Tips On Meeting My Mother's Kids

Dear Lieutenant Tan-

I thought I was fully prepared to meet you.  I knew that you wouldn’t be like our dad, you wouldn’t love us, you hardly know our mom and you’d all but moved in and taken over.  But I guess I thought you’d understand it was a tough situation and you’d do your best to demonstrate how much you were NOT interfering with our mom’s relationships.  You certainly failed at that.  Nevertheless, I can acknowledge that meeting someone’s kids is tricky.  And  since my little sister is coming home to meet you this weekend, you get a second chance.  Here are some pointers:

1.     Learn the script.  You are supposed to feign interest in your girlfriend’s kids, at least at the beginning.  So, when my mom asks me to tell you about my job, you’re supposed to listen.  Then, to show interest in what I’m saying, you’re supposed to ask a follow-up question about me or my job.  You are not supposed to  interrupt me to ask my mom if she received your e-mail forward about the anarchist’s cookbook.  You are not supposed to cut me off and exclude me from the dinner conversation my mom was purposely trying to include me in.  If you’d read the script, you’d have known that, Lieutenant Tan. 

2.    Get real.  Any man over six feet tall should not drive a Mazda Miata.  You are too big for that kind of car and every time you fold yourself inside, I think of a giraffe bending over to take a sip of water.  You are not a giraffe.  You are a grown man.  And you look like a fool cramming your oversized self into a miniature car.  So, ditch the silly sports car and get something with a backseat.  Make room for my siblings and me—we’re a package deal.

3.     Avoid landmines.  Jokes about breaking in and stealing my little brother’s cat are not funny.  It’s nice that you like the cat, but quit making jokes about stealing it.  My little brother got robbed of damn near everything in my parent’s divorce and all he has is his cat.  If you paid any attention to my little brother, you’d know how much he loves that cat.  But since you don’t pay attention, you’re going to have to trust me on this one:  leave the cat alone.

4.     Be generous.  Sending my mom a free online e-card for her birthday is not impressive.  It would be better to go to Target and spring for a $4 Hallmark greeting card like a normal person.  I know $4 cards are a rip-off, but our mom is worth it.

5.     Listen.  It’s rude to interrupt another person when they are talking.  Especially if that person is me.  I tried not to take it personally, but then I heard you interrupt my mom as well and I wanted to gouge your eyes out.  Or stuff a dirty sock in your mouth.  Maybe both.  (Lest there be any confusion, please note that shouting out the make and model of a military aircraft flying overhead is not a justifiable excuse to interrupt or talk over anyone in my family.) 

6.    Don’t compete.  When mom told you that I was going to New Orleans next week, you’re supposed to say, “Wow, what a great trip!” or “I’ve always wanted to go there.”  You are not supposed to say, “Well, I’ve been to Toronto.”  We’re not competing about who is cooler.  (But if we were, I would win.)

7.     Spit out your gum.  Lieutenant Tan, I’m sure you can’t help it that you are a LOUD gum chewer.  But my brother (who has a 30% hearing loss in each ear) can hear you smacking bubble gum all over the house.  And it’s highly irritating.  Swallow it, spit it out, flush it, or make a sculpture out of it.  I don’t care what you do with your chewed gum, but for God’s sake, take it out of your mouth.

8.     Know when to make yourself scarce.  You’ve been around for 31 days.  I’ve been around for 31 years.  Its polite and reasonable and courteous to allow someone to visit with their out-of-town guest privately on the last day of their trip.  You should have had the wherewithal to know that I’d want to spend my last morning home with my mom.  Without you.  If you didn’t know, you should have asked.

9.     Drive responsibly.  When you run over a curb and hit a fence in my mother’s car, it is appropriate to stop and inspect the car for damage and then to apologize profusely.  It is not appropriate to shout out, “No guts, no glory!” and continue driving full speed ahead.

10. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.  You have a GPS and an iPhone and you are a grown adult.  If you can’t find Papa Murphy’s, you should call Papa Murphy’s.  You should NOT call my mom and ask her to call Papa Murphy’s to get their exact street address so that she can call you back and you can put the address in your GPS and wait to see if it can find the Papa Murphy’s so that you can find the Papa Murphy’s so that you can bring pizza over even though we just ate breakfast and we aren’t hungry.  My mom and I live in different cities.  And if you’re badgering her with phone calls and texts every time she’s away from you, it makes the time we do spend together impossibly frustrating.  You can get lost and hound my mother with phone calls and texts any day of the week.  But when I’m in town, maybe you could respect me enough to exercise a little more discretion? Please, Lieutenant Tan, this is important to me.

I don’t know when I’ll visit next, but let’s not do this again.  I’m a good kid and I deserved better. 

