Not my story

When you write, write what you know. Or feel. Or think. It's what I tell all my students, and it's an adage that I too live by religiously. If you've been reading this blog long enough, you'll know it's true. No matter how badly I try to create a theme ("life in the south!", "life as an academic!", "the life of a triathlete"), there's always that awkward moment when I simply have to write about something completely different (say, our misbehaving puppies, trips overseas, and the importance of bathrooms), for no other reason than that it's been on my mind.

This is also the reason I have not blogged in two weeks. And why blogging prior to my last post was sporadic to say the least. It's not because I don't have anything to say, because heavens knows that moment won't come until I'm six feet under the ground, but because what is on my heart and mind is not something I feel comfortable sharing. It's not my story. It's someone else's. And although I don't mind talking about other people ad nauseum, albeit under a fake name, it has always been under the guise of their lives being part of my story. And this story isn't just part of my life, it's part of lots of other people's lives too.

And the story that's been on my mind, heart, and soul is about Ozzie and Jimmie. Who, of course, aren't really called Ozzie and Jimmie at all. But that's part of my blogging deal. I know there are bloggers who have no qualms about sharing their children's names, pictures, funny, sad, and happy stories, but I'm not one of them. Maybe it's because they're a little bigger and older than the average, oh, toddler or pre-teen, or maybe it's because they're never really mine. I don't know. But apart from some minor tales about Jimmie's bullying problems and Ozzie's likeness to Sheldon Cooper, I've written very little about them on this blog. And as they are possibly the easiest stepchildren any stepmom could wish for, that hasn't been difficult at all.

Lately, however, their stories have become more complicated. More rife with questions, worries, and strife. Although fundamentally, most of their issues are no harder or worse than what any mother with teenagers would face, in my case, they feel very different. There's more people in the picture, such as their biological dad (you know, the long-suffering, always patient man known as husband-dear), but also people who have begun to play a much more important role in the recent years; their biological mother, their relatively new stepdad and stepbrother. And it's exactly this presence of multiple people, roles, and influences that has rendered every situation more complex, more fraught with questions and doubt, and harder to write about. I want to write about Ozzie's struggles and Jimmie's quest to grow up as quickly as possible (or maybe not), but I can't. Because then I would have to write about their mother too. And their stepdad. And my very own husband-dear, of course. And they never asked to be on this blog, let alone be an object of analysis. As I said, as much as this is part of my life story, my future, my dreams, it's also not my story alone.

In addition, having problems such as these in the first place, makes me feel broken. Incomplete. Even failed. I always joke about how I don't like the term "broken family" and prefer "blended" or "julienne", but in reality, that is what we are, a broken family. Our kids have two homes, four parents, and different expectations everywhere they go. Making our family work in all of its complicated dimensions takes a lot of effort, patience, and good will. And sometimes it seems that we all just run out of everything at the same time, leaving nothing but a feeling of falling short. Of guilt for not trying harder, being better, showing more grace.
It doesn't help that everyone whose blog I seem to read lately has the seemingly perfect family. And I know that that's just a facade, that everyone has problems, just like I hide our fights behind funny stories about dirty kitchen floors and cleaning ladies. But everyone I know is on their first marriage, with kids that only belong to them and their spouse. Many of them are pregnant, dealing with questions such as whether or not to paint the nursery, reveal the gender, and feeling the pressure to defend the preference for a home birth. Important matters? Yes. Definitely. Matters I would love to have be my problems? Oh, yes. No one I know seems to deal with complicated pick up and drop off schedules, phonecalls about whether someone's band shoes got left at the other house, and why one house seems to hog all the new jeans, and more problematic issues such as the definition of acceptable grades. Not to mention the worry about whether or not you're doing a good job, if maybe the other parent is handling things smarter or not, how that will affect your children, and whether or not you should/could/must address this. It's both scary and lonely.

So in lieu of writing, I've been baking. A lot. It helps me whenever I'm stressed, or just blah, and have already ran/biked/swam that day. This past weekend, just to give you an idea, I baked three fresh pear cakes, twelve honey-blueberry muffins, one pear-apple pie, and one loaf of bread. I would have kept going, had I not run out of counter space and containers. The kids loved it, the neighbors loved it, and so will my co-workers once I start sharing. It may not be the story that it's in my head, but it's sharing something of me. And that's better than nothing at all.

