A stepparenting rulebook: uncertainty, regret, and ironing

I don't believe any child ever spends his or her formative years thinking, "When I grow up, I want to be a stepparent." Kids might dream of becoming a mom or dad one day, but the once-removed nature of stepparenting isn't easily to understand, let alone aspire to.

I became a stepparent nearly nearly seven years ago, and like most stepparents, I didn't break down and separate the relationships -- e.g., today I'm getting married, and today I'm also forming important-but-undefined relationships with four other humans. I assumed, as I'm sure most people do, that everything would simply fall into place.

There's so much to be written on the topic. But suffice it to say that in my opinion, step-relationships are difficult because they are so undefined -- to coin a cliche, there's no rulebook. And if you happen to have multiple stepkids, each relationship is going to be unique.

So many variables play into the relationship: Is the child's other parent still living? How much time does the child spend with that person? How does the other parent feel about you, the stepparent, and about your relationship with the child?

How contentious was the parents' divorce, and to what degree was the child involved and impacted? How old is the child, and what's his or her basic personality and temperament? And to put it simply: Does the child like you?

All those translate to roughly 8 million variables that, on most days, can seem to conspire against success.

Stepparenting is not for the faint of heart, the thin of skin, and the easily defeated. It's not the natural order of things, the way things are supposed to transpire. And unless you're very fortunate, it can bring you to your knees on a regular basis.

But then, there are days you have enough presence of mind to think of it like this:

When the child whose life you entered when he was not quite 5 is getting ready to go to his first school dance, and you're ironing his clothes. You know he doesn't really care who is ironing them; he's far more concerned, probably, with trying to figure out how the heck a school dance works, and how, to a larger degree, the whole dating thing works.

But the ironing, to you, exemplifies what being a stepparent is all about: Not Cinderella-type drudgery, but the behind-the-scenes nature of the job. You're not the one who ever gets kudos for anything, nor should you be, and you're good with that. But you've become pretty good at the little unseen things that let the child, and his parents, know that you want to help that child thrive and succeed.

As you iron, you think about teaching that child to read. You think about the eggshells you've walked on so as not to smother him; you think about the time his eyebrows fell out and how you tried not to draw attention to the fact that he looked like an alien. You think about the fact that you can't really hug him, because A. he's 15 and B. he doesn't want you to.

And you think about the time that you broke the news to him that his good friend had died. And because you're not the parent but the stepparent, and you have your own kids to attend to, you had to leave the house immediately after delivering that horrible news. And you think about how you've always somehow regretted the way things had worked out that day, as you drove away and left his dad, who's not always comfortable with feelings, to deal with the most awful thing that had ever happened in the child's life.

You think about the fact that even though this is not your child, you have a history with him. But you've consciously tried not to overstep your bounds, because your own children have stepparents, too, and you know how it feels to be on the other side. So sometimes you've chosen to hang back.

But in the end, although such relationships are complicated, you hope, somehow, that your meager contribution to your stepson's big night -- the ironing of the shirt and the pants -- can convey the fact that even though you never really know what your place is, you really, truly do care.

Joined at the hip? Not a chance, and it works just fine.

A couple of months ago, I was getting ready to go to the grocery store, and my husband was getting ready to do something else. My 15-year-old stepson ascended the stairs from his cavernous lair (otherwise known as the Man Cave, where his bed, his X-Box and cases of Mountain Dew live), shielded his eyes from the 1 p.m. "morning" sunshine, and asked, "Why don't you guys ever go to the store together?"

Well, for starters, until the new Hy-Vee came along, going to the grocery store wasn't fun. Neither my husband nor I enjoyed it, so I tended to slog through the big weekly trips while he handled the quick stops for dog food or paper towels. Dividing and conquering works well for us in many areas of life, and that's one of them ... and I had never really thought much about our way of doing things until Logan asked.

But then I started thinking about his question. Did he see his dad and me as not together enough? Did his mom and stepdad or friends' parents hang out together more? It's true: Kevin and I have never been joined at the hip. We married later in life, after we already had children and careers and interests. We're each pretty independent anyway, and our time alone had made us even more so. So by the time we decided to tie the knot, our lives and interests and activities were already in place.

That's not to say we didn't -- or we don't -- enjoy our time with one another. Kevin is probably one of the funniest people I know, and we enjoy some of the same things and have really great talks. But do we need to spend every waking moment together? Heavens, no. I don't want to spend every waking moment with anybody.

One of my best friends is most comfortable being with her husband nearly all the time. They shop for groceries together. They run errands together. They have the same hobbies. Similarly, a guy at work can't seem to function without near-constant time with his wife. More power to them, as their relationships really seem to work.

But then, we go to restaurants and we see this: couples our age or maybe a little older, sitting across from one another with nothing to say, looking bored and irritated. Couples who have run out of things to talk about.

Kevin and I don't run out of conversation. We both have jobs that are at least somewhat interesting to the other person, and our favorite separate pastimes are creative ones: I write. He builds things. We're both devoted to our children, and similarly obsessed with our dog. We agree about politics, morals, ethics -- all the big things. And as I mentioned, he makes me laugh. Hard.

Along with my children, he got me through my dad's illness and death. I like to think I was able to offer him some comfort when he lost his dad. He's been there for quite a few surgeries, and he even, as I've noted, once caught my vomit in a basin in midair and didn't even flinch.

I went to Europe without him; I went to the State Fair without him. I sure as heck go to the grocery store without him. He often goes to see family in Illinois without me. But when I'm the one who's been gone and I walk in the door after time apart, I'm really, really happy to see him. He represents "home" to me.

And I think it's pretty unlikely that anyone will ever catch us at Perkins glaring at each other across the table with nothing to say.

Cutting the Apron Strings: How's That Supposed to Work, Again?

When I'm willing to be truthful with myself, I have to admit that parenting older children is all about the relevance. My own relevance, that is.

It’s a sad fact of our existence (cue the Lion King “Circle of Life” music) that that as our children age, we become less relevant to them. When they’re little, their entire lives revolve around us, and ours around them as well; in the most real sense, after all, we’re trusted with keeping them alive.

But then something really underhanded transpires: Their grasp on us loosens and they begin inching away, and before long, they’re gone altogether. And we’re left wondering what in the world just happened.

My kids are -- could it be? -- almost 24 and almost 21 now. It’s safe to say that because they’ve constituted the area of my life into which I’ve most totally immersed myself, I’m a little unmoored these days. I’ve really, really enjoyed being their mother, and with a couple of notable hiccups, I think I’ve been pretty good at it. And I know that while my job will never been finished in a figurative sense, I also need to face the fact that each of them could get along just fine without me.

So, you see, as an intellectual individual, I understand how it works. So why is it that I keep grasping?

Let me say this right off the bat: I’m a busy person. I work full-time, and I also maintain what constitutes a full-time freelance-writing business on the side. Most nights, I’m covering events or writing stories. I have a husband whom I love and enjoy spending time with, and we have a high-maintenance dog. So it’s not as though I don’t have a life.

It’s just that the life I have is so different from the one I lived for so long. And I’m not sure what to do with myself if -- emotionally, anyway -- no one needs me anymore.

Here’s what Caroline would say right now: “Mom, stop being dramatic and feeling sorry for yourself.” Well, Caroline, I’m Italian and I’m right-brained, so to some degree, I’m guilty as charged. But I’m truly not trying to immerse myself in pity; I'm trying to determine how all this supposed to work. And I also wonder sometimes if I’m the only person who feels this way.

Some of my friends love having an empty nest. They’re living like college kids, albeit ones with more money. I’m sort of jealous, as I just can’t get into that groove.

The reasons might be as simple as accepting my heritage. It’s stereotypical and demeaning to assume that all Italian mothers emotionally smother their kids … right? If not, I’ll just go with that. (Visit YouTube and watch a few scenes from the movie Moonstruck. That’s my family.) In all seriousness, though, I come from a long line of matriarchal women who like to make sure everyone is well-fed and happy. I’m not much of a cook, but I have the nurturing thing down pat.

I realize that sometime soon, I’ll need to begin making changes. I anticipate both my kids will marry eventually, and I don’t want to scare their spouses; I also don’t want to be an overbearing grandmother who insists on offering unwanted advice. I want to remain close to my kids, but I want them to be able to count on my knowing my boundaries.

