Blending the Blended Family

It's been five years since Valerie and I moved in together. Five years since I met Lillian and Sebastian, who were then not yet three and two years old.

At that point, I was nothing more than a stranger to them, and I had no idea how to interact with these two little kids. There was rarely a comfortable moment for me, as I always felt I was doing something wrong with them. These weren't my kids and even though I had moved into their house, I really had no clue how to raise them, or even how to talk to them. To say this was a foreign experience would be the understatement of the century. I may as well been dropped into a strange household in China.

I'd like to tell you what a great time this was for me and for all of us, but that's just not the case. I couldn't be happier in my marriage and with my family today, but things were more than a little difficult at the beginning. For all of us.

In the beginning, bio-dad was still very much a fixture in our lives, so much so that he would come to our house to watch the kids each morning while Valerie went to work instead of her having to wake the kids and take them to him. That part stopped when I moved in, of course, but it may have been the last time he was really a dedicated father. I guess when I showed up, he no longer felt he had to be. I don't know.

Over the years, he's been less and less reliable. There is always an excuse as to why he doesn't show up, but those excuses are generally saved for the days or weeks after he disappears. On the odd occasion he actually does pick up the kids for his weekend, he coops them up in his apartment while he takes naps all day, only to return them to our house shortly after he wakes up. Most of the time, if he has them for five hours in his 48 hour weekend, he's done a lot.

More than once Valerie and I have openly wished he would just go away for good. Not having him at all would surely be better for the kids than constantly being lied to and having their hearts broken.

Last week, bio-dad announced via an unprovoked text message to Valerie that he was ready to sign the papers. He didn't want to keep being their dad. Lillian read the text before Valerie did.

Well, apparently signing over your rights as a dad isn't really a thing, at least not without an adoption. Of course, I was always going to adopt them if it ever came to it. I just didn't expect it ever would. And while I'm thrilled to be able to give these two my last name, my heart also breaks for them. I couldn't imagine ever having to try to figure out why my dad didn't want to be a part of my life. It's sickening to do that to another human being, let alone to your own flesh and blood.

He says it's the right thing to do. No, you selfish piece of crap, it's not. The right thing to do would be to put your children ahead of yourself. The right thing to do would be to spend as much time as possible, not as much time as convenient, being a real dad to your kids. And I'll give you a hint, you don't have to take 'em to the zoo or to get ice cream every day; all you have to do is show up and spend time with them. Hang out with them. Talk to them. Be a part of their lives. That's the right thing to do.

This isn't going to be easy for either of them. Of course, Valerie sat them down and explained what was going on. There were plenty of tears and both are dealing with a lot of emotion right now. Lillian stays strong on the outside, but I don't think you can just turn off a rejection like this. Sebastian has been a staunch supporter of bio-dad forever, always sticking up for him and making excuses for his behavior. Now he too has to face reality and he's always already been so emotional that adding what can only be the most difficult thing in his life will be even harder.

The process, from what I hear is expensive. It's not unlike adopting a child from outside the home, I guess. We have to go see a lawyer, Valerie and I both have to be fingerprinted and have background checks done, which is odd because she's their mom no matter what, but I guess that's the way the law is written. We also have to have an in-home study done by a social worker and there is a stipulation that the kids must live with me for six months from when we start the process. I guess they ignore the past five years. That means this process will take at least six months, but we've been told it could be up to a year. At the end of it, the kids will get brand new birth certificates that list me as their father. It will be as if bio-dad never existed, legally anyway.

The likely cost is somewhere in the neighborhood of $4000. And that doesn't even factor in the loss of child support. All in all, this is an expensive undertaking. We had earmarked our tax return to put siding on the house. Looks like that will wait another year. That's more than okay by me. The kids are a far better investment, anyway.

The other day we took the whole crew to Ft. Wayne to Build-a-Bear. Everyone had a blast of course. When it came time to fill out the birth certificates, however, we encountered a problem. They wanted the kids' first and last names. And here we were in the middle of a store swarming with happy, loud kids and suddenly we were faced with our oldest son and daughter having to choose whether to list their current last name, or the one they would be getting. They both handled it smoothly, but the moment struck me, probably more than it did them. That's not a decision any person should be forced to make, especially not at six or seven years old.

