Stepdog (10 page)

But dogs can also make you run into oncoming traffic or fall on your face. And what if the dog was a constant aggravation? What does it do to your health to live with a dog who doesn't like you, who tries to trip you, who stresses you out? Where was the study about that?

Granted, Eddie was not as entitled as some other dogs. He wasn't ultra-pampered, that's for sure. A few days ago, Jim came home from a vet visit fuming. The vet had told him with great concern that Eddie's teeth were not cleaned and that if the teeth weren't clean this could start a chain reaction of illnesses and disease and Eddie could even die of a heart attack.

“Whaat?” I said distractedly as I put dishes away in the dishwasher. “What a crock.”

“That's what I said,” Jim said as he put some groceries away. “As if in colonial times they took their dogs to get their teeth cleaned or something? In addition, she told me that when they clean the dog's teeth they have to anesthetize him. So they put them under with an IV, which costs several hundred dollars, and then they clean the dog's teeth. I said, ‘You gotta be kidding me. I don't think so.'”

“That's more expensive than it costs to get our teeth cleaned.”

“And on top of it, they anesthetize the dog, which is a risk anyway. To make the dog unconscious?”

Eddie got teeth-cleaning edibles instead.

“They're much more expensive than regular biscuits,” Jim said of some chewy treats called Greenies he found at Petco.

Did they do the job? No idea. But good call, hubby. There's a fine line between responsible dog ownership and crazy.

Eddie probably ranked five on a bad-dog scale of one to ten. He wasn't like my neighbor Karen's border collie, Hazel, who whimpered loudly until she got her way. Or my girlfriend Tammy's mutt, Sophie, who suffered from severe separation anxiety and couldn't be left alone in the house. Or my friend Robert's schnauzer, Christmas, who refused to eat dog food, have her wee-wee pad moved anywhere but the center of the living room, or wear a leash, and who had to be carried to the dog run. A two-pound speck of a dog could be as headstrong as a dog a hundred times his size, especially when wearing a bow.

But Eddie was still a big compromise for me.

Jim was oblivious as Eddie followed him everywhere around the house. He didn't notice the dog, but I noticed every disgusting thing. I saw Eddie scooting his butt against the carpet. I heard Eddie slurping his crotch. I smelled Eddie when I came into the house if he was due for a bath. I didn't want wet-sock smell in my house, so I became the bath scheduler. And I had to watch where I put everything, especially food. I tried to tread lightly, but things I had tolerated in Jim's place were less tolerable now that we were in our house. One evening I found Eddie all snuggled up between the armrests of my vintage chair upholstered in yellow velvet, and I lost it.

“BAD DOG! BAD DOG!” I screamed at him as I shook my index finger at his face.

I felt like picking him up and throwing him out the window, but he jumped out of the chair and ran away before I could grab him. I beat the chair's velvet like a conga drum, trying to rid it of dog hair. I turned the chair upside down, and that's how it stayed from then on when not in use by an actual human. I manically went around the house turning over other chairs, putting books and empty boxes on the sofa, and erecting barricades. Jim did not dare stop me. The house acquired a permanent just-moved-in look, but I didn't care. Who knew where those paws had been. Who knew what critters hid in that coat of hair. And I didn't want hair on my clothes or on the seat of my pants. It was not a good look. If I thought so, I would have been a yak farmer. I banned Eddie from our bedroom and my office, official hair-free zones except for my own hair, which, by the way, had started falling out at an alarmingly high rate since we moved. At least I could do my sit-ups and yoga on a clean carpet. Eddie learned to keep out even if the door to a banned area was open. I sat him down outside the doorway and said “No.” I went into the room and he followed. I sat him down outside again and said no again—and again and again in a contest of hardheadedness. It took a lot of yelling and showing him out by the collar until he got it. It was six of one, half a dozen of the other to him, as long as he had company. He'd lie down by the doorway and doze off just like he would have inside the room. And Eddie could no longer lick the dishes in the dishwasher. Sorry. No. Too disgusting. With mostly instincts as my guide, I had Eduardo more or less under control in a short time. Wish it had been that easy with Jim and the kids.

