So here’s a thing…
I’ve never thought of myself as attractive, “hot,” or in any way that otherwise remotely defines me, as a person, by my looks. When forced to define it, I suppose I am a sufficiently attractive individual.
This missive is not by any stretch of the imagination a hunt for compliments. I am being frank. I am comfortable with my intelligence, my wit, my writing, coding abilities and design abilities, my cooking, friendship, mothering, partnering and otherwise creative abilities. These things define me, to me. My looks never have.
That said, of course I care about my looks. I work in a professional environ. Of course I bathe and primp and wear makeup (I was a drama geek— I LOVE costumery) and clean clothes and dread breakouts and I also do the little things I know my husband finds attractive—like brushing my teeth and wearing that one nice dress or those awesome CFM shoes— because it makes me happy. It earnestly makes me happy, giddy, googly to feel good about me and share it with the man of my dreams. Truth: I like me. I also like my partner, and I like when he gussies up for me.
That said…
Do not confuse the fact that I have a vagina with the misconception that plying me with compliments of my physicality will make me preferable to you in a hiring situation. Or in ANY workplace situation. In fact, when a person comments on my looks— even in a platonic nature— I feel amazingly uncomfortable and suspicious. Especially when that person is older, male, and came from a time when there were very few female bosses, because such comments scream how antiquated that male’s notions of workplace relationships are.
I make room for men like that in public situations in my personal life. Some man calls me “honey” at the coffee shop. I get it, it’s diminutive, but he’s also trying to be kindly in some old-timey way. That same man calling me cutie or darling doesn’t offended me, because he refers to the men as “handsome” or “sport.” He’s that way with everyone. He’s a pet-namer.
You, though, are different. You are an asshat. When, in my workplace, you comment on my level of attractiveness, or repeatedly state that you are my “only man” (a double entendre referring to the position as the only male blogger on our site and a veiled reference to being some special man in my life)… I find you crass. And limited. And old. Very, very old. And I am ashamed that you think that veiled sexual commentary is appropriate.
And when I call you on it, and request that the behavior end, what you SHOULD do is apologize for your offending comments. What you ACTUALLY do is try to play it off as not meaning what you clearly meant. Unfortunate choice, because now on top of insulting my professionalism, you have insulted my intelligence.
And that, Mr. Lamewad, is something I DO pay attention to, far ahead of my being a “real cutie.”
You say stepmom, I say stereotype. Let’s call the whole thing off.
On a typical day, life in your world happens as so: You come home from work, and your child won’t speak to you. You get grunts, or sighs, or eye rolling. Her tune changes when daddy is around; she speaks to you and laughs with you and enjoys your company when others are present. But when you two are alone, or maybe it’s a simple matter of no other adult being around, her tone reverts and she speaks to you as though "you idiot" is the natural end to any sentence she directs your way.
At times things are fine. At times she needs things. At times she wants your attention because others want your attention at that same moment (call it competition). At times she talks to you, because she needs you in some way. But most often, you are an anathema in her existence.
She hates you. In truth, she doesn't really *hate* hate you. She just doesn't… well… *like* you. And everybody knows it. But nobody cares.
When you try to talk to your friends about this, or your partner, or your family, or maybe even your therapist, they all tell you to shrug it off. They tell you to let it go. Don't let it bother you. So what, your kid is mean to you. So what, she's disrespectful, angry, rude, willfully defiant. Big deal. They remind you that she's the child, and you're the adult and GET OVER IT! Don't let it bug you.
Yes, everyone would react differently if she treated grandma like this. Or, her teacher. But you—YOU are neither of those important people.
Welcome to being a stepmom: Here's the love of your life, here's the happily ever after, and OH almost forgot, here's the stigma. Let's tattoo that on your forehead real quick: EVIL STEPMOM.
As second wife (or third, or fourth), you are officially Not-the-Mama. And in your capacity as Not-the-Mama, society and Hans Christian Anderson and Disney and the Grimm brothers long ago defined what your relationship to your stepchildren would be. Step kids are allowed to be angry, because YOU are the evil one. Step kids are allowed to be cruel and hostile, because divorce is terrible and you are the adult and well... don't let it bug you.
While the above scenario is a gross exaggeration of my life, it is a very accurate representation of what many stepmoms face daily. The bare truth is I've often felt the sting of others when it comes to my stepmotherly feelings. First off, how dare I have feelings? How dare I be hurt or show hurt when a stepchild says something cruel? Sure, my biological kids saying the same things would cause outrage, but step kids? I'm not allowed to have feelings when it comes to them. Because I can't love them as much as the biological ones, right?
Second, how dare I express my anger at or about my step kids when I feel it? Yes, expressing anger and frustration over my biological children is natural and can be humorous and I'm allowed to find companionship amongst my motherly brethren. But expressing anger or frustration at my stepchild for the exact same things? Well, that just makes me cruel. And insensitive. Inhumane, even.
Third, how can I possibly have the same expectations of my stepchildren as my biological ones? How could I not know how terrible it is to make them do things, like chores? Haven't I read Cinderella?
