Just how did I get here?

 In college, I was a human development and family studies major, a long name that meant a little psychology, a little sociology and just a bit of anthropology.  But what it really meant was: “you can’t really do much with this unless you go to grad school.”  So for most of college, I assumed I would go straight into grad school, but early in the fall semester of my senior year, I found myself burning out.  The thought of grad school was more than I could comprehend, but the alternative of putting on a suit and interviewing for grown-up jobs was so far-fetched for me, that I couldn’t go there either.

And so I found a third alternative that seemed viable to me: I would take a year off before grad school, move to California and figure out life when I got there.  Done.  I had my plan.  Now I could enjoy my senior year.

And I did.  I had two fantastic semesters with my friends.  I took absurdly difficult classes and had intellectual discussions unlike any I can even imagine having today.  I went to bed as late or as early as I wanted to, and I regularly took two naps on Sundays, in between studying for tests and writing papers.  I had a blast on my first and last real Slope Day, in a way that I hope my children never repeat.  And I lived in the moment, grateful that I could enjoy that year for what it was, and not get bogged down in the details of my next step.

But one day that May, I graduated.  No more safety net, no more following the rules that someone else put into place.  I needed to start to think about that big next step, and make my own rules for my own life. 

At that point, I hadn’t traveled much, and had never even been farther west than Colorado.  This is the part that even I still can’t rationally understand.  I was born to parents who, to this day, have lived within 80 miles of the places in which they were born, so how this made any sense to me, I still don’t know.  I tried not to think about the fact that it was a more than a little crazy to move to a state I had never even visited, and instead I focused on just getting there.

And so I worked as much as I could that summer, probably to avoid worrying about this apparently-insane plan, but also to make some money.  I saved as much money as I could, and gratefully lived with my brother for free.  I bought my first car, and I set an arbitrary deadline: September 15.  I would head to California after the summer ended.  I made a plan with an invaluable friend, Barb, who I had come to know and love while studying during my junior year in Stockholm.  Barb had decided to move with her college friend, Kate, who had found a two-bedroom apartment in Pasadena, just outside of Los Angeles.  Thankfully, they were willing to take on a third wheel, so I had a place to call home, whenever I could get there.  

The summer ended, and September arrived, as it always does.  I began to plan my route, to pack my things, to even make a mix tape for the drive and I was fully prepared to make the journey alone.  But only a few weeks before my scheduled departure, my aunt Linda, my mom’s youngest sister, volunteered to go with me.  She couldn’t drive a stick shift, but we both knew I didn’t need help with the driving –– I needed a companion.  What a difference it made that I didn’t have to go alone.

It was a Sunday night, September 13, 1998, when I packed up my car, and readied myself for my 6:00 am departure.  And it was right before I went to sleep that my mother came in, sat on the bed next to me and said, “This isn’t going to be for just a year, is it?”  With tears in my eyes, I responded, “No.  It probably isn’t.”

So for those of you who were wondering, this was the first big step in the journey of how I came to be a mother of five, living in the small city of Claremont, 3,000 miles from the place I still call home.

Back to Normal

These last few weeks have been different for us, with Anthony away with some friends a few weeks ago, followed by a last-minute trip for me to spend time with my brother and finally, a wonderful visit from dear friends, who are heading out this morning on the next leg of their vacation.  I have been thinking about how nice it will be to have some quiet days, and get back to normal, but I am reminded once again that in a blended family, normal isn’t so normal after all.

Over the past few years, we have settled into the predictable routine of 50/50 custody, and our big kids spend every Monday/Tuesday with their mother, every Wednesday/Thursday with us, and we alternate Friday through Sunday. So for us, one of the biggest challenges is that our life has two versions –– half of the days, we are a family of four and the other half, we’re a family of seven. Before our two little girls came along, Anthony and I used the days without the kids to enjoy some quiet time and to connect with each other the way most newlyweds take for granted.  As a new stepmother, I was especially grateful for the calm days with only ourselves to worry about, and I relished those weekends when we could sleep in or go out to brunch or do pretty much anything we wanted to do. 

But after Delilah was born, calm days completely disappeared, and we discovered that the addition of three relatively independent kiddos didn’t make our routines a whole lot more challenging.  And once Mila was here and we had an infant and a toddler every single day, we began to extra appreciate the help and distraction that the big kids brought when they were home.

The little girls have always lived in this big family/small family situation, and for a long time, they never really questioned the fact that many days, the big kids weren’t home with us.  But as Delilah is getting older, she is starting to struggle a bit with the idea that her brothers and her sister aren’t with us full time. At this point, it is kind of an unspoken agreement among the four of us that the house is too quiet and boring without the big kids there.

So it seems kind of fitting that on this day that I am grateful for a return to normal, our big kids also come home.  Now a seasoned stepmother, I willingly admit that life doesn’t feel quite right on days that we’re not a family of seven.