Just Shoot Me

Not having any great ideas for lunch, today, I thought 'Why not pizza? The kids LOVE pizza!'

Riiiiiiiiiight.

I call the nearest Dominos. "Do you deliver to 900 Fairview?" The kid on the other end says, "Are you east or west of Strand?" "We're on the corner of Strand and Fairview," I answer. "Which corner?" Damn. He's not giving up on this. "The southeast corner." "We don't deliver east of Strand." "But! But! To deliver to my neighbor on the WEST side of Strand, you have to park in MY driveway!" ARRGGH! I thank him for all his "help," and begin searching for another pizza provider. Note to self: No more Dominos EVER!

I finally settle on a Little Caesars nearby. They don't deliver, but they also don't care which side of the bloody street I live on. I place an order for a plain cheese pizza (Eddy's only choice in pizza) and a meat pizza with sausage, pepperoni, and bacon. They assure me my order will be ready for pickup in 15 minutes. Excellent!

As I get into the car, I see Eddy at the front door, "Where ya goin?!" "I'm going to pick up the pizza, Eddy."

He looks concerned. "It's not delivery pizza?"
"No, honey, they don't deliver here."
"Soooooo it's not... Dominos?"
"No, honey, not this time."

Now he's really concerned, chewing his lip and his forehead creased in a frown. "Will it be hot and fresh?" he asks. Okay, now he's parroting commercials. "Eddy, it will be hot and fresh. I'm leaving now."

Twenty minutes later, I return home, "hot and fresh" pizzas in hand. The kids are seated expectantly at the table, seemingly eager for pizza.

Riiiiiiiiiight.

Detailed accounts of this meal are probably not required. Suffice to say, Sherry didn't like either kind, and Eddy ate his every bit as eagerly as if he'd been presented with a plateful of used cat-litter. To his credit, he didn't gag, wretch, or complain excessively; he did use good manners and finish his serving. My expectations (and hopes) are sinking like stones, so that's plenty enough to make me grateful and call it a success where he was concerned.

I turn to Sherry. "Honey? Do you realize that I try really hard to get things that will please you and make you happy?" "No." "Well I do. And I have to tell you, especially lately, I don't feel like I can do anything to please you or make you happy." She looks at me, doesn't know quite what to say. I excuse myself and go lie down for a nap. My sleep-quality is for shit, so I'm always tired. And naps, I find, are the last refuge of the struggling step-parent.

Night Tears

Honestly, I just don't get it.

A couple of months ago, when both Sherry and Eddy were insisting they weren't tired enough to go to bed, I introduced them to 'vanilla milk,' with the assurance to both that it would help them sleep.

This was something I'd done with my own kids years earlier, and it genuinely seemed to help them get to sleep. It's not difficult nor fancy, about 6 oz of milk, 1 tsp of sugar, and several drops of real vanilla extract; the milk is then warmed in the microwave for about 45 seconds. In any case, the vanilla milk was a success, and both kids began to look forward to it each evening before bed. Since I firmly believe bedtime "rituals" are important, I was happy to oblige.

Two nights ago, both kids were permitted to stay up a bit late and play their favorite video games. Since it was later than usual, we skipped the vanilla milk and went straight to the toothbrushing and bed. In tucking in Sherry, I was surprised to find her big blue eyes full of unshed tears, her bottom lip quivering slightly. "Sherry? What's wrong?"

She wipes her tears on her blanket, takes a deep breath, and assures me nothing is wrong. Uh huh. Meryl Streep, meet Sherry, she'll be succeeding you at the Academy Awards someday. "What's the matter, Sweetie? You're obviously very upset about something." Cue the tears.

In a quavering voice, Sherry tells me, "It's just that ... we didn't get any VANILLA MILK tonight!" and the tears begin falling in earnest.

"Sherry, honey, I love you very much. And if anything serious were wrong I'd sure want to help any way I could. But honestly... I'm finding this silly. So dry your tears. We'll have vanilla milk tomorrow night, okay?" "Okay."

As I close her door I wonder if I'll ever stop disappointing her.

Last night, determined to avoid my clear and obvious fuckup of the night before, I make sure there's plenty of time and a little energy to prepare and present the vanilla milk just before the kids go up to bed. Teeth have been brushed, clothes and toys put away, and the milk-ritual observed with due care. All seems well.

I tuck Eddy in first. "Goodnight, sweetheart. I hope you have a wonderful sleep! I love you."
"Goodnight," he tells me, "luv ya." I kiss his forehead and back out of the room.

Next is Sherry. I stand beside her bed and tell her, "You guys were sure great tonight, thank you!" She won't meet my eyes, but nods in response. Uh oh.

"Sherry?" "hmmm?"

"Sherry, look at me."

She raises her face to meet mine, and once again her blue eyes are welling and full of tears. Her bottom lip quivers, a promise of tears to come. "What's the matter, honey? What is it?"

Her tears begin falling, fulfilling the promise of the quivering lip, and she answers me, her voice so cracked and choked that I can't even understand her.

"Sherry, take a deep breath. Good. Now, look at me and tell me where I can understand you-- what is wrong??"

"It's just that I wanted to ask you something and now it's too late--I'm already in bed and now I KNOW you won't let me and Eddy sleep in the family room tonight!"

