Brave Ones

09.28.06

I have always admired the mavericks who have their own style, their own ideas, and their own way of getting through life.  I’ve never been part of the “in” crowd and never wanted to be – I was always more like a sideline observer.

 

So.  When my step-teenagers showed up with blue hair and black hair and wristbands and skulls and crosses and heavy metal blasting in their ears… well, I thought they were kind of awesome.  There is a bravery in displaying individuality that I have always admired.

 

It’s been a while since we’ve seen these kids.  Okay, it’s been a long, long while.  Years.  The specific reason for that pretty much boils down to rotten communication skills between parents.  I’d say all the adults involved need to accept their share of blame and fear and misunderstanding, and how about we leave it at that?  Perfect.

 

I’d recognize my step-daughter anywhere.  She looks like herself and acts like herself.  Bright and organized and knows her own mind.  Even the blue hair didn’t trip me up.  I suppose I did blink a time or two and think, “Whoa, that’s really blue!”  This is  a girl with a plan.  Smart girl.  She knew what she needed at the mall, where to find it, and how to make the most of her money.  But even still, you know she’s got to be fun, I mean, with blue hair and all.  And brave.  I think it takes a certain amount of courage to run around your life with blue hair.  Oh!  Did I mention she’s tall and slim and self-assured… and quite beautiful, really.  Even with blue hair.

 

My step-son – whoa!  I’d have never recognized him in a million years.  And not because of his clothes or his hair or even his height… just that some boys change so much as they grow – it’s rather astounding, really.  More than once I caught myself staring at him thinking, “Wow, where’d my little blondie go?”  He’s tall and lanky, black hair in his eyes, black wrist cuffs and half-fingered gloves, crazy pants big enough for five of him, with pockets and buckles, and a wallet on a chain.  All accessorized with skulls and silver crosses.

 

The first thing he asked me, with excited expectation was, “Do you like Korn?”  Oh, how I wanted to say, “Yeah, they rock!” but I was so busy looking for the little boy I used to know in that face that what I really thought was, “What, on the cob?”  I think I clued in before he realized I was a complete thirty-five-year-old-mother-kind-of-person.  The truth is Korn sort of gives me the nervous jitters.  Flashback to my own mother saying, “Ack!  Turn that music down – I’m having an anxiety attack!” 

 

We’re all new at this.  In fact, visits are so few and far-between that it seems like we’re always new at this, always working on getting to know each other again, and that makes my throat all tight and achy.  And it’s not that they’re difficult to like – it was such a happy rush to have them here that I had trouble falling asleep.  My heart just wants to explode with love for them, and it’s when they’re here that everything we’ve missed feels so terrible and real.

 

Now I bet you’re wondering what Little Miss thought of her older brother and sister, hmm?  Well, she thought they were the best.  The nights they were here she stayed up until almost midnight, afraid that if she went to sleep they’d disappear.  On Sunday, when the teenagers were getting ready for Dad to take them home, she had a melt-down.  A regular old tantrum with tears and sobs and begging for them to not leave.  Would that it were that simple, right?  I think my husband, in his careful way of keeping his emotions buried, was having a silent tantrum right along with her.

 

Being apart sucks. 

 

But anyway.  Here are my golden words of wisdom for these beautiful young people:  Stay in school.  Don’t do meth.  Oh yeah… and come back soon, k?