Read Online Dropped Threads 2 by Carol Shields - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carol Shields
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feelings would matter more than an ex-wife’s. Surely a wife would have the right to be considered a bona fide stepparent who could attend parent-teacher meetings. Surely I would have some say over who could and could not enter a house to which I held joint title.
Marriage was not a solution. My home—even with my name on the title—never felt like a safe place for me to be. Not only was it subject to invasion, but it was under constant surveillance. I don’t know whether it was simply Greg’s nature or whether he was questioned at the other end of the telephone line, but everything we did and said was reported on. Although I attempted to define boundaries over the years, any efforts in this regard were seen as attempts to deny access. For example, not allowing Greg to call his mother until after he had completed a chore I’d asked him to do was denying access rather than eliminating one of his favourite stalling tactics. This goldfish-bowl existence made it difficult for me to relax and be myself.
“All he needs is love,” I was told repeatedly by my sisters, who had no experience with, or understanding of, step-families. Love was dangerous territory for Greg and me; it equated with loss and pain. This little boy lived with us only half the time. Each of his departures was like a death. His empty room, his empty chair, his baseball glove by the back door were daily reminders of a missing son. Because of the acrimony between his mother and me, I didn’t dare call him when he was there; I could only blow him kisses to the moon and hope he’d know I still cared about him. Loving me was just as dangerous for him. Whenever he betrayed feelings of closeness to me, his mother grew angry.
When he was in Grade 2, Greg started to call me Mom partly out of self-defence. His little sister had begun to say things like “She’s my mommy; go back to your own mom,” if Greg was sitting on my lap and she wanted me to herself. He told me it hurt him when his sister said I wasn’t his mom, because “you’re my mom too.” His mother read a journal entry he had written addressing his father and me as “Dear Mom and Dad” and made it clear to him that he only had one mom—her. He came back to us a different child. There was no eye contact. He mumbled, walked slowly, didn’t answer questions, didn’t do what he was told and seemed on the verge of tears. I had to agree in mediation, instigated by his mother, not to allow Greg to call me Mom.
I was not to be a mother to Greg, which left me in the rather thankless position of being an unpaid nanny. Because I worked from home, I was expected to take on much of the responsibility for him when he was living with us. I was expected to do laundry and clothe him, but his real mother had the right to phone and insist he wear the outfit she bought him for his school picture. I was expected to make sure he did his homework and help him with it but not entitled to sign permission slips for field trips or attend school functions.
I began to step back. It seemed safer to keep my distance, lavish my love and attention on my daughter and provide Greg with custodial care. This, however, brought me criticism from my husband and sisters for not “loving” Greg. One complaint was that I used a “frosty” tone of voice when I asked him to do things. I know I did adopt a harsher stance with him so that there could be no question of disobeying—no chance for him to say, “You’re not my mother; you can’t tell me what to do.”
I know I sometimes acted like the classic wicked stepmother, and it’s been hard to forgive myself for it. When Greg and I had lunch recently, I apologized for using him as a scapegoat. “It worked both ways,” he pointed out with his twenty-year-old insight. “It was easier for me to think everything was your fault than to blame my parents.”
Surviving in a “blended family” continued to elude me, though not for lack of trying. For years I thought that
Marriage was not a solution. My home—even with my name on the title—never felt like a safe place for me to be. Not only was it subject to invasion, but it was under constant surveillance. I don’t know whether it was simply Greg’s nature or whether he was questioned at the other end of the telephone line, but everything we did and said was reported on. Although I attempted to define boundaries over the years, any efforts in this regard were seen as attempts to deny access. For example, not allowing Greg to call his mother until after he had completed a chore I’d asked him to do was denying access rather than eliminating one of his favourite stalling tactics. This goldfish-bowl existence made it difficult for me to relax and be myself.
“All he needs is love,” I was told repeatedly by my sisters, who had no experience with, or understanding of, step-families. Love was dangerous territory for Greg and me; it equated with loss and pain. This little boy lived with us only half the time. Each of his departures was like a death. His empty room, his empty chair, his baseball glove by the back door were daily reminders of a missing son. Because of the acrimony between his mother and me, I didn’t dare call him when he was there; I could only blow him kisses to the moon and hope he’d know I still cared about him. Loving me was just as dangerous for him. Whenever he betrayed feelings of closeness to me, his mother grew angry.
When he was in Grade 2, Greg started to call me Mom partly out of self-defence. His little sister had begun to say things like “She’s my mommy; go back to your own mom,” if Greg was sitting on my lap and she wanted me to herself. He told me it hurt him when his sister said I wasn’t his mom, because “you’re my mom too.” His mother read a journal entry he had written addressing his father and me as “Dear Mom and Dad” and made it clear to him that he only had one mom—her. He came back to us a different child. There was no eye contact. He mumbled, walked slowly, didn’t answer questions, didn’t do what he was told and seemed on the verge of tears. I had to agree in mediation, instigated by his mother, not to allow Greg to call me Mom.
I was not to be a mother to Greg, which left me in the rather thankless position of being an unpaid nanny. Because I worked from home, I was expected to take on much of the responsibility for him when he was living with us. I was expected to do laundry and clothe him, but his real mother had the right to phone and insist he wear the outfit she bought him for his school picture. I was expected to make sure he did his homework and help him with it but not entitled to sign permission slips for field trips or attend school functions.
I began to step back. It seemed safer to keep my distance, lavish my love and attention on my daughter and provide Greg with custodial care. This, however, brought me criticism from my husband and sisters for not “loving” Greg. One complaint was that I used a “frosty” tone of voice when I asked him to do things. I know I did adopt a harsher stance with him so that there could be no question of disobeying—no chance for him to say, “You’re not my mother; you can’t tell me what to do.”
I know I sometimes acted like the classic wicked stepmother, and it’s been hard to forgive myself for it. When Greg and I had lunch recently, I apologized for using him as a scapegoat. “It worked both ways,” he pointed out with his twenty-year-old insight. “It was easier for me to think everything was your fault than to blame my parents.”
Surviving in a “blended family” continued to elude me, though not for lack of trying. For years I thought that
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