The Space to Be Close

by Fern Kupfer

I was doing my hair recently in the bathroom, getting ready for aparty. Katie had followed me from the kitchen, where she had beentalking about a dance that was coming up. I was giving suggestions aboutwhat she could wear and asked questions about her date.

Sometime during the conversation, Katie sat down on the toilet. I brushed my teeth, we shared the sink as she washed her hands and continued chatting. It was an ordinary family scene - depending, I suppose, on a family'sdefinition of privacy and boundaries. But less ordinary because Katie ismy stepdaughter.

We have lived together only five years. And, although she does not know it, her desire for my presence, her easy intimacy with me and my affectionate acceptance of it, make me proud.

Space. Privacy. Boundaries. Those issues loomed large when Joe and Imarried. I thought we had a perfect house for a family newly blendedwith adolescents. The upstairs has two huge bedrooms separated by a"sitting" room and a complete bath. There's a television up there and ateen-line phone and probably half a dozen empty pizza take-out boxes.The steps going upstairs are hidden by the wall separating the livingroom. This wall has turned out to be a highly desirable design featurewith teenagers living upstairs. Teenagers never see anything -clothes, books, tapes, towels - left on the steps, but are very adeptat climbing over such strategically placed items. So it is best if thestairway is not in public view.

Downstairs, Joe and I have a master bedroom off the kitchen, and there's a guest bedroom for my grown daughter who comes "home" now more and more in that capacity.

I'll admit that I was taken aback years ago, the first time I camein from work and found Katie on the floor of my bedroom playing cardswith her friends. Or Megan in the downstairs bathroom, running herself abubblebath.

Did I have a right not to want them there? It was their house, after all. They had lived there for a year before I had married their father (although Joe and I had bought the house together with the intention of marrying.) Their father had never kicked them out of the downstairs bedroom. Nor had he suggested that the downstairs bathroomwas off limits.

At the time I remarried, I had just come from living with mydaughter. Privacy and physical space never seemed an issue. Frequently,she'd be reading in my waterbed because it was cozy. She took clothesfrom my closet without permission and I never minded, and often in themorning I'd shower while she'd be drying her hair at the bathroomcounter.

But with my stepdaughters, I simply felt invaded. Suddenly there wasmy bedroom and my things. (Their things I was careful to place on thesteps going upstairs.) And while I felt invaded, I'm sure they feltdisplaced. After all, I was the one who moved in with my books and potsand pans. There was new furniture in the living room and my pictures onthe walls, and behind the bedroom door - a door that had recentlyacquired a lock - I was sleeping with their father.

One afternoon, I was looking through a book of floor samples for thekitchen when Megan came home and started looking with me. It was apleasant time, both of us pointing out the ones we liked. Joe and I hadnarrowed the selection to a number of light woods.

"I really like this," Megan said, pointing to a ceramic tile. "It is pretty," I agreed, showing her selections of wood with delicious names: ginger, cinnamon, honey. "But we're getting wood.".

"I want the tile," Megan said, her lips pressed firmly together. "Well," I said breezily, "you can have ceramic tile in the kitchenwhen you have your own house."

Megan looked archly at me: "Fern, this is my own house."

Katie was just as insulted when I told her I didn't want her playingin my bedroom." It's not just your bedroom," was the first thing shesaid. Unspoken was the knowledge that there were years of story-times inher father's bedroom. And a safe haven from nightmares. Clearly, she andher sister had a longer and more intimate history than I.

"Well, I don't go into your bedroom," I told her. "I don't read inyour bed, and I don't do my writing at your desk." I added that I didn'tthink she would like it if I did, either. She admitted that she wouldnot.

Almost six years later, after working so hard to establish my own space, I eased up and the boundaries began to blur. There was time, of course, which - if you're working seriously on a relationship - is usually on your side. There were family meetings about needs and expectations. There were arguments.There was counseling.

And now there is also trust. While my stepchildren and I don'talways get along perfectly, we are comfortable living together in thesame space. Because we have all made a commitment as a family, Katieknows that when I yell, "I want you out of my room right now!" it meansonly that I want her out of my room. Not out of our house or out of mylife.

The girls know that I worked hard to make a home for them, a homethat they are part of. Intimacy is usually slower to grow in blendedfamilies. But the bloom that results is worth all the care.

Fern Kupfer is a novelist and writing professor at Iowa State University. She is a frequent contributor to Working Moms' Internet Refuge.

Family | Career | Art of Juggling | Single Moms | Health
Dad's Voice | Bookshelf | News | Recipes | Sports Mom | Discussion Lists
Business Directory | The Boards | Wisdom of Mothers | Postcards | Resources
Search | About Us | Contact Us |Advertising on the Refuge | Home

Copyright © 2000   Working Moms Refuge.