Stepmother In The Suburbs

Remembering The Good Times

noreply@blogger.com (Denise Burks) — Fri, 19 Mar 2010 20:13:00 +0000

I met my husband on the Blue Line around 8am on June 19, 1997. By 3pm we were sitting, alone, in the closed dining room of The Metropolitan Club on the 67th floor of the Sears Tower (now called The Willis Tower) in downtown Chicago looking at Lake Michigan. He ordered a glass of wine and I ordered, "A scotch on the rocks and a little umbrella for my new boyfriend's cute little cocktail." That made our waiter snicker as he walked away, so I continued, in my best hussy voice, "Sooo, what do you want me to know about you -- before we take our clothes off?"

I didn't really say the "take our clothes off" part. It was implied, though.

He told me that the most important thing that I could know about him was that he was a good dad and he showed me a picture of his three beautiful little kids.

Talk about a mood killer.

But somehow our pheromones persevered and we ended up at Frontera Grill for dinner and the rest of that night, as they say, is just history (and way inappropriate for this kind of blog.)

My husband told a portion of that story to our oldest son - my stepson, Tommy, who is home from college for spring break. They were having a green-beer-induced-heart-to-heart conversation about life. He said, "Tommy, when I met Denise she asked me what I wanted her to know about me and I told her that I was a good Dad. Today, 13 years later, I finally realize that I probably was wrong. I wasn't a good Dad. A good Dad would have made sure that your Mother was happy. But she was so sad that she didn't feel like she had any options but to divorce me. I am so sad that you had to deal with the divorce."

Tommy will turn 22 years old on June 4. He is charming and fit and handsome and got the highest score on his final in his Chemistry class at the Technische Universität Berlin last semester but this is still a topic of conversation. Don't get me wrong, it's not like the kid is walking around with a divorce limp. He lives with his lovely girlfriend of four years and they seem to have a good relationship. He has a mature relationship with money, he has friends all over the world and he is on a rugby team. I couldn't wish a more interesting and dignified existence for a young man.

I'm just saying that kids that have to deal with divorce, no matter how "great" you think your divorce is, are inexorably altered.

My husband told me about his late night confession and how sad they both were at the time. I wanted to make them smile but I didn't want to impose myself onto their private conversation. So I threw together a bunch of photographs into a little picture show (watch the video below - Tommy is the older boy with dark hair at the very end of the video). I showed the video to my husband. He loved it. Then I wrote a little love note to Tommy and posted it on his facebook page.

"Tommy! I came across these photographs from last summer and had to share them with you. Everyone looks so happy! We can't wait for next summer!"

I thought that my message was a subtle way of reminding him of the good times and assuring him that there would be more good times in the future.

When Tommy stopped by today his Dad insisted that he sit down and watch the video. Apparently he had not seen that I had already posted the video to his facebook page. After he watched it he said, "Are you going to put that on facebook?! Don't tag me! Fuck My Life!"

Then he left.

I took the video off of facebook immediately and since Tommy will never, ever look at this blog, I'm completely comfortable sharing it with y'all. My husband talked to him later that day and let him know that, "the word Fuck, which has pretty much always been a word that we frown upon, is equally unacceptable when accompanied by the words My Life." Tommy came back to our house and apologized to me. He explained that pictures posted to facebook, even after being deleted, are still accessible by companies. He was implying that the pictures in this video might compromise his future employment opportunities. I thought to myself, "The idea that these family photos would compromise you in any way is just bullshit."

He was reading my mind.

Silence.

Finally he said, "I guess what I was really saying when I swore at you was that I Hate My Life Because I Look DRRRR," and then he stuck out his big white perfect front teeth and slapped his hands against his chest like a seal. It was kind of funny and we both kind of fake laughed.

Tommy was telling the truth. The look on his face said that he was authentically embarrassed by those photos. This beautiful, strong, funny young man, who loves my mashed potatoes, thinks that he looks DRRRR.

If you have watched the video you know that there isn't an ounce of truth in that perspective. But what is true is that my relationship with my 22 year old kid is extra, extra complicated because of a divorce that happened years ago. Not every experience is burdened with the divorce baggage but the cloud is always lurking. Divorce leaves us, especially the kids, questioning ourselves where there is no question.

Right now things are calm. Everyone, including Tommy, is out in the drive-way shooting hoops. I'm getting dinner ready while typing this post about my flirty little cocktail date with his Dad at The Metropolitan Club 13 years ago. At this moment it doesn't seem very sexy. Thinking about the picture of those three pretty little kids laying on the table next to my scotch is just creepy.

I wish I were making mashed potatoes.

Who's Kid Is It?

noreply@blogger.com (Denise Burks) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 03:55:00 +0000

We all have things that stick in our brains and then become part of our mantra. Each time we meet a new person and the trigger presents itself we tell our little ditty, usually verbatim. One of mine is the story about a neighbor who told a neighbor who told a neighbor who had to rush over to my house to tell me that so and so was complaining that, “Denise Burks tells everyone she has six children. She doesn’t have six children. She has three biological children. The other three are her stepchildren.”

Now that is true. When people ask me how many children I have, which happens a lot, I always say, “Six.” Most often, people give me a horrified look that says no-wonder-you-look-like-hell. But I always clarify, “My three middle children are my stepchildren. They live half the time with us and the other half with their mother, who lives three blocks away.”

When I add that little bit of information, I almost always get the pity look, too.

I always thought that I was being the “inclusive stepmother” by calling all of the kids “our kids.” I thought that I would be admired.

