Outlaws

I was never one of those gals who flipped through bridal magazines in my teens and twenties Instead, I dreamed longingly of boyfriends, soul mates. I didn't think about having children at all, frankly. Do some women actually have biological clocks set in some other time zone or parallel universe? Are mating and propogating actually all in the timing? How does desire fit in? Who knows. The fact of the matter is I became a wife at 41 and mother of twins at 44, and, shudder as you might, it's all turned out just fine.

Although I had a black belt in blind-dating, was less discretionary than I might have been in being bedded or boyfriended  (See Dead Father's Club), the truth remains that Henry was the love of my life before I met my husband, who still becomes flummoxed when I mention Henry's name. This is to laugh, as I was19 the last time I saw Henry and 36 when I met my husband, James. If and when Henry thinks of me, I'd just as soon have him remember a hot 19-year-old at a time when he and I equalled spontaneous combustion. (Not that his current child bride creates lacunae in his life.)  My love for James, while certaily not less combustible at its onset, grows deeper and more befuddling every day. When I did think about marriage, all I wanted was to marry an orphan. The last thing I needed was another familial minefield through which I had to tiptoe. Having a stepfamily and living grandparents gave me all the emotional entertainment and exercise I needed.

My boyfriend, husband, and love of my life,James, had run away from home at 17 to join the Navy and had barely spoken to his mother since then; I hadn't at all. James' father had died  (Surprise!) when James was eight. His modern family--a curious mash of half-brothers, a disappearing sister, and a schizophrenic, ex-Vietnam vet brother--was way out of my comfort zone; but if he wasn't engaging with them, who was I to complain. So much for injecting myself into a new tangled web of emotions, disappointments and expectation.

What I had never figured on was stepchildren. Right. Them; how would I have known? But here we have it, and it's to die. Although my stepson and I don't talk so much, really, who has major conversations with a 25-year-old man? The good thing is he is happy, getting healthier, and is engaged to a top-drawer woman who knows who he is. They are both very much of the Queens  borough.

My stepdaughter and I talk almost every day. She and her husband live in Florida, in a town that is half cattle/ horse farms and half new developments which offer space, nature trails, swimming pools, club houses and community in a very affordable manner. (Is it for everyone? Perhaps not. But it is fungible and affordable.) She is neurotic and loving and the mother of boys 11 months apart. It is an unusual relationship. I love her very much and feel the need to bitchslap, er, guide her every once in awhile. But we laugh. And we dish. We've even gotten to the point where we can dish her father, Mister Love of My Life. And it gets me to thinking. I wonder if having a mother-in-law would have been so terrible after all?