Step-mothering for newbies

Today I'm thrilled to be hosting a terrific guest post from Andrea L. Golding, a friend and recent mid-stage stepmother who generously agreed to share her thoughts about gaining an instant mid-stage step-crew of four boys, 7-17, all at once. I love her insights and honesty as she talks about her experiences in negotiating her new life that suddenly included lots of gym socks on the floor, merit badges, eye rolling, and fifty percent custody. Thanks, Andrea!

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In November of 2011, I had a pretty great life. I had a job in the federal government that I mostly liked and I lived in Alexandria, Virginia – a great community full of interesting things to do – and next door to Washington, D.C. – an even greater city with even more interesting things to do.  I owned a home in a funky, but slightly down-trodden little neighborhood completely full of interesting people.  (Those stories would be an entirely different, but fascinating blog post.)  I was fully integrated into my neighborhood, church congregation, and work environment. 

Later that month, I “met” (online) a man who had real potential.  Actually, compared with the dregs of society I generally found in the world of online dating, he had tremendous potential.  We shared membership in the same church, he was good and kind, he had a good job, and he could use who and whom correctly.  (His correct grammar is, honestly, why I continued talking to him after our initial communication.)  Scott also had four sons (17, 14, 11, and 7 at the time), lived in Jacksonville, Florida, and couldn’t relocate because of custody agreements.  Now there was a dilemma.  To complicate matters further, at the same time I was trying to figure out whether this relationship was for real, I received a job offer that would allow me to live in Copenhagen.  Denmark.  For two years. I know!

However, I felt in the deepest parts of my heart that I would never be happier with anyone other than Scott.  I decided that, after many false starts and lots of waiting, this was my chance for love.  I took a great big breath and …. jumped!  In late July of 2012, we packed up my house in Alexandria and drove our not-quite-big-enough U-Haul to Fernandina Beach, Florida.  The morning after we arrived, we closed on a house and moved in later that day.  The next day, I drove Scott and the boys to the airport so they could fly to the Northwest to see parents/grandparents before the wedding.  I flew out the next day to spend some time with my family in Utah.

Driving Scott and the boys to the airport that day was a revelation to me.  The boys were super-excited about air travel and seeing the grandparents.  They were bouncing all over the back seat, torturing each other as you do in small, enclosed spaces moving at high speeds.  By the time we got through the 30-minute drive to the airport, I was a wreck.  I said goodbye to Scott through sobs and scrambled back into the car.  I spent the drive back plus a few more hours trying to figure out if there was any way I could get out of this gracefully.  It didn’t take long to determine that grace would have nothing to do with an exit.  We had purchased a home together, I no longer had a job, and I had a tenant living in my home in Virginia.  Oh, and then there was that wedding planned to happen in less than a week.  After a few more hours of snort-sobbing and a good night’s sleep, I came to the conclusion that I had come this far and I might as well give this marriage/step-mother thing a shot. I could re-think it later when it might not be quite as embarrassing since I had given it the old college try.  How’s that for a marriage strategy?  Inspiring, no?

Once we got down to regular life, things were better than I thought they would be.  The boys and I got along fairly well and things poked along through the fall.  I actively avoided spending time alone with them because, honestly, the prospect terrified me.  Looking back, I think I was afraid they would see through the Carol Brady role I was acting the heck out of and discover me for the fraud I was. However, they are very good boys and really wanted the situation to work so they kindly did not take down the adult who was obviously the weakest in the herd.  Besides that, we only had them fifty percent of the time. 

When that first December rolled around, Scott and I took them to buy their Christmas gifts for each other.  It was horrifying.  Foot-stomping, can-I-haves, and disappointment at empty shelves in a packed Super WalMart were all part of the experience.  I shudder in memory.  When their mom came to get them at 2:00 pm on Christmas Day per the custody agreement, I’d had them ready and waiting for an hour.

Things improved from there.  For my birthday in February I received some handmade planters for the deck and a cake with “We (heart) U” on it spelled out with chocolate chips.  I started to see that they really cared for me that day and weren’t just tolerating the situation.  I also received a hand-made Mother’s Day card in May because he couldn’t find a step-mother card in the store.  He’s very literal, that one.

