Praise for Blissfully Blended Bullshit
Rebecca Eckler’s direct and honest approach to storytelling makes for a refreshing and often hilarious read. Eckler has an undeniable talent for weaving in touching stories of relationships, motherhood, and the reality of blended families that gives her writing real humanity.
— Heather Dixon, editor-in-chief of SavvyMom
A touching and telling modern love story between husband and wife and mother and daughter and the balance of all the relationships in between. Eckler weaves her story of vulnerability and painful truths to reveal the unfiltered reality of blending families. With her raw sense of honesty and self-awareness, Rebecca Eckler provides an invaluable human approach. This is a valuable and eye-opening read for anyone contemplating a life of blended and splendid.
— Daniella English, founder of The Not So Single Life
Inspiring, touching, and raw.… What a great read by Rebecca! Once again she continues to help all those going through “inventional” blending.
— Marni Sky, co-founder of Divorce Angels
Another totally entertaining and relatable read by Rebecca Eckler. As a blended family survivor, I had a visceral reaction to so many of the anecdotes. It is real and it is uncomfortable. This book is a must read for anyone considering (or living through) blending worlds.
— Joanna Track, founder and executive publisher of Bullet
Copyright © Rececca Eckler, 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Cover image: stock.com/Robert Daly
Printer: Webcom, a division of Marquis Printing Inc.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Blissfully blended bullshit : the uncomfortable truth of blending families / Rebecca Eckler.
Names: Eckler, Rebecca, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190054476 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190054484 | ISBN 9781459743939 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459743946 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459743953 (EPUB)
Subjects: LCSH: Eckler, Rebecca. | LCSH: Eckler, Rebecca—Family. | LCSH: Stepmothers—Biography. | LCSH: Stepfamilies. | LCGFT: Autobiographies.
Classification: LCC HQ759.92 .E25 2019 | DDC 306.874/7—dc23
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We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada.
Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.
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For everyone out there reinventing what family means, whether it’s the one you start out with, the one you end up with, or the family you gained along the way.
“Come home! Your kids and my kids are picking on our kid!”
· CONTENTS ·
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
REFLECTIONS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OF RELATED INTEREST
BOOK CREDITS
· PROLOGUE ·
Where the fuck is my confetti? Where is my celebratory dinner? Oh, right. I’ve forgotten about the less-than-thrilled response I received from some members of my blended family when I told them I’d signed a book deal. I suppose breaking the news that it was about them might have had something to do with that. They didn’t seem overjoyed that I was going to write about the cold, hard, uncomfortable truth of what really happens behind the closed doors of blended families. Welcome to my life. Even before I sat at my computer to compose my thoughts on what this book would look like, certain members of my blended family already had their backs up, wondering what the hell I would be writing about and, of course, how they would be perceived. It’s not that they weren’t happy that I’d got a book deal. They just weren’t exactly enamoured with what they thought, or assumed, I was going to share. They were anxious. And, honestly, they should be.
I was “gently” advised by my partner to “be cautious” when writing about all of us — all of us being myself, my partner and his two biological children, the son we have together, and my daughter from my first common-law marriage. One big happyish family! I felt like a child being told to think before I speak. I “gently” reminded him that I’m a grown woman. So, no, there was no dinner, no champagne toast, not even dying roses from a gas station in my honour when I got the go-ahead to tell my story about what it’s like to be in a blended family.
It’s a story worth telling. Holy shit, have my experiences opened my eyes, not just to the gargantuan reality of adjusting to life in a blended family, but also because of what I’ve learned about myself and relationships while blending. You kind of get a crash course in reality when trying to manage all the bullshit that comes along with this rapidly growing family dynamic.
Sometimes what happens in a blended family really is stranger than fiction. The fights and slights can be so ridiculous, I’m not sure anyone would actually believe me. Which is why I’ve never truly shared, nor have I found any book out there that can commiserate with me about what a shit show it is to be in a blended family.
This is not a memoir about being a step-parent or having stepchildren or the step-parent–stepchild relationship. Not that I don’t touch on it. But this is more my account of how blending families affects everyone, including people you’d never consider, like our exes, or our ex-in-laws, our new in-laws, and even the dog.
The truth about blending families can be fucking harsh. Those who haven’t gone through it and are dating others with children, are thinking about blending, are embarking on blending, or are just curious about what it’s like to blend families probably just figure it’s an … adjustment? Perhaps a process to learn, a path to travel, a mountain to climb, a field to plant, a knot to unravel, a Coen brothers movie to fully understand. In other words, a difficult but seemingly surmountable challenge.
