When BellaDonna ordered my son Trey, her husband of 17+ interminable years, to leave the family residence, we were delighted. Even though our contact with her - and the grandboys, of course - had been minimal (2 and 1/2 days once a year at a campground on the Russian River) for several years, any encounter was too much time spent in proximity to BD. With Trey living separately, we envisioned long lazy visits, maybe some camping, maybe some travel,sharing books, sharing stories with the boys. Maybe we'd have a chance to go to their basketball and baseball games. Maybe we'd get to hang out some during school holidays. Well, guess again.
And, of course, in retrospect it should be no surprise that the name of BD's new game is "Parental Alienation". For those of you still living in the mid-twentieth century, it is not a board game. Yet. It's not even very hard to play, as long as you start first and never falter in your resolve to emotionally decimate your opponent.
BD has always been unflagging, whatever she determines she should do. Shortly before the marriage (very California, on a bluff above the ocean, nine tons of lace and seed pearls, a cousin who lugged her harp through the succulents)BD's mother held a roast for her and invited me.
Not disposed to watch TV, I was unsure what it meant to be roasted, in other than culinary terms. Some helpful friend provided a definition which included references to the Rat Pack, you know, when Peter Lawford and Dean Martin. . . Not very illuminating. I did get the impression that whoever was the target would probably get mortally embarrassed. After some indecision, I called BD to see if she was comfortable with the plan. It was supposed to be a surprise, she told me, dismissively. I went anyway.
We had punch made out of fizzy wine and orange sherbet. There were gifts - underwear and stuff. Her best friend and her matron of honor had made a video, which featured the two of them chugging margaritas and telling really nasty stories about BD, including things she'd said about/thought/done to Trey and how clueless he was about female connivance. I left, feeling distinctly humor-impaired.
Four years ago, Thespia and Pippa were visiting during the annual Russian River excursion. BD took Thespia off for a spa day and confided her deep dissatisfaction with Trey. She said the grandboys, Hale and Hardy, were afraid of their father and she was taking Hale, the older, to therapy to relieve his anxiety. No fear was evident in the couple of days we milled around each other. Neither boy had any hesitation about climbing up their father to dive off his shoulders or hopping into a canoe with him and rocking it until it capsized, or pulling him around on an inflatable raft or flopping down beside him to snooze on a warm towel. The only discordant notes occurred when BD wanted one of the boys to perform and he didn't hop to it.
Trey left the house a year and a half ago. He and BD counseled for six months, hashing out a parenting agreement. The plan was that the boys would spend alternate weekends with their father until the end of the summer. With the start of the school year, the time share would become almost equal. Throughout the summer, the boys moved back and forth between their parents' respective houses.
On the Tuesday when the new schedule was to commence, BD called Trey to say that the boys didn't want any changes in the time share. Trey asked to speak with the boys. Hale then told his father that he didn't want to spend any nights at Trey's house. He didn't really even want to come there for visits. He refused to discuss the matter and became practically catatonic when pressed to do so, hiding under his bed covers and clutching his mother's hand.
Since then, Hale has barely spoken to Trey. BD provides no information about Trey's school or friends or sports or development, even though there is a court order in effect that requires her to do so. Hale blames his father for the demise of the family and will not forgive him. Each time it looks like there might be some softening, BD stokes the boiler with more misinformation and rewritten history. It really is scarey, standing here on the rumbling tracks.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Raised Expectations
WooHoo! It's Fathers' Day! The Mate, father of two, has heard nothing from either the Montreal person or the younger, closer-at-hand person, who lives with his two moms. I suppose someone could have come over and popped an eggo in the toaster or taken him out to a ballgame but none of that has ever happened in the past so why break a perfect record?
I had a father once, a long time ago. He was an extremely handsome young man, a marathon dance competitor, in one incarnation. He grew into a portly, buzz cut drunk. Most of his drunkiness happened while I was away at school, so I only had to duck and dodge when I was home for vacations. My sister, younger, discovered the realm of sleep and was fully capable of logging twelve hours a day, if that's what it took to avoid him. Not that he ever laid a hand on us, except for spanking me once, one spank, when I was 11 or so and not inclined to regret whatever small sin I had committed. Only regretted being born the daughter of some jerk who spanked. Nope, dear old dad was only verbally abusive and, oh my, could he bear down on whatever personality flaw he'd selected for scrutiny! My bads were largely not being dutiful and not being beautiful.