In the meantime, please make more of an effort when you meet my little sister.  She’s the most open-minded of our bunch and if you can’t win her over, you may as well pack up and go home.  I’ll help you move.

Sincerely,

SEE

On Going Home

Dear Airline Industry-

I’m flying “home” to meet my now-divorced mom’s boyfriend/fiancé and I’m a nervous wreck.  I’ve looked all over the internet for tips on how children should approach meeting a parent’s new significant other.  So far, all I can find is an episode of Sabrina the Teenage Witch, and how-to guides for parents on making sure introductions go smoothly.  (For the record, my mom has already broken all the rules.) Since the internet has failed me and I can’t track down any armchair psychology that will make me think I have the tools to handle this, I need you to help.

I recognize that for many lucky individuals, going home is a treat.  I used to be one of them.  But when your parents are acting out in ways that make you hope you were switched at birth, there is absolutely no feeling at home about going “home.”  You recognize that your home doesn’t exist anymore, and that’s downright depressing.  Then you realize you’ll have to pretend you’re happy that your mom and her new boyfriend are happy . . . even though it means your life will never be the same and you’re decidedly unhappy about that.  And that makes you apprehensive and anxious, because what if you’re not up to the task?  For anyone has to travel “home” under these (or other) profoundly unpleasant circumstances, I don’t think it’s outrageous to expect the airline industry to make reasonable accommodations.

For those of us who have to use quotation marks every time we use the word “home,” I’m proposing we be assigned Traveler Under Pressure Status.  As a Traveler Under Pressure, I should be able to see a doctor at the airport who will give me a Xanax IV-drip to prepare me for the trip.  TSA should forego the usual man-handling in favor of a bear hug.  (Because really, who doesn’t need a real hug before they are greeted by a family that is no longer familiar?)  I should be allowed to pre-board the plane to minimize my time standing around waiting with seemingly-happy families. Once seated, vodka or whiskey or scotch should be brought to me by a social worker who can guide me through deep-breathing exercises.  Or a hypnotherapist who can convince me that I am going to see someone else’s family so there’s really no reason to be upset.   With Traveler Under Pressure Status, I should be allowed to recline my seat before takeoff because I’m attempting to relax and you’re attempting to help me.  Flight staff should recognize me as a Traveler Under Pressure and all the other passengers should erupt into applause to facilitate my courage.  I should be allowed to get off the plane last so that I can enjoy a few more moments before being confronted with the reality of so much change.  On my way out, the flight crew, social worker and hypnotherapist should express warm wishes and assure me that that I’m fully equipped to make the most of this trip “home.”  (The Xanax and alcohol and deep breathing will have taken effect by then, so I will believe them.)  Finally, with Traveler Under Pressure Status, I should be able to make changes to my return ticket without penalty.  Because you understand what it’s like to go “home,” and you want me to know I always have a way out.

 

I’ve traveled a lot, you know, so I feel like I’ve seen just about everything.  I know you make accommodations for children and for the elderly and for people with assistance animals and for people with oxygen tanks and people who can’t walk. I’ve seen you work around canes and pacemakers and wheelchairs and cross-dressers and pregnant women and drunks.  You accommodate people who lost their ID, who accidentally threw away their boarding pass, who inadvertently boarded the wrong plane or who mistakenly got off before their final destination.  I know you try to be accommodating, so I’m just bringing it to your attention that you’ve neglected a whole class passengers with a profound disability—the inability to go home.

Sincerely,

SEE

Thanksgiving Break

Dear Family,

I can’t make it to Thanksgiving this year.  I can’t even come up with a reasonable excuse for why . . . I guess I'm supposed to tell you that I have to work this year?  Or maybe I should tell you that I can’t find anyone to keep my dog?  Neither of those things are true.  I don't have to work and I do have a pet sitter; I don’t have any excuses for not coming.  I can’t make it to Thanksgiving because I can’t.  I’m so, so sorry.  I’m not trying to punish anyone or prove a point.  I just don’t have it in me this year. 

The summer before last, Dad made a hasty (and hurtful) exit from our family. For several months, all any of us could talk about was Dad’s new girlfriend, Dad’s credit card bills, Dad’s ridiculous car payment, Dad’s more ridiculous claim for spousal maintenance,  Dad’s unemployment, Dad’s stupidity, Dad’s immorality, Dad’s insanity.  But once the shock wore off and the divorce negotiations were mostly finalized, our thoughts turned to the holidays.  We fretted and plotted and planned and decided that no more holidays should be spent at home.  Ever.  We planned elaborate (and expensive) trips away.  The strategy was to create so many new memories and experiences that no one would notice Dad’s absence.  If we just traveled often enough, maybe we wouldn’t miss our Dad?  Maybe we could even forget that we ever had a dad? 

