I say no
I was talking to a friend of mine today, about kid stuff. Teen stuff. Stuff that we all face and stuff we all hate to admit our kids are up to-- even though these things happen to everyone. It's the secret stuff you don't talk to people about (except maybe when huddled in the closet, drinking wine and talking to your mom... or close girlfriend.)
My friend asked about her 15 year-old daughter, who is going through a tough time, making bad choices... and now she wants to go hang out with a group of friends who are all 18 and heading to the beach for the weekend. What would I do, she asks? Would I let her go,if she was my daughter?
It takes me almost an entire nanosecond to answer: HELL NO.
And then came her relief-- that vindication that can only come from knowing someone else would have made the same choice. As though we're mentally reminding ourselves, "See? We parents aren't horrible human beings!"
Why do we moms do this? Why is it, when our kids make bad choices and we discipline them and cut back on freedoms, and deal with the fallout and the tears and the tantrums (that seem to return around age 15 again)...why do we moms feel guilty for making our kids tow the line? Why do we second guess the limits we place, as though we are somehow the bad guys?
I don't know why I have those moments of guilt... but I do. I get so sick of being the bad guy. I get sick of having to say no. And when I say having to, I mean literally, it is the only choice a sane, rational, responsible parent could make. To wit:
No, you can't stick the scissors in a light socket, no matter how cool it may appear.
No, you can't drink soda at bedtime.
No, 15-year-old, you can't spend the weekend at the beach with a group of 18-year-old's and no parents.
No, you can't go to the movies on a school night, and certainly not on the night before that chemistry test.
No, you can't skip cleaning your room for the third time and clean it when you get home instead, maybe, like you promised me last time (and I'm still waiting on it).
No, you can't take the car and hang out at that friend-I-don't-know's house. No, not even if your BFF will be with you.
No, you can't stay up and watch that scary movie, 7-year-old.
No, no, no, no, no. Sometimes I think my entire vocabulary is no.
So I relish the upside, when I can: There is comfort in numbers. There is a sense of contentment when, while making the tough choice and being mean and horrible and the worst parent ever, having relegated yourself to the land of lonely by saying NO... that you are not, in fact, any of those things. There is so much vindication-- and blessed relief-- in knowing others would say no in that situation, too.
...plus there's the fun part about being asked to "play expert" and explaining my no and having someone else totally get it.
...friends are the best.
Modifying expectations
“I want to go to USC,” he says, his face a picture of total earnestness.
My barking laughter was probably not the polite response for which a son hopes. But, unfortunately for him, I’m the mother with which he was stuck “Seriously dude,” I squawk, “That would truly be amazing and fantastic and I don’t want to rain on your parade, but there’s no freaking way we can afford it. USC is over $56K per year.”
“Well, then what about NYU?” he says with the seriousness of a heart attack.
“Over $57K per year,” I say, feeling like I’ve just had one. This college conversation is one we’ve had dozens of times and I know one we’ll have at least a hundred more. Dreams build over time and are hard to relinquish; and though I would love to be able to give him what I always wanted and never had—a shmancy high-end university education—with six other kids at home (and two entering community college in the fall), there is simply no way we can even entertain the idea of a non-public University. I’ve been saving for my son’s education since he was 5-years-old and while twelve years seems like a long time to sock it away, the fact is I’d be lucky to be able to afford even a portion of CSU tuition.
According to CaliforniaColleges.edu, the average cost of attending a California State University is over $19K per year; just under $27K for a school in the University of California system. And these costs are for the 2009 – 2010 school year. Add the harsh reality that the CSU system cut statewide enrollment by 40,000 students this year and are promising more cuts for 2011-2012, and my son’s once promising G.P.A. and wide-range of extracurricular activities now seem very average.
Reshuffling plans and making dreams happen anyway is the forte of all single moms at some point in their parenting careers. Each of my kids was raised knowing that college was in their future; which is to say, attending college has never been an option for them. But rather, an expectation, one I laid upon them from toddlerhood. Hand in hand with that was the expectation I laid on myself to help them financially.
So now, after all the cajoling and coercion and urging and nagging to do the work, get good grades, volunteer in school activities, reality sits calmly staring at me, smiling as she asks, “Okay, big mouth: how about your end of the bargain? How are you going to make this happen for him?”
*gulp*
Right now I don’t have an answer. But I’m a smart girl, and I know how to use Google. And guidance counselors. And we’ll figure this out. Sometimes expectations need to be modified a little... but they'll be met.
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Platitudes and magic potions
?“I know it’s really hard right now, but be patient because s--”
…someday. I stop before I utter the word, before I actually sow the most frustrating seed in all of stepmotherly communication. I slap a hand over my mouth in disbelief. I’m stunned.