I also want to continue to be relevant to them, though. I don’t want to be the old lady who doesn’t matter. I want -- as we all desire in the important areas of our lives, I think - to continue to add value.

In all other areas of life, Mother Nature seems to have it right. As we age, hormones change and help us shift our focus from making babies to raising them; we focus less on the laws of attraction and more on creating stable, sturdy, reliable environments for our kids. That’s not to say that we stop being individuals, but we stop being entirely self-focused and self-centered ones. Why, then, can’t the same fluctuations allow us to love our children not quite so fiercely?

I suppose, to some degree, this will all take care of itself, and it might all be OK; after all, I’m trying to keep a respectful distance from Scott’s decisions about where his life will take him next, and, on an albeit smaller scale,I wasn’t even taken aback when Caroline said she didn’t a ride to the airport because her boyfriend was taking her.

I'm trying to do better. But I'll also promise you this: Wherever my kids go next, and no matter how respectful a distance I’m able to keep, it won’t stop me from fretting over whether they make sure to eat a good meal before they get started.

Hey -- it's all about the baby steps.

Magic in their hands, food in my yard

Food is growing out of my yard. That that can happen has never ceased to amaze me.

For Mother's Day this year, Kevin bought me dirt. And dirt, luckily for him, was just what I wanted. He had tilled part of our yard last summer with the hope of putting a garden in, but ended up getting busy with a few dozen other things. And with my knee pain an 11 on a scale of 1 to 10 prior to my surgery, I didn't push it.

But this spring, after healing from this year's health woes and starting to feel pretty darned good, I was ready. So I may have whined just a little, and he surprised me with some beautiful black soil.

And into it, we burrowed some tiny seeds, as well as some starter plants made available to us by a generous neighbor. Growing from seed is really my preference; you have to wait longer, but what a sense of accomplishment.

Kevin texted me at work the other day. "Carrots!" the text said. And today, it was "Peas!" And sure enough, when I got home, I saw what you see in the photo above.

We're growing food. And that thrills me.

Kevin and I both have good jobs. We've never gone hungry. But there's something about knowing you're helping to provide for your family through your two hands and Mother Nature -- something much more satisfying than wheeling a cart around the grocery store.

When my kids were little, I gardened, and they helped me. We harvested potatoes, carrots, pumpkins, enough peas for one dinner (and I burned them!), and enough raspberries to feed the neighborhood. I still remember how thrilled the kids were to stuff the berries into their chubby little faces as we waited on the front porch for the kindergarten bus.

Their chubby little faces -- not so chubby now -- are in their own apartments now. But I know they share the memories.

Gardening also ties me to the more distant past. In the 19-teens, my grandparents -- both sets -- came to this country, like so many, in search of a better opportunity. They brought little but some clothing and meager belongings, yet they had magic in their hands. One of my grandparents died before I was born, and two more passed away the year I turned four. Yet I've seen the pictures and heard the stories, and I'm pretty sure I have a few snapshots in my own head.

My Grandpa Joe's meticulous gardens on Sixth and Jefferson with their straight, straight rows and splashes of color. My Nana's vegetable garden in her back yard that looked out on St. Anthony's school; I remember her hunched over, pulling peppers, in her black house dress and white apron. To me, her house forever held the smell of vine-ripened tomatoes, big as cantaloupes, stewing in olive oil.

Their wealth was in the food that grew from the ground they cultivated. I wish I remembered more about them, but I like to think that as they passed from this world to the next, they whispered something in my ear and slipped a little magic into my hands.

I can't sing, I can't play an instrument, and I can't throw a football. But I can make food grow from my yard. Each time it happens, it amazes me. And this year, I'll try hard not to burn the peas.

The world is so big, and the world is so small.

As I acclimate to being back home after traveling through Europe for the better part of two weeks, two things continue to strike me:

The world is so big. And the world is so small.

The first idea is a pretty simple one to grasp: Our planet is a big place. Despite the degree to which we all believe we’re globally minded, most of us also live our lives within a radius of a few miles. In other words, while I was aware of the existence of Stonehenge, I hadn’t been terribly bothered by the fact that I hadn’t actually seen in real life. But now that I’ve seen it, I know there’s so very much I’m missing.

I’m also newly aware, though, that no matter where I travel, people are really not a whole lot different from one another. I’ll always believe that by and large, people are good – and I saw that theory bolstered time and time again as we traveled through England, Wales and Ireland.

People want to smile and laugh and hug. They want to welcome you. And they want to know that you appreciate the places they call home. And the old adage is true: People may not remember what you said, but they’ll remember how you made them feel.

I don’t remember the specifics of my conversation with the old men outside a church in Wales, for example, but recall their words about my daughter and the other singers in the choir: how beautiful the “children” were. And how they “sang like the angels.” And how my eyes filled as I grasped the enormity of where I was and how I was feeling at that moment.

And the connections were not solely with the residents of these other countries. They were with some of the students I hadn’t really known prior to this trip, and with some of the adults who shared my “chaperone-but-really-not-a-chaperone” status.

Thousands of miles from home, I connected with Kathi about the joys and challenges of parenting adult children, and with Michele about the similarities in the temperaments of our daughters. I bonded with Anna, who can’t decide whether she should look for a first job far from home, and with Sophie, who missed her mom. And I cried as I listened to several students who, on the last night, stood and talked about what their years in the Drake Choir had meant to them.

And I connected in different ways with my own children. We saw the same sights and heard the same beautiful sounds, and when we look back on the trip in years to come, our frames of reference will be much the same.

Photos can’t do this trip justice; they can’t compare, at least, to the pictures in my own head as I think back over the 12 days I existed in a realm far different from the one in which I usually find myself. The choir members maintained a common blog about the tour, and one student’s comment stays with me: “These are the memories we’ll talk about when we’re in the nursing home.”

Indeed. But I also have a strong suspicion I’ll also find reason to bring them up every day between now and then.

(Photo courtesy of Dave Collier, official tour photographer)

I practiced "attachment parenting" before it was in TIME Magazine.

I was one of those new mothers who, as the nurse prepared to discharge my baby and me from the hospital, turned to my husband and said, "They're letting us take him?"

"He" is now 23, having survived my bumbling attempts at navigating his babyhood. What saved me in the long run is something that's being talked about quite a bit now because of the TIME Magazine cover featuring a woman breastfeeding a preschooler: attachment parenting.

But back in "my day" -- I can't quite believe I'm writing that -- I didn't know what it was called. It was simply instinctive, and it worked for me.

I wore my colicky baby in a sling. His dad and I didn't let him "cry it out." I breastfed him "on demand" -- such a weird term -- because he didn't seem to know he was supposed to be hungry only every two or three or four hours. Besides, it was the one thing that seemed to soothe him.

He slept with his dad and me; at first, we chose the "family bed" because it was really the only way any of us could get any rest. (Believe me when I tell you that my child slept for 20-minute intervals, and that was basically all. I began to understand why sleep deprivation is commonly used as a torture method.) But after a while, we realized we enjoyed the comfort of resting all together.

Members of my family, all well-meaning, thought I was insane. First of all, I had put my career on hiatus to stay home, and money was more than tight. Second, attachment parenting was anathema to the Dr. Spock generation; several people thought I was destined to raise a child who would breastfeed until he applied for a mortgage. (I didn't, for the record, nurse my kids as long as the woman on the TIME cover has -- I think anyone would agree that's pretty extreme. But I did breastfeed for a longer period than was common at that time.)

What people failed to understand was that my generation didn't invent attachment parenting. Many of its tenets -- baby-led weaning, "wearing" your baby -- are practiced all across the world (by cultures that don't sexualize breasts nearly as much as ours does, for starters), and have been since time began. People who choose to parent this way are simply going back to basics.

Dr. William Sears, godfather of this method of parenting, put it best in TIME: "It's all about making the best with what you have." It's not about "rights" or "wrongs" in parenting; it's about listening to your instinct and doing what works for you. And the dire warnings are for naught; needless to say, both my kids eventually stopped breastfeeding and sleeping in their parent' bed.

