Not My Circus, Not My Monkeys

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This is the ninth blog in a series. To read the earlier entries, click here: Archive: The ThirdAge Romance Saga of Sally Franz.

I just heard this phrase: “Not My Circus, Not my Monkeys”. It is purportedly translated from an old Polish saying. And it has become so popular you can buy T-shirts with the saying plastered across the front. I wish I could buy one for every stepparent alive.

Raising a teenage boy as a new stepmother (albeit at 63 with some disabilities) I have a double whammy approach to parenting. I have my old parenting skills, a wee bit rusty from 25+ years ago, and I have my newly acquired grandmother skills. The grandmother skills help keep life in perspective. Nothing will shift negatively in the universe if the boy goes out to Wal-Mart with you in a pair of dirty sweat pants. In fact he will be a bit over-dressed for the occasion. My parenting skills, however old, are of the Attila the Hun variety: “Dude, get out of bed. You are doing your chores now!” Together I am like the cop in the Lego movie; I am the classic “good cop”/ “bad cop” all in one. It works as well as any other approach. And if I were raising him in a void, this would be a piece of cake. But I am not. This is a circus, a three-ring circus at that.

Ring One: Here we have the teen. He is a high-ranking general/jedi/ninja…in his gaming cyber-world. Yes, in his computer generated universe he is capable of blowing up mountains. In the real world, he moans if he has to lift a mounded basket of his own laundry. Mind you he can move it, but not without sounding as if he is receiving exile to the outer reaches of the Nebula Galaxy. He is smart. In fact he spends a great deal of time in his ring outsmarting the acts in the other two rings.

Ring Two: His father is a hard working man who parents by non-interference. In this ring there are amazing feats of ignorance-is-bliss and he-will-figure-it-out. His dad hopes his son will begin to self-regulate and self-discipline. There are glimmers that this may work.

Ring Three: The child’s mom who is still presenting dramas of outrage at the dad and projecting her fears on the kid. Sentences start with, “You must, you will, and the old stand by, “I never, you always.”

Me? I am apparently the high wire performer above this scene trying not to lose my balance. But it is no easy act.

When you are the stepparent, you are considered ill-equipped to raise someone else’s kid. In fact, you are told to let the “real parents” do their job. Fine and dandy exept it is you, the stepparent, in the fray. You, the stepparent, who is in the house and has to deal with spills of milk, spaghetti sauce, or mustard now left to harden into plasticine patches the size of Wyoming. You are the one who goes to heat up your coffee cup in the microwave only to find that your in-house wizard has exploded a dragon in the nuker with blood and guts splattered on the roof, sides and glass plate all smelling very much like the lasagna leftovers from last night. When confronted with the massacre, he explains that using plastic wrap to prevent such eruptions is an environmental hazard and too much plastic already fills our landfills yadda, yadda. Oh, yeah? Well, if I took all the plastic wrap I have ever bought this half century and bunched it all up it would not fill up your laundry basket…if it should ever be empty, just saying. And don’t start me on the garbage. Let’s just say this kid gets the Sarah Silvia Cynthia Stout Award, the kid in Shel Silverstein’s poem who would not take the garbage out. I was overwhelmed by it all.

And then my friend sent me this wonderful saying: “Not my circus, not my monkeys” and it saved me. I am now able to turn to my dear husband and say with a smile, tend to your circus, go find your monkey. (Translation:I have no reason to talk to your ex-wife. I am not in charge of your kid). Maybe I will tattoo this new mantra on my butt and show it to those whose need to see it. No, wait, the tattoo goes on my palm, so I can read it when I slap my forehead six times a day.

P.S. The more I stop joining the circus the more my stepson steps up to the plate. Glory Halleluiah! We have a win-win here on aisle 5!

Sally Franz is a former stand-up comedian, motivational speaker, and radio host. She is a twice-divorced mother of two and a grandmother of three. Sally has a degree in gerontology and several awards for humor writing. She is the author of Scrambled Leggs: A Snarky Tale of Hospital Hooey
and The Baby Boomers Guide to Menopause.