The last time I saw dear old dad was right after the Manson family let loose on Sharon Tate and friends. We heard that news driving over the Bay Bridge, towards the SF airport, on our way to the midwest, where lurked my long-suffering mother and chain-smoking dad. A week was too long for a visit, but the kids and I were traveling on my parents' dimes, so we outstayed our desire to be there - scant at best. The last night, Dad and I closed some bar and wobbled home, second gear all the way, with the top down so the wind would keep us awake and we wouldn't drive off into the river running parallel to the road.
Dad poured himself another drink, sat down at the kitchen table, closed the pocket door to keep from disturbing Mom and the grandkids, and launched into his favorite topic: How I was wasting my life. Subtext: I owed it to him not to waste my life even though I'd already messed up to bad to recover, probably, by leaving my husband and attempting to live on air and junk vegetables from the farmers' market.
Ever since Dad discovered the joys of hectoring, I'd known that crying only made it worse. Silence sometimes worked. Rudeness could disarm him but had to be used cautiously. This particular night I just got mad and started yelling right back. Mom stood it for about half an hour before she padded out in her little slippers and gently told us to knock it off. Four hours later, as we drove to the airport, Dad pulled off the highway and puked. He stayed alive for two more years but I never saw him again. Not quite true: he shows up in my dreams sometimes, for no apparent reason.
I had a father once, a long time ago. He was an extremely handsome young man, a marathon dance competitor, in one incarnation. He grew into a portly, buzz cut drunk. Most of his drunkiness happened while I was away at school, so I only had to duck and dodge when I was home for vacations. My sister, younger, discovered the realm of sleep and was fully capable of logging twelve hours a day, if that's what it took to avoid him. Not that he ever laid a hand on us, except for spanking me once, one spank, when I was 11 or so and not inclined to regret whatever small sin I had committed. Only regretted being born the daughter of some jerk who spanked. Nope, dear old dad was only verbally abusive and, oh my, could he bear down on whatever personality flaw he'd selected for scrutiny! My bads were largely not being dutiful and not being beautiful.
The last time I saw dear old dad was right after the Manson family let loose on Sharon Tate and friends. We heard that news driving over the Bay Bridge, towards the SF airport, on our way to the midwest, where lurked my long-suffering mother and chain-smoking dad. A week was too long for a visit, but the kids and I were traveling on my parents' dimes, so we outstayed our desire to be there - scant at best. The last night, Dad and I closed some bar and wobbled home, second gear all the way, with the top down so the wind would keep us awake and we wouldn't drive off into the river running parallel to the road.
Dad poured himself another drink, sat down at the kitchen table, closed the pocket door to keep from disturbing Mom and the grandkids, and launched into his favorite topic: How I was wasting my life. Subtext: I owed it to him not to waste my life even though I'd already messed up to bad to recover, probably, by leaving my husband and attempting to live on air and junk vegetables from the farmers' market.
Ever since Dad discovered the joys of hectoring, I'd known that crying only made it worse. Silence sometimes worked. Rudeness could disarm him but had to be used cautiously. This particular night I just got mad and started yelling right back. Mom stood it for about half an hour before she padded out in her little slippers and gently told us to knock it off. Four hours later, as we drove to the airport, Dad pulled off the highway and puked. He stayed alive for two more years but I never saw him again. Not quite true: he shows up in my dreams sometimes, for no apparent reason.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Fridays at Happy Donuts
I think I'm okay with never getting comments. I can just assume that no one is reading what I write, so I'm writing for myself, in my highly opinionated, don't-let-facts-get-in-your-way manner - just like journal writing - and thus can say any old thing that crosses my mind as unartfully as I please. Otherwise, I might have to pay attention to all those other mean little thoughts that nibble away at my precious small stash of self-confidence.
I'm not imagining this. I talked to my Friday coffee friends about declining confidence levels. My Coffee friends are women (well, coffee. Please.) It was one of their birthdays, though we forgot (or had the good taste not to) ask how old she is. She has recently started a new job where she is appreciated, consulted and included in decision making. She glows, these days.
