Holidays?

I am absolutely trashed with tiredness.

It’s been a busy few days; the Boys’ arrival, visitors, including a child who gets up four-plus times for the toilet each night, a midnight replay of some Grand Final or other that the Lovely Man simply had to watch.

And for the past two mornings, since the Boys arrived, we’ve been woken up multiple times by small bedroom visitors well before seven o’clock each morning.

……

We’re bored.

……

Boy B is hitting me!

……

We want to play PS3.

Despite refusal of permission from the Lovely Man, this was followed shortly by a blast of PS3 muzak at around sixty decibels.

Have I ever mentioned that our bedroom is separated from the TV and loungeroom by flimsy glass doors?

[Damn you, PS3. I never liked your dreadful soundtracks, the way you take over my living area or how wired you make the Boys, and now I like you less than ever. If I had my way I would donate you to a family in India so they could run a lucrative Ps3 café in their village.]

Added to my irritation was that every. single. visitation. was unaccompanied by the knock on the door stipulated by our “stupid” houserules.

So every. single. visitation. required me to wrestle the covers over my top half in a mad panic.

Finally, I gave up trying to snooze and lay in bed, listening to the sounds of  kids bickering, visitors chatting, the dog barking, doors slamming and PS3 warfare compete with the softer but equally unsettling background noises generated by inexperienced baristas mauling my beloved espresso machine.

I’m told they call this the holidays?

[Sorry, whinging will cease tomorrow. If I get at least five hours of unbroken sleep.]

The countdown

Pillows, mattresses and doonas are sunned, aired and smoothed.

Beds are made up – navy and white star bedspreads, varied with sky blue, ruby red and burnt orange sheets. The colours burn; they’re beautiful.

Cupboards are emptied, ready for small socks, long, skinny pants and tee shirts printed with animals real and imagined (but almost always viciously slavering).

Cereal has been purchased in vast quantities. And kid cheese. Along with three types of fruit juice and more varieties of snacks than I’ve seen in whole supermarkets on some remote islands.

A few fridge magnets featuring obscenities have been hurriedly plucked from their places and hidden away, leaving gaps.

Bright pool towels are waiting, folded; the water is around 15 degrees but that won’t matter.

I’ve cleaned everything, though by this time tomorrow night the house will be awash with toys and books and bits of food and Lego will mingle on the floor.

The Boys are coming. It’s late; time minus sixteen hours till the boats hit the beaches and the troops unload, three tired, hungry handover refugees.

I take a deep breath, and wait.

Just asking

Does anyone else find it really, really difficult when your partner wants you to look through photos of his kids as babies that were taken when his first family was intact?

Mixed in are inevitably photos of the kids’ mum, posed with them and smiling, and I see them even though the Lovely Man doesn’t specifically show them to me.

Inevitable, too, are the accompanying stories beginning “This was when we had just had Boy A…” or “That was just after we had bought our house in X-ville.”

“Our” and “we” in these stories never means “him and me”, naturally.

The whole experience makes a sad little underline to my own childless outsider status.

Some days when the photos come out I can handle it, at least for a while. I don’t want the Lovely Man to feel that his Boys’ babyhoods are on lockdown and can’t be talked about or shown off.

Today, though, I’m not coping with it, and I think I need to find a way to tell him.

Does this kind of situation come up in your stepfamily, or am I being over-sensitive?

Shades of beige

Monday was the first night of our regular week with the kids.

As usual, Boy A was fairly hostile towards me: he refused to respond to my hello, and every comment I made (not to him – I don’t waste time trying to make conversation with him directly) was met with a shrug or a smart remark.

For instance, I was talking to the other boys about making Crepes Suzette for dessert this week and describing how we would set fire to the crepes before serving them.

(Setting fire to foodstuffs has gigantic appeal to boys, in my experience.)

At this point, Boy A butted in to snidely suggest that he’d rather pour petrol than liqueur on the crepes. To which I replied that he was quite welcome to add petrol to his own serve.

Normally I wouldn’t have responded that way; that night had me teetering alarmingly close to the cliff edge of my self control.

His rejoinder?

“Yeah, that’s really funny.”

