The New Year, as it were
Jan. 1st, 2004 01:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thrihyrneIt is both blessing and curse to be a stepparent. A parent. Apparent.
It’s New Year’s morn, now, after an evening with my husband and my [step]children, Emma and Sam, currently ages 12 and 10. I shall not have children of “my own,” as is said. But these are mine, though I did not bear them myself.
It isn’t pervy in any way when I get to snuggle with Sam, ‘scratching back,’ as was the impetus for this fanfiction story (can't do the silly HTML, but it's at parma-eruseen.net, entitled "Another Mother's Son." By Thevina.) And when he shifts to his side, the SpongeBob Square Pants comforter re-drifting over us, I continue to rake short fingernails over his smooth and narrow back and he says in his sleepy voice, “Good. You aren’t going anywhere.”
And my heart breaks, but reassembles itself into nice fragments so that I can continue to work his back until I know he is fully asleep, and then I can extricate myself and go to his sister’s room. She is more sophisticated, on the front edge of 13, but I can still (unlike her biological father, my husband) crawl into her bed with her, under the well-worn comforter, under the crocheted blanket made by her paternal grandmother whom I never knew, and scratch back for her as well. I know she won’t fall asleep while I’m still there, but she is grateful for the physical affection, and I, too, for her emotional affection. She is still young enough that I can kiss her forehead, and push stray hairs behind her ears, and tell her that I love her and that I look forward to seeing her in the morning, and we’ll have biscuits and bacon and Happy New Year, and she says in response, also somewhat sleepily, “Me, too.”
She tolerates my writing, and has even read a couple of stories, probably more than my husband has. Tolkien isn’t his interest. Mostly, I think, she appreciates me for the fact that I taught her how to shag (the dance, not the British term!) and this evening, how to tango, sortof. That we can shag to Chumbawamba and Fountains of Wayne and Moxy Fruvous and any other CD she would put on is quite the coup. I’m certainly the oddest parent around.
The cats are now tearing apart the wrapping paper from our Christmas celebrated this evening prior to New Year’s, when we had hot chocolate (the kids) and sparkling white wine (hubby and self), spending much of the evening laughing ourselves to tears watching the Weird Al Yankovich DVD that their stepfather got for them. Poor Emma and Sam are too young to have actually seen the MTV original videos that he has parodied; they are near and dear to my heart. Hysterical. We had to watch the Nirvana parody three times in a row, and Emma, Sam and I were all gargling in trio with the video by the end. As Emma said, none of her friends can say that they had a New Year’s like ours. We followed that up with some Conan O’Brien, who observes the coming in of the New Year for the much-maligned Central Time Zone, then we began watching “The Nightmare Before Christmas” until around 1 o’clock when we all got tired.
What an odd, lovely, exquisitely unique way to herald one of the shorter days of the year.
Hubby is now clenching up the wrapping paper and taking them out to our recycling bin so that he can sleep. The cats tend to be rather rambunctious this time of night, and resist all cozy attempts to sleep with us.
It must be good to be a cat.
Had a great run today; my 3 1/2 miler, but by the end my left foot really hurt, due to trying to run in 10 year old running shoes. Oh well. The blister will heal. Feeling remotely healthy. (she says, enjoying some more champagne)
Happy New Year, my friends.
It’s New Year’s morn, now, after an evening with my husband and my [step]children, Emma and Sam, currently ages 12 and 10. I shall not have children of “my own,” as is said. But these are mine, though I did not bear them myself.
It isn’t pervy in any way when I get to snuggle with Sam, ‘scratching back,’ as was the impetus for this fanfiction story (can't do the silly HTML, but it's at parma-eruseen.net, entitled "Another Mother's Son." By Thevina.) And when he shifts to his side, the SpongeBob Square Pants comforter re-drifting over us, I continue to rake short fingernails over his smooth and narrow back and he says in his sleepy voice, “Good. You aren’t going anywhere.”
And my heart breaks, but reassembles itself into nice fragments so that I can continue to work his back until I know he is fully asleep, and then I can extricate myself and go to his sister’s room. She is more sophisticated, on the front edge of 13, but I can still (unlike her biological father, my husband) crawl into her bed with her, under the well-worn comforter, under the crocheted blanket made by her paternal grandmother whom I never knew, and scratch back for her as well. I know she won’t fall asleep while I’m still there, but she is grateful for the physical affection, and I, too, for her emotional affection. She is still young enough that I can kiss her forehead, and push stray hairs behind her ears, and tell her that I love her and that I look forward to seeing her in the morning, and we’ll have biscuits and bacon and Happy New Year, and she says in response, also somewhat sleepily, “Me, too.”
She tolerates my writing, and has even read a couple of stories, probably more than my husband has. Tolkien isn’t his interest. Mostly, I think, she appreciates me for the fact that I taught her how to shag (the dance, not the British term!) and this evening, how to tango, sortof. That we can shag to Chumbawamba and Fountains of Wayne and Moxy Fruvous and any other CD she would put on is quite the coup. I’m certainly the oddest parent around.
The cats are now tearing apart the wrapping paper from our Christmas celebrated this evening prior to New Year’s, when we had hot chocolate (the kids) and sparkling white wine (hubby and self), spending much of the evening laughing ourselves to tears watching the Weird Al Yankovich DVD that their stepfather got for them. Poor Emma and Sam are too young to have actually seen the MTV original videos that he has parodied; they are near and dear to my heart. Hysterical. We had to watch the Nirvana parody three times in a row, and Emma, Sam and I were all gargling in trio with the video by the end. As Emma said, none of her friends can say that they had a New Year’s like ours. We followed that up with some Conan O’Brien, who observes the coming in of the New Year for the much-maligned Central Time Zone, then we began watching “The Nightmare Before Christmas” until around 1 o’clock when we all got tired.
What an odd, lovely, exquisitely unique way to herald one of the shorter days of the year.
Hubby is now clenching up the wrapping paper and taking them out to our recycling bin so that he can sleep. The cats tend to be rather rambunctious this time of night, and resist all cozy attempts to sleep with us.
It must be good to be a cat.
Had a great run today; my 3 1/2 miler, but by the end my left foot really hurt, due to trying to run in 10 year old running shoes. Oh well. The blister will heal. Feeling remotely healthy. (she says, enjoying some more champagne)
Happy New Year, my friends.