Mothering in this way worked for me and for my family. If bottles and cribs and schedules worked or are working for you, I'm all for that. I think it's really all about giving ourselves permission to raise the children we've been given in the way that feels right to us, without fear of judgment from other parents who purport to have things all figured out.

My children are grown now, and they're secure in the knowledge that they're loved unconditionally. Perhaps that's because of the foundations we laid for them; perhaps a more conventional method of parenting would have yielded the same results.

Yet this must be noted: Their dad and I eventually divorced, and a few people have questioned whether our singular focus on our kids meant that we didn't focus enough on each other. A fair question, and I don't know the answer. But I do know that the way we parented them from the outset probably helped result in the cohesive parenting that continued, and continues to this day.

As we all know, babies don't come with owners' manuals. I count my blessings daily that I was able to raise my children in the manner that felt best to me. The woman on the TIME cover? I imagine that's her goal, too.

For heaven's sake, don't read about these scary gay parents

I have a relative named Vaune, and Vaune has a blog. I stumbled upon it last night and love it so much I have to, in turn, blog about the blog.

I'm not blogging about it because Vaune is using it to make sweeping proclamations or inviting brave political discourse. I'm blogging about it because it's wonderful in its simplicity, focusing on Vaune's life with her spouse and two sons. They camp. They fish. They have coffee on their deck.

The reason that the blog's simplicity is relevant is that Vaune and Lisa happen to be a gay couple. And in this age of Tea Party politics and a northwest-Iowa teen taking his life because he had been bullied for coming out, it's relevant to note that Vaune and Lisa, and thousands of couples just like them, are simply living their lives.

They're not hosting orgies or burning crosses or even stumping for President Obama. They're working and grocery-shopping and buying a new house because they want their boys to attend school in a district with smaller class sizes. They're wondering how to explain Santa to their kids, and they're eating birthday cake.

Former University of Iowa student Zach Wahls recently wrote a book about his similarly normal life with two moms; he was urged to do so after his most excellent address to the Iowa House of Representatives on the topic went viral. Zach and individuals like him are a testament to the fact that families such as Vaune and Lisa's work. They work because the parents are ethical, principled, upstanding citizens who work hard to raise their children with unconditional love and a strong sense of what's right and what's wrong.

Teenage boys who kill themselves because they're tormented for being honest about who they are: That's wrong. Families like Vaune's who are brave enough to simply live their lives: How can that be anything but right?

My kids want to love their jobs. Why is that a bad thing?

I have a lot of friends with important jobs. They’ve supported their families in fine fashion, and they’ve managed to continue to be the nicest people on the planet while doing it. I can’t help but be happy for them, and I’m doubly happy for them when their adult children follow them into lucrative careers. My kids are 20 and 23 now, so I’m seeing that happen more and more; their peers are forging lives of their own and funding them with careers in finance and medicine and information technology.

We’re all wired differently when it comes to our definitions of success; even within the same family, it’s easy to see wide variations in the factors that constitute a person’s having “made it” in life. I was raised to value and utilize my own talents, but I was also brought up knowing I’d someday have to feed myself. I chose journalism, a profession I knew would not make me wealthy – but as clichéd as it sounds, I knew having to eat ramen noodles wouldn’t be a huge deal if I could be paid something, anything, to tell stories.

And then I had kids, and then I became a single mom. And suddenly, being able to afford something other than ramen became a priority. I needed to make more money relatively quickly, so I didn't have time to advance, as several of my friends have, to editorial capacities in the newsroom. I decided to go a different route, parlaying my skill set into other communications positions. And that was OK.

But my kids want more than "OK." My generation seems to have brought up our children with these expectations – the ones that have allowed them to promise themselves, from early ages, “When I work full-time, I’ll be doing something I absolutely love and would die for.” Contrast that with the response I was always given when I’d grouse to my dad about work: “Stop complaining. They call it work for a reason.”

My kids expect to be paid to do something that doesn’t feel like a job. And while I don’t know how things will work out, I’m proud that as of right now, they’re not willing to accept any less.

Don’t get me wrong: My kids are far from lazy. Scott is about to graduate from college with two majors; Caroline will complete what essentially is a five-year major in four years. Both are studying things they enjoy, but their coursework has been rigorous and their schedules have been demanding.

Still, though, they keep their eyes on the prize: “When I’m done, I’ll be able to do something that makes me happy.” Caroline wants to impart her love of music to the students she’ll teach. Scott wants to make music and feed people who need to be fed. And it’s all coming together for both of them.

Last night, I attended a CD-release party for my son’s rap group. His sister sings with the group when she’s able, so I was able to watch my kids perform together. I saw them exhibit their pride in one another, and I witnessed the genuine joy they felt about what they were doing. I remember feeling that once or twice when I was young, but life quickly became serious and it didn’t last.

“I don’t want to sit behind a desk for the rest of my life,” my son says. And I respond, “Then don’t.” And I mean it. Who really grows up saying, “I can’t wait to sit behind a desk?” But for many of us, that becomes the logical choice. In my case, I’m grateful for the options that have come my way over the years, as they've helped to finance the educations that may allow my children to make different choices.

Do I think my kids are unrealistic in their expectations? Not at all. Am I taken aback that they aren’t willing to be unhappy? Yes, a little. And what does that say about us as a society? That if we’re unwilling to work at something we dislike, that’s somehow indulgent and wrong?

I watch commercials for such organizations as Big Brothers/Big Sisters and I think, “How nice that people volunteer for things like that.” My daughter didn’t think “how nice” – she became a big sister. My son sees videos of starving children in Somalia and, unlike me, he doesn’t think, “Why can’t someone fix that?” He wants to be the person to make it happen.

“Teachers don’t make any money,” some well-meaning friends say of my daughter’s career path. Of my son’s, they say, “How in the world will he support himself?”

All I can say is: I know things will work out, and I know my kids will be successful – maybe not in the way others define monetary success, but by their own definitions. And how fortunate they are to already understand that their own definitions are the most important ones of all – and, truly, the only ones that should ever actually matter.

Would I like my child to have a 4.0 GPA? I'll take this instead.

Both my kids are nearing the ends of their college careers, and as I took back over the last few years, I wholeheartedly agree with those who say there's more to the "college experience" than earning a degree. I've been reminded lately, as my son prepares to graduate, just how much more college offers than a name in a frame.

Like most parents of more than one child, I have kids who are vastly different from one another. One has taken a straight path to a goal she first identified in fourth grade; the other has taken a roundabout way of finding his passion. And they're now both on roads that are right for each of them. I'm not at the point at which I can look at them and say "My work here is done," but I'm getting closer.

Scott's road has included a lot of diversity; not just in the places he's studied, but in the friends with whom he's chosen to study. He spent an exchange semester in northern California and a summer in England; he traveled to South Africa, and he's hoping to visit friends in Sri Lanka this summer. His girlfriend is from Johannesburg; his close friends are from Qatar and Japan and India and numerous other countries.

I don't know about you, but when I was in college, my friends hailed from such venues as Davenport and Postville; when I went home with my college boyfriend to a Milwaukee suburb for the first time, the fact that the bars stayed open till 4 a.m. was my idea of exotic. So I look at my son's world, and I'm thrilled for him; as he once said, "No matter where I go in the world, I'll have somewhere to stay."

He invited me to an event that was held last night at Iowa State; it's called the Global Gala, and it's presented annually to celebrate the many countries from which ISU students hail. Scott's friends wore elaborate costumes and participated in dances that honored more than 20 ethnicities. I was enamored of the talent and could have watched all weekend.

Contrast that, again, to when I was in college. "Foreign students" lived in a dorm all their own; I'm sorry to say I didn't know any of them personally, but the ones I remember strapped on their backpacks and walked quickly to and from their classes, not taking the time to participate in many extracurricular activities. I'm ashamed to think of how little I did -- nothing, in fact -- to extend a welcome to these students who were so far from home.

This semester, Scott has visited his friend Ahmad's apartment to eat Qatari food. He cooked an Italian dinner for a group that included not only Ahmad and Scott's girlfriend Katleho, but also Shun from Japan, Onalie from Sri Lanka, Nidhi from India, Ashok from Malaysia, and others I'm forgetting. I look at the photos from that night and see a bunch of really happy young adults reveling in the company of one another, and I'm thrilled for my child.