So, after this long exposition you probably want to know what I’ve learned about entering kids’ lives as their step-mother when they are part-grown. There is nothing earth-shattering here, but here they are:

• They are each their own person and able to exercise a great deal of influence within a family, both good and bad.  Dealing with others’ moods and personalities in an intimate space is not something I’ve done in the last 25 years or so.  Lots of adjusting there.
   
• Fifty-fifty custody is the BEST!  There is enough time to enjoy them, but just when they start to get truly irritating . . . Behold!  It is time to send them to their mother.
   
• It is incredibly rewarding to make a difference in the way kids develop their personalities, values, and ethics.  For example, since joining the family I’ve consistently taught the boys about (harped upon?) the need for women to have strong roles in the community, workplace, church, and home and that only good things will result.  I’ve also expanded their political awareness.  Since I have lived in rural Florida, I have not been to one public place with a television that plays any news channel other than the most conservative one available.  Not that there is any reason why it shouldn’t be playing, but seriously?  That’s that only valid source of news available?  Hopefully, the  boys are starting to ask some of those questions themselves.
   
• I enjoy talking with them and being their friend.  In the interest of brutal honesty, I have to admit that it has only been during the last two months that I have been able to say that, but it is true.  We often really enjoy being together.  Actually, I should probably survey the studio audience since I’m not sure the boys enjoy spending time with me, but at least I enjoy spending time with them.
   
• It is okay to want to spend time by myself or as a couple.  Since Scott has spent the last few years focusing exclusively on the boys, once in a while I have to drag him out the door to spend time with just us, but generally we are on the same page.  In my world, that fifty-fifty custody agreement has been vital to a healthy new marriage in the context of a step-family.
   
• It is a challenge not to speak negatively about the ex-spouse.  The boys say and do things from time to time that make both Scott and me raise our eyebrows, but we work very hard not to say anything negative about their mom EVER.  We let her rules apply at her house and ours at ours.  Values are different in each home and so activities differ.  As challenging as this is for us, I can’t imagine how the boys must feel having two different regimes to answer to.  They are brave souls.
   
• This is not news to parents of kids these ages, but the pre-teen eye rolls, sulks, and persecution complexes make me cuh-razy.  I wish they could easily understand that the world (and especially your step-mother) is not out to get you and that someone, somewhere on the face of the earth has had it harder than you.  I certainly haven’t figure out how to deal with this one yet except to grit my teeth and talk quietly, but passionately to the cantaloupe I am slicing for dinner.

We still all have a long way to go, but the second year has been considerably easier than the first.  I am starting to see light at the end of the tunnel and am no longer just hanging on until they leave for college or a church mission. Although we’ve had some ups and downs (hello summer vacation), things have been progressively better through the year.  This year, when we took them Christmas shopping again it was abundantly clear that we have all changed and perhaps progressed a great deal.  We actually had fun this year including laughing and gentle teasing and part of the driving done by a driver with only a permit.  (I have developed nerves of steel, I tell you.)  The older ones provided advice to me about presents for the younger brother and they were all pretty good sports about budget limitations.  It was great!

Lest you be confused, things certainly aren’t all rosy.  One of the highlights of our recent family conversations was a wish expressed to his dad by the now eight year-old.  “I wish you and mom would get back together.  Andrea could live with us too; she could cook for us.”  All of a sudden, I was Alice.  That took my breath away.  Since then, both Scott and I have taken pains to ensure that they see us as a couple and make clear that I am not just the cook.  I still cannot get over the hurdle of referring to “our family” or telling them that I love them.  I have faith that it will happen someday, though. 

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Andrea has lived in northern Utah, Seoul, Philadelphia, northern Virginia and currently resides in North Florida.  She is a daughter to an amazingly tough mother, sister to three hilarious women, wife to a truly great man, and step-parent to three really good boys.  After leaving a 12 year career at the U.S. Department of State, Andrea now devotes her free time to the local Friends of the Library organization, quilt guild, Boy Scouts, her church, and an early morning religion course for high school students.

The Evolution of Mama Waddoups

Photo credit: unknown but I'd love to know!