Ha! Challenge. Living it, I’d probably use a much different word. Every single one of us in my blended family has our own perception of our roles in each other’s lives and in our blended household. We may all live under the same roof,
but our experiences are totally different and can even be contrasting at times. Our truths may have discrepancies and may even have zero basis in reality. Everyone else’s sense about what it’s been like for them to blend is a reflection of them, just as my reactions while blending reveal a lot about me.
My family — the kids, the grandparents, the Boyfriend, and the exes — know that honesty and candour are my MO. This memoir is my truth, and, unfortunately, truth can sound an awful lot like criticism. Some people — yep, I’m gonna go there — can’t handle the truth. Or, at the very least, they would prefer to ignore it than to admit and confront it. Believe me, I’ve been on that side, too. But I know my truth from talking to others in blended families — some successful, some not so much, some not at all — and comparing notes to see if I’m just batshit crazy, or if they could relate to a lot of the bullshit I’ve found comes along with blending. I mostly know about the bullshit of blending from living it, from being honest about the way I feel in certain situations and the way I think everyone else feels in my blended family, and, also, from the hundreds of texts and email exchanges over the years with the cast of characters in my blended family. Thank you, iCloud!
So, yeah — blah, blah, blah — the truth will set us free. But first it will piss someone, or everyone, off. Or, who knows? Maybe everyone in my blended family will let out a huge sigh of relief that it’s not just us who thinks navigating our new roles is a bit of a shit show. Maybe they’ll even have a good giggle. What screws most of us up is a picture or the fantasy in our heads of how a family is supposed to be, how we are supposed to treat each other, and how we are supposed to look. I hope that when my family looks back on the most difficult times, we’ll also remember the awesome memories we’ve created and continue to create. I know I will. Even for all of our scars and bumps and bruises and imperfections and missteps, it hasn’t all been all bad.
There is one thing I’m pretty sure we’d all agree on, though — and I do mean just one! The process of blending families comes with a considerable amount of bullshit.
Still, knowing that the people who have been in my life now for years — the family I’ve gained after blending and as we continue to blend — are, for lack of a better word, perturbed over what I’m going to write kind of stings. I’m not going to lie. I’m legit hurt by their lack of enthusiasm.
So, okay, I don’t exactly have a cheering section. There is no confetti. No bouquet — flower, fruit, balloon, or otherwise — in my future. But maybe, just maybe, this book will be like blending families: completely unexpected, with some WTF, but also a whole lot of, “Oh, really? I hadn’t thought of it that way!” My family need not fear that they will come off looking like assholes while I come across all roses and rainbows. Quite the opposite, actually. Many times I’m the one who comes across as the schmuck. Many, many times, my dark, jealous, resentful side surfaces, and often my feelings are completely irrational and immature, to the point that it horrifies even me.
But I’m not one to shy away from sharing my account of the hard truths, the less-than-ideal realities, and all the bullshit I was completely unprepared for by blending. I wouldn’t be me if I held back. So I don’t plan to.
· ONE ·
I’m not averse to a good old-fashioned rebound screw. Honestly? I just want to get laid. Cinderella never asked for a prince. She asked for a night off and a dress. I’m not looking for a future husband, nor am I too bothered over what I should wear for this first — and most likely last — date. Cute outfit or not, it doesn’t really matter. I want a one-night stand, some therapeutic physical action, to help distract me from the emotional pain of my recent breakup. I’m not desperate to jump into another serious relationship, especially after the roller coaster of a ride, that had finally ended, with a ridiculously handsome man who was also ridiculously underemployed for someone his age. What I’m looking for is a diversion and, yes, I’ll admit, a bit of an ego boost. If a relationship does happen to fall in my lap, I won’t run away, arms flailing. But I am also more than okay being on my own and raising my daughter as a single mom, as I have been doing for years. I guess I am like a cat. I appreciate attention, but only when I want it. I’m very multidimensional.
Also, I’m all about the Theory of Least Effort when it comes to dating. After a girlfriend shows me how one of the most popular dating apps work, using her profile to log on, all I come away with after swiping is, “Fuck, that was entertaining!” Also, I’m left wondering, Why do so many men post photos with waxed chests, on boats, holding giant fish? But I digress …
When another girlfriend asks if I want to be set up on a blind date with a recently single man, her boyfriend’s childhood friend who is also back on the market after separating from his wife of twelve years, I immediately say yes! I also make it clear to my girlfriend that I’m not really looking for anything more than some (hopefully) mind-boggling action.