I'm liberal in my world view, and it's easy to talk about embracing and learning from and respecting other cultures; it's another thing to realize that you yourself have never really taken the opportunity to do that. I'm a white girl from Iowa; with a few exceptions, the people with whom I associate are white people from, if not Iowa, the Midwest. I had Latina friends in grade school and exactly one African-American friend in high school, but since then, I've not found -- or is it that I've not sought out? -- the diversity I've always wanted my kids to experience.

That's why when Scott warns me that he's probably not going to live in the United States -- and certainly not in Iowa -- I really, truly get it. "There's so much more out there," he says, and I know him well enough to know he won't be happy until he experiences it.

The homebody in me wants to gather my kids -- and eventual grandkids -- around the table for Sunday dinner each week. I'm hoping beyond hope that Caroline's career allows her to stay close by, but there are no guarantees; she has a very bright future ahead, and her skills could be in demand elsewhere. So Sunday dinner may entail eating with my husband as I Skype with my kids wherever they happen to be.

Tuition payments haven't been cheap. But as I looked around last night, I realized I would have paid twice as much for my son to construct the world he's built for himself. And I'd best be racking up those frequent-flyer miles now.

When the weird things you do as a parent DON'T come back to haunt you

When my kids were little, we'd often play a game as I drove them places in the car. No, it wasn't anything as benign as "Twenty Questions" or license-plate Bingo. It went something like this:

"Honky-Tonk Women" comes on the radio. "Who is this?" I ask. "Rolling Stones!" Caroline, 3, shouts. "Who's their lead singer?" I ask. "Mick Jagger!" Scott, 6, yells in response. Then, anticipating my next question, he calls out, "And Charlie Watts plays the drums!"

I never pretended to be a conventional parent.

OK, I'm exaggerating. My household also was well-versed in Raffi, and the kids could sing Sharon, Lois and Bram's Skinnamarink in harmony. They sang in church, and, pre-High School Musical, they begged for every Disney video as soon as a new one came out. And they warbled along, of course, with Sesame Street and Barney. So we had the children's-music thing down pat.

But they loved their Stones and their Skynyrd; their dad occasionally threw in some country and bluegrass, and I countered that with Joan Jett and Stevie Nicks. When Caroline was 6, she couldn't read, but she could recreate, move by move, the Spice Girls' Wannabe video.

And we kept the car game going. On the way to dance or religious ed or hockey, my kids learned that it really wasn't Yoko's fault that the Beatles broke up. They knew the interpersonal tangles behind all the hits on Fleetwood Mac's Rumours. Thanks to their dad, they knew the Judds didn't really get along all that well.

As the kids aged, they became less interested in the game, but something must have stuck. Scott grew to love alternative music, then hip-hop. Caroline loved anything that could be sung. Thanks to evolving Internet platforms, they learned to search for lyrics and bands and videos. Music played in the kitchen and the garage and the bathroom; it blasted outside as the kids jumped on the trampoline.

And now, the music they're making is their own. Scott writes for and raps with his own group. Caroline, coming off years of choruses and show choirs, is studying music education in college, and in about a year and a half, she'll be shaping young minds with the songs she loves.

The best part? A few weeks ago, Scott, needing a vocal boost for his band, asked Caroline to sing along. She's performed with the band twice now, with more dates to come. Making it big is Scott's dream, and that just might happen. But the best part, for me, is that once again, as in their Lion King days, they're harmonizing together.

And they're teaching me. Scott gives me CDs of his music, and Caroline tells me about new Broadway composers I might like. And just today, I was able to impress my son with the fact that not only do I know what Jurassic 5 was, but I know the names of at least three of its members. (My favorite? A guy named -- seriously -- Chali 2na.)

I can't take credit for my kids' musical talent; on their dad's side, Scott and Caroline come from a line of Southern-gospel singers who recorded records and toured the country. But I pat myself on the back when they instantly recognize Elton John on piano or Clapton on guitar.

As a parent, I was never short on ideas and enthusiasm, and I wanted -- as all parents do -- for the things that interested me to interest my kids. So they hooked rugs, collected rocks and buttons, and made spider webs out of tape (don't ask).

I think they would agree it's probably best that of all those things, it was the music that stuck.

She was mentally handicapped, but I learned from her

Decades ago, my grandma published a book of poetry. I'll always remember it because she infamously referred to my 13-year-old self as "aloof" in one of the poems; it hurt my feelings at the time, but I'm sure she was right. I also remember it, though, because of the way she described Little Louise.

Little Louise was, as Grandma described in the book, "one of God's special children." When she was born in the 1920s, the term "special needs" didn't exist; doctors called her "retarded" and said she should be placed in a facility. Her parents kept her at home, but they both died when Little Louise was young, and she had an older sister who didn't want to be responsible for her.

So to keep her out of a "home," my grandma's parents, Nana and Papa -- probably the two best people I've ever known -- brought her to live with them. Little Louise was Nana's niece, and she became part of the family.

Little Louise had been deemed "unteachable," but she was indeed able to learn; she couldn't read, but she was good at the household tasks that became increasingly proud of completing every day. She worked outside the home from time to time -- in fact, she was a "lunch lady" at my preschool -- and she knew everything about everyone and considered all her co-workers her very best friends. And she was happier than any person I've ever seen. That was, as my Grandma said, because she had no worries.

Little Louise loved family gatherings; we kids were her very favorite people to be around, and she revered holidays with a childlike enthusiasm that she never outgrew. When it was her turn to open presents, she shook with excitement. I still remember the year my dad, whose name was Charlie, gave her a then-popular perfume called, of course, "Charlie."

"Whenever I wear this, Charlie, I'll think of you," Louise said solemnly, and dabbed the fragrance on her wrists. And every time she wore it, you can bet she reminded my embarrassed dad that she was wearing "his" special scent.

As the years passed, Louise remained much the same; we often talked about how little she tended to age over the years. Her face stayed unlined; her red hair stayed red. As the older members of the family passed away -- Papa, Grandpa, Nana and then Grandma -- Louise would express now and then that she missed them, but she lived largely in the moment.

Even when she was the last surviving one of her family members and lived alone in a seniors' apartment, she took great pride in making new friends, participating in every activity the facility had to offer, and showing off her collection of holiday decorations. Wherever Louise was, she was the life of the party; she had few, if any, inhibitions, and was always willing to be the first to try something new.

Things changed a few years ago, though, when Louise suffered a stroke. One side of her body was paralyzed, she became wheelchair-confined and couldn't speak. The last time the kids and Kevin and I saw her was, I'm ashamed to admit, two years ago.

I don't really know why we stopped visiting; I could use the excuse that my dad became ill about two years ago and I was busy helping to care for him, but that wouldn't be entirely true. Louise lived but a few minutes from my house; I could have easily been in and out in the span of an hour.

I didn't go because it was unpleasant to see her that way. I didn't know where to look; I didn't know what to say. I didn't know if she was hearing or understanding me. I didn't know if she knew me. I let others in the family do the heavy lifting, and that's not my nature. I guess I simply chose to drop the ball.

We buried Louise today. It was a small funeral; she had become an old lady, and not many people knew her anymore. My faith assures me that she's getting ready to spend the holidays with the people who took her in and loved her, and for that, I'm grateful. But as is so often the case, I'm looking back, now that it's too late, and wondering why I chose to be selfish.

One of my frequent soapbox topics is the way we in the United States tend to treat our elderly. How ironic that every time I've spouted off in recent years, I haven't stopped to realize that I was part of the problem. An hour a week of my time -- and hour I easily could have given -- would have meant something to her.

"We should go visit Lou," Kevin would say, and I'd ignore him. It would have been so easy to jump in the car and spend a little time simply holding her hand, but still, I resisted. And today, I'm left wondering why I screwed up, and feeling humbled about learning a pretty important lesson from someone who once was believed to be too mentally "feeble" to learn anything herself.

So there comes a time...

So there comes a time when you realize they're really grown-ups, and they're really going to be leaving.