My frustration at the lack of feelings I'm supposed to have and the hypocrisy we stepmoms endure is tempered when I chat with my oldest stepdaughter. When questioned by her friends about how much she must hate me, she is stunned. "I don’t hate my stepmom at all," she’s told them. "We get along really well."
The fact is, I'm still getting used to these stereotypes, and how they paint the way others perceive my relationship with the newer half of my brood. My children—all of my children—are getting used to them as well. The bio kids are sometimes annoyed by the mistreatment of their mom on the rare occasions it happens. The step kids are sometimes annoyed by the public perception that I must be a complete harpy. We all are sometimes annoyed by the limits of people's understanding and the fairytale way our family is depicted.
The truth: Our great big blended family is much more the norm than non-blended ones these days. Most women I know are stepmoms, or their kids have them at their dads' houses. Maybe it's time to ditch the "evil" myth and redefine what has now become the reality: We stepmoms aren't all bad, and we have feelings, too.
My staycation: Myth vs. Fact
I took vacation days last Thursday and Friday, and glided through my week, my focus locked onto those days with heady anticipation. Thursday was payday, baby! And I had passes to take the kids to the local water park. It was the final weekend before school was to start. Sun and fun were calling my name—my stay-at-home vacation was going to be AWESOME!
Let me disabuse you right now. It was maybe the worst staycation-vacation ever, in the history of vacations. In short, I give you the myths vs. facts of my extended weekend:
MYTH: Vacation starts Thursday! WHOO HOO!
FACT: Second job as taxi service begins, with me either doing 1) laundry, or 2) dishes in the rare in-between times I actually see my house.
MYTH: Hooray! PAYDAY!
FACT: School starts Monday—and everyone needs SOMETHING. Ch-ching….
MYTH: YAY! I’m going to finally sleep in!
FACT: Hello insomnia. I hate you.
MYTH: A largely kid-free weekend! Only two teens to entertain!
FACT: Six kids ended up at home. SIX. ENTIRE. CHILDREN.
MYTH: Everyone is doing well
FACT: My oldest son falls ill, causing late night Urgent Care trip #1
MYTH: Kids are ready for school!
FACT: There was a problem with guardian daughter’s registration. We had to track down GD’s biological mom and work out a last minute registration, because, according to the school district, as much as I love and care for my guardian daughter and despite the legal documents in hand, I “mean nothing” to their process and only bio-mom can move through the bureaucratic morass. YAY me.
MYTH: Someone recycled one of my Mason Jars—GAAAAAHHHH
FACT: That was no Mason Jar—it was a broken salsa jar, and I sliced my thumb open. Oooh, look! The fatty subcutaneous layer! Urgent care trip #2.
MYTH: Kids are ready for school, this time for sure!
FACT: Four hours spent at Target, TJ Maxx and elsewhere whittling down a list of must-need items. My lower back is killing the parts of me that my crappy attitude hasn’t already destroyed.
MYTH: YAY! PMS is finally over!
FACT: Crap. Aunt Flo came thundering into town. She’s angry, rude, and tap dancing on my uterus.
MYTH: Everyone is doing well.
FACT: Our oldest son is STILL sick, and now stepdaughter’s dermatitis has flared up and it UUUUUUU-GLY. Urgent Care trip #3.
IDEA: Frequent visitor’s card! Get enough stamps, get free hand sanitizer! Urgent care directors, think about it.
This, dear readers, is just a glimpse. A GLIMPSE. Of the horror. That was my “vacation.” You notice I did not mention the burned dinners. Nor the cat vomit. Nor the petty squabbling, nor the dirty bathrooms, nor the surprise bills. But there, I just got them in there, so now you have an even clearer picture of my horrible, terrible, no good, dirty rotten staycation. We never even made it to the water park.
And the truth is, I am not a whiner—I’m just…. Okay, yeah, I’m a huge whiner. And I was so, SO glad to be able to come back to work and relax. How wrong is THAT??
Take it outside
“Can he come over later?” our 17-year-old daughter asks, hopeful that six o’clock is not too late for her boyfriend to swing by. He is a nice boy, a dedicated son to a single mom, a good older brother to two younger sisters; overall, a very positive influence in my daughter’s life.
“Sure,” I mutter as the younger girls (who have massive crushes on their sister’s boyfriend) squeal with glee. Giddy, the 17-year-old’s thumbs maniacally tap out the good news on her cell phone’s keypad. The deal is done. He’s on his way.
Like my parents before me, and their parents before them, I answer her next, age-old, query with, “Ask me if I like him later, after you graduate from college and get your first real job.” Translation: Until those goals are achieved, I’m not getting excited about anybody.
…But I do like the guy, even if this week’s ambition is to be a cage fighter. (Ugh, such a headache I get from the eye rolling over that one.) He’s nice. He’s very respectful.
Mostly. Case in Point:
An hour later Niceboy greets my daughter with a hug and a kiss. Then the two play with the younger kids for a bit, until they can escape the adoration of the younger two girls. They come and chat with my husband and I , occasionally gazing into each other’s eyes. They kiss again. They hold hands. She sits on his lap as they make conversation. They smooch again.
