Growing up...

I'm at the phase in life where the phrase, "The more I know, the more I realize how little I know," defines me.

The best-laid plans don't always come to fruition, and rather, go through numerous life-happens revisions (aka plan B, edited repeatedly) - so much so that the plans one has at the beginning of college do not even resemble the doings that person recounts to everyone at the 10-yr. high-school reunion. I've learned to refrain from making plans which have the word never in them. You know, "My kids will never talk to me that way," or "I would never stay with a man who cheated on me." Time has shown me that it's damned near impossible to adhere to such plans, because unless it's happened before and I absolutely know I wouldn't or couldn't tolerate something to the point of attaching the word never to it, I don't have so much as a clue as to whether my plan is an idle threat or a firm promise to myself and the involved party.

I had a ten-year plan at one time. At age 16, I was insistent that at 18, I would get in to college with the aid of scholarships (I'd always been a straight A student), study psychology, go to graduate school where I would study more psychology, get more letters behind my name, set up private practice as a counselor/psychologist, work for a while, live independently, find a nice man to marry and start a family when we felt ready. I had mapped out how I would support myself through school, beyond scholarships - enthralled with the idea of free room and board, I'd planned on working as an RA for the dorms my 2nd year and on; I'd thought about moving to a different state, picturing an urban-chic single chick existence...enter life happens - revision 1 to the plan.

I met a guy...............

At age 16.5, one of my then best friends became my boyfriend. He moved to Denver to live with his brother while I finished my senior year of highschool, and we did the long-distance thing. We were able to date in much closer proximity while I attended Colorado State University just an hour north from him.

We were young, in love....and stupid.

I say stupid because looking back now, things would have been different. Not I-don't-love-you-we-were-too-young different, but things would have moved a little slower than they did...anyway I digress, life came in and did its work to my plan.

We got engaged, and six months later, at the age of 19, I was married.

Just a minor change to the plan, right?

Right....I could still finish college and press forward with grad school. The Mister was totally on board for that. So I plugged my way through college, working, married, and driven to succeed. So much so, I got a wild hair to finish early by a semester. In the summer of 2000, I was taking classes, doing an internship for a local NPO, and preparing to submit an application for graduate school, studying for the GRE....life happens-revision 2 came crashing in.

July 3, 2000...Amazing how one day changes a person's whole world.

My period was a week late, leading me to take a whole other kind of test than planned. I was so busy and, not wanting to worry Seth in the event of a false alarm - don't laugh- I bought an HPT the night before, shoved it in my back-pack, and peed on the stick in a university basement bathroom stall - dimly lit in summer energy conservation efforts, too, I might add.

That second line was almost a figment of my imagination...so much so, I left the stall, furtively glanced around to ensure I was, in fact, alone, held the test up to the flickering fluorescent light, and, sure enough, there was a second line.

A faint second line, but a second line, the "A line is a line," line. FREAK OUT!

I'd just turned 21. JUST TURNED 21!

For a split second, I mourned the latest revision of my plan. SPLIT SECOND...then, tears of inexplicable joy!

Then the whirlwind of thoughts racing wildly: "A life is inside me!?! The man I love and I are going to bring a creature with both our DNA into the world - a baby boy or girl? -names - I gotta call the Harmony House - there's no way I can go in tonight, I have to tell him - in a special way - but first, I need to get this confirmed, don't I need a doctor? A prenatal vitamin? Oh I hope I don't have morning sickness, I start Physio Psych Lab in a few weeks (dissection of human brains, formaldehyde) - Oh, crap, class just started again!"

My study partner saw me come in late to class, noticed my face, and furiously whispered, "What is going on...something's going on, you can't not tell me!" I grabbed the stick and held it under the table we sat at. Her mouth formed a large "o" and she hugged me. I was graduating in 6 months...I would graduate and then have this baby. Could I get my cake (the first generation of college graduation in my family) and eat it too (starting a family with my beloved)?

I couldn't tell you what the remaining lecture was about. I know we were talking about the clinical reliability and validity of commonly used testing measurements, the Stanford-Binet IQ test, Beck Depression Inventory, etc, b/c of the class notes prior to intermission, but afterward?