Scott is 23 and will graduate from Iowa State in the spring. His four-year plan was derailed with the addition of a second major -- and truly, that was fine with his dad and me. He's a good student, has loved the classes in his major areas, and has gotten as much out of college as I would have hoped. There are worse things than spending five years learning.

The other day, he was invited to apply for a job that likely will take him far from home if he decides to pursue it. Of the location choices he was given, he's leaning toward relocating to the San Francisco Bay area. And who can blame him? He spent an exchange semester in northern California, and when we went to visit him, I fell in love with it, too. It's in step with his ideologies and personality, and I have no doubt he can do good things there.

But ... I really wish he would express a burning desire to stay in Iowa. If not Iowa, I'd love for him to hang out in the Midwest. As I've mentioned on these pages, my family is not exactly nomadic. When my grandparents arrived from Italy, it was as if the tacit agreement was that we'd all just hang out here.

And that's worked well for us; as I noted while helping to take care of my dying father earlier this year, I was so grateful that we all lived in the same town during that difficult time and didn't have to manage the additional stress of complicated logistics.

But the world is different now. By and large, people aren't blooming where they're planted. Given all our technological options, that's not surprising. We can "travel" with the click of a mouse, and Skype -- talk via picture-phone-type software -- with people across the globe. Gone are the encyclopedias of my youth; in their place is Google. And as an Internet addict, I love it.

You have to admit, though, that chatting via Skype can't compare to being able to drive north on Highway 69 simply because you need to see your child and take him out for a stick-to-the ribs dinner because the last time you saw him, he was looking a little too thin.

The difference Scott wants to make in the world may not be one he can make in Iowa, and I understand that and am proud of him. When it comes Caroline's time to make a job decision, she may not decide to stay here, either. I'll need to get past the tiny but nagging worry that perhaps they're running from me (I can hear them now: "Mom, it's not always about you!") and accept that they're running toward something else.

"That's why we got you a dog," they'll say as they throw parts of their lives into their suitcases. And she's a great little dog, but as any parent in this situation knows, nothing can compare with the knowledge that your child -- your life -- is asleep in a bed not far from home.

September 11: Single parents, and looking up

What I remember most about September 11, 2001, is the overwhelming need to keep looking up.

I don't know what I thought was going to happen up there; after all, this is Des Moines, and by the end of that Tuesday, it had become clear that the terrorist attacks that had occurred earlier in the day were not likely to spawn further immediate incidents, especially in my neighborhood. And yet, I kept looking at the sky.

Like many people in the Midwest that day, I had been driving to work when the first plane hit and at my desk when news came of the second. My co-workers and I had gathered in a conference room then, and we did little for several hours but silently watch the horror unfold.

My kids were in the fifth and seventh grades on 9/11, and my first impulse after I had heard the news that morning had been to go and pick them up. But emails had come from their schools asking parents to refrain from disrupting the day, and I was confident that the Johnston school district would handled the whole situation reassuringly and sensitively. So as eager as I was to see my kids' faces and hug them tightly to me, I allowed them to stay put.

I was a single mom then, and I found myself thinking as I watched the TV screen about the single parents who had lost their lives that day as the world watched. Who would console their children? Who would pick them up from school and gather their clothes and make sure they were fed? Who would sign their permission slips and take care of their pets?

I left work early that day, looking up as I walked to my car, and arrived home around the same time the school bus pulled up. The kids seemed OK; Scott prepared to be picked up for baseball practice, and Caroline wanted to play with a friend. They had watched the news at school, and they knew what was happening -- but in their worlds, New York was so far away.

They had their mom, and just a couple of miles away, they had their dad. We talked at length, and kept talking, about what had happened. But the only one looking up was me.

I had CNN on in my bedroom around the clock for days. My heart bled for all the victims and their families, but I continued to be especially preoccupied with thoughts of the single parents who had died. And it wasn't just because of the children; it was because they had no one, no spouse, who loved them best.

It's hard to explain if this you've never been an ex-spouse, but if you've been one, you know that you're somewhat of an odd-person-out. Married friends aren't sure how you fit in; single ones who don't have kids don't understand why you can't go bar-crawling on the weekends. Your family of origin worries about you; your ex-spouse wants you, at best, to go away.

Your kids love you and rely on you, and that's nothing to be discounted. But during the times they're with their other parent and you're walking through an echoing house, you know how absolutely alone you are.

I remember wondering for quite some time about the 9/11 single parents. Had they been alone the night before, missing their children? Or had they taken their children to school, then gone to work thinking about what they'd serve for dinner or how they'd fit in homework and activities, or maybe how they'd afford to pay for school lunches for the next month?

Did they feel, as I often did in those days, that they were a tiny speck in a vast, vast expanse of people who knew who they were and where they belonged?

In the past 10 years, much has changed; I wonder what happened to the children of those single parents. I hope that to them, the parents who died are more than just the "other" parent -- the one whose house they traveled back and forth to, the one who was maybe just too tired to read that extra story. I hope that people in the lives of those single parents loved them enough to keep their memories alive for their children.

As I watch all the 9/11 remembrance specials, I'm no longer a single parent. I've been remarried now for six years, and it hasn't always been easy. But it's somehow comforting to know that if something were to happen, there would be another person in my life who would want to help me live on in the lives of my kids.

And as much as I believed in myself as a single parent and valued my single-parent life, I have to admit that it's also comforting to have someone sitting next to me on the couch as I'm watching those specials tonight -- someone who could, in the event of something unexpected, step in and help finish the job I don't think I'm done with yet. And someone next to me as I'm walking outside this weekend, looking up.

Like a rhinestone cowboy ... and a short little Italian guy

I read about Glen Campbell in Rolling Stone last night. I knew he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, but I hadn't read much about him in recent years. If you know who Glen Campbell is, or if you care about someone with Alzheimer's, you'll want to pick up a copy of the magazine. (You can't read the article on Rolling Stone's site without a premium-access pass.)

The cause of my dad's death in March was congestive heart disease, but he also had dementia. That diagnosis had caused some slight strife in my family; he had been seeing a doctor who had diagnosed him with Alzheimer's, but to most other health-care professionals, and to some family members, including me, he really didn't fit the criteria.

Everyone, though, was comfortable with the fact that he had experienced some cognitive failure, and other physicians' diagnosis of dementia seemed to be something we all could live with.

I cried as I read about Glen Campbell last night, as so much about his story is so familiar. He's younger than Dad was when Dad began experiencing confusion, but the disease seems to be manifesting itself in much the same way. Campbell still recognizes friends and family members; my dad did as well, till the day he died. But Campbell also obsesses over small things and seems to be imagining problems that aren't really happening. That was my dad, in spades.

The Rolling Stone writer observes and writes about an instance in which Campbell becomes agitated over an air conditioner. He determines that the temperature inside his house is too cold, and then goes searching through the house, loudly and in all the wrong places, for the offending appliance.

His wife mentions that Campbell won't allow himself to be calmed by reassurances that the temperature is fine, and that the air conditioner isn't where he's looking for it. So the rest of the family ignores the chaos occurring upstairs and carries on with the interview.

Our life with Dad was much that way the last couple of years. Most of the time, he was lucid and on point and appropriate in his conversation and behavior. Sometimes, though, he veered so far off into left field that none of us knew how to respond. His wife bore the brunt of the behavior, but my sister and I witnessed much of it as well and tried to help as best we could.

Here's the most challenging thing about dementia: People tell you to ignore the behavior. But when it's your loved one slipping into Whack-a-Doodle Land, that's hard to do. (And I don't intend any offense with that term. As you know if you've cared for or helped care for someone with dementia or Alzheimer's, there are times you have to laugh.)

During Dad's last few months until his last 10 days, he was cared for at a place called Edgewater. As he grew sicker, his dementia seemed to become more pronounced. One day, for example, he became convinced that his wife and my sister had sold his house and were going to move in together and put him in a nursing home. Another day, he was convinced that his dog had died and no one would tell him the truth.

He accused me of hiding all the clocks in the room, then changing the time on them. And when we moved him into Kavanagh House, he sat in a recliner and held court with staff and visitors, telling everyone that his wife had bought the hospice facility for $60,000 and moved everyone into it, which was a "stupid move because none of the rooms are joined together."