I remember being at one of my husband’s family reunions and all of us were getting a professional photograph taken. At one point a couple with a new baby and their 10 year old daughter stepped up for their session. The mother asked the 10 year old girl to step out of the picture so that she and her husband could be photographed alone with the baby. I will never forget the look on that little girl’s face when she was asked to step aside. I learned later that the 10 year old daughter belonged to the husband from a prior marriage.

I could never do that to one of our kids.

I recently interviewed a Naperville woman, Tami Kidd-Brown. As often happens, I told that little story. In turn, she told me a story which has put a permanent crinkle in my indignation at the neighbor of the neighbor who complained that I claimed all six kids as “mine.”

Tami said, “I have a story kind of like that, Denise. One day I was at the grocery store while my three young sons, including my little curly headed blond 18 month old baby, were at their Dad’s for the weekend. As hard as it was to care for those three little boys all by myself, let me assure you that it was ten times as hard to hand them over to my ex-husband and his girlfriend for a weekend. As I trudged through the grocery store, by myself, I could hear a lady gushing over a baby in the aisle next to me.”

“Oh, look at that gorgeous head of blond, curls. What a beautiful baby you have.”

“I couldn’t move,” she said. “My eyes were filling with tears and my heart was aching for my own little beautiful boys. Right then I heard my ex-husband’s girlfriend’s voice. She was thanking the lady for the compliment. She wasn’t saying this isn’t my son. She was just saying thank you.”

“I was devastated. I grabbed my purse, left my full grocery cart and I bolted out of that store as fast as I could.”

“Today my blond haired baby boy is a senior in high school. Last month we attended the Mother-Son Brunch. As is tradition, we had our picture taken. I stood proud on one side of my son and on the other side, smiling just as big and just as proud was his stepmom (the girlfriend from the grocery store) and I’m finally OK with that.”

Mother Son Brunch

The Step-Mom, The Beautiful Baby Boy and The Mom

Visit Tami Kidd-Brown (The Mom) at:

http://glamournaperville.blogspot.com/

http://www.fullcircle.bz

Looking My Best

noreply@blogger.com (Denise Burks) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 00:26:00 +0000

This picture is not staged. This morning my stepson’s mother dropped off his suitcase at our house and this is how she found me standing in the driveway. This is exactly what I looked like.

I had just gotten back home from driving my littlest kids to school and she watched me get out of my car.

Getting caught looking like this in my own driveway by my husband's ex-wife is embarrassing but now she knows that I was driving around town like this. And her sister, whom I've been told does not come to the breakfast table without mascara, was with her. They were all dressed up and packed to go on an adventure. "We're going to surprise our Mom for her birthday," she smiled explaining the full car. I could make out a big batch of fresh flowers peeking from the back seat.

I can't manage to get out of my pajamas and she is wearing lipstick and has fresh flowers in the backseat. I know it shouldn't matter but the truth is that people can’t help but judge you by your appearance. Just once before I die I want her to drop by when I look like I have my act together.

Too Sensitive

noreply@blogger.com (Denise Burks) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 03:07:00 +0000

In 1997 Jewel’s album Pieces of You was popular and we played it often in the kitchen. When the song I’m Sensitive would play, my step-kids would run over to the stereo and turn it up and shout, “This is Denise’s song!”

I was 37 years old and not once, in my 36 previous years, would I have described myself as too sensitive. But that became my identity.

I have very clear memories of many conversations with the children’s mother, in which I told her, “You can’t talk to me that way!”

She’d respond, “I don’t talk to you any differently than I talk to anyone else in my life.”

Then I would whine, “But I am different from anyone else in your life. I spend more time with your children than anyone on this planet, including you or their father. If anyone deserves special treatment, it is me. I know that you can be a little more kind and respectful.”

When I would discipline the kids their response was frequently, “You are too sensitive ... even Mom says so.”

The truth is that I loved this song back then but today it is more than that. It is my mantra.

Nipple Competition

noreply@blogger.com (Denise Burks) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 20:56:00 +0000

I am the second wife and mother. And the truth is that I am always kind of comparing myself to the “original.”

For example, one really hot Spring Saturday afternoon, after attending three different soccer games for my three stepchildren, I found myself standing next to my husband on his ex-wife’s front porch, looking through her screen door.

We were there, as arranged, to talk about child care plans for the summer. I was hot, sticky and a puffy six months pregnant. She was coated in baby oil, in a bikini and a huge floating sunhat.

She never invited us inside. I’m convinced that she must have known that the screen acted like vaseline on a photographer’s lens, softening and smoothing any possible imperfections. And the sun, pouring in from the back of the house, was like a halo backlighting her curves. We stood on the porch, while she posed and pondered my request to be “hired” as the summer babysitter. I promised to enroll the kids in swim club and summer band and host loads of play dates and adventures, things a high school kid couldn’t manage.

The idea of paying me to watch the children during the work day infuriated her. She reached up and held the door jam, leaning into the screen, letting us know exactly how ridiculous my idea sounded. Then she would lean back with her hands on her hips. Then she would lean forward and grab the door jam, again, with the other arm. Each time she changed her pose and raised her arm, her bandeau bikini top inched down, down, down. Until eventually her perfect, pert little nipples poked out, practically piercing the screen door itself.

For me, it was like looking at a bloody open wound. I had a visceral, creepy crawly, skin shivering reaction. I yanked my husband’s arm and pulled him off the porch screeching, “We’ll talk about this later!”

They both thought I was a lunatic.

On the way home I was able to sputter something about her slippery swimsuit top. My husband just shrugged, annoyed, and asked, “What are you talking about? So what?”

Many, many months later, during one brave phone call, I told her that I was sorry that I freaked out that day and tried to explain my perspective. As a woman, I thought she would empathize and forgive my outburst.

Instead, the only thing I accomplished was cementing my image as an extremely emotional woman with extreme nipple insecurities.