Do you remember the tiny rebel thrill of calling parents by their first names? Among friends in high school those first names were tossed around coolly, though not within earshot of our parents. “Will Sid and Ann let you go to the concert, do you think?” It was more an attempt to earn another stamp in our passport to adulthood than a sign of disrespect. But still. It was cheeky. And wholly about maximizing us, minimizing them. (Sorry, Sid and Ann.)

Back then if I thought about being a mid-stage mom myself at all, it was through the hazy lens of an After-school Special or a Claire-Huxtable-centered episode of Cosby. I planned to be a fun mom (don’t we all?), wise and cool with an open-minded listening ear for not just my kids but also their friends.  They would drop by (my spotless, stylish house, the dream went, of course) to chat about life and decisions and partake of my vast wisdom and pithy insights. They could call me Annie if they wanted; I might even insist on it.

. . .

The reality of Lauren’s teen years meant that I more often was probably considered the uncool one among her friends, the one who had to say no more often than I wanted to (or probably needed to, truth be told). We were young and cautious parents (often 10-20 years younger than her peers’ parents), she was our first, and we lived in a really lovely community that sometimes didn’t know what to make of our family, with our old-fashioned dating guidelines, Sunday observance, and teetotalism--practices that we had packed up from our own upbringings and moved with us across the country like reverse pioneers. She invoked us as her excuse when she left parties early if they got rowdy or said no to the co-ed sleepover. I didn't plan on being the mean mom, it just needed to be that way.  Just because these mantles of parenthood are necessary doesn't mean they aren't surprising and uncomfortable, so different than the anticipated fable.

. . .

I go, late at night, to pick Maddy up from a gathering. A handful of 16- and 17-year-old girls--giddy with shared jokes from the evening and full up with life--tiptoe out in bare feet to say hello and chat a bit. As we pull away, they call out: “Bye, Mama Waddoups!” 

Mama Waddoups is Maddy’s doing, an endearment she’s used for the past few years and how she refers to me with her friends.   I suspect it started because it’s fun to say (go ahead, try it) but it’s evolved into an honorific title I fully appreciate and absorb. Essentially she's held up this mirror and said, “you are Mama Waddoups”--not just her mother but a mama in essence and identity to others, too. I named her first, carefully selecting her name Madeleine as a nod to two great women, a favorite author and a groundbreaking stateswoman, but she has named me last. I'm Mama Waddoups.

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Bad parenting . . . no one said it would be easy

            Young Mother Sewing, Mary Cassatt, 1900

Over the break we had a bit of a . . . um . . . situation. More of a 'moment.' A moment wherein I found myself flustered, and frustrated, and honestly with no idea of my correct parenting move. At the time I thought a polling of Nest & Launch readers might help me out of my predicament, but, sadly, parenting choices rarely wait long enough for proper discussion, polling, and consensus gathering.

Here's the low down. And, by the way, this is a real-life, actually-happened scenario. Names have not been changed to protect the 'innocent' (and by innocent, I mean me):

Our family had a planned activity scheduled for a Friday night. Yes, it was a church activity. But our whole family was going (even Madison, who was home from college). And it had been planned some time in advance. Did you get that? It was planned. In advance.

Two or three days before the activity Becca received an invitation from a good friend to a birthday celebration. I don't know why I was initially flummoxed. As I type this I see I should have been very matter-of-fact: "Sorry babe, we have family plans." But I wasn't. I was sort of wishy-washy. I encouraged Becca to see if her friend could change the date. I hemmed and hawed. And as a result, Friday morning rolled around and I still hadn't "handled" the situation. In passing I mentioned the conflict to Sterling, who off-handedly said Becca should make her own decision, and then he headed out the door for work.

Oh, yeah. She's 16. She should make her own decision. And that made my part easy. I wouldn't have to disappoint my baby girl. I wouldn't have to lay down the hammer, so to speak. So I told Becca she could decide.

Becca is a wiser-than-average teenager. When I offered her the choose-your-own-adventure option she replied, "Well, that means I really don't have a choice."

And me? Being the open and progressive parent that I often fancy myself? I explained, "Of course you do. You can choose. But you'll also have to live with the consequences. Maybe those consequences are that I'll be very disappointed. I guess you'd have to be prepared to deal with that."

So. She contemplated her choice for approximately three minutes and then announced, "Okay. I've decided. I'm going to the party."