Oh, right, because it was all about me being funny at his expense.

Anyway, by 5pm I’d had it and retreated to the bedroom with my laptop for much of the rest of the evening, feeling besieged and frustrated but glad to be avoiding further hurtful comments and pointed exclusion.

Later, once the kids were finally in bed, I asked the Lovely Man how he felt the evening had gone and whether there was anything extra I could have done to support him with the kids.

I was expecting to talk about specific tasks, like me doing dinner so he could cover homework duty – that kind of mundane stuff.

Instead, I heard:

“I think it was good that you kind of made yourself scarce and kept a low profile in the bedroom, because Boy A finds it difficult when he thinks you’re too much in the foreground.”

*Cue crickets*

Finally, I found my voice.

“I’m all in favour of keeping things low-key, especially in the first 24 hours we have the Boys, but I am NOT going to hide out in the bedroom or generally fade into the wallpaper because Boy A prefers it that way. His behaviour is the problem here, NOT MINE.”

Turns out that the Lovely Man hadn’t even noticed Boy A’s nastiness, and just thought I was relaxing in the bedroom because I wanted to.

I found it disturbing and a bit hurtful, though, that it’s considered preferable that I minimise my presence and role in the house to keep the peace and keep Boy A “happy”.

Ultimately, I think those kinds of accommodations devalue and disrespect me and enable Boy A to continue deferring his adjustment to our family situation.

I understand that the Lovely Man feels stuck in a lose/lose situation, juggling to keep everyone happy, but this incident has made me wonder – if my best contribution is made by downplaying my existence in what is meant to be my part-time home, why am I here at all?

As a stepmother, are you ever asked or expected to downplay yourself or fade into beige to keep others in your stepfamily “comfortable”?

House Rules – final version

House Rules

Words

We speak courteously and respectfully.

No running each other down.

We call people only what they want to be called.

When somebody’s talking to us, we listen and don’t interrupt.

We say please and thank you.

Actions

Adults and kids from this house do not hit, bully or hurt others.

Limit rough play and stop when asked.

We respect others’ things by asking permission.

We respect others’ privacy by knocking on closed doors before entering.

If you don’t agree with an adult, you can ask for an explanation, but once you’ve heard it you have to do what you’re asked without arguing.

***********

So, the moment day of truth arrived this morning for our new house rules.

I agree with commenters that the list was too long – it still is, really – but quite a few of the items have shown themselves specifically necessary.

“Calling people only what we want to be called”, for instance, started because of me – I tend to give people affectionate nicknames and the older boys (in consultation with their Mum, I gather) decided they hated being called anything but garden-variety Boy A and Boy B and asked for this rule to be included. Fair enough, and of course, it works both ways; they can’t so readily call me fat, ugly, “a stupid old granny” etc etc etc after insisting on its inclusion.

The listening/not interrupting rule was a shoe-in – the Boys tend to keep their heads in their books for the first seventeen several repetitions of anything they don’t want to hear. Plus Boy A is already an accomplished verbal swordsmith. Woe, the upcoming teen years…

And after this morning’s numerous unannounced entries into our bedroom, including one featuring me sitting naked on the bed, I’m going to begin Phase: Enforcement on the “knock before entering” rule bright and early tomorrow.

Post tonight’s dinner of Butter Chicken, which saw discussion followed by unauthorised demonstrations of “how Indian people eat with their hands”, I’m wishing I’d lobbied for a table manners rule. Or at least a “We willingly crawl around picking up under-table food debris after each meal” rule.

Do you have a feeling that things are going to get interesting from here?

Making rules…

…but for pity’s sake don’t even think of calling them “family rules”! I can almost hear the reaction now, echoed back from eleventy million step households: “You’re not my family and you don’t make rules for me!”

[Sarcasm switches off]

Anyway, the Boys arrive tomorrow and I’ve been attempting to negotiate our first formalised set of house rules with the Lovely Man.

Rules and boundaries generally seem to be touchy topics and getting to this point has taken ages; the first time I raised the idea of house rules was nearly eighteen months ago! Even talking about it has been delicate, particularly the bit about introducing set bedtimes.