Last night they went out to play in the front yard. Shortly thereafter, they summoned Valerie to see what they had created. In sidewalk chalk, Lillian and Sebastian covered the front porch, the walkway and the sidewalk with "the Parents" over and over again.

We've come a long way in the last five years and since I got to know them, I have always considered those kids to be my own. I'm excited to be able to make it official. And I'm even more excited that both of them seem to want the same thing, even as hard as I'm sure this process is for them, and will continue to be.

The worst thing I have ever seen

This morning, as I laid on the couch passing the time with four little ones scurrying around the house, a feature began on Sportscenter about a young man who saved many lives in the September 11 attacks. My oldest daughter, Lillian, is just six years old. She was sitting on the adjacent couch reading a spy kids book. The feature had been going on for a few minutes when she put the book down and shooed her brother away. "I want to watch this," she said.

The feature, about the young man named Welles and his red bandanna, was moving. It recounted, via those who survived, those who were there in the second tower, how Welles helped others get to safety, only to go back into the building to find and help others once again. Welles lost his own life when the tower collapsed.

When the feature ended, Lillian, who had since been joined by Sebastian on the couch, began asking questions. "How did he die?" "Why did he keep going back in?" She's only six, how much of this do I want her to know, I wondered. My mind kept turning back to that Tuesday morning in 2001, ten years ago next week, and the horrible events that transpired. I wondered at what point would her teachers tell her the tale of that day, what the textbooks would say. I made a decision; I would do my best to explain the unexplainable to these two young children. I hadn't meant for them to be exposed to such terror, but now that they had been, I felt I owed them as many answers as I could give.

I was working, at that time, as a restaurant manager at Fricker's in Bowing Green, Ohio. Our establishment was not unlike a BW3 in the menu or the clientele. We stayed open until 2:30am each day and on September 10, 2001, I had been the closing manager. Once the place is closed and I have finished counting the drawers and whatnot, I would usually get home at about 4 in the morning. After that, it would take me an hour or so to get to sleep.

The next morning, my roommate, Ed, came into my room just after 8 am. Ed knew I had worked the night before and that I would sleep until early afternoon on most days. This was obviously important. "Turn on the TV," he said. I could see the look on his face; something was going on. When the television warmed up and gained a picture, I was about to ask him what channel, then I saw that it didn't matter. ESPN wasn't showing their normal programming; it had been taken over by an ABC News feed. There was a static picture of the World Trade Center towers, but you could hear the folks on the broadcast talking about how a plane had crashed into the tower. Smoke and flames was pouring from the side of the tower, nearly three-quarters of the way up. Minutes went by as I tried to comprehend what was going on, as i tried to wrap my head around the picture I was seeing and the words I was hearing. Was this some horrible tragedy where a pilot lost control of his plane? An unfortunate accident that would cost hundreds of lives?

Then, as the picture remained still and the news guys spoke, I saw another lane enter the picture. It was headed in the direction of the towers again. The voices on the TV didn't notice it; they kept on talking, not mentioning the second plane. My mind raced; Why aren't they saying something about this? Are they even looking at the picture? The second plane struck the second tower, erupting in smoke and fire. It wasn't until many second after the impact that the voices on the TV took notice and began to contemplate what was going on. This was no accident, that much was clear.

The feed remained static, but you began to see small things falling from the towers. Those things, it turned out, were people. First one tower collapsed, then the other. Thousands of people who had gone to work that morning were gone. A great sadness wrapped our nation and myself. This was an attack like we had never seen in this country and we witnessed it live on television. Word came down about a third plane hitting the Pentagon and a fourth that crash in a field in Pennsylvania. I spent the next several hours learning about the terrorists and their plan of attack. I talked with friends and family, sharing in the disbelief, the shock, the horror.

Tuesdays were always our busiest night at the restaurant and by the time I was to report to work at six pm, many other businesses had closed in the wake of the attacks. We stayed open and the place was full when I walked in, just as it always was on Tuesdays. President Bush was scheduled to address the nation that evening and when it happened, the restaurant became silent. There were probably 200 people inside our walls, between customers, waitstaff and kitchen help. During the address, however, not one order was taken, not one drink was poured, not one chicken wing was cooked. Customers sat silently, eyes glued to the TV waiting for answers. The staff at Frickers stood behind the bar, themselves staring at the dozens of big screen televisions. I have been in that building many times by myself, hours after the place has closed. I have never been anywhere so eerily quiet. It truly was surreal.

