By Maxine Marsolini
(A Shortened version appeared in Marriage Partnership, Summer 2008, "That Thing That We Do" p. 7)
Life as a remarried couple reminds me of dancing. Without knowing the right moves, things break down fast. Fortunately, for my Charlie and me, we have always shared a love for dancing. Our tango began in the mid-seventies when the catchphrase of the day was—if it feels good, do it.
We agreed with that slogan and often spent an evening dancing at a favorite club bathed in thousands of rainbow-colored sprinkles from a bright shimmering disco ball high above the dance floor.
The room’s ambience, a table for two, a slow candlelight dinner, fun talks and swaying together felt so right. In those hours, the world gave way to just the two of us having fun. The day we married, the disco duo quickly became an erratic line dance of seven—five children and us.
Looking back now, thirty-two years later, we had foolishly believed we’d always be in step with each other, that love would be enough to keep our new family on a happy course. Our wedding day, a second for me and a third for my husband, should have clued us in—dancing into a ready-made family isn’t easy. The five children, two of mine and three of his, all under age nine, were with their respective other parent for the weekend.“Don’t tell the kids about our plan,” Charlie said, swearing me to secrecy. “Let’s elope. We’ll tell them when we get back.”“OK, Honey,” I said, moving past a pang of hesitation to the prospect of the two of us coming home married. His idea seemed to keep everything simple and uncomplicated.
The original plan of travel to the wedding chapel in Reno, Nevada, changed when we reached Mt. Shasta City. Snow was falling heavily all around, so we revamped our route and drove farther south to Interstate 80—a more travelled highway. As we neared the summit of California’s Donner Pass, we asked ourselves some serious questions. “Do you think we can make it?” hubby-to-be said. “Maybe we should turn around?” “We’re doing OK,” I said in the calmest voice I could muster from the driver’s seat. “It will be as difficult to turn around as to keep driving to our destination.” A pristine white layer, like heavy frosting on a wedding cake, blanketed the rugged mountain terrain. Tall, majestic pines dressed in thousands of glistening tutus performed creation’s ballet before our eyes. We arrived in Reno after 10:00 p.m., dashed into the courthouse, bought the license, found our hotel, and walked into the Starlight Wedding Chapel just before midnight. Three or four pews lined each side of the short aisle. Fresh flowers and candle stands prettied the platform. The minister said a few words and we exchanged vows. We were pronounced husband and wife and purchased a set of pictures. We left the chapel starry-eyed and married.
Two days later we were telling the news to our children. They were excited as though a Cinderella story had been revealed. Hugs were shared. Cake and ice cream topped off the celebration. The dance of the blended family had officially begun. Somewhere along the way the disc jockey exchanged our familiar music to songs full of moves we didn’t recognize. This family became a bunch of people who didn’t know how to get in step with each other. It was like being asked to ballroom dance with people who only knew rock and roll, disco, or the mashed potato. Doing a fire dance with either ex seemed to happen without warning. A support check might fail to show up—or worse yet, bounce. A heated verbal exchange demanding whatever for one of the children could easily ruin a good mood at our house. Angry or depressed feelings traded places with laughter at the drop of a hat. To make matters worse, we no longer found much time for dancing.
Stress mounted between us as we tried to parent our stepchildren the same way we did our biological kids. We were experienced parents but inexperienced stepparents. Until then we had no reason to believe the differences between parenting and stepparenting would be big enough to pull us in opposite directions or that any one of our boys or girls would be less-than-willing to comply if asked to do something by a stepmom or a stepdad. The day came when I realized their ears were turned off, their attitudes tuned out, and their behaviors set out to divide and conquer between their dad and me. One day in particular remains etched in my mind. We’d been asked to care for the neighbors’ yard. On that day my nine-year-old stepdaughter joined me to water their plants. For a while she seemed interested in the pretty flowers, and ate a few strawberries found along the bank. But thirty minutes later she was playing squish-the-hose about twenty feet from where I was holding the end with the nozzle attached. The hose play was fun at first, but her game became annoying when she wouldn’t listen after I’d asked her to stop. Over and over the water flow was interrupted. Over-and-over I politely asked her to stop being so silly. Then came the fateful moment when my worn-thin patience gave out. “If you stand on the hose one more time, I’m going to spray you with water,” I said in a serious tone. “Please believe me. I’m not kidding.” Squish. She openly disobeyed my instructions…again! When the next surge came, I sprayed her just as I had said I would do. My parenting style with my stepdaughter was the same as what I’d do to one of my own children given the same circumstances: clearly define consequences should naughtiness continue—and follow through, if need be. Getting wet should not have been a big surprise. “Dad, Dad!” she cried, running back to our yard. “Maxine got me soaking wet.” Not once did she mention her failure to listen to what I’d asked her to do. To her I was now labeled the mean, merciless stepmom. My husband hadn’t witnessed the event. He’d only heard his daughter’s side of the story. The same guy I said yes to at the altar immediately sided with his daughter. His anger toward me was instant. I was shocked! It was two against one. I suddenly felt like an outsider in my own yard and guilty without a trial. The whole day was ruined.
Far and wide parenting was our most difficult dance to conquer. This impassioned tango was complex. Two other households influenced what went on at our house. We were still trying to boogie with steps we’d formed in previous family systems, favoring our own children and not yet bonding with our stepchildren. Stepping on each other’s toes was common those first few years. Lucky for us, Beth, an employee and friend, asked us a question one day. “Would the two of you like to learn how to square dance?”
“We used to dance a lot, but we’ve never thought seriously about square dancing,” I answered. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Jim and I will be there to help you learn the moves and introduce you to our friends.” Oddly enough, my husband, a guy hooked on Elvis and the Big Bopper, agreed to give this new dance a try. We couldn’t help laughing because we really didn’t know what we were doing. Just trying to allemande left and do-si-do was a hoot. Before long we relaxed. The troubles of the day drifted away with the music. Within a few short weeks we found ourselves staying in step, listening to the caller—no longer breaking down the square. Square dancing became one of the best gifts the Lord deposited into our marriage. We found dancing weekly gave us a temporary feel-good escape, and a freedom to let love’s cadence reset the gentle rhythm of our souls. Even on a bad day, when parenting our blended kids left us not even wanting to hold hands or look each other in the eye, a night of dancing pulled us back together. All the twirling was like relaxation therapy, making us happy to be a couple all over again. By the time we got home, we had new attitudes and a fresh willingness to work things out for our family.
Dancing showed us many ways to enjoy life. The Lemon Teaser meant putting a lemon slice between your teeth while dancing, lemon drool and all, through the tart encounter. Keeping a sense of humor reaped great memories from dancing in the surf at a nearby beach. Everyone who met the various challenges got a badge. The Potato Festival, the Pear Blossom Festival, and the Diamond Lake Festival, became part of our life. Many years we shaped our family’s vacation in conjunction with dancing on a wooden floor laid out beside the lake. When we weren’t dancing we were playing with the kids. All this dancing spilled over into our home. Physical touch softened hearts. Badges encouraged us to show appreciation for one another. We saw how even a sour, or wet, day could still be a day to laugh. Not stepping on toes meant weaving the square with respect for personal space.
Bottom line—if we cared enough not to break down a square, we could do our best to keep the family intact. When one of us messes up, we regroup, like a good bunch of dancers, and get back into the rhythm. The music doesn’t stop. The family won’t either.