I can’t believe I almost gave her the “someday line.” That terrible turn-of-phrase each of us stepmoms have heard probably a thousand different times, applied to a thousand different stepparenting situations, beginning with the very first moment we waltzed into our illustrious steppositions.
It’s a horror of a statement, usually prefaced with the awful reality of now: “I know they act like they hate it, but…”
-followed by a gratuitously hopeful platitude about the future: “-someday your stepdaughters really will appreciate that you were a stable and consistent parent.”
THE SOMEDAY LINE. It’s basically telling us stepmoms to place our frustrations in the lap of faith and asks us to keep our eyes on a distant promise—and wait for karma to kick in. Just be kind. Don’t talk smack. Keep being a good person, the better person, nay, the BEST person; don’t sink to “their level”; don’t mention how truly horrific their unruly biological parent is—just smile, be caring, be ever present, deal with the back stabbing or the eye rolling or the grunting or the passive aggressiveness or the outright aggressiveness, stuff down your feelings…. and wait.
…And keep waiting. Because someday—somedaaaaayyyyy, it will all come out in the wash.
Someday those kids will see you for all you are…
Someday they will understand how much you cared, how hard you tried...
…and someday they will tell you they appreciate you.
The fact is, in our drive-thru world, we have all been trained to expect instant gratification. Accepting that I might, maybe, someday be told I was appreciated for even a teensy amount of the effort I’m making now—the internally painful, gut wrenching decisions; the emotional sucker punches; and the bloody welts from my eternally bitten lips—does nothing for the inferno of my desire to be loved and appreciated and foremost, to be understood right now.
I hate the someday line.
When I complain about my life—which I prefer to call VENTING, thankyouverymuch— I need a listener. I need someone to nod and say nice things and pet my head with verbal reassurances. And those people, those horribly unselfish, annoyingly well-meaning people with their kind eyes and gentle voices and soft, comfy shoulders just made for my tears, always dish out the someday line.
Hey, nice people! NEWSFLASH: Worst. Platitude. EVER.
Mostly because it’s true.
Also? Obvious.
I already know I need to be nice. I already know I need to be patient. I already know not to complain about the ex or show any exasperation lest I be accused of any form of wickedness whatsoever. When I am this undone—when I am aching because my stepdaughter passive-aggressively refuses to tell me she loves me back; or after spending the day with me, laughing and having a great time, my stepson suddenly ignores my very existence when his mom comes to the door—the last thing I want to soothe my singed feelings is the cold truth.
Unfortunately, our heart’s desire can’t easily be granted. Because even though we are stuck being wrapped in a fairy tale’s stereotype, there is no Fairy Godmother for us. Ever. Nor is there a magic potion that, with just one swallow, wrenches our stepkids’ eyes wide open to help them see—right now, today—that we stepmoms are really trying to be good and loving and present; nor help us all see that we really can come to love each other unconditionally.
Instead, in those moments when we are most off-put, when we feel we have been wronged or slighted and are nowhere near appreciated enough for all that we are and all that we do… the best we can hope for is to simply accept that the someday line is our magic bean. Planted by family and friends, it becomes a constantly growing reminder throughout our parenting lives that our goodness and sincerity aren't for naught. And whether we like it or not, we need to just hang in there. Because all those platitudes and someday reminders eventually become a hearty stalk, creating a foundation for our long-term survival. We’ll see.
Someday.
The times, they aren’t a changin’
I sit at the dinner table silently watching my brood chatter, and I reflect on my own teen years.
My mind dances over one particular period in middle school, which began with a single day marked by streak of confidence. That day my hair looked good, my makeup went on right and I loved the outfit I was wearing. I felt, perhaps for the first time in my middle school years, cool.
When I arrived at school, a friend commented on how great my outfit looked. And so, with the assurance that only such compliments can ply, I proceeded to wear that same outfit everyday for the next 3 days, and then as often as possible in the ensuing two weeks.
My mom tried to get me to change my clothes, but I was convinced I was onto something important here. I mean, looked good! And I felt good. My clothes, however, were starting to get natty…
And so went middle school.
It didn’t matter what my mom said; she just didn’t get it. And my father? Pshh. Why would I even bother to listen to him? Nobody understood me or my life or the horrific travails that I faced as a teen; nobody on Earth could possibly understand the pain and sorrow of being me. At least when I was sad, anyway.
Other times, no one could possibly be as “right” about everything, as I was. Because I WAS right. All the time. About… well, everything. Duh.
My opinions were grounded in ABSOLUTE FACT and I always remained completely unswayed by other people’s completely valid arguments, until such a time I thought it prudent to reveal that they must have been completely confused because I actually thought exactly like they did the whole time.
