My Other Mother

When I was about 9 years old my parents divorced. It was traumatic for me of course. I held onto my father's leg, dragging along the ground as he descended the front steps to the sidewalk on to his car. To leaving us forever in my little girl's mind. Bawling, I begged him not to go.

Years later he married a lovely woman with ten kids. Together they had one more son. My brother and I would visit and spend occasional weekends there. When we did it was a major culture shock for us.

The 3 oldest brothers where already grown and out of the house, but there were still a whole lot of kids there. Two sets of bunk beds in the bedrooms made room for everyone. Our first morning there, my brother and I looked at each other as our step sibs, made their beds and swept the bedroom floors with military precision, all before breakfast. At home my brother and I never had to make our beds and clean our rooms.

I would watch in awe as the oldest daughter spent hours ironing a laundry basket full of kids' clothes. The kids were from toddler age up to early teenager. So there were clothes of all sizes. The idea of ironing other peoples' clothing astounded me. I always hated it when my mother would ask me to "mash" out an outfit for her before rushing off to work in the morning. I took "mash" to mean it just needed a little touching up. That was never the case however. I'd be downstairs slaving over the steaming iron. Muscling out those tough wrinkles.

I realized recently that what my brother and I witnessed on our visits really did influence me later in life. When we went back home we fell back into our old slovenly habits, but as an adult I began to enjoy and appreciate having a neat and clean place. I wanted my home to be uncluttered and yet comfortable, warm and welcoming. I think I've been able to accomplish that, and I can thank my wonderful step mom, who treated me as if I was one of her own kids.