I wanted to end with a flippant final sentence here, drawing a parallel between baking and life. Perhaps something like "when the ingredients are in the bowl, they don't look like much, but when the final product is amazing", or "just like baking, life requires patience and a vision of how things will turn out". But instead I will end with what husband-dear wrote after proofreading my blog (as this is, after all, his story too): "Someone, somewhere else may read it and know they are not the only ones baking with an ever changing recipe".

Sticks and giggles: I don't think so

If there is one thing Americans are really, really good at, it's taking things seriously. From their police officers, to their border patrol, to their diets, and their sports, Americans do not mess around y'all. Rules are made to be obeyed, people in uniform are there to be respected, and competitions are made to be won. Period.

To many Europeans, especially the smart-mouthed, egalitarian Dutch, this can come as a nasty surprise. While in The Netherlands, rules are really more "rules", and anyone in any position of authority is usually open to some form of debate (as anyone who has ever had to get anything done at the local gemeentehuis can tell you), in the US, these are not things to be trifled with. "No cell phones" really means No. Cell. Phones (as opposed to "no cell phones. Really. Please. Please?"), and if a police officer informs you that you were speeding you tell him "Thank you"and "Have a nice day", and you do not tell him that he must have left his eyes in his backpocket (his broekzak), for there is no way you were going over 70mph, and why can't he do something useful like catch real criminals.

This tendency to take things seriously is, of course, not all doom and gloom. There are plenty of examples of Americans taking things seriously in a good way. Think about donating time and money to charities for instance. Almost every single American I know donates considerable sums of money (and usually time) to the local hospice, the homeless shelter, the animal shelter, the VA hospital, habitat for humanity, the local school district, and so on. In the US, a charity is not embodied by a wind-blown, cold, and probably wet person appearing on your doorstep with a collection tin once a year. No, over here, charity is what everyone does on a semi-regular basis. Charities, like police officers, are taken very seriously.

Another thing Americans take very seriously is school-related competitions. And I'm not just talking about athletics (you know, the fact that no one raises an eyebrow at universities announcing the construction of a new $1 million stadium in the same press release where one hears about the cutting of several academic program). No, I'm talking about art competitions, theater productions, music programs, science fairs, spelling bees, Model UNs, debate teams, you name it, if it can compete, it will, and it will do so in the very best way possible. There will be car washes to raise money, t-shirts, bonding activities, hours of practice and preparation, cheers, parental involvement, trips to Disneyworld, and the list just goes on and on.

With two boys who are positively allergic to anything that reeks of school or team spirit, we've somehow managed to stay out of this fray for the past decade or so. The oldest took a shot at playing soccer on base for a year, and then participated in something called "Odyssey of the Mind" for a few years (Please don't ask me what that is, it's something with play-acting and problem-solving, and well, I still really don't get it), and then there was band for a few years, and that was it. We've been, somewhat happily, left out of the mandatory carpooling, the fundraising, the meetings, and all the other drama involved with these kinds of activities. Somewhat happily because of course you want your child involved in school (especially since husband-dear and I both were heavily involved in school activities when we were kids), but because thinking about a carpooling schedule and finding time to bake a bazillion cookies was enough to send me into a spiraling panic attack ("I already have so much to do! I can't do this! When am I going to find the time?").

But with Jimmie making the high school marching band, we have now hit the parental involvement jackpot. Let me tell you, southerners take marching bands very, very seriously. While up north the marching band is more of an afterthought, down here it is on a par with the football team. People will go to football games just to watch the marching band perform. There are showcases, competitions, inter-high-school battles, and scholarships. For those Dutchies among my readers who compare a marching band to their local fanfare, or perhaps dweilorkest, think again. These bands have up to 200 members, they learn thirty minute routines (which includes playing music, marching in complicated patterns, and since we're in the south, some serious booty shaking). In short, marching band is not to be trifled with.