Down Dog: Blending the Family

R
elax your facial muscles.”

“Let your bones settle.”

“Let your body sink into the floor.”

“Melt into the earth.”

Trying to melt, trying to melt. With every deep breath, I pushed negative thoughts away. Intransigent husband—swoosh! Indifferent stepkids, disobedient stepdog—swoosh, swoosh! Feelings of inadequacy—swooooooooosssh! Melting, melting, pushing worries and faces away like clouds in the sky. Calm again.

I used yoga as a refuge. It centered me and kept me strong for my challenging new home life. After a few harrowing tries in New York—with tense yoga teachers, with one yoga teacher that allowed her dog to sniff our faces during poses, and men with disgusting toenails who snored during Savasana—I found the perfect yoga studio in the Palisades village across from a Starbucks. Quiet, relaxing, mostly women. The movie actress Jamie Lee Curtis, slim and nimble at an unidentifiable age, sometimes dropped in for added inspiration.

I needed yoga. Nobody told me that coming into an instant family was like coming into the game during the sixth inning. Jim and I, so in synch about so much, did not see eye to eye on how each of us could help blend our family. I was on “puree” but he preferred “chop.” We shared plans as long as they were about the two of us. Jim and I—“us”—were in a different compartment than the kids. I often felt behind on what the kids were doing and where they were going with their father. The typical problem of planning schedules for kids was hard for me to follow or I wasn't always informed. Jim would forget to tell me about changes of plans.

And there were many, many plans. I entered a world of playdates and sleepaways, of tennis clinics and softball or baseball games and beach camp, of optometrists and orthodontists, of bar and bat mitzvahs, of drop-offs and pickups, of Timmys and Jesses. Everything required a high level of coordination. After Jim coordinated with the ex and the children, he was at times too distracted or exhausted to pass along the many details to me. He shielded me from the ex, which I appreciated, and from most of the work, which I wished he hadn't. He arranged playdates and the doctors' appointments. He did most of the cooking and the driving. He tried to make it all work. More often than not, he also managed to be Super-husband-elect. Mere mortal me felt a little frustrated, a little in the way. I didn't do much for the children. It was hard to know when to step in or step back.

Sometimes it was the little things.

“We're going to Malibu Country Mart and would love it if you could join us,” Jim chirped on Saturday morning as I was getting up.

That was too much action for me before my first cup of coffee. “Oh, no, go right ahead. Have fun,” I said.

A little notice would have been nice. I slept in on weekends, true, and Jim and the kids were up early, but I felt it would have been great if we had gone through the day's plans together, even if the plans were improvised. Eddie was also left behind. The dog and I kept each other company for the next lazy hours, all the while wishing we were in Malibu too.

I understood that Jim was in the middle of many pressures. And none of this stopped me from falling more in love. But there was a sticking point. Jim had an enormous capacity to empathize with his kids when they acted up. He looked for the reasons behind the misbehavior, the anger. He listened, he reassured. He offered drinks and popsicles. He subscribed to the let's-keep-them-hydrated school of discipline. I was a product of the another-word-and-you're-dead parenting system.

You know how some parents encourage outspokenness, strong-mindedness, even rebelliousness, all in the name of nurturing individualism? Well, that's not the Latin way. Where I grew up, parents constantly kissed and hugged their children, but they turned to stone before you could say “Just kidding!” the minute they heard any lip. Latin American parents take pride in kids being respectful and “well educated,” meaning not that they went to Harvard but that they are polite. The word for those who stray is a
malcriado,
or “badly raised.” A
malcriado
is walking evidence of bad parenting. Where I grew up, adults did not nurture individualism as much as they demanded humility, respect for authority, loyalty to the family, deference to elders, good manners, and obedience. You asked them for their blessing—
bendición
—by way of hello and good-bye. Really, Latin parents would have been unbearable had they not been so hip. They pierced our newborn ears and let us drink coffee while we were still playing with Barbies. (I liked my coffee before school piping hot, with cubes of melted cheese inside. Yum-yum.)