And a hallmark of people with Alzheimer's or dementia: As Dad's reality blurred, he seemed to become unable to let go of the things he believed to be true. He hung on to the story about selling the house until the day before he died. At times, he was angry with all of us because of things he believed we had done wrong.

Another aspect of the Campbell story that takes me back: Campbell's daughter says Campbell becomes agitated when a favorite washcloth is folded the wrong way and in the wrong place. I usually was with Dad in the evenings, and I'd help prepare him for bed.

The belongings on his bedside table, especially when he was hospitalized, had to be in a certain order. His bedsheet had to be untucked at the bottom. His pillow had to be fluffed just so. It was nothing for him to call me back into his room four or five times to ask me to move his watch a few centimeters or unfold his blanket just so. When the preparations became especially long, Dad would rub his head and say, "Oh, my God," over and over, or "This isn't right." Those were the especially difficult nights.

What do you do when this is happening to someone you love? You pray the medication works. And when it doesn't, you laugh sometimes because you have to -- and often because you're so exhausted that you're hysterical. And you cry. A lot.

The article says Campbell hasn't yet lost his musical prowess; similarly, my dad certainly didn't relinquish all of his intellect. His acuities slowed, as those of elderly people often do. But in the year before he died, he occasionally solved math problems and conversed rationally about politics and the economic downturn.

According to his family, Campbell hasn't accepted that he's been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Dad never talked about the fact that he had dementia, but he knew something was a little off. He'd say or do something, especially during the times he was hospitalized, then look at me and chuckle. "Why did I do that?" he'd ask.

I remember watching Glen Campbell on TV when I was little, and his song "Wichita Lineman" has always been a favorite of mine. (Shut up -- in the Rolling Stone article, Tom Petty and The Smashing Pumpkins' Billy Corgan say it's always been one of their favorites, too. So, ha.) I didn't much care for "Rhinestone Cowboy," his biggest hit, but I respected that the guy was a top-notch musician. (And he was also, to a girl of the '70s, pretty cute. Check out the end of this post.)

So his diagnosis, along with that of Tennessee women's basketball coach Pat Summitt, has been startling. But we'd better get used to the feeling; as our public figures age, we're going to be seeing more and more of them impacted by cognitive impairment. According to the Alzheimer's Association, Alzheimer’s is the fifth leading cause of death in the United States among people 65 and older.

My family was lucky; my dad's dementia didn't cause him to wander or hurt himself. But when I think back over the last few years, there was nothing sadder than seeing him confused and upset because his brain just wouldn't work the way he wanted it to. In some ways, we lost him, or parts of him, before he died.

I feel for Campbell's family members, and I admire them for coming forward. And I hope these recent high-profile diagnoses will motivate people to open their hearts and checkbooks and support research to cure something that could, before it's all over, rob so many of us of our abilities to do the things we take for granted every day.

What do you mean, no school supplies?

So it occurred to me today that this marks the first year in very, very many that I have not purchased school supplies.

I love school supplies. I love the way they smell. I love the way they look stacked up neatly, with folders at the bottom, then binders, then notebooks, then pencil box, then markers and crayons. I love the sense of promise they convey: "It's a new year! Last year may have sucked, but who cares? Start over! Your folders have horses and hearts and purple bicycles on them; anything is possible."

My kids are still in school, but they're a senior and junior in college now, and for some strange reason, each felt perfectly comfortable going out alone or with friends to buy his or her classroom necessities. I may have been asked to replenish spent money, but my opinion wasn't sought on college-rule-versus-narrow-rule paper or 1 1/2- versus 2-inch binder.

I know my kids, though. Scott's new supplies almost certainly consist of a black spiral notebook, a gray or black binder and a pack of Bic pens. Caroline's undoubtedly include many notebooks and pens in complementary colors, patterned folders, a black binder for chorus, and maybe a set of mechanical pencils. Perhaps she'll throw in a planner or one of those big organizers.

When my kids were little, school-supply shopping was a big deal. We'd grab the list from meet-the-teacher day and head out immediately, spending at least an hour at Target to search for just the right scissors and ruler and Trapper Keeper and Spice Girls or Power Rangers backpack. We'd cap the trip with a lunch at the little restaurant in the Merle Hay Dahl's -- best burgers ever, to this day -- and then we'd go home and organize everything.

And the piles would sit on the living room couch until the day before school, when we'd transfer them to backpacks in anticipation of the rumble of the bus the next morning. And I'd take pictures of the kids every year as they stood at the bus stop, neat and shiny and full of anticipation, with those new backpacks hanging just-so off their right shoulders. For years, Caroline was so small that her bag reached almost to her knees.

This year, they're living in an apartment and a sorority house and spending hundreds of dollars on books. They have to organize themselves, so I'm sure they knew what to buy, supply-wise ... I'm sure they had a list to follow, or at least an email or something. I'm sure their supplies are complete, their backpacks are organized, and they're ready to go. I'm sure they don't need my input...

But maybe I'll just call, just once, and remind them not to forget the Kleenex. In my opinion, the economical three-pack is always best.

Ex-husband, voodoo dolls and working it all out

My ex-husband was Facebook-chatting with our son, 22, today as I sat at my desk and listened to my ex’s end of the conversation. We were working to help Scott, who is studying overseas for a few weeks, mend a little blip in his finances. Ron and I were both perusing our son’s account online when I saw something that could lead us to a solution. Ron called the bank, then called me back while he was still chatting online with Scott. The problem had been solved!

Before we hung up, Ron read me the line he had typed to Scott before the end of their conversation: “Thank your mother, not me. She is the one who fixed this.”

Nice of him to give me credit, yes. It’s even nicer considering that 10 years ago, he would rather have committed hara-kiri – guaranteed – than say anything nice about me. Think I’m exaggerating? A couple of years ago, I learned that he once had a Lisa voodoo doll.

My ex and I went through – put our kids through – a horrible divorce. What’s past is past, but suffice it to say it takes two to mutilate a relationship, and I take full responsibility for my role. As I’ve said many times, and I know this is not a popular opinion: Divorce among couples with children should be much more difficult to obtain in cases that don’t involve some type of abuse -- substance, emotional, physical.

With all due respect to husband No. 2, with whom I am very happy, the divorce is the foremost regret of my life, primarily because of the way it devastated our kids.

At the time, I bought into the adage, “If you’re happy, your kids will be happy.” I’m here to tell you that’s a giant crock. I’m also here to tell you that if you get divorced, chances are pretty good you won’t be happy, at least not for a long time, because your kids will be miserable.

But I digress.

It’s been 13 years since Ron and I separated. In the beginning, the tension was so thick and the feelings were so raw that we argued everywhere – at school events, at our kids’ ballgames. I could feel hate emanating from my pores, and I could pretty much see it emanating from his. Instead of dealing with my feelings and working toward communicating in a civilized, healthy way for the sake of my son and daughter, I hated. I hated loudly, and I hated often.

My hatred was not directed solely at Ron, but also at his new wife – the woman I saw as taking my place, at least part of the time, in the lives of my children. I am ashamed now when I think of the things I said about her, usually with my kids in full earshot. I was panicked and grasping at anything to make me feel better – in this case, disparaging someone I believed was encroaching on my relationship with my children.

Don’t get me wrong – friends would call and tell me about comments they had overheard at school events or ballgames, and it’s safe to say I wasn’t the only one doing the trash-talking. But, truth be told, I kept it going. Looking back, I remember that my kids’ stepmother once extended an olive branch on behalf of both her and my ex. I accepted it, but I pretty quickly snapped that branch in half and ran it through the wood-chipper.

I wish I could say I woke to a revelation one day – that my Catholic upbringing had finally caught up with me and I was willing to repent, or that I simply re-engaged intellectually and realized my words prohibited a functional relationship with my children’s father. Truly, I think three things gradually began to alter my behavior: my children’s requests that the fighting stop; a desire to clear the cobwebs and start over; and time.

So eventually, I started being nicer. Rest assured no hugging was involved, but gradually, I initiated some civility. “Hello” gave way to “warm, isn’t it?", which grew into conversations about the children’s activities. As months turned into years and I grew into a life in which I felt like myself again, the feelings that were vestiges from my old life became less important, and I was surprised one day to find myself standing next to my ex and his wife at a ballgame, chatting as I would chat with any other parents on the sidelines.

