I got engaged yesterday! Yep, you read that right. I'm engaged.
(My fiance -- wow, that word still sounds a little funny to use -- was sick as a dog for the rest of the afternoon after popping the question, but I'm trying not to take that as a sign of how he feels about our forthcoming nuptials. "He proposed and then started throwing up." That'll be a story to tell forever.)
Mike has been largely absent from this blog, though some keen-eyed readers might have seen him through the thin veil a "close friend" I've mentioned more than once. But he's been in my life for about 2 1/2 years. And he's got two sons of his own, so I'm going from single mom of one to nuclear family of five. Yowsa!
The first order of business -- after we tore ourselves away from just looking at each other, sighing contentedly and smiling incessantly (sickening, I know) -- was not setting a date or picking a spot or even telling our parents. As parents ourselves, our first chore was, of course, telling our kids.
Mike has been floating the idea with his older son (10) for a while now, and he has seemed fine with the idea. In fact, we were eating in a restaurant together not too long ago when his son said, "If y'all get married, whoever does the cooking needs to learn to make macaroni and cheese." Clearly, the getting married part was a blip on his radar and he was looking ahead to his need for someone to be making him some cheesy goodness for supper.
We gathered the kids and got their undivided attention, not an easy task in and of itself since there was a playground nearby at that moment, and told them we had decided to get married and that that meant we'd all live together and be a family.
"I've always wanted a little brother," Mike's younger son cheerfully announced. He's four months older than my son, technically making him a big brother, much to the chagrin of my son.
At the announcement that they would indeed all be brothers, an impromptu wrestling match immediately ensued that was mainly an exuberant expression of excitement and fraternal love... and maybe a little bit of a competition over that whole "big brother/little brother" thing. It was such a spontaneous and real and quite fun and touching reaction on their part. Mike said it's the part of the day he'll remember forever.
Once the fray broke up, though, we asked if they had any questions. Mike's older son, who currently shares a bedroom with his little brother and is growing more eager to have his own space with each passing day, asked immediately if, when we all move in together, the little boys could share a room and he could have a room to himself. Again, I take this as a positive sign that he's not traumatized by the mere thought of our getting married and is instead looking for the best ways to benefit from it.
So as we move toward actually planning our wedding and, more importantly, our life together, this blog is likely to be filled with all sorts of stories about getting my own child and his ready for our blended family-to-be. Wish me luck!
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Friday, February 11, 2011
Gender bias and the single mom
My mom picked up my son from school yesterday and kept him for the evening while I worked a few late hours. I got home just as he was getting ready for bed, and when I walked in the door, he didn't even get out a "Hi, Mom" before he was chomping at the bit to show me the new sign hanging outside his bedroom door.
"No girls allowed, huh? What about Mommy?"
"Nope," he replied defiantly.
"What about your cousin?" my mom asked, knowing that he loved the chance to play with the girl who's only four months older than he.
"Nope, not even her," he insisted.
I have no idea where the seed of this idea came from, but my mom said he was eager all through their dinner out to make that sign and hang it outside his room. When they got to my house, she was urging him upstairs to start getting ready for bed, but he was fixated on getting that sign made.
"Make me a sign that says 'no girls allowed' while I get my pajamas on," he hollered down the stairs to her on his way to his room.
My dad kindly complied with that request (no, my 5 year old does not write as well as that sign), and they hung it up, much to my son's great delight.
He did allow one small exception to his strict "no girls" policy: I could come in to read him a story and tuck him in. Other than that, though, he didn't want to see so much as my pinky toe over the threshold of his door.
Rather than drop his prohibition and let me in, he even went so far as to empty his laundry hamper and drag all the clothes, a handful or two at a time, into the hall so I could do laundry last night.
This morning, as we were getting ready to leave the house, he was feeding the cat, one of his regular chores and made this somewhat disjointed comment: "If we're gone and a girl comes over to feed Henry (that's the cat), and she wants to look around my room, she'll go upstairs and see the sign and won't be able to go in, right Mommy?"
Let's ignore for a moment the questions of why a random girl would be coming to feed our cat in our absence and why she would then feel the need to explore his room. We'll focus instead on his joy at how that random intruder might be thwarted from snooping through his room by the sheer might of his sign.
While I have always known, of course, that the time would come that my sweet boy would begin to morph into a real, well, boy, I was kinda hoping to last a little longer before girls started being icky. Of course, girls being icky is probably way better than the years to come when girls will be so very not icky, so I'll take it for now and be grateful that I can still sneak in at night while he's sleeping, tuck the covers around him, stroke his soft cheek and kiss him goodnight.