“Get up. Leave your seat to the
comadre
.”

“Go get me my purse.”

“
Pórtate bien.
Behave.”

“Don't be ungrateful.”

That was the soundtrack of my childhood. You'd say something like “Who cares?” at your own peril. My mother's head would have spun like Linda Blair's in
The Exorcist
and I'd still be hiding in the bathroom. “I hate you”? Silly, silly you for thinking that would even be possible. An ill-timed shrug or door slam could send my mommy into a rage and in search of the flyswatter—“Go get me the flyswatter!”—to beat on my legs. I just felt little pricks but faked great hurt—Waaaaaaaaaah!—much like a fouled basketball player. I could play this game too. But I also knew my dear mami had zero tolerance for crap or drama. She worked too hard for that. She was always coming and going—to work, to the supermarket, to school—always busy, busy.

In her preschool years, my sister stayed with our maternal grandmother during the workweek so my mom could deal. I was dropped off after school at a friend's—Maria Esther, my friend Diana's mother and one of the stay-at-home Muchachas in my mom's circle of girlfriends. I was with Maria Esther the day President Kennedy was shot. Maria Esther had dropped her wallet in a puddle and I was helping her hang wet dollar bills from a clothesline in the backyard when the next-door neighbor came running to us, screaming the news. For a while, Diana's family lived on the sprawling second floor of an old house near our school, next to a funeral home. Our favorite pastime was to huddle by a window and wait for the hearse to deliver the latest
muerto
and try to catch a glimpse of the corpse. If we were lucky, the feet would show as they took the body out, at which point Diana, her younger brother, and I would bolt from the window screaming and then have horrible nightmares at night. By the age of about twelve I was old enough to be a latchkey kid and take care of myself and my sister after school. And did I relish that role. From about two to five p.m., I had my sister, who was four years younger, all to myself to boss around.

“Go do your homework.”

“Go shower.”

“Get me some milk with Quik.”

I loved the power. Looking back, I realized I was also getting even. I was jealous when my sister came along and sucked up all the air. My jealousy was my mom's fault more than my innocent baby sister's, but I wasn't that clearheaded as a four-year-old. From the moment my sister was born, I felt my mom devoted all her attention and sweet nothings to that cute blob. As we grew up, she could do no wrong.

“You're the oldest, you should know better,” my mom repeated after every sibling fight or disagreement.

It was terribly unfair and I had no choice but to try to kill my sister. I was five or so. She was in her crib, standing up unsteadily while holding on to the railing. I was in front of her when the railing came down and she tumbled out. I didn't remember consciously trying to harm her. But how did she fall? Sheepishly, I went to the kitchen to find my mom, and stood there for a few seconds watching her cook, and finally said:
“La nena se escocotó.”
My mom rushed to the bedroom and found my sister unconscious on the floor. She screamed, she cried, she asked me what happened. It was like a scene from
The Bad Seed
. I didn't mean it.

My dear sister survived and grew up to be the mother of three well-behaved young men. We disagreed about many things, but not about how children should be raised. We recognized some of the excesses of our upbringing—in my case, my mother didn't think twice about violating my privacy. I caught her once reading my correspondence when she came to visit me in Washington. We both pretended it was normal and neither one said a word, but I hid the letters better going forward. I knew she didn't see anything wrong with it, just like I could walk in on her in the bathroom to put on mascara and she didn't mind it a bit. I had come out of her loins. There was no such thing as having your own “space.” But I had lived in the States long enough to identify and appreciate a balance in parenting styles. I had watched some of my childhood friends raise their own American kids. I was confident in the Rican method and how to modify it to suit a more free-form parenting style.

