Deesha Philyaw, crazy schedules and humble pie

I have an assignment due.

(Because my MacBook is actually magic, I can hear what you’re thinking right now – yes, I am procrastinating.)

So rather than do the responsible student thing and not post at all, here are a few links that I’ve enjoyed mightily of late.

I’ve followed Deesha Philyaw‘s writing ever since I found her on Twitter; she’s funny, insightful, and writes brilliantly and honestly about co-parenting/stepparenting from an insider’s perspective.

What I didn’t realise until recently, though, was that her stepfamily life is even more complicated than mine and the Lovely Man’s. In fact, by comparison with Deesha we are pathetic little grizzlers who really need to pull our big girl panties up.

In other news, over the last couple of weeks, I’ve had conversations with two recently separated friends who each declared (slightly defensively, knowing that I am a stepmum myself) that they are NOT going to be “That Kind of Ex-Wife”. Fingers crossed they will both be able to tame their fieryness enough to negotiate the forthcoming challenges in that department…

I’m not going to email either of them The Elmira Gulch Chronicles, Or: How Not To Be THAT Ex-Wife. But I’m tempted. After all, it turns The Wizard Of Oz movie, that foundation stone of all childhood entertainment, into a teachable moment – what’s not to love?

A safer bet might be What To Get The Divorced Parent Who Has Half Of Everything. They’ll be much more likely to giggle than slap me, hopefully.

Finally, I’ve been contemplating writing a follow-up post to a recent article of Peggy Nolan’s about making mistakes as a stepmother.

I’ve made a few stepmum mistakes of my own recently, one of which memorably and terrifyingly – hell, it was a true “worst nightmare” moment – involved sending the wrong person the wrong email…

In general, though, learning where and when to take responsibility (and where not to!) is something I’m working on. I may still write the post sometime soon. Meanwhile, though, if you haven’t read Peggy’s article Eating Humble Pie at The Stepmom’s Tool Box I really, really recommend it.

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

No place like home

Another week in stepmother land is over. I’m home, back in my city after what feels like many weeks but has actually been a little over three.

The Lovely Man, on the other hand, worked out mid-last month that he would spend four nights in our home in our city in the six weeks ahead.

Admittedly, we were on holiday sans enfants for over two weeks in the middle of that time, but the time away from home brought about by our fly-in/fly-out step/parenting schedule costs us both in terms of feeling settled and as though we have a secure base.

The Lovely Man is still with the Boys in their city. The time apart can be hard to cope with, too. It’s doubly hard for the Lovely Man, who, of course, is almost always away from either the Boys or me.

Still, we’re lucky we have the option to maintain this two-city life. Financially, in terms of our work commitments, even our energy and health, it’s a stretch – changes to any of these factors could potentially derail our opportunity to sustain our base in our city, the one that actually feels like home.

As I’m sure any non-stepmom would be happy to tell me, I knew what I was getting into.

Of course, as any stepmother could affirm, you never really know what you’re getting into.

It’s very hard sometimes – the travel, the sense of dislocation, being away from my friends and family, going so quickly from single to having three kids to help care for.

I wouldn’t change it. Not for a second.

But I’m so, so glad to be home.

What she said

Recently, I had what I call a “No shit, Sherlock!” moment.

The family therapist the Lovely Man and I see from time to time told us something I found so utterly, earthshakingly true that my heart just about halted while I sat like a dazed wombat trying to digest her words.

She said:

People think that when they end a relationship, the difficult or painful dynamics in that relationship will magically disappear. But they’re wrong.

If you were a chronic pleaser or controlled by your partner’s anger or avoided conflict or felt unable to say what you needed while you were a couple, that exact same way of relating will continue between you after you separate. Just with more grief, anger and bitterness in the mix.

Ummm, yeah. Yeah!!!

I have no idea why this had never occurred to me before. It seems so obvious.

What “leftover” dynamics do you find in your stepfamily?

Adventures in Goo

So, I bought Boy B some green Gelli Baff as a Christmas stocking filler…

Boy C: B! B! You’ve gotta come in here and see the goo!

Me: Is everyone decent? (Knowing that Boy A and, increasingly, Boy B can be a bit bashful)

Boy C: Yes, but Boy B’s only got his t-shirt on. He says you can come in, though.

