Jackson Free Press

Here's a story. Of a chick named Emily. Who got proposed to not too very long ago! And the best part is, I'm not pregnant!

Yes, the boyfriend, who will now be referred to as the Mister, did it. Well, he didn't ask me to marry him. He really just asked, "Do you want to see what I got you at the adult bookstore?" When I said, "Um, yes," he pulled out a Juniker Jewelry bag, and I commenced to screaming and jumping up and down. You'll find if you Google "Juniker bag," it's actually not an illegal sex toy, but my reaction was just the same. Talk about the big "Oh!"

Now the rest of that story will include blending two families into one, and let me tell you, we've got our work cut out for us. I've had to put aside my celebratory party-planning (there will be a party) to focus on those actual grown-up things such as, "How do we best combine the lives of a woman and her son with a man and his daughter?" We're learning what happens when you put a Monkey and a Princess in a blender, and so far, it's been a little overwhelming, but very doable. Because at the end of the day, there's not too much that matters.

In fact, that's the question we are often asking ourselves. "Is this going to matter at 7 tonight?" For example: Will this change who they are as a whole? Will this haunt them in adulthood? Will this conflict with our values and beliefs? Will this scare the neighbors? Not usually by 7 p.m.

Our first step was to issue a formal announcement to Monkey and Princess, then allow this lovely boy and lovely girl time to process the information and address any questions and/or concerns that arise. Thus far, issues have included:

Miss Emily does not allow us to say "butthole."

Miss Emily eats weird food.

If there's a girl in each bathroom, can the boys pee outside?

Will Jack the Cat hurt the other cats?

Can we get a maid?

The Mister and I addressed the issues and answered questions diplomatically and honestly. We discovered that at 7 p.m., that list really isn't going to matter, and now the children are happy little Bradys decorating their bedrooms in our soon-to-be-shared home.

We have a chore list, allowances and mutually agreed-upon rules. We've enacted a HIPPA-type contract to respect the privacy of all and to ensure the proper boundaries before the big wedding/moving day.

While helping them process this life change, I stumbled upon one of my very own commitment issues that I thought would matter at 7 p.m. I don't want to lose this self I've learned to love and respect and admire over the last few years on my own. I love my space. I love my hit-or-miss computer, my salvaged architecture art and decoupage canvases, and my friends. I worried that the Babbitt bunch wasn't going to "get" me quite like I need.

I believe our spaces are integral pieces of our selves as a whole, and I wanted the Mister and bunch to understand me. I wanted them to love Miss Eudora on the wall, I wanted them to adore being surrounded by books, and I wanted them to want the same things I want.

I've done this family thing before, and I know what happens to a woman's dream when she does not get room of her own. Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, et al. told me, and I'm enjoying my life as it is, thank you very much.

But here's the solution. They don't have to love my passions to love me for being passionate. We're starting a life all together, and our space should reflect us all together. I've been given an office to read and write and think in, where I can put those items that no one loves but me. I will have a room of my own, and the rest will just come out in the blend.

So at 7:00, what I've learned is that Aaron Babbitt loves me, and I love him. Aaron Babbitt would love me regardless because I'm passionate. My passion just happens to be writing. He's told me that if my passion were shrinky-dinks, he would love and respect my talent all the same, because I'm passionate. And yes, if there were a viable market for shrinky-dinks, I'd be all over it.

At the end of this coming summer, I'm going to be someone's wife. I'm going to be someone's stepmother. I'm going to continue to be a Monkey's mother. I'm also still a writer, still creative, still quirky as hell, and I'm loved for that. I'm loved for that, and I am happy.

And my left hand sure does sparkle.

Previous Comments

ID

79759

Comment

A million Congrats!!! This line made me laugh like a hyena "Miss Emily does not allow us to say “butthole.” Teehee! Love it!

Author

tiffitch

Date

2006-05-11T09:54:53-06:00