"No girls allowed, huh? What about Mommy?"
"Nope," he replied defiantly.
"What about your cousin?" my mom asked, knowing that he loved the chance to play with the girl who's only four months older than he.
"Nope, not even her," he insisted.
I have no idea where the seed of this idea came from, but my mom said he was eager all through their dinner out to make that sign and hang it outside his room. When they got to my house, she was urging him upstairs to start getting ready for bed, but he was fixated on getting that sign made.
"Make me a sign that says 'no girls allowed' while I get my pajamas on," he hollered down the stairs to her on his way to his room.
My dad kindly complied with that request (no, my 5 year old does not write as well as that sign), and they hung it up, much to my son's great delight.
He did allow one small exception to his strict "no girls" policy: I could come in to read him a story and tuck him in. Other than that, though, he didn't want to see so much as my pinky toe over the threshold of his door.
Rather than drop his prohibition and let me in, he even went so far as to empty his laundry hamper and drag all the clothes, a handful or two at a time, into the hall so I could do laundry last night.
This morning, as we were getting ready to leave the house, he was feeding the cat, one of his regular chores and made this somewhat disjointed comment: "If we're gone and a girl comes over to feed Henry (that's the cat), and she wants to look around my room, she'll go upstairs and see the sign and won't be able to go in, right Mommy?"
Let's ignore for a moment the questions of why a random girl would be coming to feed our cat in our absence and why she would then feel the need to explore his room. We'll focus instead on his joy at how that random intruder might be thwarted from snooping through his room by the sheer might of his sign.
While I have always known, of course, that the time would come that my sweet boy would begin to morph into a real, well, boy, I was kinda hoping to last a little longer before girls started being icky. Of course, girls being icky is probably way better than the years to come when girls will be so very not icky, so I'll take it for now and be grateful that I can still sneak in at night while he's sleeping, tuck the covers around him, stroke his soft cheek and kiss him goodnight.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The most infuriating conversation in the world and the single mom
As indicated by the title, I had the single most infuriating conversation I've ever had with anyone in my entire life recently with my 5-year-old son.
He had spent a long weekend with his father, heading over on Saturday morning and coming back Monday evening -- two nights and three days, for the record. (That simple calculation is about to become very important.)
For reasons that I cannot recall, the topic of how long he'd been with his dad came up in the car while we were heading to the grocery store one day, and he insisted he'd been with his father for three nights.
"No," I said gently. "You were there for two nights."
"No," he said. "I was there for three nights."
I couldn't figure out why he cared or why he was stuck on the subject, but he was absolutely certain in his mind that he had been there for three nights. And I, for reasons surpassing understanding because I should have learned long ago not to try respond rationally to irrationality, was hellbent on getting him to see that he was wrong.
"You went there Saturday morning, and you slept there Saturday night, remember. Then you got up Sunday, went to church, spent the day there and then went to bed again Sunday night. Then you got up Monday and hung out for a while and then came home. See? You slept there for two nights."
He looked at me quizzically for a moment, and I thought for a fleeting moment that he was about to realize his mistake and relent. But then no.
"No, I slept there three nights," he retorted.
"No, baby. Listen. You slept there Saturday night. Hold up one finger. OK, you slept there Sunday night. Hold up another finger. And then you came home Monday. See, you've got only two fingers up. You were there two nights. "
Pause for reflection...
"No, I was there three nights."
Aaaarrrgghhh!
"How could you possibly have been there three nights? You were home with Mommy Friday night, right?"
"Right."
"And you slept at Daddy's Saturday and Sunday and then came home Monday, right?"
"Right"
"So you were there two nights."
"No, I was there for three."
My blood pressure is spiking right now just from the recollection and retelling of this conversation. And it went on much longer than I'm subjecting you to right now. Every little exchange I've recounted here happened at least three times in almost identical duplication before I moved on to try another tack. It was absolutely infuriating.
"I want to ask my daddy," he said.
"Fine," I spat out, frustrated to my very core, and began to dial the phone.
My ex, of course, confirmed that he'd been there for two nights, although he complicated things even further for a moment by saying he'd been there for three days. But, still, we had a solid "two night" confirmation from his father, yet my son remained skeptical.
"Forget it," I said, having reached the end of my rope. "Let's just get in the grocery store and get what we need. I can't talk about this anymore."
So he climbed out of the car and slipped his little hand in mine as we began to make our way across the parking lot. He was quiet until just before we reached the door.