Me: Don’t worry, Boy B, I can’t see a thing.

Boy C: You can now! (pulling up Boy B’s shirt to expose his bare bum)

Me: That’s ok, Boy B, I’ve got one of those built-in editing things they have on the the TV. All I could see was a blurry section.

*************

Some time later…

Lovely Man: Boy B, if I can arrange the bathslime so that it’s visible on your back but your penis is completely hidden, can B come in and look at your scales?

*************

Boy C, to the tune of Walking On Sunshine, accompanied by actions to match:

I’m dancing on the toilet, oh-oh

I’m dancing on the toilet, uh-ha

I’m dancing on the toilet, woo-hoo

And don’t it feel good!

*************

Guess I’m back in the Kidhaus…

The Bane….

…of my existence isn’t the stepboys.

Or their Mum, either.

As some of you may remember, the Lovely Man and I rent a house in the city where the boys live with their mum.

Our house in our city: well cared for, tidy, clean (unless you look under our bed, anyway).

Our house in their city: not so much.

Aesthetics are usually quite important to me; my taste is for eclectic interiors studded with mid-century furniture, and while nothing in our regular house is particularly expensive or fancy or (mostly) less than forty years old, I love it all.

Our place in the boys’ city isn’t a pretty house; we couldn’t afford to rent anything lush, given that we need to accommodate ourselves in our city for the other 60% of each year.

And the decor leaves more than a little to be desired.

It’s stocked entirely with Ikea furniture and random cast-offs from the Lovely Man’s previous marriage. As tends to happen when at short notice you have to furnish a family house in a city far, far away from home.

(I struggled for ages against asking the Lovely Man what he and his ex were thinking when they chose the fabric for the couch. Really, there wasn’t going to be a way of putting that query that wasn’t going to have offensive potential, whoever originally chose it. Eventually, though, the fear that it might have been the Lovely Man’s cherished pick got the better of me. The answer was reassuring; it hadn’t been his selection. But I guess that’s stepfamily life for you – living with a trillion artefacts of your partner’s previous life.)

We’ve tried to make it comfortable and home-like and to add punches of boy-friendly red, navy and white, but the interior style could aptly be described as “Child Care Centre Chic”. Or perhaps “All About The Kids Shabby Provincial”.

The lounge room is absolutely dominated by toys. Shelves of toys, drawers of toys, piles of toys. Books. Magazines. Comics. Projects. The coffee table is almost always so completely covered with the unholy trinity of books, toys and comics that there is literally no space to put a cup of coffee down.

I find it a hard place to relax or be comfortable. As glad as I am to be there supporting the Lovely Man and hanging out with the boys, the space really emphasises that I often feel like an alien fringe dweller in a parent-child world.

When I’m there, though, the true bane of my existence isn’t the morass of comics covering every surface. Or even the couch.

Any guesses?

I’ll give you a hint.

Yep, Lego.

I’m always picking it from deep within the soles of my feet, resentfully “saving” it from between cracks in the floorboards and trying to safeguard complex masterpieces of design from the ravaging hands of other visiting kids.

The Lovely Man is constantly setting himself vast organising and tidying projects related to the toys, books and comics. But it’s the Lego that keeps him up at night.

I thought I was perhaps being oversensitive to the Lego. That the four cubic metres of primary-coloured plastic in the loungeroom was just standard, just what every other kid had.

Recently, though, came a glorious, glorious message from beyond that reassured me that I’m not becoming Cathy to Lego’s Heathcliff. Reassuring me that the Lego really is alive and out of control and looking to take me down.

A couple of weeks back, we offered to let a friend who is between houses stay in the Kidhaus during the fortnight we’re not there. He was given the run of the place – keys, fridge-raiding rights, use of the car.

The afternoon he arrived, we got this text message:

I found the key ok – thanks for that. Nice place, but has a BAD Lego infestation. I will head off to the supermarket for Lego repellant later.

If only. Or maybe the supermarket sells those aerosol roach bombs, but for Lego?

The Kidhaus already looks like a bomb’s gone off. How much worse could it get?

What “stuff” around the house pushes you toward the edge of your sanity?

