It was first thing in the morning and he came into my office with
hesitation and reluctance. It was clear to me that showing up at that
ungodly hour was the last place this 15-year-old boy wanted to be. His
coming to see me was not his choice; just like his mother's wedding he'd
been a groomsman in seven months earlier.
He sat on my couch, his discomfort apparent as he shifted his weight
nervously from side to side, trying to adjust to the new surroundings
and to me, a woman who was a complete stranger to him. He surprised
himself by opening up quickly. His words spilled out, falling out on top
of each other, words that had been suppressed for far too long.
His father had been killed by a drunk driver when he was only six.
Memories of him had been diluted with time, but they were clear enough
to remember the Dad he loved and still missed. His mother had met a man
only a year before... a man with two daughters and a son. The man's son
was the exact same age as him. They had nothing in common.
His home had been sold, the home that was the preserver of the memories
of his father, the home that gave him comfort on those quiet early
mornings where he swore he could hear the sound of his father’s voice
declaring that another great day was yet to be had.
The new home was big enough, he didn't want to complain, and he had a
room of his own. But his mother's new husband had lugged all three of
his children with him and the boy felt like an extra, an outsider, a
P.S.
His older brothers had moved on to the adventures of college and he had
felt abandoned to navigate the wilderness of his new home and new life.
His eyes betrayed his feelings of powerlessness as he leaned towards me,
his hands nervously outlining the edges of his well-worn baseball cap.
He mumbled, "I don't want to seem ungrateful, I really don't, but nobody
asked me."
Nobody asked me. His muted pronouncement sounded like a glaring
indictment. Once he started talking, he couldn't stop. "I resent how my
stepdad comes into my room without asking. I hate how he tells me he
loves me. I hate how he insists on weekly family meetings. He's not my
family and neither are his children".
I was impressed with the boy's ability to describe how he felt at such
an awkward age. I was impressed with the earnestness in which the boy
spoke. I was impressed with the boy, an honor student, an excellent
athlete, well liked by all.. the boy who had had the rug pulled out from
under him for yet another time in his young life.
I nodded in agreement as I listened to him. And I wasn't surprised. When
his mother and her then-boyfriend had told me during a session months
earlier of their plans to wed and blend their families, I could see the
big red warning sign illuminate my office. They were blind to it. They
were innocent and overcome with the hope that the pain of the man's
divorce and the horrendous loss of the woman's husband were going to
disappear with the merging of their families. "We are going to be one
big family and it’s going to be wonderful!" they both exclaimed. "Our
children get along so well!" They joked about being the next Brady
Bunch.
I worried that I was becoming a cynic but I had seen this scene played
out in my office one too many times. I cautiously asked, "Are you sure
you don’t want to wait awhile? You've only known each other six months.
High school is a tough time for any kid and any parent, and you may want
to consider allowing your children the chance to make it through high
school as scar-free as possible." Their rush to happiness blinded them.
"Oh no! We want to get married soon and everyone will adjust just fine."
I looked at them and said in a not so subtle way, "Well, you both seem
to be in perfect agreement on this, and I wish you all the best. You are
about to go through the fires of hell, and I will be available to help
you extinguish the flames that are sure to flare up and threaten to
destroy!" They thought I was joking and laughed. I told them I wasn't
and they shrugged their shoulders. For better or for worse, they got
married.
Upon their return from their honeymoon, reality hit home like an
unwelcome credit card bill after an impulsive buy. They had a household
of unhappy campers, one of them being the well-spoken boy sitting in my
office.
I worked weekly with the family for months to help them develop more
realistic expectations and allow the patience of time and care to
persevere.
Because of what the research says, my work with couples in remarriages
and my own personal experience, I've lost my faith in the notion of the
"blended" family. 71% of second marriages with children end in divorce. A
daunting statistic that comes with a warning.
When couples marry for the second time, and they bring their children
with them, there is a strong desire to "get it right this time". As a
person who remarried nine years ago, bringing my four teenagers and my
husband's young daughter into the mix, I was also caught up in the
fantasy.
Everyone wants "happily ever after", especially when the first happily
ever after didn't work out. It's easy to get caught up in our own
desires, in our own wish lists.. but wish lists are just that. Magical
thinking doesn't make things happen. But love, acceptance, patience and
time do.
As for the children.. it's important to ask the children. Not that they
get to decide, but just so they know they are heard, that they matter,
that they have a voice, that they count.
Having a "blended" family isn't a sign of success, but children who know
they are seen for who they are, is. And there is no greater gift we can
give our children than that.
This story is a composite of multiple clients to ensure the privacy and
confidentiality of my clients. I want to also say that the parents I
work with have good and pure intentions. They are not selfish, just
naive.
Source: Mary T. Kelly
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