An Ode to Broken Homes

I love my parents.  I really do.  They probably don't know it, because I'm not very good at saying it, or even expressing it most of the time.  But the two people who combined their DNA 29 years ago to create me are pretty interesting, funny, quirky, and loving people.  They do the best they can with what they've got, and I'm lucky to have inherited some of their many talents to make up for having also inherited some of their many anxieties. 

But I've always been of the mind that it takes a village to raise a child.  Most of us nowadays come from what experts like to call a "broken home."  I think that terminology is totally bullshit, because when my parents got divorced when I was 11 years old, not only was my home not broken, but I got to have two homes.  That is way, way cooler than one.  That's two bedrooms, two refrigerators, two televisions, two dinner tables, two dial up computers and two landlines (shut up, I'm old, okay?) - two places to feel at home.  It also meant two Christmases, two birthdays, two Thanksgivings, and two parents competing with each other for a while to be the most awesome parent in the world.  You unlucky folks from intact homes only had one of all of those things.  You were missing out!

Another thing us "broken home" kids usually eventually end up with is two more parents.  Not all divorcees remarry, but lets face it, most do.  Especially if they have children leftover that they have to continue raising despite the fact that their lives have just been turned upside down. 

My mother remarried a few years later, an older man named Jack.  (Ironically the same name as my father!) Your classic Jewish Air Force retiree hailing from the Bronx, NY, the man has never been afraid to tell it like it is, even if you didn't want to hear it.  Which I didn't, because if you didn't catch the age I mentioned, well, this poor man married a woman raising a teenager.  My mom is pretty cool, but looking at teenagers today, I wonder if he was not slightly insane.  Then again, insanity is a pretty static quality in my family, which I'm totally okay with.  While my mother was fussing over my fragile teenage mental state, probably fearing I couldn't adapt to the massive change my life had recently endured, Jack was the Cesar Milan of teenager rearing.  If I threw a fit and caused a dramatic scene, he essentially would snap me out of it with a metaphorical "tsst!" (While my mother was on the phone with the closest child psychologist.)  I was a pretty normal teenager for all intents and purposes.  I may not be a normal human being overall, but I certainly wasn't immune to cries for attention, hormonal imbalances, and general asshattery that kids, especially girls, between the ages of 13 and 18 like to inflict on their unsuspecting parents who I'm sure are wondering what alien being has eaten and replaced their calm, level headed 12-year-old. 

My favorite anecdote about my retarded behavior and my step-father is the day my mother went to run some errands and for some reason I thought it was a good idea to go sit in the coat closet and scream my little heart out.  I haven't the foggiest idea why I would do this, but I'm sure at the time it was an ingrained sense of "mommy will make it all better".  Because she did!  At that age, you begin to feel like an adult, but you aren't completely weaned off of the idea that when you cry, mom picks you up and holds you.  (Some people never wean off that idea, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, within reason of course!)  But, my mother wasn't home, and Jack, who had raised a teenager before me (see why he might have been slightly insane?), came over to the closet, opened the door, and said "knock it the fuck off."  Then he closed the door and went back to his computer.  

I stopped immediately.  After all, what was the point anymore?  Nobody was going to come rescue me, and upon further evaluation, what the hell was I expecting to be rescued from, anyway?  I was just a kid sitting in a coat closet, feeling like an idiot.  I never, ever did that again.  I didn't need a therapist.  I didn't need a hug. What I needed was a person willing to kick my ass when I deserved it.  Thank GOD my mom married just that.

On the other side of the coin, my father remarried a much younger woman named Heidi.  They met while both working for the Rochester Philharmonic, which ironically is where my parents also met in the first place. My mother was a french horn player.  My father was a bass player, now retired.  Heidi was a viola player, and occasionally still is!  He was 50, and she was 25.  And while some people shook their heads and whispered, I thought it was awesome.  It was like having the big sister I'd never had, and a few years into their marriage, they also gave me the little sister I'd never had!  While teenagers certainly do need their asses kicked a good deal of the time, they also need a trusted adult to talk to that will understand them and keep their secrets (provided they are not dangerous secrets).  No teenage girl goes to mommy for advice.  And as kind hearted as my mother is, she can be a bit overbearing.  No offense mom!  So where did I take my drama, dilemmas, and other aforementioned teenage asshattery when I couldn't take it to my mom?  Straight to my step-mom!  She was there to fill the other gap in my life, the adult friend that no teenager can find in their parents.  I told her absolutely everything, and due to the lack of age gap, she absolutely understood. 

There were times that I would pull some stupid stunt that I swear if my son ever pulls, I'll open a can of whoop-ass, and while my mother sought therapists, my step-father told me to shut the hell up, and my father remained as blissfully unaware as he possibly could (he's a sweet man, but I think undeveloped human beings frighten him), my step-mom would be the one asking me point blank, "why would you feel the need to do that?"  And there were just as many times where I needed a calm, rational, friend-approach to make me think, "hmm, why would I feel the need to do that, anyway?" as there were times I needed a good verbal ass-kicking.  

Don't get me wrong - my parents are great people.  And great parents.  My mother has gone above and beyond what I see most moms do these days, and my dad, well, he worked his ass off to put food on the table and wood on the fire.  But at the peak developmental ages of any child, especially me, there was no way I was taking any advice from the people who birthed me.  That is so totally lame, ya know?  But nearly the same exact things, perhaps phrased a little differently, coming from the mouth of somebody else - now that advice is golden.  

I also need to state that after dealing with me for enough years to see what she was getting herself into, my step-mom went ahead and had my sister, who is now 15.  So maybe she was a wee bit insane as well. ;)

But then again, so am I.  Because I'm a mother now, of a 3.5-year-old boy.  Enough of a challenge now, although its fun and I love him to pieces.  I know when he becomes a teenager, myself and his step-father are going to have our hands full.  We also are insane enough to want one or two more!  Go figure.  Digressing, my child, being a product of a "broken home" and all, has not just your average two sets of grandparents.  He has five.  Not all of them are in our lives, for reasons maybe I'll touch on in another blog some day.  But he has my four parents, and Stefan's mother, actively in his life.  As well as my sister, and Stefan's sister and brother, aunt, and uncle!  All of whom he loves dearly and considers family, regardless of whether they share a blood type.  The more influences in a child's life, the better, because it really does take a village to raise a well-rounded, kind-hearted, tolerant, intelligent individual.  And although Stefan is technically not his father, he is certainly his dad.  I never asked him to fill the role, but he stepped up in much the same way my step-parents did, without being asked.  Its certainly partially thanks to him that I feel this child and our future children will turn out a-okay.  

Well, maybe with a touch of insanity.

Just like the rest of us.