"My daddy lied to me," he said.
I paused and squatted down next to him. "What, baby?"
"My daddy lied," he said. "He said I was going to be there for three nights."
Oooohhhh, so this is what this was all about? Daddy, he thought, had told him he would be there for three nights, and so even in the face of obvious evidence to the contrary, he remained utterly convinced that he had been there for the time period his daddy said he would be.
Lying, he's come to understand, is a very bad thing, and I could see he was feeling crushed that he thought his daddy lied.
As little tears welled in his eyes at his hurt, my frustration melted away and I wrapped my arms around him and assured him that his daddy had not lied to him, that daddy meant he was going to be there for three days -- Saturday, Sunday and Monday -- and didn't mean to say he was going to spend three nights.
That finally seemed to make everything OK. Yes, of course he had been there for only two nights, he suddenly realized (insert eye rolling here).
While I'm not sure I've ever been so frustrated in my entire life, I did feel a little glow of warmth after it was all said and done. So steadfast was my son's faith in his parents that he would defy the very bounds of logic to believe in them. That's pretty cool.
He had spent a long weekend with his father, heading over on Saturday morning and coming back Monday evening -- two nights and three days, for the record. (That simple calculation is about to become very important.)
For reasons that I cannot recall, the topic of how long he'd been with his dad came up in the car while we were heading to the grocery store one day, and he insisted he'd been with his father for three nights.
"No," I said gently. "You were there for two nights."
"No," he said. "I was there for three nights."
I couldn't figure out why he cared or why he was stuck on the subject, but he was absolutely certain in his mind that he had been there for three nights. And I, for reasons surpassing understanding because I should have learned long ago not to try respond rationally to irrationality, was hellbent on getting him to see that he was wrong.
"You went there Saturday morning, and you slept there Saturday night, remember. Then you got up Sunday, went to church, spent the day there and then went to bed again Sunday night. Then you got up Monday and hung out for a while and then came home. See? You slept there for two nights."
He looked at me quizzically for a moment, and I thought for a fleeting moment that he was about to realize his mistake and relent. But then no.
"No, I slept there three nights," he retorted.
"No, baby. Listen. You slept there Saturday night. Hold up one finger. OK, you slept there Sunday night. Hold up another finger. And then you came home Monday. See, you've got only two fingers up. You were there two nights. "
Pause for reflection...
"No, I was there three nights."
Aaaarrrgghhh!
"How could you possibly have been there three nights? You were home with Mommy Friday night, right?"
"Right."
"And you slept at Daddy's Saturday and Sunday and then came home Monday, right?"
"Right"
"So you were there two nights."
"No, I was there for three."
My blood pressure is spiking right now just from the recollection and retelling of this conversation. And it went on much longer than I'm subjecting you to right now. Every little exchange I've recounted here happened at least three times in almost identical duplication before I moved on to try another tack. It was absolutely infuriating.
"I want to ask my daddy," he said.
"Fine," I spat out, frustrated to my very core, and began to dial the phone.
My ex, of course, confirmed that he'd been there for two nights, although he complicated things even further for a moment by saying he'd been there for three days. But, still, we had a solid "two night" confirmation from his father, yet my son remained skeptical.
"Forget it," I said, having reached the end of my rope. "Let's just get in the grocery store and get what we need. I can't talk about this anymore."
So he climbed out of the car and slipped his little hand in mine as we began to make our way across the parking lot. He was quiet until just before we reached the door.
"My daddy lied to me," he said.
I paused and squatted down next to him. "What, baby?"
"My daddy lied," he said. "He said I was going to be there for three nights."
Oooohhhh, so this is what this was all about? Daddy, he thought, had told him he would be there for three nights, and so even in the face of obvious evidence to the contrary, he remained utterly convinced that he had been there for the time period his daddy said he would be.
Lying, he's come to understand, is a very bad thing, and I could see he was feeling crushed that he thought his daddy lied.
As little tears welled in his eyes at his hurt, my frustration melted away and I wrapped my arms around him and assured him that his daddy had not lied to him, that daddy meant he was going to be there for three days -- Saturday, Sunday and Monday -- and didn't mean to say he was going to spend three nights.
That finally seemed to make everything OK. Yes, of course he had been there for only two nights, he suddenly realized (insert eye rolling here).
While I'm not sure I've ever been so frustrated in my entire life, I did feel a little glow of warmth after it was all said and done. So steadfast was my son's faith in his parents that he would defy the very bounds of logic to believe in them. That's pretty cool.
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