A big, fat, emphatic no.
Probably shocking to a lot of my interlocutors.
The run down?
My parents are divorced since I am 6, I haven't talked to my father since December 1999 (that was still last millenium!) and my relationship with my mom has always been....stormy. My younger brother grew up without me. My grandparents are all deceased and uncles, aunts, cousins and company have never fully been in the picture.
Not really Seven Heaven, Full House or Cosby Show material.
Our family is definitely not modeled on the Ingalls whom I wanted to adopt as a little girl. Who cared if they were semi-fictional, American and long-time dead.
I am fine with it. No need to be sorry, hand me a handkerchief, or revise your will. I am 34, had plenty of time to get over it and decided a long time ago that family is really an open concept anyway.
Then I met my husband. And discovered that the whole family idea was damn itching all of a sudden. I was given, right there and then, a second chance. A possibility to forge ties and create bonds that would possibly last a lifetime. Something almost as strong as blood.
For better or for worse, as the line goes.
(How can anyone in their right mind agree to swear by it?!? The worse you imagine at the time, standing in the transept in your beautiful white dress, holding hands and ready to party cannot be that bad....)
I quickly realized though - as I had during my previous romantic relationships - that you might choose the one, and feel sure about it, happy, fulfilled and all - you still don't choose the family he comes with.
Or his past.
Even though I was elated to discover my beloved had two sisters and still married parents, I still had to pass the test. Always dreadful, right, but made even worse by the existence of a previous wife that didn't score very high on anyone's tablets. I was petrified on my way to the Thanksgiving dinner where I was supposed to meet them all while gracefully wolfing down turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and apple pie.
Talk about an impossible mission.
I quickly conquered the parents - who apparently whispered to him in the semi-secret of the kitchen "She is a winner!!" - but never really managed to break through the thick (protective?) shell of the sisters. Too old, too foreign, not cool enough, not good enough - I never really understood what was lacking.
It just didn't happen.
And despite me trying, there was nothing I could do to change things.
This time I was not that fine with it.
But still had to make do.
In-laws probably shouldn't function as a 'family substitute' but in a case like mine, with a biological family far and estranged, I had hoped it would.
And it does.
Just not in the ideal, rainbow, flower and TV-show way I had dreamed about. Which is just as good because in the end, it's real and that what matters.
Sunday night.
As I am typing this, R. is at his parents' house in the suburbs. He won't come back tonight, maybe not even tomorrow. His family - our family - is on crisis. Sickness gave us a nasty blow.
It hurts.
More than I would ever thought.
It hurts to see them suffer and be powerless. It hurts to think of what is going to inevitably happen. It hurts to see my love struggle with his emotions and try to keep strong because everyone else is falling apart. It hurts to not be able to help.
And ultimately it hurts to know that soon enough my new found family - imperfect, dysfunctional, flawed and fragile but MY family - will not be the same ever again. It is a dull, haunting, almost surreal feeling that lingers in the living room where the dog sleeps on the red pillow of the sofa, softly snoring and oblivious to the world.
This moment, this very minute - is bittersweet.
In the vast solitude of the apartment I am realizing that, for better or for worse, I love my - unique, irreplaceable - family.
Goofy picture of us - photoshopped by Bill(?) and takenthe day of Matt and Morgan's wedding almost four years ago
That sounds like one stressful Thanksgiving.
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