My phone rings, and the man I’m being set-up with is on the other end. Yes, he actually calls. Yes, I actually “accept” the “unknown caller.” We are both, clearly, dinosaurs. We make a plan to meet up later in the week. Of course, I immediately call my girlfriend after the plans are set, as girls do, and reiterate that all I’m looking for is someone to screw the sadness out of me. I can’t get a lobotomy. A one-night stand it is.
“Don’t worry,” my friend laughs. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” I don’t know much about my anticipated one-night stand. But I trust that my friend and her boyfriend aren’t fixing me up with a subpar blind date. Apparently, he’s cute. Check! And single. Check! And he has a grown-up job. Check! I don’t even put in the effort to investigate him on social media. I’m not holding auditions for boyfriends, nor am I auditioning to be someone’s girlfriend. So, before we even meet, I already doubt he’ll get a callback after this date. I have no expectation that I’ll get one either. I know the basics: he’s recently separated, in the process of divorce, and he has two children he has shared custody of. This will be my first time going on a date with a father. Still, I have zero — Z-E-R-O — intention of ever meeting his offspring, so that part of his life isn’t really on my radar. I’m guessing he is equally invested in the fact I’m a single mom. It probably doesn’t occur to him he’ll meet my daughter on our very first date.
You mean not everyone lets their children meet their one-night stands?
Rowan, my daughter, who lives with me full-time, is more excited than I am about this mystery date, who shows up exactly on time. Before I can stop her, my daughter rushes to the door to greet my bed-buddy, like a dog who hasn’t seen its owner in a month.
Mericol, Rowan’s nanny, and I have already role played an escape route for me in case I can’t stand the guy. She’s been directed to say, in front of my blind date, “Rebecca, I’m really sorry, but I can only stay until ten.” We have rehearsed this line. Thanks to this ruse, if I don’t like the dude, I will only be wasting three hours tops with him. I feel pretty fucking clever about this plan.
“Rebecca,” Mericol says, on cue, in front of my potential one-night stand as he waits inside my front door, my daughter looking him up and down, beaming. “I forgot to tell you, but I have to leave by ten. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, really?” I respond, biting my lip. I feign disappointment, with a side of surprise. “That’s okay, right?” I ask One-Night Stand, to make sure he’s heard her.
“Sure, that’s fine,” he responds. I think he appreciates having the option of a way out as much as I do.
Mericol and I also have another plan in place. If I invite him in after our date and scratch my nose, that means I do like the guy, and she can disappear, knowing that all is good.
Rowan rushes to hug my one-night stand’s legs, again, as we head out the door. She’s seven. She hugs everyone. For a nanosecond, I wonder if One-Night Stand is going to suddenly remember he left the stove on or forgot to feed his hamster. Maybe he has his own escape route planned out in case he doesn’t like me. As I pr
y my daughter off his legs — “The sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll be back,” I tell her — I worry that he worries that my kid is in the market for an Insta-Daddy, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Even worse, I fear that he now thinks that I’m looking for an Insta-Daddy for my daughter, which also couldn’t be further from the truth.
But he doesn’t run. He simply looks slightly uncomfortable. Maybe he’s just nervous. Most guys aren’t dying to have a kid they met forty-five seconds earlier attach to them like an annoying acquaintance you can’t get away from at a cocktail party. It’s not very sexy, that’s for damn sure. Should I tell One-Night Stand he shouldn’t take this hug personally? The other day, my daughter hugged the pharmacist. Yesterday, she hugged a bus driver. I inwardly roll my eyes, thinking that my chances of getting laid have dropped significantly. But at least he has seen proof that I have a child. I refuse to hide my daughter, who is by far the most important person in my life. I don’t feel reckless or irresponsible for allowing my daughter to meet my date. We come as a package deal. Might as well let this guy know he’s hooking up, or at least going on a date, with a mother.
I take One-Night Stand to the premiere of a movie, possibly one of the worst movies ever made, that one of my PR friends had offered me tickets to. The movie isn’t even the good type of bad — it’s just bad bad. But my date and I have fun moaning throughout it, laughing at parts that aren’t meant to be funny at all. My potential one-night stand is sweet, easy to talk with, and, I’ll admit, easy on the eyes. And he likes popcorn. I like popcorn! We have so much in common! Plus, as my friend has already disclosed, he’s on a bit of a hook-up tour himself. After the movie, he drives me home and I “lure” him inside, not with my feminine wiles, but with the promise that my daughter’s nanny makes a mean meatloaf.
“There are leftovers,” I say, as we pull into my driveway. “Would you like to come in and try some?” Some people invite dates in to “Netflix and chill.” I offer leftover meatloaf. I’m all class.
Blissfully Blended Bullshit Page 1