Oh.

And even though I thought I wanted her to make her own choice, I suddenly realized that I didn't.

So I did what any red-blooded, teen-ravaged parent would do. I applied guilt. I laid it on really nice and thick.

Nope. She still chose the party.

So I thought some more . . . until I worked myself into a near frenzy wherein I announced (in the heat of passion) that she had somehow NOT made her choice in an adult manner (I can't remember my exact reasoning now -- but it was ridiculous). And then I said something along the lines of, "WHEN YOU ARE 18 AND LIVING ON YOUR OWN YOU CAN MAKE YOUR OWN CHOICES, BUT FOR RIGHT NOW I'M GOING TO HELP YOU MAKE THE RIGHT ONES."

And then Becca, feeling the injustice of the entire planet fall upon her head, retreated to her room in tears.

I stood there on the cold kitchen tile, alone, surveying the bacon grease hardening in the skillet, and reflected back over my EXTREMELY POOR PARENTING DECISIONS. What I'd wanted was an easy-way out, and instead, I'd backed myself into a very tiny, poorly-lit, cobweb-filled, stinky-cheese-smelling CORNER.

Has this ever happened to you? Please. Someone. Commiserate with me for heaven's sake.

So, I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I ATE CHOCOLATE.

Just kidding. What I really did was apologize. I told Becca that I was so, so sorry. That I had made a terrible parenting decision and then tried to fix that by making her the bad guy. I told her that I had not clearly thought through the "make your own choice" series of events, that I was not prepared to let her make that choice, and that I was, again, very sorry I'd put her in that position. I then explained that despite having already parented two teen girls, I was really a neophyte, who needed lots of help, love, and carbs. I told her that my philosophy is to keep pointing her in the right direction, guiding her choices, and that I would (eventually) step back and cheer her on in whatever she chose. And then I said lots of other hopefully funny and comforting things to let her know that I would only make a complete fool of myself over someone I loved utterly and completely.

And you know what? She gracefully accepted my apology, wiped her eyes, and cheerfully went on with her day. We arranged for her to join the party after our family activity and peace was restored to the kingdom.

And that, my friends, is a cautionary tale. Don't hand out free agency unless you can BACK IT UP. Also, don't be a wimp. 

THE END.

"How shall this be?"

Happy Boxing Day, web-world! We're still enjoying the season's abundance and togetherness around here but the empty boxes, the carpet of crumpled wrapping paper, and the perpetual snack grazing are all starting to feel past ripe. I'm fighting the need to gather up all the holiday over-the-top-ness and revel in the stark simplicity of starting over. (Just me?) Anyway, one last holidayish post before we head into the flurry of the New Year.

Annuniciation, Dante Rossetti

She cowers on the bed as a young girl would, introduced--by an angel, no less--
to an overwhelming assignment/challenge/blessing.  I feel for this Mary, the initial weight of the impossible evident in her slouch and gaze. 

Moments later she straightens her posture and says “be it unto me” and “behold” but I love that the artist* paints this humanness of Mary’s initial “how shall this be?”

Every year I find something different in the nativity passages of the New Testament to identify with: the seeking wise men, the dazed shepherds, the distracted inn keepers. This year I’ve lingered over the figure of that young Mary and her “how shall this be?” keeps ringing in my ears.

I have had several “how shall this be?” moments in my life.  They happen (for me) in that margin between the advent and the acceptance of a challenge or opportunity, especially when things don't go according to plan. Part wonder and part panic, these thoughts are evidence of the gap between my faith and knowledge, the difference in perspective between the microscopic view and the vast one. 

There are times when I simply can’t see how shall this be.  And really, doesn't being a parent sometimes feel like one big universal how shall this be proposition, from the moment the little quick pregnancy test stick says "+" to beyond those moments when our kids pack up their things, wave goodbye, and transition into their adult lives? Every day is a how shall this be?

Each holiday season nudges me to learn it again. That’s why I love this young, pausing Mary—she’s at the brink of realizing how wonderful and weighty it really shall be.  It's the just-right bridge for me between Christmas and New Year's Day for me, too, as I turn my thoughts to possibility, change, and the hopeful audacity of resolutions. [Finish dissertation? How shall this be?] 