As crazy as it sounds, it almost worked.  We spent an entire year coordinating plane reservations and rental car options and hotel locations.  There were group trips to Disney World, the State Fair of Texas, New Orleans, SxSW, Park City, Utah, and Montego Bay.  I traveled home at least one weekend a month (sometimes two) for minor events and milestones alike.  I spent countless hours of planning and coordinating the trips, packing and getting ready to leave, making the trip, coming home, unpacking.  After each trip, we’d exchange hundreds of digital pictures and then engage in heated debates about whether we had a single picture that could be used on the family Christmas card to convince everyone we know that we are just fine, thankyouverymuch.  It was like running marathon.  Run far and run fast . . . and don’t stop until you’re so far away that you can’t remember where you started.  And never, ever look back. 

After a year of running full steam ahead, I’m exhausted.  I can’t make another trip right now.  It isn’t the traveling that wears me out—I actually enjoy traveling.  It’s the pretending that’s killing me. Sometimes, we pretend that we never had a dad.  Most of the time, though, we pretend that Dad was the shittiest human being in the world.  (To be fair, Dad really might have been the shittiest husband in the world.)  We pretend it doesn’t bother us when Mom recounts the story of how Dad left her to every flight attendant, rental car agent, and tour guide.  We pretend that Dad’s girlfriend is evil.  We pretend that Mom’s boyfriend is a godsend.  We pretend that our baby brother is doing okay, and we ignore his profound loneliness.  We pretend that one of our parents is incapable of making a good decision.  We pretend that our other parent is incapable of making a bad one.  We pretend not to mind that Mom can’t maintain eye contact or a conversation because she’s working her iPhone like a 15  year-old girl.  We pretend not to notice our our baby brother storming off (and slamming doors) when Mom’s new boyfriend calls.  We pretend that it’s okay that Dad signed away his parental rights.  We pretend it’s okay that Mom paid him for that.  We pretend that we aren’t hurting.  We pretend that we don’t miss our Dad.  We pretend that our family isn’t broken. 

We are broken, each of us in our own way.  And all of that pretending otherwise has left me depleted, exhausted.  I feel like a nub of a human being . . . worn down emotionally to nothing but my base.  I have no more reserves.  I have nothing to give.  And I simply cannot stomach two more days of pretending right now.  So, I’ve decided to stay home for Thanksgiving.  I hope you can forgive me.  Over time, I’ve no doubt that we’ll develop a new sense of family identity.  I’m counting on that.  But this year, I'm going to need to take a break.

Sincerely,

SEE

To My Mom's New Boyfriend

Dear Lieutenant Tan-

Mom brags about you quite a bit.  She says you make her laugh, and we're grateful for that--she's had a rough year and she deserves to laugh.  Mom gloats when she tells us that you have a pension and a retirement. (You are 62 years old, so its not really that remarkable.)  Mom also gushes that you do your own laundry.  (Again, you are 62 years old, but I guess we're glad you wear clean clothes.)  You're probably a nice enough guy, but we need to talk.  

Let's start at the beginning.  You met Mom on Saturday, June 2.  You were headed to some war-torn country, Mom was on her way to family vacation.  The two of you exchanged e-mail addresses and became penpals.  We thought it was cute.  Within two weeks, you were speaking by satellite phone. We were happy that Mom had a new friend. 

You sent Mom flowers on July 2 to celebrate your "anniversary."  We were a little surprised and a little embarrassed, but we all carried on about how pretty the flowers were.  Then, a little more than one month after your chance meeting on a flight, you started using the L word. We were horrified.  You began soliciting bikini pics of our 52 year-old mom and she obliged.  That's right--my sweet brothers took camera phone pics of their own bikini-clad mother in the backyard swimming pool to facilitate your sexts.  They were mortified; I was livid. 

On August 2, you sent Mom flowers for your second "anniversary." Not wanting to encourage bad behavior, we didn't say anything to Mom about the flowers.  (Just so you know, baby's breath went out of style in 1996.)   Shortly thereafter, Mom started bragging about the fact that you speak to each other on the phone "morning, noon and night." We thought that was insane. Recently, we heard that you've already discussed how you'll split the bills after you're married.  We think that is bat-shit crazy.  Yesterday, I looked at the phone bill and discovered that you called Mom TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR times last month.  Yesterday, you called Mom at 12:56, 12:56, 1:03, 1:11, 1:11, 1:17: 1:17, 1:18, and again at 1:18. That's right, you called NINE times in 22 minutes.  Its time for an intervention.

