T-Minus Twelve Hours

So, in twelve-ish hours, my mom gets remarried.

I’ve been trying to tease out my emotions for a while now. Maybe lining them up would help me deal with each one. But I’m finding that I can’t, really.

I always cry at weddings. I’m a huge fan of happiness and love and I just get overcome. So there’s that. 

But this is my mom, you know?

My dad got remarried like, a year after my parents divorced, to a stranger (to me) in China, who still isn’t here due to immigration. He flew over on April Fools Day and stayed for three weeks. Sometime around Tax Day, he married her. He brought home a DVD of the wedding. I got to watch her get ready and him get ready and them saying their vows in Chinese and him playing Stairway to Heaven on an acoustic guitar. 

It was odd because I felt happiness for those two people getting married. Finding happiness. Finding love. It was like I was watching a documentary or a home video of two people having a foreign wedding. I couldn’t really connect to it being my own father. 

Tomorrow, I’ll be standing next to my mother as she gets remarried to a high school sweetheart of sorts, and I am wondering how I’ll feel. How I’ll react. Will I cry because it’s a wedding? Will I cry because it’s my mother? Will I feel like I’m watching from somewhere high above the ceremony, from someone else’s vantage point? Will I be sad?

I was a bit sad watching dad’s wedding DVD. Watching all of these family members be a part of this special day, but my brother and I not being there. Part of me was glad I was left out, but of course, it’s my dad; I wish I could have been included in some way.

Tomorrow, I am included, but I worry about how I’ll be. No, I’m not, I’ll do and say all the right things and it’s her special day and seeing her so happy will warm my heart. And yet, part of me thinks it’d be a bit easier to not witness it. 

I don’t know. Like I said, I’m having trouble teasing out my emotions. 

I’ve said it before, numerous times, but this is just something I never thought I’d be dealing with. My parents were married for twenty-five years, which was twenty-three years of my life. I’m twenty-six years old and I’m just now having to deal with a divorce and already remarriages. I’ll never be able to say which would have been better: them getting divorced when we were younger and we’d just be used to it by now, or doing it this way. I’ll probably always argue that it was harder for me this way. 

Of course, in the end, everything happens for a reason and everything happens when it should, as it should. How can I argue with that?

What’s even stranger is that dad’s wife has a son about my age, mom’s soon-to-be husband has a son just older than me and then two sons, seven and nine, I believe. 

I’m being very resistant to any ‘step-‘ terms. I have a mother and a father and a brother. I cannot call anyone a step-mother or step-father or step-brother at this age if no one has step-parented me or no one has been a step-sibling to me. I’m very possessive of my parents and brother. They’re mine and that’s it. 

But now they’re not. They’re other people’s, too. Perhaps I haven’t learnt to share quite yet.

I’m guessing most people who’ve gone through their parents getting divorced and remarried and doing the step- thing are wondering what I’m on about. I know. I’m an adult. I should have the tools to deal with this, I guess. Or at least be more open to these things. 

Maybe someday. 

I wish I could be a bit more like my brother in this case. He’s been very strong and ‘as long as they’re happy’ and ‘I’ve always wanted a large family/more siblings.’ I just haven’t, you know? I mean, sure, it would have been nice to have my cousins closer and whatnot, but Conor was just always enough sibling for me. I used to think having an older brother would have been nice, but Conor has the qualities of an older brother, so I get the best of both worlds. 

Now there are too many worlds, I think. 

And mom having these little kids around now. It makes me a bit.. I don’t know.. I wanted the first little kids she was looking after to be my kids, her grandkids. She’s going to be doing the parenting thing all over again before I’m even doing it. 

I am really going to hate even posting this, but I’m being fatally honest. And maybe someone will stumble across this open-heart surgery and think, finally, someone gets it

I don’t know. I guess I should get some sleep before the big day.

Mom’s going to look so beautiful in her dress. 

Raise the Surveillance Status to ‘Active’

I wrote about Sherlock last night and how much I love everything about the show. Last night, I also talked my dad into watching an episode with me.

He came over today to watch Sherlock. I couldn’t decide where exactly to start. I told him that as much as I’d love to start with Season Three, just because it really has been exceptional so far, I should probably start with A Study In Pink. He went on a diatribe about how he wasn’t going to get into a television show, he doesn’t watch television, it doesn’t matter where we start. I knew he would act this way, which is why I was torn over which episode to show him.

After some internal debate, and after asking a friend, I decided on ASiP – to introduce him to the Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman version of the characters. Plus, it really is a brilliant episode. 

Upon first seeing Martin, he exclaimed, “Hey! That’s the hobbit!” He was already laughing during the press conference when Sherlock was texting everyone, “Wrong.” Just a few minutes later and he’s already saying, sheepishly, “Okay, I think I could get into this.” 

After Sherlock invited John to live with him, dad said, “That’s how they met?! This is too good for TV.” When Sherlock ran off, leaving John at the crime scene with the Pink Lady, dad admitted his man crush on Martin Freeman: “He can say more by not saying anything.” Yes, dad; the fandom is very much aware of Martin’s expertise.

He laughed, he asked questions, he was rather enthralled. 

When Mycroft said, “Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson” and they walked off in slow motion to the theme, dad and I looked at each other, and he reached over to shake my hand. I couldn’t contain my smugness.

“This show… is awesome. You bitch. You’re like a drug pusher. How do you expect me to walk away from this show without needing to watch more?”

And, much like at the end of a successful drug deal, we shook hands again.

As he got up to leave (I have an errand to run), he said, “God. Pretty soon I’m going to have Sherlock shit all over my house! My chickens will be wearing little black coats!”

I told him I didn’t have anything going on tonight after my errand, so we made plans for him to come back over and watch The Blind Banker. I told him not to Google any spoilers.

 

Growing up, watching movies with my dad was essentially one of my favorite past-times. It’s because of him that I have such a passion for film and television. It’s because of him that I know what Airplane! is, and Spaceballs, unlike so many of my friends. It’s because of him pointing out different things or wondering out loud why the director shot the scene a certain way or how the score is in a certain scene that I do those things. 

So, being able to introduce him to Sherlock, a show that manages to be the brightest light shining in a world full of torches, is an immense pleasure. The fact that he loved it, well. 

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