And gradually as well, I began to see my ex as I should have tried to long ago – a partner in raising children who are at the center of both our lives. I noticed the relief on the faces of my kids as we began to be able to discuss their other household without the presence of the sarcasm that had been an inherent part of my conversations for so long.

It took some time, but we mended -- as an ex-couple as well as a family. Not an ex-family, but a current one; we’ll always be the parents, although we live in different houses, and our kids will always be our kids. No one else has our history, and no one else will ever love our children as totally and unconditionally and all-consumingly as we do.

Funny things tend to happen when you let go of the bad stuff. As clichéd as it sounds, hatred breeds hatred, and it isn’t worth the implications to your mental and physical health.

Thirteen years after the divorce, what I see when I look at my ex-husband is this: a great guy who would lay down his life for his kids; a caring, decent person on whom I can always count to be a co-parent and ally. I adore his family, and he has always been close to mine. My husband likes him, and he likes my husband. My ex’s wife and I also get along. My kids care very much about her kids, and vice versa.

Every divorced couple, obviously, can’t find a way to function. I have a nephew to whom I’m very close, and his parents, 10 or so years after their divorce, still are openly acrimonious. Not only can they not be in the same room, but they can’t communicate, period.

What has that done to my nephew? He’s 18 now, and he’s pulling away. He’s done with the hate and the sarcasm and the drama, and he’s ready to forge a life of his own. I was no quick study, but I pray his parents won’t wait much longer to put everything aside and salvage what’s left.

Parenthood doesn’t end when kids turn 18; in fact, it perhaps becomes even more challenging. (As my sister has always said: “Little children, little problems. Big children, big problems.”)

We’ve been fortunate to have been spared any giant, terrible issues, but if any arise, I know this: It took us a while to get to this place, but my kids will always, always be able to count on their dad and me to be there, together in spirit, to help them find their way in the world.

Happy birthday, Dad.

My dad was always funny about his birthday.

Dad was not one to talk much about his upbringing, so I don’t know how birthdays were celebrated when he was young. During the time I knew him, though, he always expected his birthday to be a pretty big deal.

Achieving that wasn’t much of a stretch; in our family, we frequently joked that we celebrated “birthday week.” (My birthday is in December, so for me, it was more like “birthday month.”) First was the school party featuring the Bringing of the Treats; next was dinner with the family on your real birthday, and last was the “kid party,” usually held on the weekend closest to the big day.

For the adults, things were usually a little more subdued, but Dad still expected to be king for the day. During the course of his life, my sister organized a couple of surprise parties for him, and both times, he wasn’t the least bit shocked. “Of course you’re all here – it’s my birthday!” he would say, making no effort to feign humility.

My poor sister probably still rues the day several years ago when she suggested combining the family’s many summer birthday parties into one large celebration. My dad went along with it, but grudgingly; he had no desire to share. When I was pregnant with Caroline and mentioned that I wanted to give birth on his birthday, he said, “It’s OK if you don’t. That way we can have our own.” To his relief, I missed my goal by a day.

He was also funny about others' birthdays, including his children's. He was pretty good at remembering the grandchildren's, but when it came to my sister and me, for the life of him, he couldn't get the dates straight. We enjoyed giving him a hard time about that; after all, he had only two kids and they were born 20 years apart, almost to the day. "All I need to remember is MY birthday," he'd say with a chuckle.

I consistently dreaded my dad’s birthday. I feel terrible saying that now, but to point out that he was hard to please really isn’t even the tip of the iceberg. You’ve heard of the book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, in which the mother refuses to accept a birthday card that one of her daughters had created in haste? She’s got nothing on my dad. You’d hand him a gift, watch him open it, and wait for him to say, “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” or “I’m going to have to take this back. I’ll never use it.” If you were lucky, he’d throw in a cursory “thank you” first – but usually only if his wife reminded him.

Toward the end of Dad’s life, I had finally resigned myself to buying him practical, consumable birthday presents – car-wash gift certificates, gift cards to Dairy Queen, and maybe even a few lottery tickets here and there. It was one of those presents that made my blood run cold a few years ago, though, and helped me realize just how much trouble might lie ahead of us.

I had gotten him a gift card to his favorite fast-food restaurant, one he and his wife frequented probably once a week, and he stared at it with a puzzled look on his face. “Wendy’s?” he said, looking at me with wide eyes. “There’s no Wendy’s in Des Moines.” There were at least four at the time, and he had eaten lunch at one the previous day.

On Dad’s last birthday, almost a year ago, I bought him sweat pants and sweatshirts, combing most of the Targets in the area for the precise brand, color and style he liked. He was exercising daily at that time, going with my sister to the gym in the senior-living facility into which he and his wife had moved the previous year, and he liked zip-front-style sweatshirts to wear over his t-shirts. Recalling his reaction to the gift makes me chuckle: “Jesus, Lisa, do you know how many of these I already have?”

When a person dies, a birthday simply fades away; the date no longer is a birthday, but a birth anniversary. Something tells me Dad wouldn’t like that, but he needn’t worry – with his attitude toward his own birthday, it will be forever impossible to relegate that day to anything but Charlie Lavia Day. I so wish he had made it to 92, even if that would have meant giving him another present he would have hated. I think that deep down, the presents really didn’t matter to him that much; the adoration was the important thing.

We rarely got the gifts right, Dad, but I know you know how much we cared. Go easy on the folks up there, and remember to say “thank you,” even if they get the cake flavor wrong. I’ll be baking a lemon one down here in your honor.

Don't blame me. Blame my cell phone.

Was I this crazy before cell phones? I really don’t think so.

Last night, I talked via Skype with my son, who is studying in London for six weeks. He’s been there for a week, and it was great to see him on the computer; he looked great and seemed happy. He talked to the dog, who clearly didn’t understand why he could see and hear his master, but couldn’t find him in the room. So we enjoyed the hilarity and were having a fun conversation when, suddenly, the mood changed.

“We’re going to Dublin for the weekend – Thursday to Sunday,” Scott said. “I probably won’t have an easy way to talk to you till I get back.”

My adrenaline surged, and I fired off a barrage of questions: Who’s going? Where are you staying? Do you have enough money? Do you know how to exchange dollars for pounds or Euros? Will your computer be locked up safely?

And then I asked the stupidest question of all: “Is there an adult over there you can go to with any questions you might have?”

He chucked and said, “Uh, Mom? I’d go to myself.”

Of course, because, you see, he is an adult. By the time he’s home from overseas, he’ll be three days shy of 23.

As anyone who knows me can tell you, I constantly have to fight my tendency to be a helicopter parent. (Actually, in my case “helicopter” is probably too kind. What would that make me – a Hovercraft parent, maybe?) Primarily, I blame my genetic makeup. But I also blame cell phones.

Cell phones simply make things too easy for parents like me. When I was in college, I called home once a week, from a landline, and wrote letters the rest of the time. Communicating with folks two hours away took some effort and also was expensive, so it was kept to a minimum.

But now, with the press of one button, I’m connected to my kids whenever I need or want to speak to them. We found out prior to Scott’s departure that his phone wouldn’t work in London, but then he discovered how easily we could Skype, and via the computer, we’ve connected daily, either by video chat or email. That’s been fine.

But Dublin? With no contact? How will that work?

In all fairness to my OCD tendencies, I can somewhat justify my fears; remember Natalie Holloway? How about Amanda Knox? Both were out of the country when they allegedly made unwise decisions that led to tragic consequences. I’ve always read that young people’s brains aren’t fully developed till they’re 25, so I’m probably wise to not assume my kids are always going to think things through entirely.

At the same time, though, as Scott puts it: “I don’t want to die as much as you don’t want me to die, so I place a pretty high priority on taking care of myself.”

I imagine all parents eventually accept the realization that no matter how diligently they try, they can’t keep their kids safe 100 percent of the time. Many parents apparently reach that decision far earlier than I have, but nonetheless, I’m resolving to get there.

I had dinner a couple of weeks ago with my former father-in-law, and as we chuckled over my hyper-protective tendencies, he told a story of my former mother-in-law, who would wait up for her teenage and young-adult children while expressing her frustration that her husband was able to go to sleep without worry.