Another friend is a brand new grandmother, just back from first sighting of her 10 day old grandson. As a veteran of this ongoing struggle to stay current (if not cutting edge), I warned her she should, at least, have a car at her disposal, so she could escape for a bit when the family togetherness began to pall. Of course her daughter knows everything about babies because she's not exactly a spring chicken and she has prepared by Reading Books. She is an educated woman and that's what we do: Read Books, probably since the Stone Age.
I was interested but not surprised to learn that the new right way to cope with babies is to feed them every two hours and waken them to feed if they are silly enough to have gone to sleep. In my parenting days (Dark Ages) we felt very smart for understanding that babies could regulate themselves if allowed to feed on demand. Sometimes this was exhausting, but much about parenting is. Needless to say, my Coffee Friend knew nothing about babies that was of the slightest use but was able to escape in the car periodically, if only for a Baby Wipes run. (We didn't have baby wipes and the disposable diapers gave both my babies horrible rashes so we gave up on them in favor of diaper service)
And my point is that whatever you think you know seems to become as obsolete as last year's Dell by the time your children need information. It doesn't just take a village to raise a kid, it takes Experts. Of which you, the aging parent, are not one. All of our grandchildren will survive childhood, no doubt, just as our own children did. All of our children will reluctantly relinquish control over their offspring, just as we did. Had to do. Well, tried to do. Continue to not do, due to worry and overactive imaginations.
And then there's the process of forgetting what you though you had thoroughly absorbed. Such as nutrition. My mother was a pretty good, no-frills cook. We had a summer garden that my grandfather tended, growing lots of beans, not enough corn, some tasy kinds of lettuce and a few berries. And tomatoes, of course, which Grandpa ate sliced, with sugar. Vegetables were part of each meal. I do remember sitting in front of a couple stalks of ice-cold broccoli once, long after the table had been cleared, trying (unsuccessfully) to supress my gag mechanism and eat the damn stuff. I also couldn't swallow canned asparagus.
Feeding children myself, after we got past the stage of yoghurt and scrambled eggs and pureed peaches, I got them to eat most vegetables (my son couldn't deal with potatoes unless they were French fried), usually by mixing them in something - salad, stew, chili. I gave my mother credit for her steadfastness in getting those family meals on the table and making sure they included the basic food groups.
Just before my mother decided - at 87 - that she should not drive anymore, which meant shouldn't live alone, we discovered that she often made dinner of crackers and peanut butter. And dessert, always something for dessert. As she settled into assisted living, her attention to food focussed more and more on whatever was sweet on the menu. Vegetables, even salad, were pushed to the side of her plate. Any meal with her, in the last few years of her life, was about waiting for dessert. She and my sister spent a lot of time at Ben & Jerry's.
Recently, I've started making sure there is ice cream in the freezer and chocolate in the fridge. Will I soon forget the name of that funny vegetable with the green florets? Slippage abounds.
I'm not imagining this. I talked to my Friday coffee friends about declining confidence levels. My Coffee friends are women (well, coffee. Please.) It was one of their birthdays, though we forgot (or had the good taste not to) ask how old she is. She has recently started a new job where she is appreciated, consulted and included in decision making. She glows, these days.
Another friend is a brand new grandmother, just back from first sighting of her 10 day old grandson. As a veteran of this ongoing struggle to stay current (if not cutting edge), I warned her she should, at least, have a car at her disposal, so she could escape for a bit when the family togetherness began to pall. Of course her daughter knows everything about babies because she's not exactly a spring chicken and she has prepared by Reading Books. She is an educated woman and that's what we do: Read Books, probably since the Stone Age.
I was interested but not surprised to learn that the new right way to cope with babies is to feed them every two hours and waken them to feed if they are silly enough to have gone to sleep. In my parenting days (Dark Ages) we felt very smart for understanding that babies could regulate themselves if allowed to feed on demand. Sometimes this was exhausting, but much about parenting is. Needless to say, my Coffee Friend knew nothing about babies that was of the slightest use but was able to escape in the car periodically, if only for a Baby Wipes run. (We didn't have baby wipes and the disposable diapers gave both my babies horrible rashes so we gave up on them in favor of diaper service)
And my point is that whatever you think you know seems to become as obsolete as last year's Dell by the time your children need information. It doesn't just take a village to raise a kid, it takes Experts. Of which you, the aging parent, are not one. All of our grandchildren will survive childhood, no doubt, just as our own children did. All of our children will reluctantly relinquish control over their offspring, just as we did. Had to do. Well, tried to do. Continue to not do, due to worry and overactive imaginations.