You only met Mom once, so there are only two possible explanations for this kind of behavior: 

1.  You are a stalker; or

2.  You are really a sixth-grade boy.

Either way, we're not very impressed with you.  We've had enough crazy in our life and you seem to be compounding it.  While you obviously know an awful lot about assault rifles, I'm afraid you don't have a clue about healthy relationships.  (Neither does Mom, apparently, but this letter is to you.)  

Anyway, I'm writing to tell you that this could be your big opportunity.  You'll never be a hero in the Middle East, but you could easily become the hero in our family. All of us are desperate for reliability and stability and I'm asking you (begging you) to man up and take the lead here.  Please.  Since she's the only one we've got, maybe you could help Mom be a better parent?  Maybe you could could avoid calling repeatedly?  If that's too much to ask, then maybe you could just stop calling between 6-8 so that my brother can get through homework and dinner without becoming resentful about all your interruptions?  Maybe you could tell Mom you're thinking about her but insist that she spend as much time with her kids as she spends on the phone with you?  Maybe you could be a little less demanding and not call after 1 am so that Mom could sleep?  (She'll have more energy to give you and us if she isn't sleep-deprived.)  Maybe you could be the guy that shows my brothers how to treat women with respect?  Maybe you could help us see that stable, healthy relationships do exist? 

I know its a tall order, but a little self control would go a long way here, Lieutenant. Just stop making a fool of yourself.  And please, please stop making a fool of our Mom.  Shape up and we'll all be there in January when you come home.  We'll even give you a hero's welcome. 

Sincerely,

SEE  (and her siblings)

The (New) Gathering Spot.

Dear Siblings-

Today is the one-year anniversary of the weekend Dad dropped the nuclear bomb on our family.  In the beginning, we clung to Mom.  But the effects of nuclear fallout have made Mom unrecognizable one year later.  With Mom and Dad moving on and moving in to more serious relationships, I feel like the infrastructure of our family is in peril.  Will we ever be together again?  And if we are, what will it look like?  Will Mom's new boyfriend bring his military-issued assault rifle to the Thanksgiving table?  Will Dad invite us over to the apartment he now shares with the other woman for pancakes on Christmas morning?

As the eldest (and bossiest), I have taken it upon myself to begin shopping for HUGE dining room tables.  (Never mind that I don't cook, and I haven't the faintest idea how to host large groups--I'll learn.)  The point is that we are still family and we can still have family get togethers.  I'm going to have a dining room table big enough for all of us.   Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Labor Day, summer breaks, long weekends.  Consider yourself invited.  The table will have enough room for each of our significant others too.  But no assault rifles, please.

Sincerely,
SEE

Sometimes Roses Stink.

Dear Shakespeare-

I realize you've been dead nearly 400 years, but I believe you may have overlooked something obvious. When you wrote, "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."  you assumed that roses smell sweet.  Unfortunately, Shakespeare, sometimes roses stink.

Earlier this year, I went with my mom to have her decades-long marriage to my father officially terminated in court.  Afterwards, we went back to her lawyer's office to get copies of everything. Before the ink on the copies was dry, Mom asked her lawyer to keep his eyes out for any potential dates for her.  Mom made (and continues to make) the same request of her landscaper, dentist, housekeeping crew, pool cleaner, neighbors, HVAC repairman, pharmacist, clergymen, co-workers and children. 

About a month ago, Mom made friends with the guy seated next to her on the plane.  Lieutenant Tan* was headed oversees to some war-torn desert place. Mom and Lieutenant Tan exchanged e-mail addresses and then phone numbers.  Apparently, they talk on satellite phone every day now.  Earlier this week, Mom blasted e-mail pictures of the flowers Lieutenant Tan sent to her at her office.  Mom insists she and Lieutenant Tan are just penpals, but do penpals send red roses?  I think not. 

Amid countless other changes in the past year, I am now trying to get comfortable with a mom who likes to flutter and gush about her new social life. I know its normal for Mom to want to get out and date.  I know this is Mom's "time," whatever that means.  I know I should be happy for her and her I am genuinely trying to be supportive of her new romantic endeavors. But flowers?  Already?

It was thoughtful and romantic when Dad gave Mom flowers.  These roses from Lieutenant Tan feel completely different.  These roses mean that Mom is moving on.  These roses mean that Mom is pursuing a relationship with someone who can't possibly love me as much as Dad did.  These roses mean that Mom has a whole new life . . . and I'm not sure where I'll fit in to it. These roses stink.

Shakespeare, in the future, it would be helpful if you clarified blanket statements about roses smelling sweet.  If you'd given me some warning about the complexity of families or the insecurities of watching your parents date strangers they meet on airplanes, I might have been more prepared for this moment. I might have known that sometimes, roses stink.

Sincerely,

SEE

*Name changed to protect the innocent flower-bearer.