Huh? Family room? What the...? Where the hell did THIS come from? The whole "sleep in the family room" saga was an ongoing thing; the kids' bedrooms in their "other house" have televisions with cable (and no supervision). Since we don't allow television in the kids' rooms, here, they occasionally weasel around it by getting permission to sleep on the couches in the family room. The television, of course, stays on all night during these events. Blecch.

As I look at Sherry's bed, her pink satin curtains, the beautiful white lace canopy (MY idea) over her bed, her new dresser and shelves... and MY Monet prints on her sky-blue walls, I feel a bubble of rage and pain begin to form inside me. Was her room not GOOD enough? Did we not spend enough time, money, and effort on it?! Was the absence of an IDIOT BOX so dreadful that it was preferable to sleep on a loveseat just to be near one?! She has the biggest, nicest goddamn bedroom in the HOUSE. Our PRINCESS spends 14 nights a month there, and it's... not GOOD enough? My anger takes hold like a flash and I'm consumed...frustrated... hurt... and just fucking PISSED.

"Sherry," I tell her, in a carefully modulated and controlled voice that she KNOWS means I'm angry, "I will never answer that question again. From now on, you will discuss sleeping in the family room with your Dad, and only your Dad. I do have to wonder, though, what's wrong with your bedroom that you don't want to spend time in here?"

"Nothing's wrong with it," she assures me. "You just don't want to SLEEP in it, is that right?" "Yes. No. I mean-- I DO want to sleep in it." Her tears have stopped and we are now in a different place with this "discussion."

"Sherry, I hope you have a wonderful sleep. Goodnight, and I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight."

I close the door as I leave the room, and I wonder... can I keep doing this? It's not good for me, I'm sure of it. And it can't be good for the kids. So why am I bothering? And what really IS the matter here?

No answers materialize and I return downstairs, angry, hurt, and fearful for our futures.

Sloppy Josephine

I'm told we're having a special lunch, today. :) I'm told that Sherry has chosen this lunch, and that she's very excited about it. "Oh?" I look at Sherry. "What are we having, honey?" "Sloppy Joes!" Oh dear. I mentally run through the ingredient list for canned sloppy-joe mix... bell peppers, onions, tomato sauce... oh dear.

"Sherry, sweetheart? Have you ever actually HAD sloppy-joes?" She looks at me as though saddened by the realization of the depths of my ignorance. "Of COURSE I have," she answers. "I eat them at school all the time!" Oh dear.

"What's Eddy having?" I ask Paul. "He's having buttered noodles." Ah. Well, at least one of the kids will eat today. And how's this for a twist... I HATE sloppy joes. Oh dear.

Paul is bustling happily in the kitchen, always pleased to be able to prepare nice meals for his family. God, I love that man. He turns and smiles at me, "I'm serving them on those wonderful onion rolls, too!" Oh dear. I glance quickly at Sherry... yes, she heard him. And yes, her mouth is pressed tight into a slight frown. Oh dear.

A few minutes later, a serving of sloppy-joe appears at my place at the table. It's as lovely a presentation of this dish as I've ever seen. Identical portions, each as lovely as mine, grace Sherry and Paul's places at the table, too. Eddy's plate is covered in warm, buttery noodles, topped with fresh parmesan cheese. We're seated, and the meal begins.

Eddy's noodles are a big hit. Buttered noodles are one of his favorite "dishes," and he's careful to observe good table manners while still eating enthusiastically. I compliment him on his excellent manners and receive a thumbs-up in response.

I've eaten about half of my sloppy-joe, now, and sure enough, I still don't like the damn things. Yuck. At least I can appreciate the effort that went into them, and how well-prepared they are.

A look at Sherry and her progress is not encouraging. She's meticulously picking tiny bits of burger-meat and wiping off as much sauce as possible, then nibbling the burger bites; the supporting onion rolls are untouched beneath the sauce and meat mixture. Oh dear.

I catch Paul's eye and frown toward Sherry's plate.

"Sherry? Honey? Why aren't you eating? I thought you were really looking forward to this meal, sweetheart." Sherry looks up at him, answering, "Daddy... I don't like the bread." Damn. I knew she'd heard the word "onion roll" earlier. Oh dear. Paul laughs and tells her, "Sherry, there's no way that bread tastes any different under all that sauce from any other bun or bread that you've had in the past. And besides, you haven't even TRIED a bite of it. Eat up, sweetie."

A few minutes later, I'm finished eating. I didn't like it, but could appreciate it. And it was filling. I smile at Paul and thank him for the lunch. Almost reflexively, we both glance at Sherry's plate; nothing has really changed, there. Paul sighs. Oh dear.

"Sherry? Why aren't you eating your lunch, honey? I made it specially for you." Sherry sighs, unconsciously mimicking her father's frustration and defeat. "I don't like it, Daddy. I don't want to eat it." "Sherry! You ASKED for it! I bought the ingredients because YOU asked for it! What's wrong with it?!" "It isn't like what they serve at school." Oh dear.

"FINE. Scrape your plate in the trash. Next time you want to ask for a particular meal, don't bother." Sherry scrapes her plate, then returns to her place at the table. "Daddy?" she asks, "What's for dessert?"