One day, while talking on the phone I paced around the house, doing thoughtless, little household tasks. Suddenly, right in front of me, in the kitchen, the blender turned itself on high, loudly whirring, with smoke spreading from the base. Wow! I quickly unplugged it.
Sometimes, being in a blended family feels like that useful appliance gone wild. The step family unit whirrs wildly into blending mode, short circuited into action by our fantasies of family. The blades mash our hard edges against each other, trying to smooth out our exotic flavors and textures originating in five or six different families into a new, hopefully pleasing melange.
We get mixed up. What are we? More than roommates, not quite a family.
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