not the person his mother may have him believe I am, rather the kind person I know I am. 

It took some time but I started with the simple things, kinda like the way you woo your partner in the very beginning stages of your romance. I bandaged his grief with back tickles at night before bed and praised him for his soccer match victories with an enthusiasm that I had to muster from the deepest part of my authentic self. It wasn't that I was insincere, it was that a part of me often felt like my inner child said, "I'm not your friend anymore!" and would want to stick out her tongue in his direction.

Instead, the adult in me had to sit that child down and take over. None of this is personal even though it feels like it.

In the end love won, love always wins. 



3. When the going got tough, I had to stay fair.
Love is in my opinion, the opposite of fear. There were moment's when I had to stay firm and consistent in my disapproval's as well as my praises toward him and his behaviour. 

There were times when I was tempted to throw in the towel and let my new-found bond get in the way of fairness and diplomacy, like when you know that the bully at your school is wrong but you give her your approval anyway by smiling as he turns from the crying child she just abused. 

In being fair in my views I gained his respect even when I was afraid I would have lost him forever. When he was wrong, I told him. When he was right, we high fived.




4. I had to learn to listen. 
To him, to them. To their day, to their fears, to their tall stories and pipe dreams. My role isn't to just dictate opinionated facts in their direction as an adult, but rather guide them with love ever so gently towards fuller understanding as they approach adulthood. 

When you put yourself in their shoes, children spend so much of their time being silenced.  Teachers tell them to keep quiet, adults tell them to keep quiet. Children live in a world of censorship, "learning their place in society" while very few people listen - really, listen. 

So, when they speak I look them in the eye with my fullest attention (which is very difficult for me to give most adults). I give them options, respect their choices and ask their opinions while I watch the questions stir inside their minds in a quest of self discovery. 

I disagree with decency and grace when I point out the immaturity of certain thought patterns. How their father and I deal with each other, with conflict and with them, reaffirms confidence, boundaries and healthy coping mechanisms. All of these things come from listening, not just hearing. I listen to what they say even when they aren't speaking, being attentive is what makes one a good parent. 




5. I had to accept myself. 
I'll never forget sitting in the front seat of our car and singing outlandishly and without apology to 101 Nursery Rhymes I had downloaded off iTunes just for them. Eyes rolling in the back of his head, eldest tells me that I'm weird. Weird!!!

Every part of my heart grimaced at the apparent rejection I was dealt.
 "He thinks I'm weird, OMG, he thinks I'm abnormal"

I remember panicking in silence while contemplating whether to admit to his observation or hide it. So I smiled, drew a deep breath and calmly responded with, "Isn't it just awesome!" trying so hard to hide the pensive look on my face.

He stared back at me with disapproval, I may as well have been made of glass. It was as if every flaw and insecurity had been drawn to the surface of my face and manifested through the tiny blood vessels under my skin. 

It wasn't that I was ashamed of my quirkiness, it was that he saw it as a flaw. I was wide open and vulnerable, chirping and acting out "The Wheels on the Bus" and he comes back at me with an assault on my character! I embraced my authenticity, I am in fact, quirky as hell.  It would be a sad and boring contrast if I sat with laced fingers on my lap and didn't speak a word. 



6. I had to giggle my way through to him - adults already have a bad rep for being boring and serious. This one took me a while, when we are laughing we are also vulnerable. Laughter really is the best medicine - for everything - including winning over children. It's a safe space for bonding and being deemed 'cool' by the little humans in our lives. 

Tonight I did a ceremony just for him. His lips were dry and he wanted to use my lip balm. I got up from the dining table and dug through our hidden medicine cabinet as I beckoned the family to stand around him. 
"Do you, Poopy Pants, Brown Hair, Brown Eyes, Zippy Toes accept this token of love in the form of a miniature Vaseline tub?", I holler in a booming voice. "Yes!", he giggles. 

"And do you, Poopy Pants, Brown Hair, Brown Eyes, Zippy Toes promise to cherish and keep safe this token of love?", I continue. "Yes!", he retorts back in a fuller chuckle. 