.  .  .

*By the way, the artist Dante Rossetti used his sister Christina as the model for the painting of Mary above. And Christina Rossetti was a writer in her own right and wrote In the Bleak Midwinter.

Looking up

Hello! I'm waving to you from the wintry north, happily hunkered down with our little family in a cabin in the woods--which completely makes up for all the flight delays (including one particularly deflating 24-hour delay) on our journey here. And I ran into my brother Chris in the LA airport of all places! Neither of us knew the other was traveling that day...such a happy serendipity.

Anyway, here we are. We have been making the rounds--catching up with family, unpacking, stocking up, and doing holiday things. No Christmas tree yet, no decorations, and a significant amount of shopping still to be achieved. In the midst of that bustle, I was reminded of something I wrote a few years ago and decided to look it up and post it here, mostly to nudge myself to try to take a deep breath, relax the grip on the to-do lists, and enjoy it. 

Pieter Brueghel, The Census at Bethlehem

See that woman in the middle?
The one alone
With the white hat and broom
Head down, sweeping
Or digging, maybe.
That has been me.
Focused on the depth of snow in front of me
And my need to dig out.

Oblivious
To the boisterous gathering over there
And to the snow-stuck wagon behind me,
Where my broom could be put to better use.
Unaware of the simple miracle
Of a young woman on a horse,
Almost hidden by winter clothing
And seeking a place,
The holy significance lost in favor of
Bristles and snow.

I’m putting down the broom
And looking up.
Join me?

. . .

It’s easy to get caught up in the “doingness” of the season. What are your traps that prevent you from experiencing what Christmas has to offer? Is there a certain work of art, literature, or music that is especially speaking to you this season?

The case of Father's Famous Flapjacks

Once upon a time somewhere in my kids' early childhood, my husband made a long-remembered meal. I say made a meal because, though he's a great cook, at that stage in our lives G was working insane hours at a DC law firm and we rarely saw him, let alone ate any food he prepared. It was a sad couple of years for us all; the dad landscape was pretty desolate and we all missed him. But, as I said, this one time he was home and he made some pancakes for the kids. But wait. Not just pancakes. G made Father's Famous Flapjacks [jazz hands], inspired by those featured in Sendak/Minarik's Little Bear series. He made the most of those pancakes, whipping the kids up into a frenzy of excitement and transforming humble pancakes into sought-after delicacies. In this fun-dad moment, he accidentally marketed the heck out of those Bisquick pancakes.

Man, they had longevity, too. For several years whenever they were asked what their favorite food was, do you know what the kids said?  Father's [freaking] Famous Flapjacks. When we went around the birthday table saying what we loved about G, those flapjacks were consistently mentioned. Let me say this: they were probably delicious but they were just pancakes. The magic was in the enthusiasm, the story, the hoopla. And I'll admit it, I was a little perplexed. I made dinner 364 days a year but that meal G made went down in history. (And, yes, the element of "specialness" certainly didn't hurt.) I admit I wasn't very gracious about it at the time, but I did appreciate and respect that he was turning the time he did have with the kids into highly memorable moments.

Jacques Tati via 

This phenomenon was not limited to their younger years, mind you. As they got older G would take the girls on much anticipated Daddy Daughter Dates. He created a signature goodbye gesture when we dropped him off at work or at the airport: he blew a kiss and then kicked it like a soccer ball in our direction. And as recently as last year when I spent a week out of town, I came back to a lot of family chatter about G's newest creation, the Best Chicken Ever.  These are things my kids readily and happily remember about their dad without a moment's pause. And I guess what bothered me is that I wasn't really sure they'd be able to do the same for me (that is, boring old day-in-day-out mom). And then I realized: G is a lot better at branding his particular contributions to parenthood than I am. 

Oh, branding, that ubiquitous term of our era. (Some of you are probably rolling your eyes but stay with me here, okay?)  According to Wikipedia, a brand is the "personality that identifies a product, service or company and how it relates to key constituencies." Successful brands are memorable, identifiable, connect on an emotional level with the audience, and contribute to myth making around the person/service/product. Father's Famous Flapjacks anyone?