What will be different?

I did a series of posts recently, thinking about the advice I wish I’d been given before becoming a stepmum about adjusting to stepparenting, settling into life with a ready-made Dad, and specifically what I wish I’d know about my stepkids.

My focus today is what in your day-to-day life will be different, after stepkids come along?

This question is probably most relevant to childless/childfree stepmums like me. And La Belle Mere. And any number of formerly single women who sometimes wonder how, exactly, their lives got kidjacked.

So, what will be different?

If your stepkids are boys, there will be wee on the floor at the base of the toilet.

This may also be true if they are girls. I don’t know. I’m sure someone will comment to confirm or deny this.

Those fluffy base-of-toilet mats that you’ve never bothered with before? You will now.

I suggested a pingpong ball with “Hit me!” or a smiley face on it could go in the toilet for “aiming practice”. I have a younger brother, I know the drill!

The Lovely Man said “The boys don’t wee on the floor, do they?”

Ummm, yes. They do.

Privacy may soon be a luxury.

Boy C and even Boy B feel quite free to wander into my bathroom while I’m showering or weeing to ask me where their Lego such-and-such is or if they can have a snack.

My ensuite is entered via my wardrobe; there’s no door, just a winding passageway, which more than suffices to provide privacy when adults are in question.

I’m not fussy about nakedness taboos, generally. But it did give me a bit of a turn at first.

There will be exciting new phrases to learn to cope with.

You may hear “It’s not your house!”

See here for my recommended response.

You will hear “But why?”

Over and over.

But when I heard “Why are you wasting money painting the kitchen? You should be sending that money to my Mummy so she can buy a house!!!!”, I nearly died of shock.

Nothing will be sacred.

I’ve heard “You’re not really a grownup because you don’t have children of your own” in the same breath as “You’re an old, ugly, stinky granny!”

Humphh.

As well as “Your house sucks! It’s tiny!“

Ditto “Your car sucks. It’s tiny!“

And “People in your family have stupid names!”

You may have to fight to be able to use your beloved iPhone to, you know, make phone calls.

There will be changes to your home environment.

Paper planes will whizz and soar around your head.

Lego pieces will camouflage nicely into the rug as you run to answer early morning knocks at the door. Hello, stone bruises!

Your house will never feel clean while the kids are with you. Please, if you value your sanity, stop trying so hard.

Your habits and priorities will change.

The supermarket will become somewhere you retreat to at times when you need to get away from it all. Nobody ever argues when you say you need groceries. Nobody ever suggests “Let’s all go together!”

You might discover unexpected enjoyment in reading aloud.

Your heart will feel warm if they hug you.

You will laugh and laugh and laugh.

And when one of the little guys puts his arm around you and says, out of the blue, “You know, you have a very special place in my life”, your smile will unfold right out and the tears will leak out onto the top of his head.

My stepfamily family

Recently I spent some time on the phone listening to a friend I met through stepfamily group unload about her incredibly complex family – nine kids between her and her partner.

(The collective gasp when they first introduced themselves and described their situation in the group was mostly politely stifled. K, if you’re reading this, I salute you!)

K described having nobody at all to talk to who could understand. No close family members, no friends in a similar situation, no knowledge (until I set her straight!) of the online stepmum community. Just her and her partner against the world.

It got me thinking, though, about how incredibly fortunate I am in having a family that these days is basically made of step.

Within two years my brother and sister and I all went from non-step to most definitely step.

In early 2008, I got together with my Lovely Man, we moved in together, and bought a house this year. He has three boy childers, alternatively the lights of my life and the bane of my existence.

In 2009 my wonderful sister married her own lovely man. He has a six-year-old daughter from his first marriage. She has a seven-year-old son, my sweet nephew, from her previous relationship. Their “ours” baby, another boy, is due in February.

In 2008 my younger brother got together with his beautiful partner, who has the two kids from her ended marriage about sixty percent of the time. After a brief and decisive adventure in Family Court, he also sees the two-year-old son he had with his ex every weekend and is going to be starting overnight visits in March.

The funny thing is that of all the exes, my sister’s former partner, who on paper would seem like the scariest worst possible prospect for harmonious co-parenting, has turned out best of all.