I want to vomit. They decide to “go to the park” before I snap past my dumbstruck nature.
I want to scream, “Hey, NICEBOY! Don’t kiss my daughter in front of me!” I want to demand that she leap off his lap, that they take their puppy love out of the line of sight of the impressionable youngsters. (aka, ME.)
Later I complain to my husband about this kissing business. This… this constant public display of affection nonsense. Whatever happened to just holding hands? My husband laughs and pretends to scold the teens. “That’s right! Don’t make everyone watch you kiss! Only your mother and I can kiss in front of everyone!”
I start to agree and then pause with a disgusted look on my face.
I am trying to think of a witty comeback, something that makes complete sense.
Nothing does. He has a point. We do hug and peck in front of the kids. We hold hands. We snuggle on the couch. We kiss—NOT MAKE OUT—but kiss. Lovingly. The kids sometimes heckle us with “Oh baruther”s and “Get a room”s and whatnot.
But we are the PARENTS in this family equation. We are the bill payers and the adults and we have earned the right to hug in front of our very own kids. These… these TEENAGERS have earned no such right. They are brazen, what with their kindness and niceness and puppy lovingness.
I feel old as the stink eye settles in upon my gaze whenever I look at the two of them. A line needs to be drawn. The rules need to be set forth.
… a message best delivered by my husband, I think, while I make “tsk”ing noises and “that’s right” affirmations as I stand directly behind him. Then, as if to prove my point, I’ll kiss him swiftly on the cheek.
In your FACE, teenagers!
Making Type A a good thing
“What do you think about heading for the beach this weekend?” he asks, basking in the glow of possible adventure.
It's summer, after all, and summer is for travel. It's for sun. And swimming, and barbecues and camping. So why is it when my husband makes this grand overture, why am I not swayed by its glamour, but rather, overcome with dread?
Maybe it's the four-foot high pile of laundry and stinky bathrooms staring at me. Maybe it's the unmopped, unvacuumed floors, sticky from juice and covered in dusty footprints, stretching out endlessly before me. Maybe it's the knowledge that if I go, this is what I will return to: a cluttered, dusty, hot mess waiting to usher in my new week. Now with flies!
I can't stand it.
I love adventure. I love getting out of town, seeing the world, even if that world is just the little town one stop over. But I hate, HATE written loudly and proudly in all capital letters, mess. Disorganization. Slobbery.
No, I’m neither a neat freak nor a particularly clean person. I am not Type A, unless A stands for Awesome. Or Asleep.
Rather, I have this need to have things organized before I head out of town. And before I start my new work week. And looking around my house, I am suddenly very Type A: AGGRAVATED.
And the answer, dear reader, to your wisely-unasked question is I DON'T KNOW HOW I ENDED UP WITH SEVEN KIDS!! It's not like we're hyper breeders or planned on having an overloud, overlarge family. Which I love having and I’m not complaining…
…but my gawd they are slobs. And I hear you—I really do: One gets the behavior one tolerates. Thus, I should not tolerate such slobbery. To which I say: Even I am sick of my own constant nagging.
Enter daughter number two, listening to her iPod while texting a friend. “Would you be sure to vacuum today?” I ask with some trepidation.
“I just vacuumed like four days ago,” she says, thumbs typing furiously. I look at the stale popcorn on the floor—the popcorn the dog just stepped over.
“Ok. Well it’s time again,” I say. What kind of lazy dog doesn’t eat popcorn? It’s RIGHT THERE. I pause. What kind of lazy household depends on the dog to clean their floors? Apparently our household.
Frustrated, I head upstairs. Not a single bed made. The tween walks past me and over some discarded wrappers that decorate the floor around his feet. “Would you pick up that trash, please?” I ask.
The tween looks at me like I’m crazy. “What trash?”
I want to scream.
Back downstairs I see the six-year-old has built a fort in the front room. And furnished it with Barbies and Legos. In the kitchen, the garbage bin is overflowing. The sink is full of dishes. And in the family room, I see the cat has just thrown up. On the carpet.
My eye begins to twitch. I have morphed into Type AwR: Apoplectic with Rage. My husband sees my frenzied state, and carefully guides me out of the house, shutting the door behind me. I hear clatter. His voice shakes the closed front door. Moments later he reappears with two glasses of wine.
He kisses my cheek, handing me a glass. We walk. I decompress. He holds my hand.
Upon our return an hour later, the house is magically presentable. The floor vacuumed and swept and de-vomited; the laundry in early stages of folding; the fort has disappeared. The TV has even been turned off. He hugs me from behind and kisses me.
“So, the beach this weekend?” he asks again, hopefully.
I’m starting to feel Type A, for Appreciated. And that perhaps his Type A, for Adventure, might actually be a good idea.
About me….
Perpetually anxious/simultaneously exhausted mom of a blended family of 7 kids & 2 pets. Writer about same. Wife to one amazingly patient husband. Drinker of wine. Columns found via online syndication in 38+ newspapers across the U.S.
Radio segments found here or live weekly on Thursdays at 5:15 p.m. on KYNO 940 AM radio's "The Drive."
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