2 Years Later

It’s my anniversary. I’ve been married to Partner for 2 years now. I’m a 2 year veteran of step-motherhood.  And you wanna know something?

This shit’s a piece of cake.

I’ve got the best partner. I’ve got 2 of the best kiddos a gal could ever ask for (provided she doesn’t want to pop out a couple of her own.) I daily read blogs of other less fortunate stepmoms who walked into shitstorm situations with cranky children, petty and vindictive bio-moms, and husbands who aren’t willing to man up and set boundaries for anyone. But this life is gravy, complete with comfy home, once a week housekeeper, and a big black dog who, although he knows I’m not perhaps his biggest fan, loves me nonetheless and sleeps next to me on the floor when Partner’s away on business.

Envy me. Big time.

If you’re gonna have step-kids, have smart ones.

If I occasionally bitch about the bio-mom in my world, it’s only because she exists, and because sometimes she doesn’t quite understand social boundaries. But she respects me, is friendly with me,  clearly loves her children very much, and does her best to get along with her ex-husband. Just a few days ago she sent Husband an email detailing a conversation she’d overheard between her kids and one of their friends. The long and short of it was that the friend thought that both sons were “geniuses,” and both sons attributed their “genius” to their “genius” father.

While I’m probably a little biased, I’m inclined to agree with this evaluation.

Perks of the Gig

“Hey, I forgot to tell you, I lost my tooth!”

“Oh wow, that’s great!  Did the toothfairy take it last night?”

(hangs head) “No, I can’t find it. I put it in my bag yesterday, but I think it got lost!”

“Oh that’s okay. You just gotta leave a note for the toothfairy so she knows to go off and look for it elsewhere.”

(perks up) “Oh yeah, I did that once and she gave me a dollar!”

“Well of course! The toothfairy NEEDs those teeth.”

“She does?”

“Of course!  There’s little babies out there that need them.”

(wrinkles brow)

“Wait, what?”

“You know baby teeth are recycled right? Every time you lose one, it goes to another baby who needs it.”

(silence)

“That’s interesting.”

Recycle!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Only Part of Life.

It’s been almost a month since I got online and talked about Step-momming it.  Probably because life sped up to ramming speed.

My apologies for my absence. The kids have been in the care of their mother for a good bit of the last few weeks, and my self indulgent side has been given free reign. Naturally there hasn’t been the fervent desire to get on the interwebs and spew forth about adventures in second-hand child rearing. But school, and thus real life, has now resumed, and we’re back in the familiar routines of getting up early, eating dinner early, and passing out around 9pm after half a glass of wine. And for the record, I ain’t complaining.

I’ve found that I too am very comfortable with routines. I like that I consistently get to try new recipes for dinner. I know exactly when the kiddos will be around, and when they won’t. I know when their games are, when their practices are, when I may be called upon to fill in for a ride to and from something.  There’s something soothing about it. You’d think that kind of predictability would drive a gal nuts, but with the amount of excitement and drama in my work world and my friend circle, having the home life easily organized is a real pleasure.

I’m finding it difficult to talk about much outside of step-parenting out here, which I imagine makes me look pretty two-dimensional.  There’s way more to my life than just playing step-mom, even though step-momming is pretty badass. But there’s another little corner of the internet for all that. This is the place I remain anonymous so that I may speak without censoring myself. Maybe one day I’ll divulge a little more about my life here. But for now, I’m just La Madrastra. And that’s plenty.

My Minions are Better than Your Minions

Husband’s on an overnighter of a business trip. Ordinarily when he has to go out of town during his scheduled custody time, Bio-mom requests that the kids stay with her rather than be left with me. Totally understandable, and frankly, my personal preference as well. I like a little quality “me” time every so often.  This time, however, Bio-mom decided that the minions staying with me for 36 hours was fine by her, so I’m playing single parent for a couple days. Well, single parent with excellent day care and enough leisure time in the afternoon to plan and shop for a halfway decent dinner.