It's hard to imagine the tragedy that took place that morning, or the heartache felt by so many in the loss of their friends and family. It's difficult, now, to remember a time before those people took it upon themselves to murder American citizen. What have become accepted inconveniences in our lives (ecpecially the increased airport security and having to have a passport to come back from Canada) were once nowhere near our conscientiousness. If there is a sliver lining in all of this, it's that the lives of those who were there are not forgotten, nor are the sacrifices made by the first responders who gave their lives in an attempt to save others.

There are parts of the above narrative that I left out when I told the kids of the events of that day. They're still so young, they don't need the details. Sebastian couldn't understand why these people would purposely drive a plane into a building and my answer was unfulfilling for him. "I don't know, buddy. I don't understand it, either."

I can only hope that my children never have to witness such an incident, and that our textbooks can tell the story of those who died and the men and women who gave their lives in an attempt to save others. One thing I know, however, is that no matter how well the books tell the story, their will never be a good enough answer as to why it happened in the first place.

Early Scouting Report of Sebastian the Soccer Star

This weekend marked Sebastian's first foray into organized athletics. Well, as organized as five and six year olds can be while playing soccer, anyway. He and Lillian play on the same team, but she played last season as well.

The game ended in a tie, but that really isn't the point here, is it? The point is that for a kid who is slender and quite strong, Sebastian looks terribly uncoordinated when he runs. Throughout the game, he appeared to be limping, but when we asked him afterwards, he said his shoes fit just fine and that he wasn't at all hurt. It was as if he just doesn't know how to run.

Earlier in the week at practice, the coaches had the kids running sprints. I wasn't surprised to see Lillian pulling up the rear, but what shocked me is that Sebastian was right there with her each time. We had assumed that maybe he was waiting for her. The two have been inseparable since the day he was born, so it would make sense. He won't even go play outside unless Lillian is willing to go too.

But in the game, Sebastian was slow as well. It wasn't that he wasn't trying (he actually appeared to be giving it his all), but he just couldn't keep up with the other kids on the field. Part of this, I'm sure, can be chalked up to not really understanding what it was that he was supposed to do. Uncertainty will cause any athlete to play slower than he should. But I worry that the larger part is that for whatever reason, maybe speed just isn't something he's blessed with. Like I said, he's strong and he's adventurous. There's not a swingset he can't climb and swing from like an ape. And he's not at all stocky. In fact, you'd be hard pressed to find an ounce of fat on him. Knowing this, I had just assumed he'd be faster.

Now, obviously the key here really should be that they kids were out there running around and having fun. I know this. I'm not one of those dads that will be demanding my kid play better. Sports, especially at this age, are supposed to be fun and by all accounts both he and Lillian had fun. But I also have an eye on their futures in sports. What baseball-loving dad doesn't?

Unfortunately for him, speed is something I'd have a lot of trouble giving him pointers with, so hopefully he takes a liking to pitching. Pitchers don't generally need to be all that fast anyway. Maybe neither of my boys will turn out to love baseball as I have. That's okay. The world needs doctors and engineers and scientists a lot more than it needs ballplayers, anyway. So long as they become good people, I'll be happy.

From Young Boy to Young Man

Sebastian turned five years old last week. It is alarming to me how much maturing he has done over the past few months. I can't put an exact date on it or even recall a specific situation where I first noticed it, but he's definitely growing up lately.

When Valerie and I got married, Sebastian was not yet two years old. He still wore diapers and still insisted on a bottle at bedtime. He didn't use a bottle during the day, but he wouldn't think of retiring for the evening without a bottle of warm milk in tow. He was good kid I think, but in all reality it's difficult for me to know for sure. Prior to my moving into Valerie's house and gaining an instant family featuring two very young children, I had no experience, no prolonged exposure to children that small.