“Shirley, you can wait up as long as you want, but eventually, you’ll have to fall asleep,” my former father-in-law said. “But remember, God never sleeps. After you’ve gone to bed, He’ll still watch over them. So take advantage of that, and get some rest.”

Perhaps I’ll have to remind God to take a glance over at Dublin during the coming days. In the meantime, Scott’s not leaving London till tomorrow night; there’s time for one more Skype conversation. After all, someone has to remind him to pack his wallet and his passport, right?

Yes, old habits die hard. But, hey … I’m trying.

Bon voyage! And ... where did the time go?

Once upon a time, I had a little boy. He was smart and sensitive and adventurous and inquisitive, but he was also sometimes fearful. His dad and I liked to think his fears were brought about by intelligence; he was smart enough, we reasoned, to know that accidents could happen -- that power lines could fall down and amusement-park rides could break, that tornadoes could damage houses and pets could run away. His "what ifs" became a part of life, and we tried to calm and reassure him as best we could.

On his first day of kindergarten, below, his fears were front and center. What if I don't get to see my friends? What if my teacher doesn't like me? What if I get lost? What if I forget to get off the bus at my stop? But he strapped on his backpack and he soldiered on. And as the weeks and months and years passed, the fears went the way of Sonic the Hedgehog, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and the red Power Ranger.

Today, he strapped on a backpack for a different reason; he's 22, and he's heading to London. Sadly, he's seen throughout the course of the last dozen years that sometimes, fears do come true. Parents can divorce. Pets can become injured. Friends and grandparents can die. But he also has seen that still, you soldier on -- every day you're fortunate enough to wake up, that's a day to soldier on. And he has.

He doesn't like to fly, and the trip from Chicago to London is a long one. Much too old, in his mind, to say, "I'm afraid," he voiced his nervousness in other ways. "I hate long flights." "I'm sure dreading that overnight flight." "I don't know what I'll do that whole time."

And I reminded him today, as I used to remind him all those years ago, "You'll be safe."

The thing is, he really didn't need me to remind him. I needed to remind myself. Because he's the one who, in the car on the way to the airport, said, "It just occurred to me that you're not going to be able to text or call me for six weeks."

Then he smiled, and it was quite possibly the broadest smile I've ever seen.

Pssst ... "The Brady Bunch" was only a TV show

I have a friend from high school who is blogging about her experiences as a 40-something woman who divorced and rekindled with her high-school boyfriend, and they've embarked on a new life together. It's a yours-mine-and-ours life; together, they're raising her children and his children. If her posts are any indication, it all seems to be working out pretty well.

That makes me envious, because I can tell you, I've been there and done that -- in fact, I'm still doing it -- and it's not easy.

A disclaimer: This is where blogging gets tricky. This is my blog, not my husband's or my children's or my stepchildren's. So I'm going to try to make this work in a way that doesn't violate the privacy of anyone I care for, while continuing to be true to myself as a human being who wishes to share her experiences in the hope that they might help someone else. Wish me luck.

I have two children; Kevin has four. When he and I first became friends 10 years ago, I had been divorced for about three years, and he was newly alone. Both of us had been through the wringer emotionally, and neither of us was looking for a partner -- especially, as we often laughed, because between us, we had a "Brady Bunch" family -- three boys, three girls, three dogs. (Unfortunately for my domestically challenged self, though, no Alice.)

We were horrified at the logistics that would be involved with merging such a household, so we took things slowly. After a while, though, it became evident that we needed to make a decision. Each of us was 42 by that time, and referring to him as my "boyfriend" was grating; besides, the kids were in favor of the whole thing and were urging us to make it legal. On a Friday night, with family and close friends around us and gourmet pizza later on, we did.

If this were a movie, now would be the time when the camera would freeze and the sound system would blare the sound of a phonographic needle scratching across a record. Because as soon as we married, everything changed.

Divorce wreaks havoc on children, no doubt about it. Each family handles it differently, and some fare better than others, but some things are common -- namely, kids don't like sharing a biological parent with an interloper. A study a few years ago found that given the choice, kids would rather have parents who stayed married and fought all the time than parents who were divorced. That's pretty controversial and is open to debate, but I wholeheartedly believe it.

So kids fantasize about willing their parents to reunite, a la The Parent Trap, and what's standing in the way of that? If you're the stepparent -- you. You, with your lack of kitchen skills, your tendency to expect things to go your way, your computer and your books and your stupid furniture. Your unfamiliarity and your irritating way of correcting people's grammar; your preference for staying up too late, and your commanding a share of their dad's attention. You, the mom who is not their mom.

You. You are the interloper. You are the obstacle. You are the problem.

And I totally get that. When I was 18 and my mom had been dead for more than a decade, my dad remarried. Although I was away in college, I still didn't like it, for all the reasons listed above and more. And I'm sad to say the discord persisted for years ... you know why? Because even though my mom was dead, "blending" was still really tough -- and I was a grown-up. Imagine what it's like for a child.

I realize that sometimes, divorce is inevitable. And some people make the valid choice to become parents without being married. But -- although I'm a liberal and a Democrat and decidedly not a fan of Dr. Laura -- I believe that if you're going to commit to have a child with someone, making every effort to stay together is the way to go. If that can't happen, though, you have no choice but to pick up the shards, love your children extra-fiercely to try to mitigate the pain, and keep going.

And then, if you happen to fall in love again (with someone who has kids), things become oh-so-complicated ... because you're suddenly associating in close quarters with children you didn't raise. You weren't there to read to them every night, soothe their tears, make sure they watched educational TV and eat their carrots. You weren't there for ear tubes and tonsils and first days of school and first sleepovers.

But suddenly, you're expected to behave as if you were. And they're expected to behave as if you were, too ... when all they really want is for their family, their real family, to be the way it was before.

I don't pretend to have any answers. But if you're embarking on such a chapter, perhaps some things I've learned the last several years -- and big mistakes I and others have made -- can prove helpful to you.

• Don't expect too much, and don't take things personally. Easier said than done, but chances are, the child who says she hates you is hating her situation, and it wouldn't matter if you happened to be Fraulein Maria or Claire Huxtable or Lorelei from Gilmore Girls. She'd still call you bad names and pray that one day, you'll simply forget to come home from work.
• Don't offer your input as to how the child should be raised. Remember: You weren't there for all the events that shaped the child. Granted, you shouldn't allow abuse of any kind, or theft or destruction of property. But if no one's bleeding and your stuff's not missing and you and your kids are not being directly impacted, stay out of it. The child has parents, and decisions regarding the child's behavior and its consequences are not yours to make. Concentrate on your own kids.
• Don't expect to feel overwhelming parental love for a child who's not yours. In rare and happy households, it happens. That's not to say you don't care about the child, but don't feel guilty if you don't feel as much as you think you should. Also, if it becomes clear that you and an older child just don't get along and probably never will, refuse to play games. Respect the child's feelings, minimize contact, and don't allow the issue torpedo your marriage. (And if you're the parent of a younger child who is hostile to his or her stepparent, set some ground rules, and seek the help of a counselor if you can't seem to gain any ground.)
• If he or she is open to it, try being your stepchild's friend. It's a dopey cliche, but in some cases, it works. Being friends with your stepchild and genuinely enjoying that child's company is a joy.
• Use common sense. Don't bad-mouth your stepchild to your spouse. If your spouse is a decent parent and is brow-beaten into choosing you or his children, it's a guarantee that he won't choose you. Talk to a sympathetic friend or family member, but leave your spouse out of those conversations.
• Remember why you married your spouse in the first place, and even on the very worst days, reassure him or her that the two of you are still the two of you, and you're going to tough things out together.

There's a difference between being a Realistic Robin and a Negative Nancy, and I don't mean to cross the line. I daresay that in the most tumultuous blended household, there are still good times to be had. I just wish that someone had told me years ago that my expectations needed to be in line with my reality.

If you're part of a blended family and your experiences have been different from mine -- or if they've been the same, and you want to vent -- please leave a comment. Given that the divorce rate still is hovering around 50 percent, my household can't be the only one dealing with this, and I'd love to learn from you.