Not a clue.

to be cont'd

Origins of the "red-headed stepchild"

Editor's Note: When I started this blog in 2006, I initially titled it "Ramblings of a Red-Headed Stepchild." I changed it several years back to Heather in the Making to more accurately reflect what my writing is all about.

Never once had I thought to research the origin of the phrase "red-headed stepchild," for I thought I knew what it meant and why. My family of origin used this phrase quite frequently, as there are a number of redheads on the maternal side of my lineage, including myself. Apparently, my paternal DNA has a history of red-heads too, but we'll get to that later.

My mother's cousin, Shelly, had hair approximate to the shade of Ronald McDonald's.

Then there was Aunt Ardell, my great-grandmother's sister, who had "peach" hair - as I knew her anyway. -Peach hair is the demise of redheads who age without going gray, and instead go white; it's a curious phenomenon that makes me giggle.

Grandma has always had gray hair, at least that's how my memories serve...but old family pictures show her with hair similar to the color mine's turning out to be; a coppery auburn that is clearly red to some, and only kinda red to others.

Then my son, he's got hair that most would call strawberry, though his older sister, age 5, tells him it's "orange."

Growing up in my family, Shelly received most of the red-headed stepchild comments, and for good cause as she was star of many of the family's memorable moments. Shelly was always pulling practical jokes in public. This often resulted in a family member saying, "Don't look at me, she's the red-headed stepchild!" Most of the time, in this context, red-headed stepchild was meant to equate something akin to the family idiot. Other times, when Shelly embarrassed one of us - often - red-headed stepchild was used similarly to the phrase "black sheep of the family." It was always a good-natured rib at her.

Soon, though, I received the red-headed stepchild brand. In my case it was more literal.

The product of two 16 y/o's who had no business having a child at that point in life, I grew up not knowing my biological father, and Mom quickly moved on to my first stepfather, who was the father of my 3 siblings. I had red hair; I was the step-child of our family - it fit.

Which brings me to my research...

To tell the truth, I only thought to research it because I used it in my blog title! So upon discovering the origins of the red-headed stepchild, I was a little dismayed at the dark connotations...and later, the ironic applicability to my own childhood.

In short, I found the term is often preceded by "I'll beat you like a..." - something that my ears had never heard. Apparently the reasons for the direction of violence toward such a child are attributed to:

--assumed illegitimacy of the red-headed stepchild - the red hair being an obvious indicator of a different father
--the mythic fiery temperament of a red-head combining with the sullen attitude of a stepchild

And perhaps the worst fact about the phrase?
It's interchangeable with the phrase "I'll beat you like a rented mule." Somewhere along the crossroads of societal beliefs and the etymological path, a stepchild became equivalent to an animal loathed by many, used by all.

Sadly, the things that created this phrase did hold true for me while growing up. My stepfather never accepted me, despite his claims that he "loved like one of his own." He was occasionaly abusive and did beat me like a red-headed stepchild.

It's pretty ironic to me now, knowing the history of the term, that what I always thought of as my own superficial, yet literal, label would so accurately describe my childhood...

Any other etymological biographies out there? Hmmm.....

The All You Wanted to Know About Me Post

My first [semi-autobiographical] post, explaining [then] blog title, Ramblings of a Red-Headed Step-Child, is here.

How I came to the blogosphere is here.

I am not immune to insecurity. Or depression. Or bouts of narcissism (bad) - masked as confidence (good).

I married young. Nineteen.

As an indirect result... (read: huge surprise) I was a young(ish) mom - still am in most circles, too.

The Mister and I both apparently ordered mini-me's when makin' the babies.

Kelsey was diagnosed with Sensory Integration Dysfunction in kindergarten...lots of posts on this.

My church is of a fundamentalist conservative Christian flavor, but I am a Christian first, Church of Christ member second. I tend to see things in the heretical shade of GRAY.... :gasp:

If that ain't enough for ya'll...well...archives are below and to the right.