Anyway, this might be the longest the minions have ever been in my care. And bless their young hearts, they’ve been on their very best behavior today. Picked them up from day camp, hit up the grocery for a couple of last minute supplies, then headed home where they played quietly in their room or watched a movie while I made dinner.  They cleaned their plates (green beans and all,) cleared the table, and even bathed and brushed their teeth without being told. And there wasn’t a single groan when bedtime rolled around. They leapt into their beds, dove under the sheets, and emerged with grinning mugs expectantly awaiting their goodnight squishes.

They’re usually pretty well behaved, but this is model citizen stuff. I may seriously let them have chocolate sundaes for dinner tomorrow night.

And on the 3rd day she rose again

Last week was the week that dragged me naked by the heels across hot gravel. In a word: un-fucking-pleasant. But that was last week.

There’s nothing I despise more than wallowing. Husband will attest to this, and he never misses an opportunity to tell me how much I suck at it. Instead of just letting the misery drain out slowly like a normal person, I hold it all inside until it builds up like a toxin, at which point I collapse into migraines, heartburn, and a lethargy rivaled only by that of the banana slug. But that was last week.

Fortunately I’m back in the swing of things just in time for Minion #2’s 8th birthday. This weekend there will be festivities! Afternoon matinees! LEGO explosions! Riding of new bikes! Gluten-free cake!

…okay, maybe gluten-free cake doesn’t need an exclamation point. But still, the fact that I’m up and exhilarated about all this is a tremendous relief. It used to be that just identifying and acknowledging where the stress was coming from was enough to keep it at bay. But the stakes are higher now. Much higher. Time to grab that particular bull by the horns and let it know whose bitch it is.

That’d be me.

A Body at Rest

Anonymity has its advantages out here.  For example, what I’m about to say I would never, ever put on a blog that had my name on it.  I wouldn’t even talk about this with most of the people in my “circle.” Husband, of course, is privy to this information, but you’d be hard pressed to find someone else I’d admit this to.

So here goes:  I’m bathing in mediocrity right now.  Or at least that’s what it feels like.

The back story on this is that Husband has some pretty major stuff going on. He’s being courted and encouraged by a lot of industry Heavies, and several projects look well positioned to turn him into a bit of a presence, even a national presence. Naturally I’m thrilled for him, and terribly proud of all he’s done.  The problem is that his advancement makes me all the more aware of how completely still I’m standing.  Sure, my job is great.  But a lull in business thanks to the industry’s cyclical nature means there’s not a ton of work for me to be doing, and in some ways my job becomes even harder. So I’m coasting along at a once comfortable 55mph while Husband just kicked into an extra gear he didn’t even know he had and is revving it up to 80.

So I start freaking out about little things.  A wayward consultant sends me an email disputing a $30 charge, and I hide in the bathroom to cry for 20 minutes.  It takes me 3 hours to get out of bed in the morning.  My good intentions of vegetarian eating give way to late night KFC cravings.  In other words, everything within my control falls to shit.

Eventually it’ll pass.  I’ll find my stride again, right whatever things have fallen through the cracks, and get back to my usually chirpy and rational self.  But I’ve got to find some sort of catalyst, some project, some distracting item that will take my mind off my inertia before things can change.

Hmm.

Just Me

Husband was on a flight out yesterday morning at 6am.  Minion #2 and I drove him to the airport while Minion #1 sawed logs in his bed.  Thanks to the 5am airport sojourn, the usual morning routine was a little thrown off (and I, without my beauty sleep.)  But after fumbling around with breakfast, getting lunches made for the kiddos, and dropping them off at what I sincerely hoped was the right time and location for their day camp, I found my way home in time to change the belt in our broken vacuum cleaner before our housekeeper arrived for her weekly cleaning.  We traded a few questions in a garble of Spanish, English, and Pantomime, and finally I left for the office.

By 1pm I was wrecked.  Stress and sleep loss wreak havoc on my system, and I trudged home for lunch with heavy eyelids and zero motivation.  I was prepared to pick over leftovers and maybe scrounge up a salad before heading back to work, but it wasn’t meant to be.

I walked into the house, and it was silent.  All the lights were off.  Everything was clean and put away. Husband wasn’t clacking away on the computer. Minions weren’t running about.  The tv wasn’t on. The only sound was the faint hum of the drier tumbling its load.  In short, it was like walking through the gate to heaven.