"Then, it shall be yours!" I declare as I pass him the mini Vaseline tub to take to school the next day. Humour is a blessing and the funny bone is connected to the heart.



No one mentioned the perseverance clause



Fast forward a couple months and here we are. 

Last weekend he returned from a long weekend with his mother. He seemed visibly detached from the world and nonchalant about being back home for the week. He was ice cold toward me, more-so than ever. 

I went to my partner with my concerns, "I'm worried about him, he's worse than he's ever been", I fretted while at the dinner table. It was as if he had reverted back to day one - and then over the next few days, this little boy went from "Drop dead" to "Help me, I need you". 

I don't know when it was exactly but I think we broke through a few days later. Today I put a note in his lunchbox that said, "You're special to me, I love you and have a good day". Again I had hesitated to include it in his lunchbox, the fear of rejection so real.

Tonight at the table he said nothing, he hardly acknowledged it when I brought it up. What the hell happened to the big 180 he did? Why is he shrugging it off as if it meant nothing? What were you trying to prove with all the clutching onto me when I said goodnight this week, the laughter and jokes we shared and all the random hugs? I thought we were getting closer! 

His dad insists on further evidence of this secret note - I hadn't told him and he's curious now. 

Eldest quietly gets up and scratches through his lunchbox. "I got your note", he says, "I even replied!". He fights the embarrassed smirk on his face as he hands me the note I left him. 

As I unraveled the little brown jotter page covered with evidence of peanut butter and syrup, there in the top right hand corner stood my breakthrough. 




"I love you too". 

Raising Conquerors

I had made a deal with the eldest last night. He had boldly declared that he "couldn't wait to sleep in" with it being a public holiday the next day. So unusual for him to say that, yet I fell for it. Perhaps he just told me what he knew I wanted to hear. A part of me sincerely hoping he was going to do his very best to at least humour me by faking it, until you know, 8am. I would have settled for 07h30.

It was barely 06h15 as I lay draped over the edge of my bed in a final attempt to revel in what I refer to as a 'Dolce Far Niente day', a day of sweet nothingness as borrowed from the movie Eat, Pray, Love. I could hear the kids noisily making their way to the lounge area of our little 2 bedroom townhouse. You have got to be kidding me right now. 

In an instant I'm fueled with lessons from my mother dearest back in my day. Ignited with what would have been her very same loathing of screaming kids when adults are trying to sleep. The consequences back then were a lot more severe. My mother would fly through our childhood home, down the passage wielding slipper in hand. She was ready to dispense corporal punishment to the inconsiderate individual who had (knowingly or not) frazzled her from her slumber and gift them in return with embossed floral patterns on the back of our knees. No word of a lie. 

I get up and reach for (wait for it) my gown. I know, how bold of me. 

I make my way to the little cherubs, my great plan: promising them that tomorrow morning at 4 am I will grace them with the same regimen they had initiated this very day. Imaginary fist in the air as I gallantly open the bedroom door. I have no plans to follow through on that threat, but how do I teach them consideration if they haven't been deprived of the privilege of sleeping in?

As suspected they laugh off my bluff and continue on with their boisterous debate. Here comes dad and he's not having any of it.

Be impeccable with your word

Children are absorbent little creatures, they're listening even when you're sure you're on mute as you repeat the lesson for what feels like the 3rd time in ten minutes. I'm so blessed with a partner whose values resonate with my own and with whom I would raise my biological children with in the same fashion. We see eye to eye, on most things, which makes it that much easier to instill discipline and lesson's into his kids - and one day ours. 

One of the 4 agreements by author Don Miguel Ruiz, is to be impeccable with your word. This week I've learned the importance of following through on the things you say you're going to do. Children listen to what you say, how you moan, how you tease, how you love out loud. 

Two weeks ago we implemented a leap frog type of system that consists of 14 (hand cut out I'll have you know) lilly pads on the wall and 2 frogs with 2 x kids names on them. We were going to make it a race and have two rows of lilly pads but we felt it would cause the sibling rivalry to escalate, so we made one. If you're good, complete your chores in the morning and you're ready on time, you move one hop a day. If you help each other out, you both move two hops. The lesson being that by helping each other out, you get further. 

