Snowshoes in a Minefield

The honeymoon is over.


Meet me, the official bitchy step-mom who makes lunches, does laundry, buys double hairspray AND double hair gel (because heaven forbid we share if our dna is different), & becomes a freakin' contortionist in her quest to make everyone as happy as possible.

I may sound angry, but in reality, I'm not. I'm just resigned to the fact that over the last week, I have been put in my place, so to speak. The everything-is-smiles-and-love rug? Pulled out from under me. My "I'm going to make everyone happy, and we'll be the happiest family that ever lived happily ever after" bubble? Burst, and disgusting ooze came out. True story. My gushing about everything going soooo unexpectedly well? Meh.

Truth be told, I'm having as hard of a time adjusting as everyone else (even you, my dear bonus daughters). Laundry for 8 isn't the same as laundry for 5, no matter how ya fold ya. Slice it anyway you please, but dinner for eight isn't as simple as dinner for 5. Let's face it...food choices that 8 people from totally different "normals" can agree on? Non-existent. And being "mom" to 6 isn't quite the same as mom to 4, especially when 2 of the six don't want a mom, a female role-model, or even anything that closely resembles a female authority. And by authority, I mean presence in the house other then "visitor who only talks to her own kids".

I mention laundry a lot, I know. It's almost as if it never existed until now, the way it's changed in my perception of "what is a big deal right now, what isn't". I don't mind the task. And it really isn't a big deal, at all. It's just...different now. Like everything else. Things are changed.

Last night, I had an emergency "girl chat" with T's younger daughter. I guess I had hurt her feelings with something I said earlier in the day, and on top of being picked on in school, she was drowning in the "everything has changed in my world" sea. She dealt with it by calling me a female canine, behind my back, in front of my daughter. Who, of course, told me in the midst of our "girl chat" regarding her bad days, sadness, grumpiness, and "my whole world has changed" sea-ventures. And I wasted no time in addressing the issue, and restating my one non-negotiable....if you have a problem with me, tell ME. Don't talk behind my back about how I yelled at you for being awake at 8 am on a day you stayed home sick. Especially when it was just a question, asked out of curiosity, and explained as such when 2.6 seconds after it was asked, it was obvious I ruffled your feathers. Don't carry around a deep seated, three-day-long anger at me for something I did (but don't know I did), or didn't do (but thought I did). Just talk to me. I'm not the devil. I don't (usually) bite. I have grumpy days, just like you. I don't even care if you don't wanna like me. I'm not the enemy. I'm just the woman who moved in, and wants to make this transition as easy on you as I can...

Tears. And silence. And a pretty clear air of I'm being misunderstood, or at least unheard. Even this morning, I didn't even get a good morning, screw you, or thank you for the lunch you packed. And it's spread to her older sister, who undoubtedly has been told all about our "girl chat", with a twist. So yippee, I've somehow managed to alienate both of them, without even trying. I guess that's what evil stepmothers do.  And my daughter apparently deserves the cold shoulder as well, because she told. Sigh.

I love these girls, with all my heart. I'm determined to make this work. I am just now painfully aware that for awhile, it's going to be like walking through a minefield, blindfolded, with snowshoes on. Cue a lightening storm. Yes, like that.

It gets better, or so I'm told.







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Write. Tell. Say.

 I've struggled with knowing what to write here. I know, I know. It's been mere days since I started (yet another) blog, but I've already felt the pull of  "you need to be writing, Jenn ...write. Tell. Say."

  I almost want to write about how I've washed, dried and or folded at least 4 loads of laundry a day for 8 days straight. I would love to write about the fantastic chili gracing our table last night, and how the kids I expected to hate it the most, loved it and vice versa. I almost want to write about my T, and all his wonderful-ness, and how our relationship has blossomed & thrives on silent smiles, good teamwork & little things. He'd probably cringe if he knew he was in any way associated with anything blossomy. I could write about my (overgrown) garden, my un-fulfilling 9-5, my desire to spend every winter evening snuggled with my little ones, reading stories & sipping hot cocoa. I don't really want to write about TJ (the boxer baby) peeing in my bed, or stepping in nice warm squishy puppy poop this morning as the taste of coffee first hit my lips. I'm inclined to consider writing about my eldest (let's call him C), who's a straight A's senior in high school with a self-appointed diploma in Life and All Things Related, & has mustered up several solid efforts at disrupting Household Peace for a week straight. I could write about how our once-in-a-blue-moon-calm-chat last night settled a few things, and this morning was (almost) dare I say, normal. Well, then there was the poop... sigh
 I guess there's quite a few things I haven't figured out, about what belongs here, what doesn't. About how I'll refer to our 6 minions, if not by name, not by initials (because some are shared), if not by only the way they make my heart swell with tears & pride, in more ways then one. I haven't yet figured out how I'll be able to fill these pages with details of happy blending, when I don't even have the answers on the "how-to blend & not be miserable" yet. I haven't decided if my free time will even allow writing, photography, or (fingers crossed) both. After all, I can't type from the bathroom, and that's where us moms get our peace & quiet, right? I haven't figured out yet how a blog titled "Eight Are We: The Pursuit of Blendedly Blissful" will entirely encompass all I want it to......children, good food, flowers, photos, humor, memories, ideas, projects, love, accomplishment, and iced coffee. Perhaps that's something I don't need to figure out, yet.
 Truth is, I've had it in my heart to write, to document via photos, to leave a legacy of sorts, a history if you will, of my life, my children, my story. I've wanted to do something, somehow, that touched someone, helped someone, or even just brought a smile to their heart once. I've toyed with  finding a sense of "this is who I am" & "this is what I'm worth" in ideas, and projects (a fatally interrupted 366 for example). I've read other blogs, and felt inspired, challenged, intimidated even. A few of my favorites I tend to rediscover, and fall in love with again, and again. The writing styles, the photographic styles, the candor, the finesse, the way their words just settle on your soul with a quiet understanding, a feeling of mom kinship. To say I want to be just like them when I grow up? Not an understatement. Please check them out. Serious. You will thank me.
 I guess I could start with a "Hi, my name is Jenn, I love coffee, cats & my camera. Here are my kids, this is my life, and oh by the way, here's a snapshot of unfolded laundry I took with said (dusty) camera. Please listen (read) as I babble on & on about nothing, and therefore find my tranquility."

I don't really have a laundry snapshot. Not a recent one, anyway. Add that to my to-do list, right below grocery shopping, teddy bear mending, book order ordering & snuggling.

Maybe later I'll write about the midgets (and the kids who are taller then me), show off the puppy, and start the real blogging. I just need to stop thinking. Write. Tell. Say.





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