And then there's the process of forgetting what you though you had thoroughly absorbed. Such as nutrition. My mother was a pretty good, no-frills cook. We had a summer garden that my grandfather tended, growing lots of beans, not enough corn, some tasy kinds of lettuce and a few berries. And tomatoes, of course, which Grandpa ate sliced, with sugar. Vegetables were part of each meal. I do remember sitting in front of a couple stalks of ice-cold broccoli once, long after the table had been cleared, trying (unsuccessfully) to supress my gag mechanism and eat the damn stuff. I also couldn't swallow canned asparagus.
Feeding children myself, after we got past the stage of yoghurt and scrambled eggs and pureed peaches, I got them to eat most vegetables (my son couldn't deal with potatoes unless they were French fried), usually by mixing them in something - salad, stew, chili. I gave my mother credit for her steadfastness in getting those family meals on the table and making sure they included the basic food groups.
Just before my mother decided - at 87 - that she should not drive anymore, which meant shouldn't live alone, we discovered that she often made dinner of crackers and peanut butter. And dessert, always something for dessert. As she settled into assisted living, her attention to food focussed more and more on whatever was sweet on the menu. Vegetables, even salad, were pushed to the side of her plate. Any meal with her, in the last few years of her life, was about waiting for dessert. She and my sister spent a lot of time at Ben & Jerry's.
Recently, I've started making sure there is ice cream in the freezer and chocolate in the fridge. Will I soon forget the name of that funny vegetable with the green florets? Slippage abounds.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Mouthful of Rue
Now, of course, I'm backpedaling (learned this trick on the exercycle at FitLite), trying to understand why I thought I liked Dweez. Why I sought his good opinion. I'm a mother-in-law, butt of jokes by misogynist "comedians" and real people, too. Name your type: clueless, overbearing, ditzy, fading belle, tennis shoe wearer (Yes!) and there'll be certain to be a mother-in-law of your unfortunate acquaintance who fits description. Never mind that she almost swallowed a bee at a Big Brother and the Holding Company concert at the San Jose fairgrounds, where Quicksilver and the Ace of Cups also performed. Or that she used to sing on the street corners. Or that she can play the harmonica. Or maybe that she holds title to the best damn chocolate chip cookie recipe in the whole world. Or has never owned a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes and wouldn't wear 'em if she owned them. Or that she's decided not to buy any new clothes or shoes for a year and Macys has stopeed sending her promotional solicitations and cards offering 15% off, storewide. You know, who cares?
But this is about Dweez, or anyway the shadow presence. I found myself excusing him (mentally) yesterday for prioritizing his French class over Pippa's need for someone's supervision. Even though I totally doubt that he will ever speak French and a French class is only a place to meet women (chicks, babes, whatever), he does have it scheduled on a day that he is not usually responsible for Pippa. And - this is key - he's not a mother, so it does not occur to him to sacrifice his plans in the interests of his child.
Now that I've imbued him with the slightest tinge of blamelessness, shall I like him for it? I guess I still do like him, viscerally. A little. I keep thinking he'll come to his senses and stop treating Thespia like the enemy. Or at least realize how much damage could be done if she wasn't still protecting his interests.
But this is about Dweez, or anyway the shadow presence. I found myself excusing him (mentally) yesterday for prioritizing his French class over Pippa's need for someone's supervision. Even though I totally doubt that he will ever speak French and a French class is only a place to meet women (chicks, babes, whatever), he does have it scheduled on a day that he is not usually responsible for Pippa. And - this is key - he's not a mother, so it does not occur to him to sacrifice his plans in the interests of his child.
Now that I've imbued him with the slightest tinge of blamelessness, shall I like him for it? I guess I still do like him, viscerally. A little. I keep thinking he'll come to his senses and stop treating Thespia like the enemy. Or at least realize how much damage could be done if she wasn't still protecting his interests.
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