So upon Jimmie's acceptance into band, we received a list of necessities as well as his summer schedule. I'm not sure how to describe it, other than I think I just got a second job. Not only does the poor child need about $400 worth of uniform (pants, shirt, suspenders, jacket, hat, shoes, and a "bib" whatever that may be), he has a summer training schedule that is insane. Not only is he expected at school every weekend between now and the end of the semester, but he will also spend the last three weeks of summer at school. Five days a week from 8am until 12 noon, and then from 6pm until 9pm. Oh, and there will be a mandatory rookie band camp. On a weekend sometime before school starts. Then once school starts, there will be mandatory practices every day of the week, and a performance on Saturday. Oy.

And the best part? There is a mandatory parents' meeting as well. One where we will be told about our responsibilities (get your kid to practice, keep his instrument and clothes clean and in working order), and requirements (spend at least three football games working the concession stand). Oy vey.

I know I said I was excited about Jimmie joining the band, but I'm beginning to think they're taking this band thing way, way too seriously.

The art of stepmothering

While it used to be that stepmothers really got the short end of the stick, with stories depicting them as psychopathic egomaniacs, treating their sweet innocent stepdaughters (they're always daughters, and they're always miss Universe material too) as personal servants, or sending them out to die in the woods, and committing various other deplorable deeds, today's media portrayals don't do a whole lot for our image either. Nowadays, we're either self-effacing, self-sacrificing, and possess a never-ending supply of patience and understanding (think Julia Roberts in "Stepmom") or young, beautiful, spoiled, and incredibly jealous (think Modern Family). Interestingly, neither portrayal comes even close to the reality of stepmothering.

I realize I hardly write about what it's like to be a stepmother. I think I spend more time writing about bugs and NPR than I have about what it's like to raise two boys who are not my own. I'd love to tell you it's because there's really nothing to write about, because as anyone with children, let alone stepchildren,  knows, kids always provide more food for thought than anyone needs in about three lives.

So, today, here is is. My very first post on the art of stepmothering.

What inspired me to write this blog, today, is that on Saturday something happened that hasn't, literally, happened in years. Up until about four years ago, the boys had the habit of, every once in a while, dropping their bio-mom into a conversation, preferably whenever the conversation involved people we barely knew. And no matter how zen I try to be about the whole, "there is another, more real mother in the picture", it used to drive me crazy. Husband-dear and I would be talking to, for instance, a new couple at church about the service, and Ozzie or Jimmie would interject, "My mother is a nurse", or "My mom works here and here" or another statement completely irrelevant to the topic at hand. Now although I totally understood their need to reassure themselves as well as the people around them that a) I was not their real mother, and b) their real mother did some pretty cool stuff too, it would just make me feel somehow unaccepted. Especially since I make sure whenever meeting new people that they know that I am actually the kids' super-evil wicked stepmom. But they were little kids, we understood their need to reassure their position in the family, so we let it go. And then last Saturday, our now not-so-young Jimmie, did the exact same thing. Out of the blue, somewhere in the middle of a conversation with a person we'd just met about the local music scene, he mentioned where his mother worked. The statement made no sense, had no place in the conversation, and I was just flabbergasted. I let it go, but it's stung ever since, and made me realize that although you at one point cease to be a new mother, just like you cease to be the mother of a preschooler, or a newlywed, or the new kid in town, you never, ever cease to be the stepmother.

That realization has the tendency to come up at the most unexpected times. When you're talking to your sister in law about teaching your children not to talk back, and she tells you, "But you wouldn't be that strict with your own children", for instance. Or when you tell your students "your" children are your stepchildren, and they tell you, "that's really not the same". Or when your extended family doesn't send your stepchildren anything for their birthday because they're not really "your" children. Little things that make you realize that it doesn't matter that you have to try ten times harder than any "conventional" mom, and that any rejection comes on ten times stronger too (on account of, you've been trying so hard), you will never really join the club of "real mommies".

I realize the whole line between "your" children and "stepchildren" is a contentious one. They're not "my" children. They're bio-mom's and husband-dear's children, a fact I love to point out whenever one of them needs help with something and husband-dear and I are happily ensconced on the couch watching a movie. Usually, I'm OK with that. Life is complicated enough as it is, and having a stepmother and a stepfather thrown in the mix would be enough to confuse any kid. And "my" kids are awesome about it. There's never any "You're not my mother!", or "Well, at mom's house we don't have to..." around here. So, usually, I'm a happy camper of a stepmom. But there are days when it's a little harder. Days when bio-mom calls five times in an hour, or when the kids can't stop talking about something they did with bio-mom and the super-awesome new stepdad, or when, like Saturday, one of them has to remind me that, hey, lady, you are not my mother. It's days like that when I really think someone should write a fairytale about poor, misunderstood, and under-appreciated stepmothers who just want to go to the ball, be beautiful, marry Prince Charming and then sleep for one hundred years. Oh wait...

