Friends like these

I know there are a lot of people who don't understand it. Some who wonder how we do it. And others who think we are flat out nuts.

Mostly, those are the ones who don't know us very well. Those who do have just come to accept it. They still probably shake their heads, though.

That woman over there, sitting on my sofa, eating at my table, picking up my child on Tuesday afternoons just because, helping my husband and me coach our daughter's volleyball team, and giving me high fives when we won one without him? Yes, she is my friend. Yes, she is family. Yes, she is my daughter's Godmother.

She also is my husband's ex wife.

Go ahead.  I'll wait...

Cheryl is the woman my husband fell in love with in college. The woman he married in a big, splashy wedding at St. Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter. The woman who bore his two children. Who celebrated his first victories as a coach. Who waited for him at home. And waited.

One day she decided she had had enough of waiting for him to come home. He didn't see it coming.

Then one night I found him. In a bar. Trying to get his feet wet again. We fell in love.

Cheryl and I? Not so much.

Although we always were civil to and with each other, there were some awkward moments, especially at first. We are women, after all. No woman wants to see her man -- even the ones we don't want anymore -- with someone else. We want them miserable and missing us forever. Right?

So we had our tussles and our dustups. Nothing major. No shouting matches. No fisticuffs. Most involved the care and feeding of the children.

But it was the children that brought us together.

Besides coming from the same home town, Cheryl and I both are products of divorced parents wh didn't get along. We remembered the pain and angst of the anger in the room, and we both decided we didn't want that for our kids.

Yes, our kids.

Her children, Daniel and Courtney, are my kids too. I never asked them to choose between me and their mother. There was no choice. She came first, as it should be. They had their parents. And they had me. A bonus mom. Actually, in the early days they called me their "Semi-Mom."

Although, I have to say, I don't understand the whole stigma that goes along with the word "stepmom."  I'm proud to be one. A wicked one at that. And I don't mind the word at all.

Eventually, Cheryl and I figured out our pecking order. We found a comfort zone. Then we found that we genuinely liked each other. We formed a friendship.

When Courtney and her friends had to go see The Backstreet Boys and N'Sync at the Superdome, I was invited to go too. There, Cheryl and I made a pact. If Donny Osmond ever went on tour, we were going. Together.

When I heard the news that he indeed would be playing nearby in Mississippi, we did go. Together. Our husbands went to dinner.

One day when Daniel was playing baseball, Cheryl and I were sitting in the stands together. He was in the dugout and needed a Gatorade. He called to his mom. He called to me. Neither of us heard him, until he shouted, "Would ONE of my moms please get me a drink?"

And on the day of his wedding, I was on the front row, right next to his mother. And halfway through the mother-and-groom dance, she stopped, called me over, and oh-so-graciously passed her son -- our son -- on to me for my turn.

Lora's Christening

And when, after six years, Marty and I finally received our miracle child from God (and a woman named Gail), he and I barely had to discuss who her Godparents would be. Cheryl was an easy choice. First of all, her faith is inspirational. But more than that, we wanted -- no, needed -- to include her in the family circle. I didn't want her to call Lora, "their" child. I wanted her to have a "my."

And it was the best decision we could have made.

Not only does Lora adore her "Nanny," but Nanny loves her right back. And she and the children were the first to welcome us all home from the hospital.  And since then, this oh-so-creative kindergarten teacher has filled my house with handmade treasures for every occasion, all made with footprints and handprints of all three of my children.

She comes to our parties.  We go to hers.  We have sat together at weddings. And funerals.  Lora stayed with her when Marty and I went away for an anniversary weekend.

Like many of our acquaintances, Lora doesn't quite understand the complete dynamics of this relationship. (Daddy used to be married to Nanny?)

And, late to the party, Cheryl's husband, Henry, needed a little time to figure it all out himself. He has since come around. Lora calls him "Uncle." I call Henry's kids my step-step kids.

But people do question our little arrangement.  During our evacuation to Houston for Hurricane Ivan, my friend Janine introduced me to some of her book club members. Their jaws definitely dropped when I told them that my husband's ex wife was my daughter's Godmother. But not as wide as when I told them that I didn't have a dishwasher.