I made a huge plate of Mediterranean linguine with plenty of basil and tomatoes and sat at the kitchen table, usually covered with papers and toys, now cleared of clutter.  I absentmindedly flipped through a catalog that had come in the day’s mail.  And when I was full, I retired to the bedroom and watched half an episode of something on tv before falling into a blissful state of unconsciousness.

There are days when a clean, quiet house is nothing less than nirvana.

Disengagement… or something.

A common theme in step-parenthood pertains to how involved with one’s stepchildren one should be.  There is no single correct answer of course. Like most ambiguous social concepts it all depends on the individual circumstances.  I, for example, consider myself a moderately engaged step-parent.  By the time I came along, Husband and Minions had been living in their “Just Us Guys” world for several years. Husband had a nice rhythm for his family that didn’t require the help of a new parent, so my contributions were accepted gladly, but not expected or required.  That was a really wonderful perk for several reasons.  First off, I sucked at cooking. Having made it almost to my thirties as a single person who worked mostly night jobs, cooking wasn’t ever an interest, let alone a priority.  Second, I despise doing laundry.  I have roughly 60 pairs of underwear, and it’s not because I love lingerie so much. Third, picking up after others is about as familiar an act for me as breathing under water.  Bless Husband’s heart for having the foresight to have his children a full 5 years before I came along so they’d be able to pick up their own messes on command.

Disengagement has been in the forefront of my thoughts lately thanks to a potential relocation development.  Bio-mom is being tremendously flexible by agreeing to move right along with us if the opportunity presents itself. But during what could be a long and tedious transition, there’s a real chance the Minions will be out of our jurisdiction for significant stretches.  It hardly seems accurate to call it disengagement when really it’s just flat-out separation, but that’s what I’m sticking with.  Because otherwise, I’m just that shit step-mom who’s really looking forward to having her Husband to herself for a little while.

Three years later I’m a really great cook.  I still don’t do anyone’s laundry but my own, but I pick up kiddie messes when the need arises.  But I’d be lying if I said a few months without being a 50% custodial parent didn’t leave me feeling like I just won the lottery.  The Minions are in my life for good, and I’m happy about that because they make Husband so happy.  I love how alive and fulfilled Husband is because of them. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.  But this would be the honeymoon period I never got– the kid-free time that every married couple should have, however briefly.  And I’m having a bitch of a time not feeling like being happy about this possibility makes me look something like… well…

Limbo

Patience.

We may have a tremendous opportunity in front of us.  We may not.  But until we know one way or another, I’m hanging in a gnawing state of purgatory.

It was like this when my mother was sick. She was well past saving but it was too soon to mourn, so we just walked around in a zombie state for months waiting for something to happen. It was like living out a Beckett play, but without the repartee. A little dramatic? Well yeah, no one’s dying. But the anticipation is starting to burn a hole in my stomach nonetheless.  I sit at my desk, unable to focus, fighting malaise, trying to summon up the will to complete even the most simple task. Nothing is imperative, so everything gets put off.

And now it’s spilling into my step-parenting.  I have zero patience right now for small people. Anything they do that isn’t extremely funny, charming, or helpful grinds on my nerves.  It doesn’t help that there are a million home projects we’re trying to finish before we put the house on the market, and the presence of children (and dog) makes it seem like too much of a mountain to tackle.  Why bother painting the trim when it’s just going to get scuffed up again? Why bother picking things up when it’s just going to get messy again? The really pitiful part of this is that Husband is the one doing all the heavy lifting.  In a single afternoon he managed to get rid of 3 years of kid clothes, toys, and junk, along with 10 years of books that were just taking up space in the house.  Know what I did that day?  I can’t even remember, but I bet it was a Frazier marathon on TV or something equally useless.  I’m pretty sure I didn’t even make dinner that night.  Quite the supportive wife I am.

I’m comforted by the fact that I know this is temporary.  News to either end will be a welcome relief.  If it’s good news, a flurry of activity will ensue, and I’ll be snapped out of my coma by the thrill of the change.  If it’s not so great news, I still get to stop worrying and obsessing about the future and focus on the immediate (like selling the house.)  But the news could be weeks, even months, in coming.  I can’t run on reserve power like this for that much longer.  Something needs to happen.