We hear a lot about branding in the business & marketing world but I think it probably happens in families, too. Whether or not we're aware of it, our parent "brand" is the personal contribution we bring to the family, the stories we tell, the way we frame our thoughts and ideas and interactions for the rest of the family. Just as a regular old trip to Chik-fil-a can turn into a mini tradition of Chik-fil-A Wednesdays maybe our regular old interactions can be more memorable and meaningful with a little pizzazz: a catchy phrase, a signature gesture, a highlighted personality quirk.  I liked what Annette said at the end of her guest post here, "I occasionally told them back then, and I've told them a few times since they've left home: I have many weaknesses and have made errors, but one thing I know about myself and about them is that I was a really good mother. They seem to believe my press statement." Well, here's to the occasional parenting press statements and to leaving our own individual flourishes in the mundane interactions that ultimately make up a life.

Even if the word "brand" makes you shudder with its corporate undertones, think of it this way: how will you be remembered as a parent? What stories will they tell your grandkids at your 80th birthday party? How do we let our personalities better shine through in our parenting? 

The early hour

The Seckel Pear. Just a tad bigger than a ping pong ball.

Yesterday morning my phone alarm rudely awoke me at 5:30 AM. I closed my eyes tightly and let out two brief sobs. Then I made three deals with myself about how I could conceivably get up later and still accomplish the day's goals. And then I got up -- because the deal-making means I was already pretty much awake.

In the darkness of my bedroom I put on jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a hoodie. I grabbed a pair of socks and my tennis shoes and joined the dog in the living room. She barely looked up. 

Keys, purse, list . . . and I was out the door into the freezing cold AND RAIN. The truck's exterior temp read 39. I sobbed three more times, quickly, and then backed out of the driveway. By the time I'd driven the four miles to the grocery store I'd pulled myself together. 

Have you ever grocery shopped at 5:45 AM? It's revelatory. It's like someone opened the store JUST for YOU. A private showing. The person manning the in-store Starbucks looks at you expectantly. There's no line! The aisles are empty, save for the stockers, who are pulling out armfuls of fresh product, again, JUST for YOU. The lights are dimmed. The music plays a little louder than usual. It's optimal shopping conditions -- take my word for it.

So there I was -- me and my Thanksgiving list -- and thousands and thousands of sparkling bottles and cans and packages. I hemmed and hawed at the produce. I sat my cart square in the middle of the apples and oranges and walked clear over to get the green bell pepper I'd forgot on my first pass through. I carefully stacked the items in my cart for maximum space allowance. I even bought a bag full of Seckel Pears to use for placecard holders. Seckel Pears! What even are those?

For a full hour I moved from aisle to aisle. Two turkeys, four cans of pumpkin (because I have a fear of a pumpkin shortage), bacon, canned cranberry sauce (that's the way I like it), cream cheese, feta, eggs, panko . . . you name it. The cart piled higher and higher. I had pick of the litter. The cream of the crop. There might have been singing in the aisles.

After I was done shopping I made my way to the bank of registers. Deserted. A lone bag boy came sliding down the polished floor, telling me someone would be there to check me out on 12. No lines guys! Did you read that? No lines. Not another soul. After a slight problem finding a code for Seckel Pears, I abandoned my kingdom, heading home with my bounty. I'd warned Sterling the night before that I was going to wake him up and get his help with the carrying in and the putting away. But I didn't. Through the freezing drizzle, I lugged it all inside, strangling the life blood out of my arms with those vile plastic handles. I unloaded the sacks, making piles of produce, stacks of cans, sections for dairy and breads and baking ingredients. Then one by one (or sometimes three by three) I put everything away. Two turkeys in the refrigerator in the garage. The makings for cornbread next to the mixer. A few new spice bottles slotted into ABC order. No room in the produce drawers for the brussel sprouts or romaine lettuce.

And then, suddenly, the real day began. Exercise (can you even believe it?). Breakfast. Trip to the pediatrician. Back to start some cooking. People need lunch. And dinner. Three loads of dishes. Someone left wet laundry in the washer.

Guys, this is Thanksgiving. It's going to be hectic. My legs are already tired from standing too long on the kitchen tile. But even amidst the tired and the joy and the frustration and laughter, I did dance down the grocery aisles. And that's something.