We even were included in a USAToday article a few years ago on blended families inspired by Ashton Kutcher, Demi Moore and Bruce Willis.  We are in good company, apparently.

Cheryl, Lora and me. Mardi Gras 2011

We certainly didn't do this to be role models for anybody.  We know that not everybody gets it. And we know that not everyone can do it.  Some hurts and anger can't be put away.  And we didn't do it to be on Oprah.

We just decided we would rather all be friends. Life is so much easier.  And much more fun. For us and our children.

Plus, she makes a mean pineapple dip for my luaus.

Bieber Fever

My daughter is in love.

My 10-year-old, pre-pubescent child is head over heels in love with a boy she's never met and, likely, never will.

Oh, I can't say I blame her. Not at all. He's an incredibly handsome, immensely charming, multi-talented, billionaire-to-be with great hair. He has it all -- looks, talent, charisma, money. And a million girls just like mine are crying their eyes out at the mere thought of his ever-so-pretty face.

Sigh.

Good mom that I am, I took my daughter to see the boy's movie today, doling out $27.00 (plus popcorn, drinks and Raisinettes) to see his rise to fame and glory on the big screen in 3D.

For nearly two hours we got to see how cute he was as a baby, how cute he was as a toddler, how cute he was as an adolescent, how well he could play the drums and sing at the age of 3, and how persistent he was in achieving his dream of being a world famous heartthrob. He never said never.

And, yeah. He was pretty darned cute.

Sigh.

And at the end, my lovely and innocent little girl leaned close to me and, with a catch in her voice said, "Now do you see why I love him?"

Yes I do, my darling. Yes I do.

They're calling it "Bieber Fever."

And I understand completely. You see, I have had it before.

Actually, for me, it was John Cowsill Fever.

The youngest member of the singing family group The Cowsills (whom a lot of people have never even heard of), John Cowsill was my first love. Like The Biebs, he had that perfect face, that charming smile, an angelic voice and -- come to think of it -- the same hair!

I swooned over every photo of him in 16 Magazine and Tiger Beat (which are still around, by the way), and left standing instructions for my family to call me from my room whenever their milk commercial came on our (one) TV.

And my parents, good parents that they are, doled out their good, hard earned money to take me -- at the tender age of about 8 -- to their concert at Nicholls State University in Thibodaux. And I about died. I cried real tears of love and joy as he performed on the stage before me and I even survived the post-concert crush to get his autograph on my program (which was later destroyed when the hot water heater leaked in my closet).

But even then I was a fickle young lass. It didn't take long before I was so over John and moved on to ...

Donny Osmond...

Oh My God (that's OMG for you youngsters).

That perfect face, that charming smile, that angelic voice and -- come to think of it -- the same hair!!!

Down came John's pictures and up went Donny's, wearing his famous purple shirt, of course.

My parents weren't all that great. They didn't dole out the cash for tickets to his concert in New Orleans sometime in the mid-1970s. (Why not mom?)

I had to wait until the 1990s to see him.

After taking my teenage stepdaughter to see her loves of the day, The Backstreet Boyz and N'Sync (losing about 10 percent of our hearing in the process), her mother and I made a pact. If Donny Osmond ever went on tour, then by God we were going. Together.

And one day my mom, perhaps attempting to make up for not taking me to see him in the 70s, called me up to let me know that my teen dream was, in fact, coming to Bay St. Louis, Mississippi to play the local casino. And, being a Gold Member, she could get tickets.

I immediately called up Cheryl, my husband's first wife, and said, "We're going!"

And we did.

While our husbands had dinner and drinks, Cheryl and I shuffled into the theater at the Casino Magic along with about 1,000 retirees to see the boy we had both loved in our youth.

He still had that perfect face, that charming smile, that angelic voice. But not so much the hair. And he still had the power to make us both swoon. For at least an hour, my love for him was just as strong as it had been 30 years ago.

I still enjoy Donny. He's put out a couple of nice recordings in recent years. He's still not bad to look at and he still can dance. I even voted for him on Dancing With the Stars.

So, my dear child I get it. I really do.

Justin Bieber is lovely to look at, very charming and extremely talented from what I saw tonight. And he has very nice hair.

In fact, can I have one of your posters to put on my wall?