He has a nice girlfriend, both of them drop by my sister’s house quite happily to see my nephew and collect him for visits, the communication is reasonably unstrained and everyone respects him for the positive contribution he makes.

The other exes range from patchy to appalling in their attitudes and behaviour.

Our parents, still together after thirty-five years of marriage, have taken to stepgrandhood gracefully, welcoming the various broods and managing to remember everyone’s names and birthdays. I think they are occasionally a bit bemused by it all, but remain wonderfully supportive.

For myself, without my brother and especially my sister to talk to about step stuff, knowing they understand the unique pressures, the dramas and the constant, grinding conflict, I suspect I would have descended into insanity.

Nobody can calm me and get me thinking creatively about the situation with the Stepboys and their Mum and the Lovely Man better than my beautiful sister. Her mantra is:

Well, what can we do about that?

(As, incidentally, is my mantra with her when the situation is reversed and she can’t find her poise with two hands and a magnifying glass.)

Nobody encourages firm boundaries better than my brother:

That is Totally Not Acceptable behaviour. You gotta crack down on that!

Nobody listens to my awfulising more patiently than my parents until I’m ready to get back on deck.

Support is such a chancy concept for stepmums. Friends sometimes don’t get it. In-laws, as Nine Kind of Crazy notes, are not automatically behind the new family. Stereotypes abound and can make us reluctant to identify ourselves as being part of a stepfamily.

So I’m very, very lucky to have such a sensational support network.

But I wonder, in the absence of such a steppish family, who do other stepmums rely on for their support?

If wishes were horses…

I’ve been thinking today about what I wish I’d known before getting into this step business.

Dad’s Second Whatever started it with this post where she alluded to the question of whether to share or not share hard-won, hard-nosed step wisdom with a new stepmama.

It’s a bit like when someone’s pregnant, you know? Do you tell them birth horror stories so they’re prepared for what could go wrong, or gloss it all over with sticky icing to avoid inducing a panic attack before it’s necessary?

Are all, when you’re dating/bonking/besotted with/engaged to a guy with kids, reality does tend to catch up quickly enough!

So I thought and thought, and wished that, instead of just looking at me with the kind of appalled expressions that made me want to reflexively check my person for dog faeces, there had been some nice experienced step-type person who might have been able to tell me a few things.

Things I wish I’d known in the early days…

You’re not alone – lots of women routinely don’t describe themselves as stepmums because they too are afraid of being judged. Dig a little and you’ll be surprised.

On  the other hand, first family parents, particularly mums, may find your very existence terrifying in a this-could-happen-to-me kind of way. Not your fault!

Unfortunately, I’m good with kids and children always love me doesn’t mean you’ll have an easy ride. Your stepkids are not ‘normal’ in the way they relate to you; being able to charm the most petulant primary schooler or colicky infant around in milliseconds does not mean these children will accept you easily.

Just because a child acts sweet or even courts you and says that you should marry their Daddy doesn’t mean things are going to go smoothly. Many stepkids have a delightful honeymoon period until the reality that you are going to be around permanently sinks in; then the acting out can start.

Boy A was like this with me to begin with – during those first few visits he would help me with the chores, assemble ingredients for me to cook, tell me all about his friends and toys.

I honestly thought: Wow, this stepmum thing’s a lark. Nothing to it! Oh, woe, was I in for a shock(er).

Once he realised that I wasn’t a passing fad or an amusing but temporary visitor, his demeanour towards me became much darker – there’s been the hitting phase, the complaints to the Lovely Man about how annoying I am, the endless shrugging, the refusal to answer or acknowledge me, the requests that I not visit anymore, the story that Boys B and C are scared of me.

Huh.

Not fun, but now that I’ve got a more realistic idea of how he feels at least the Lovely Man and I can work on it.

Boy B, on the other hand, started off very shy and withdrawn but now seems (mostly) to really enjoy my company.

And Boy C is, as ever, my saving grace, with his funny stories and giggling fits and the occasional spontaneous cuddles that warm my [wicked] heart.

Don’t overcompensate to prove to the world at large that you’re not wicked. Foolish people will assume you are wicked however nice you are, while smart people will see how hard your job is and forgive your mistakes.