My vast knowledge of life and its trappings was only outsized by my enormous sense of empathy and my unfailing desire to change the world but was vastly, enormously, unfailingly curtailed by my wee-little attention span. Oh, that is so awful! Oh, that is so terribly sad! Okay I get it, I get it, what’s on MTV?
Quite frankly, I was expert at spotting injustice, both elsewhere and against me. There are people starving in Africa? That is so wrong! I can’t go to the mall? That is so wrong!
My mother—who understood me best of all—would stare at me blankly, or roll her eyes and shake her head at my self-absorption. My father would smirk. "Theresa Lynn," he would say, smiling at me sweetly from across the dinner table, "I hope that one day you have a daughter. Exactly. Like. You." And I would smile back at what I saw as his loving nature, not realizing that he meant it as a curse.
I sit now, years and years later, at a different dinner table, with memories of my own asshattery fluttering past my mind’s eye, and watch my own children plod their way through those same awkward years: one wearing the same outfit day-after-day, refusing my entreaties to change into clean clothes; another swimming in her own outsized sense of empathy and stifling self-absorption; while a third declares passionately and irreverently that she is absolutely and unequivocally 100% correct.
I smile inwardly and sigh, seeing my father’s curse play out before me, and I send up a little thank you to him: first, for the ability to experience this, and to see the humor in all this angst.
And second, for not killing me back then.
Pay no attention to the mom behind the curtain
I was recently asked if I felt like I had different relationships with my biological kids as compared to my stepkids. And I know what the politically correct answer is. And I know what the truthful answer is. However, as stepmom I am subject scrutiny under the wicked myth and thus, to avoid it, I must be fair and blind in all things.
The fair, blind answer is, nope; everything is just fine and dandy as candy. Well alrighty then.
All you critical people, exit to the left and pay no attention to the mom behind the curtain.
Okay, anybody still here?
Yes. Flat out, I do have different relationships with my bio-kids than my stepkids.
FACT: I’ve been with my bio-kids longer. I understand them more. In essence, I know how to motivate them and how to manipulate them (both of which are amazingly important tools in parenting). But I will say being a bio-mom completely gave me a leg-up on being a stepparent.
I really feel bad for the single gal who finds herself thrown into instant motherhood. (I’m looking at you here, Izzy). Any person who raises a kid must inevitably transition from being the center of her own Universe, to having her family be the center. One good thing about growing your own kids first is that one’s selfish reactions as a new mother is lost on a newborn. Newborns, as a society, don’t understand—or care—that you want time to yourself or need a nap or want to take a crap in peace or need space to feel human for awhile. And because that little nubbin is yours to keep, you have less guilt when you feel frustrated and want to throttle them. I mean, come on—you made them, for crying out loud. You suspect that everything you do will force your biological kids into therapy at some point anyway. They are your kids, so the fear of completely screwing up, while present, is on your mental back-burner most of the time. And hey, all that time you’re stumbling around through the early part of parenthood and releasing your attachment to your single life and once-beloved individuality, your bio-kids are growing up, none-the-wiser. For all they know, you’re the greatest parent EVAR. And maybe sometimes you are.
But jumping in head first without ever having parented before? Uy. Stepkids… they arrive with someone else’s screw ups (and, okay, successes) intact. Those little monkeys have their own notions of parenthood and those notions and their related expectations—all of which are based on the hopes and the experiences of the child—are probably wildly different from yours—all of which were scrabbled together off the cuff and based on some Lifetime TV movie of the week. Worse, because stepkids are likely old enough to notice, you can’t hide your parental idiocies and mistakes behind the wall of “you’re my kid and you’ll love me no matter what.” NEWSFLASH: You’re not actually mom. They’re not hardwired to love you unconditionally.
So, conversely, you pretty much know that everything you do will ensure that your stepkids attend therapy. Sadly, this factoid is and will always be a front-burner concern.
Add to this the pressure of the scrutiny one faces as a stepparent, and you’ve got yourself a whole bucket of suck. Think about it: There is a bio-parent out there watching and criticizing everything you do; a parent who trumps you in the love department because she’ll always be their real mom. A woman who has more influence over the school because she can actually affect changes at bureaucratic levels that step parents can’t. A woman who has the benefit of her kids'-- your stepkids'-- unconditional love, always.
Sadly, life as stepmom is sometimes the equivalent of holding everybody’s jackets while they’re on the ride.
I’d feel really sorry for you saps who just dropped into this gig but… I happen to be in this gig, too. And I sometimes already suffer from not being the center of my own Universe, so forget about it.
That said, I take solace in the fact that I have a pretty sweet Universe.
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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