I was utterly unprepared, though, for the day I heard Henry curse at his father. I almost had a conniption. While my eyes popped out of my head and my hands trembled, Jim followed Henry to his room so they could talk it over. Jim sought understanding, and they were good with each other in no time. It wasn't my way. I would have talked it out but also imposed consequences. Cursing? At a parent? A minimum of house arrest in an orange jumpsuit.

A few days later, I called my mom. She was sniffling.

“Do you have a cold?”

“No. It's Lucero. She just lost the baby.”

“Who?” I asked, alarmed.

Then I heard the TV in the background and realized she was watching her favorite telenovela.

“Give her my condolences,” I told Mami. “Can you tape the show? I got my own telenovela on. You wouldn't believe what goes on in this house. The tail wags the dog. Oh, and the real dog hates me.”

“Leave the kids to Jim,” she said. “Stay out of it.”

What? Who was this woman?

Jim agreed with my mom. I knew he worried that asserting myself too soon could affect my efforts to build a relationship with the children. But this was all kiddie stuff, I thought. Fighting, screaming, letting out bad language here and there? From my vantage point, parents had so many more options these days to assert themselves—“or else”—with all those computers, video games, and gadgets to pry out of little hands.

I gingerly ventured in from the sidelines.

“Baby, I think Arielle and Henry need to know there will be consequences when they disrespect you or act mean toward each other. It's great that they always apologize afterward, but the behavior is repeated way too often.”

Jim was quick to defend his children. He offered many reasons to explain their bad moods. He was not taking to my feedback as warmly as I had expected. I pressed on.

“If they start screaming, why don't you at least tell them that that's unacceptable?”

“I tell them when something's wrong, but I want them to know I will listen to them. I share your goals, darling.”

I was proud of us. This was the kind of communication couples needed to make a marriage work. You discuss, you reach consensus, you follow up.

But Jim didn't respond as I'd hoped. He was often concerned about needlessly turning something small into something big. He believed empathy could solve many disciplinary problems.

I loved my husband, but I was convinced there was something off about his views. I wondered, did this stem from guilt over the divorce? Competition with the ex for most popular parent, for custody of a child's love? Something in his own upbringing? He would have never taken raised voices from anyone else. Did he feel this was just a phase?

One night, when I'd had enough, I went into Henry's room as he was yelling and I tried to intervene. But Jim intercepted me. He said he could handle it and didn't want to make Henry even more upset. I was hurt, but I retreated without a word. In our bedroom, I lay down fuming but trying to understand why Jim and I seemed stuck in conflict over child-rearing. Was it a Taurus–Libra thing? (Guess who sought compromise and who charged like a bull.) I admitted that I was very black-and-white, and that it was easier for me to be less emotional about children who were not mine. But we needed to reach some form of consensus and stick to the plan. I worried that the disrespect would soon spill over onto me. Time was flying. Oncoming teenagers! We grown-ups needed to unite.

The kids behaved much better when their dad was not around (sound familiar?). So far both Arielle and Henry had been warm toward me. And they loved Eddie. They walked him, they scratched him, they talked to him, they slept with him. Henry was artistic and liked to spray-paint and write poems. He spent hours in the garage making beautiful graffiti art. Jim got him cans of paint and very large rolls of wide paper so Henry could paint long graffiti murals, about eight to ten feet long and four feet high. They were basically bubble-lettered slogans and nicknames, rather joyfully colored, with designs in the background and over the words. He made me birthday cards with drawings of little hearts and “Happy B-day Mia” in graffiti letters. He had talent and was starting to make designs for T-shirts he hoped to sell online. Arielle was a good student and a fierce tennis player. Both had many friends from school and from the neighborhood, so many, in fact, that they were hard to keep track of in conversation. I was always asking Jim to catch me up.