“So, how do you define family?” a friend asked me, as a group of us warmed ourselves by the fire pit. The air was crisp and the conversation had gotten deep.
I had just shared a little of my story; how I am an only child with ten siblings, and a parent to five kids with three different moms.
It seemed like it should be an easy question to answer. It seemed odd to me that I had never asked myself before. And yet… I couldn’t come up with a response.
*****
A few days later, I asked my 15 year old. “How would you define family?”
“People who share your DNA,” was his prompt response.
I pushed back. “Well, by that definition, Bea isn’t our family. Grandpa Frank wouldn’t count as family. Your dad wouldn’t be MY family.”
He revised his answer, “Okay, well… how about people you live with?”
“If that’s your definition, then your brothers aren’t your family. Aunt Sarah and Uncle Brandon aren’t my family. My dad isn’t my family. I feel like that doesn’t fit, either.”
He sighed his exasperated teenaged sigh, “Jeez, mom. I don’t know. I’m only fifteen.” Dramatic pause. Shrug. Smirk. “I actually don’t know much.” Aaah. A rare admission of truth. I laughed.
And then I continued contemplating. What’s family? What does it mean to be family?
*****
Something else has happened recently. Bea isn’t talking to me. She’s in her first semester away at college and she won’t return my calls or texts. I send care packages and get no response. She’s removed herself from my cellphone plan and hasn’t answered about her plans for Thanksgiving.
It’s breaking my heart.
*****
And all of that has me thinking about family. I think of Bea as MY family, but maybe she doesn’t think of me as hers.
That realization brings me back to my childhood. My father met his third wife when I was eleven or so. She had five daughters, which was awesome. That summer, when my dad went to work, I spent my days with them. We rode our bikes around the neighborhood, built forts in the living room, and set a fire in the kitchen (that’s a whole other blog post). We swam in the community pool and played flashlight tag after dark. The oldest two girls were right around my age. We became fast friends.
Eventually, my dad and his wife bought a house together. They wanted this new house to feel like home to everyone, so I had a bedroom. It was shared with my stepsister, but it was billed as “our room.” There was a full sized bed for us to share, and I had my own spot for stuff in the closet. It was a conscious attempt at blending a family, and it felt really nice. I already liked these girls a lot, and I couldn’t wait to be part of the family.
It took me far too long to realize that you can’t just make yourself part of someone else’s family. You can’t show up a few weekends a year and expect to be a sister. It didn’t matter how much I wanted it. They had each other 365 days a year. They had me for maybe 15. They had their inside jokes and their mutual friends and no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I would always be a visitor there.
*****
But there was the opposite, too. My mom and my stepdad got married when I was about four. I don’t really remember a time before they were together. When my three younger sisters were born, I never thought of them as my half-sisters. They were just my sisters. And Frank was just my dad. We were a pretty typical family. I was never treated differently. Dad just had four daughters.
And in that home, where I lived most of the time, where I knew I was part of it all and accepted and loved… I still never quite fit in.
I was the only kid who left for long weekends to go see my other dad. I had to deal with divorce drama that my sisters didn’t understand. I was the timid one; the neat freak who loved country music and shied away from conflict. I was (and still am) just a little more different from them than they are from each other.
I have another half-sister, too. Sarah is nearly a decade younger than me. Her mom is my dad’s second wife. Mostly, she grew up with her mom and I grew up with mine. As kids, we would see each other a couple weekends a year. Our age gap and our infrequent contact had kept us from really getting to know each other until we were grown.
And when we started to spend more time together, I realized that this sisterhood was different. The first time we hung out at the kind of local dive bar that we both love, we ran the pool table against opponents who were obviously surprised that a couple of girls could beat them. We discovered that we love the same music. We have the same mannerisms. We like the same food and laugh at the same jokes. We communicate in the same way. We both like the rush of riding a motorcycle, but hate the spin of a merry go round. It was strange to think that I had spent so little time with this sister who was so much like me.
Genetics are a powerful thing.
*****
So I circle back. What is family? I still don’t know. I can’t define it. And if I can’t define it for me, I sure as hell can’t define it for anyone else.
That’s really hard right now. I want Bea to PICK ME as part of her family. But I can’t control that. I don’t get to say I’m her family and have it be so, just like I couldn’t just become a sister all those years ago.
All families are complicated. Mixed and blended families are just another version of complicated. Attachment, love, loyalty, shared history, genetics, traditions… these things weave us together, and we become entangled.
Maybe that’s what family is. Maybe if you spend too much time trying to untangle it, to sort it our or define it or fix it… maybe you’re missing the point. Maybe the beauty lies in the messy, complicated, undefined nature of it.
That leaves me without a definition. Instead, I have a plan. I’m going to stop overthinking it. I’m going to stop trying to define it and control it.
Because no matter how you define it, family is a blessing. Today, I am choosing to just be grateful for it.