Did anyone say sleep?

One of those afternoons...

Sometimes I love being a stepmom. Really, I do. It doesn't happen very often, as being a stepmom usually means doing all the work a "real mom" does, only without the recognition and appreciation,  but today was one of those days.

It really all centered on Jimmie, husband-dear's youngest son, and his homework. Ever since we started dating, the kids' homework has been husband-dear's cup of tea. I may be in charge of chores, room cleaning, and what-to-wear, husband-dear handles the homework. So unless I'm specifically asked for help, I don't interfere when the kitchen table is covered in hand outs, books, balls of wadded up scrap paper and one (or two) very frustrated boys. I'm really not sure why we divided it up this way, but we did, and so this is how it is.

Now this also means that husband-dear calls the shots as far as making time for homework goes. Which in turn means that our kids don't homework on Friday afternoon, like I used to have to do, but are allowed to leave it until Sunday. I've mentioned the possible problems this might cause (such as, oh, I don't know, running out of time) to husband-dear, but he's decided the boys need a break more than they need to do their homework right away. And I'm OK with that. Really. Because I'm pretty sure husband-dear doesn't really care if the boys' rooms like a nuclear fall-out zone (as they frequently do), but he also doesn't mind that I make his sons pick up their rooms before going to bed. This whole division of responsibilities has worked well for us, so why mess with it.

However, today, I was left to wonder about the effectiveness of our scheme. When Jimmie, husband-dear's youngest son, told us on Friday he had "just a little homework" due on Monday, we believed him. Husband-dear didn't ask to look at it, and told me he was going to let Jimmie have his Sunday morning and start after lunch. As always, I was OK with that. This was husband-dear's cup of tea, after all.

But when Sunday afternoon rolled around, husband-dear, to his utter dismay, found out that the "little bit of homework" were two study guides with 100 questions each, one for math and one for history. Upon hearing that, I decided that now would be a really great time to catch up on my reading. In our bedroom. With the radio on. I was convinced there would tears, slammed doors (Jimmie is, unfortunately, slowly entering the "life's not fair" era), and general drama, and I wanted no part of that.

As I sat in our quiet bedroom, I couldn't help but wonder if Jimmie had been my flesh and blood, I wouldn't have been a lot more upset. Upset at Jimmie for not telling us about the size of the assignment. Upset at husband-dear for not at least asking Jimmie what his homework entailed. Upset because there was no way Jimmie would be getting an A now, as there would be no way he could finish it all.
And I also wondered if perhaps it was a good thing poor Jimmie isn't my own biological child, as my over-the-top focus on academics would have surely rendered him a lot more insecure, a lot less relaxed, and probably a lot less happy than he is now.
And then I wondered if husband-dear and I would be a lot more at each others' throats, because there was no way I would just step back from any school-related responsibilities. My child would be in gifted and talented programs, honors classes, ready to take AP classes once they stepped onto the high school bus, and geared to win at least two scholarships to college. My child would be in the school band, the drama club, and play sports. And not just because my child enjoyed it so much, no, because it would help them develop a "wide variety of skills", as well as prep them for snagging that scholarship.
After a while, I realized I was actually feeling bad for the children I never had. Man, they would be really messed up, and would probably need some serious therapy to get over their controlling mom.

Perhaps it's better for everyone that I'm just a stepmom. At least it allows me to be the cool mom I would -want- to be if I were a bio mom.

And Jimmie's homework? He finished almost all of the questions. Almost. There was no drama, no tears, not even one angry word. He worked diligently until Dad decided he had worked enough, and he would just have to deal with not having completed the entire assignment. It was quiet, peaceful, and a great life lesson for Jimmie.

I'm telling you, I'm much better at this stepmothering-thing.