This week, we instated a temporary rule applicable to the upcoming, shorter 3 day week. If you're good and you help each other out you could move 3 spaces instead of the regular max 2. The incentive - a big surprise! 

Day 1 went well-ish, day 2 included some threats, with a blind eye to the fight over the hairbrush, and day 3 crashed and burned like a sad little paper airplane in a deep and murky pond. I could see my partners disappointment, he really, REALLY wanted to grant them their final 3 hops. That, and the fact that we had already committed to the delivery of Hammy the Hamster compliments of a friend whose immigrating. 

Yes, we would of course be able to come up with another "big surprise" incentive before Hammy made his debut, but the kids had failed to achieve their 3 day goal. Big surprise revoked. If one fell, the reward wouldn't be passed on to the individual winner, even though the eldest was ready daily. They would both have to suffer the consequences. The devastation and low team morale was tangible. We could have easily pushed them through, but we have to teach them about consequences. 

Hit them where it hurts the most

Another example of follow through is to withdraw privileges. I know this sounds like age old, common sense but we really started seeing the best outcome and lesson's learned when we got smarter. It's very easy to shout, scream or put them in Time Out - but do they learn the consequences of their actions? No. 

So we started to implement withdrawal of privileges after we had caught the usually manipulative and cunning eldest in a big fat lie (yes to me, you know the gullible step mother) after he claimed he had done all his homework at school. Initially dad scolded with his usual booming voice of disapproval, hoping that something would sink it and then he made his way to the Tellie to sit with the kids and enjoy their usual 30 minute bonding session. 

Realising the pattern of shout, scold, threaten and repeat, I called a Time Out with dad. We agreed that due to the severity of the crime, we would dish out an appropriate punishment close to his heart - no TV for 2 days. And boy did this child lose his cool. 

Let me tell you, we may as well have told him that Santa didn't exist because the moping, moaning, groaning, sulking and brooding carried on until it was nothing short of a series of pleas that I had never seen before. Ever.  

Then this happened

Sitting at the dinner table eldest pipes up with nothing short of a well versed epiphany. "Do you know", he starts, "that just because people talk, we don't have to listen. That just because people tell us to look somewhere, we don't have to. That just because people tell us to act a certain way, we don't have to." I realise that this could go either way, but being the idealist that I am, I saw the good in his statement and high-fived him in celebration.

Later on, at the same seating, I had encouraged him to look at the awakening that he had imparted onto us and apply it to certain circumstances, you know, closer to home (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).

"If for example", I asserted, "someone told you that your daddy was a terrible daddy (or hypothetically I was a horrible stepmom, pfft as if!) you would then have to ask yourself if you believe that. If it's relevant. If it's harmful. If that person was around, would they feel hurt or happy by that statement." I could see the cogs turning as my little student fed on these tidbits with a keen ear and an open mind. Progress!

In closing, I told him that his new awakening could never been taken from him. He swelled with accomplishment, my little overachiever beaming with pride. I reassured him that most adults still needed to learn what he's learned and some of them never do. By elaborating on the importance of his new found Sitori, he too could use his intuition for the greater good of others. 

"You have been blessed with this new insight", I told him, "You may just help someone who is feeling down, or hurting at your school. You can choose to be a light in someone's life". I could see the discomfort spanning his little face, as we've ascertained, this is very deep and with his least favourite person too. But, I know he's listening and I've seen the change in his thinking already. The lights are on and I know he's home.

Living Consciously

Today I covered our whole fridge with affirmations, I'm talking over 50! 

I could hear him scanning through them breathlessly as he arrived at the dinner table, "Take time to relax dad" he retorted while we made dinner. 

It is a privilege to be a custodian of two individuals that drive me insane with frustration and at the same time fill my heart with purpose.

I will give them both tools to grow and be beacons of light in a very dark world and maybe, just maybe, he lands up helping a couple of stray family members become better people - if you catch my drift. 

I could be a sit-on-the-couch-and-scratch-my-backside kind of person, but I'm not. I will teach them, one day at a time, that love, is greater than fear! 

Please note I keep referring to the 'kids' as kids for their protection and safety, so gender and names have been withheld.