I can recall quite clearly how apprehensive I was around them, and maybe part of me still is a bit. It didn't help matters that I was so green to the experience nor that Sebastian seemed to regard me as a rival for his mother's attention. I know it seems silly that I would think he could do that at such a young age, but he and I have butted heads a lot over the past three-and-a-half years. I don't blame him by any means, I certainly should have been much more patient, but I frankly didn't know how to be; I hadn't yet been softened enough to the reality of having a family.

I had heard about "terrible twos" and the demonic-like behavior of children of that age. Sebastian made all those nightmares come true, it seemed. Looking back, I can't remember any specific incidents, only a general sense that if there was a way to ruin a trip to the store or to cause me to lose my temper, Sebastian would find it. More than that, it seemed he took pleasure in finding it. More than once he would do something i had specifically forbade him from doing, all the while watching me with a smile on his face, waiting for the inevitable reaction. Why he did this, I have no idea. I understand wanting attention, but he was clearly seeking the wrong kind.

Sadly for me, the terrible-ness didn't end when he turned three, or even four. Since I have known him, Sebastian has sought the spotlight, but always doing so by displaying poor behavior. Don't get me wrong, he wasn't an evil child by any stretch; he has always been very kind-hearted to his family and displays an inordinate amount of clinginess to anyone of the female gender. He claims to have a "billion" girlfriends, most of which are in their early to mid-20s.

Throughout our time together, I have tried my best to explain where I feel he's going wrong and until recently I may as well have been speaking Chinese. It didn't seem like it mattered how many times I explained it, or how loud I would eventually yell, he didn't seem to get it; or he chose not to. Either way.

Lately though, I've seen a change in him. He and I are much more able to interact in peace. He seems to trust me more and be less afraid of me. I am not in any way blaming him for his "fear" before this. My temper is legendary and Sebastian always knew what buttons to push. I know this makes me sound like a bully, but this didn't seem like an ordinary child. The little boy just knew how to get people angry and he reveled in getting a reaction.

Something happened that has changed his demeanor. I don't know what it is, but if I could bottle it I would make a fortune. Sebastian still clings to his mother and any other female, but he also now is allowing others to see him interact with the world without demanding the attention he did before. It's almost as if he feels more comfortable with himself, or with his life. I don't know if that's true, but it's what I hope is true. He seems at peace with the world around him lately, or as much at peace as a five-year-old can be, I guess.

I've tried to instill confidence in him whenever I can. Sebastian used to wear his jeans unbuttoned because he "couldn't" figure out how to fasten them. If it wasn't a snap, he couldn't do it. Of course, he could do it, but it wasn't easy, so he didn't try and just walked around open to the world instead of attempting to fasten the button. This isn't the only example of how he used to wait for others to help him, but it's the one I point to when I show him how to do things he says are too hard. Once I sat down and showed him how to button his pants, the excuse didn't fly anymore. When he would say he couldn't do it, I would remind him that he has done it and he can do it again if he tries. He tried and he did it. I made sure to tell him he did great.

We are now at a point where he can accomplish most any task asked of him (within reason of course; he's five). Grandma brought him a new bike for his birthday and this one has no training wheels. It's a little big for him yet, but Aunt Steph (one of his girlfriends) and Uncle Braden have been helping him to learn to ride. We discovered that because of the size of his new bike, he was having trouble getting started, so I took the training wheels off his old, smaller bike and he did pretty well last night. He falls sometimes (he hasn't figured out how to stop except to just fall over) and one of the falls yesterday drew some blood on his ankle. That was all he needed to want to give up.

But just like the buttoning of his pants, I know he can do it if he keeps trying. More than that, if I tell him he can do it in that way, he thinks he can as well. I am very proud of all the growing he has done of late. I'd like to think I had something to do with it, but I don't think I can take much credit. It takes a village to raise a child and Sebastian has a wonderful support system of family around him everyday.

It can't be easy to have your life thrown into chaos the way his and Lillian's were when their parents divorced at such a young age. The transitions they have made, along with my own, haven't always been smooth. It might have taken Sebastian a bit longer to adapt, to accept, than we would have liked, but I couldn't be prouder of him. I hope someday we will have the same father-son relationship that any "traditional" father and son would have. I think we are well on our way.