Same deal: don’t overcompensate to prove to the kids that you’re not wicked. The kids’ attitudes to you may end up having very little to do with you and how you actually behave.

Read read read! I loved Stepmonster by Wednesday Martin and often refer to The Smart Stepmom by Ron Deal and Laura Petherbridge (it’s very Christian-centred but so practical that even this little agnostic was prepared to stick with it – totally the best stepmum book I’ve read in terms of useful, hands-on strategies).

Stepfamilies are so different to first families and some of what happens is completely counter-intuitive. The more a stepkid likes you the more they may reject you? Whaaaattha?!

For non-US stepmums like me, Amazon is your friend. Most of the books I’ve found helpful aren’t readily available outside the US and UK.

However much or little you and your partner see the kids, things are never going to be the same. This will probably take over your life, more or less…

…and your non-step friends will struggle to understand why you seem so obsessed.

And finally, it’s hard, but it’s also sometimes really, really good fun.

This list actually ended up ENORMOUS, so I’ll post another installment tomorrow.

In the meantime, I’d love to know what other stepmums include on their If Only I Had Known list…

Going to the dogs

Does anyone else follow shitmydadsays ?

(By the way – since the stepboys came along I have making big big big HUGE efforts to tone down the odd curse. But insist on linking to profane – funny, but profane – websites. Sorry, people. Doing my best, here.)

Hilarious. Especially to my family. Especially at Christmas.

Sometimes I think we should set up some kind of (Stuff) My Dad Says collective.

My own Dad’s mantra at this time of year is Bah… HUMBUG. He doesn’t hesitate to trot out that puppy around toddlers, four-year-olds, Sisters of Mercy. Anytime is a good time to spread misery and despond, as long as it’s Christmas.

But tonight’s contribution was pretty cute.

To set the scene:

Fireworks popping like crazy in the background, much to the discomfort of the Fluffy White Dog, who admittedly is somewhat neurotic. During a particularly big thunderstorm last year, she tried to take cover under a broom.

But I digress.

So, anyway, the fireworks were exploding merrily. The dog was trembling, just lightly.

The Dad chose this moment to say:

Hear that, Fluffy White Dog? That noise out there? They’re shooting dogs, that’s what that noise is.

Fluffy white dogs, as it happens.

I’m just glad he manages to contain the sardonics when the stepboys are around. Kids, as all you Actual Mums know, can be pretty literal. And this is a family where our grandfather used to kiss us goodnight as children with the blessing:

Close your eyes or I’ll have to hit you with my stick with nails in it!

Nice one, Gramps.

On the other end of the spectrum is my Mamma. She’s bought each of her six(!) stepgrandkids a Fair Trade Christmas ornament to hang on the tree, and is currently in the process of sewing little calico bags to store them in, to be embroidered with each of their names.

How these two people have sustained a devoted marriage of over thirty-five years standing is still a bit of a boggle to me sometimes.

May the Lovely Man and I do likewise!

Stepmummery

Well, here I be!

This blog has been simmering for a while; but 1 December seems a good time to take up the cauldron.

To introduce myself and my (occasionally reluctant) family:

Me, early 30s, no kids of my own, living in subtropical Australia (but I’m guessing the step m.u.m. spelling might have given a hint there!)

Partnered nearly two years with my lovely man, The Lovely Man.

And thereby playing stepmum to his personal Aryan Horde -

Boy A, 11. Very smart, very blond.

Boy B, 9. Also very smart and only slightly less blond, and

Boy C, 7. Very smart, very blond, very cheeky.

Are you getting the picture of cookie-cutter children, at all? The Lovely Man always says My ex-wife and I decided not to worry about paternity testing. They look so much like him that it’s sometimes a little disturbing.

Like lots of stepmum bloggers, I need to be paranoid careful about identifying the people in my family, so I’ll be walking a bit of a fine line/garden path to find the right balance.

I’ll see where it all goes, but my idea isn’t to drag readers into a step-by-step blow-by-blow, but to use some of the incidents and accidents of my stepfamily life, as well as the many, many step-blogs and step-manuals I read, to reflect on what this crazy, erffed-up job of helping to raise somebody else’s kids is really about.

Anyway, we’ll see!