I gather that lots of separated parents, and especially dads, really struggle with firming up on boundaries for their kids. One blog I particularly remember described a dad saying to his wife, the stepmother of his two children, that he was “OK with having rules but not comfortable with there being consequences”.

And doesn’t THAT sounds like a hiding to nothing and nowhere for the unfortunate stepmother trying to get some kind of grip on the behaviour of the kids in her house?

The more superficial stepparenting books suggest that it’s a bad idea to “assume” an authority figure role with your stepkids, but I’m convinced those authors must have full-time nannies at their disposal. If not, there will be situations when the stepparent is forced to be the adult in charge and needs to direct the kids in some way. I try to minimise it, but basically, if the Lovely Man wants to work while we have the Boys, it’s inevitable that I have to step up from Wingman to Maverick status sometimes.

I described being an adult in charge in our hitherto (mostly) “rule-free” house to the Lovely Man as “a bit like trying to herd lobsters underwater”. That’s right, I think it’s harder than herding cats.

Not being one of the Boys’ parents, I don’t have natural authority with them, other than a little with Boy C perhaps. And yet there are many times when I need them to do what I ask, like when I’m doing the school run, when they’re hurting each other, or when I can’t in good conscience do one more speck of cleaning up without them contributing.

And those times are when I hit a brick wall, because without either (a) the natural authority that blood parents take so much for granted OR  (b) clear house rules fully backed by the Lovely Man, I often may as well sing to whales as expect the Boys to obey me.

So, rules are good. Ultimately, of course, they’re at least as necessary to our stepkids as they are to us. Our stepfamily psychologist reminds me that rules help stepkids feel that they actually live a normal life with their other parent, rather than just being occasional visitors. And that despite the whingeing, that sense of normality, of having a place and a role, is something children of divorce crave.

BUT…

Whether it’s about Dads wanting to avoid being the bad guy, feeling afraid of losing the “popularity contest” to a more permissive mother or just wanting their limited time with the kids to be all fun-fun-fun, it seems that setting and enforcing even simple rules is a fraught process in many stepfamilies.

So far the Lovely Man’s and my rules list is running to about four pages and is full of fluffy abstract concepts. Not exactly a collection of snappy ideas that I’d choose to post on the fridge, then.

It needs whittling big time. Like with a chainsaw.

So I’m wondering:

Do you have specific house rules in your stepfamily?

If so, what are they?

And how did they get put in place?

And… another search string

Found in my blog stats today, in the section showing what search phrases lead poor hapless victims readers here was this sad snippet of stepmother misery:

“my husband is teaching his kids to treat stepmom as a doormat”

I would call the Lovely Man more than usually supportive, and yet there are still times I end up feeling like a doormat, or, as I recently expressed to him, “the disregarded fourth child”. Perhaps it’s just a built-in and inevitable feature of the step dynamic?

He has never, ever allowed the Boys to give me orders or expected me to wait on them, though. Or disbelieved me when I’ve explained that events have occurred differently from how Boy A one or other of the children has described to him. And I’ve overheard him stand up for me against unreasonable complaints and kid griping born of loyalty conflicts more than once.

So I can’t even begin to imagine how dreadful it would feel to have this difficult stepmother role to play, to try your best to help care for someone else’s children but be exploited in the process by the partner who is supposed to cherish you.

Once again, I feel very lucky.

The question

My sweet, concerned Dad asked me a question the other day, in the aftermath of my first meeting with the Lovely Man’s ex-wife.

Dad: So, uh, do you see things working out with you and the Lovely Man long-term, B?

Me: Huh?

Dad: It’s just that you seem to find the situation with the Boys and the Boys’ Mum so stressful sometimes. Is it all worth it?

Me: (Thinks.) Well, I would say that the Lovely Man’s and my relationship is three times better than any relationship I’ve ever had. The reason that you see me struggle is that it also has at least three times the stressors that most really good relationships have to cope with. Things will get smoother with time, I guess. So, yes, absolutely.

Dad: Alright, I’m glad. Your Mum and I just want to know that you’re happy.

Me: I am, Dad.

It’s not always ever easy, being with a man with kids and an ex-wife.

But it’s always interesting. I often enjoy the Boys, and a whole new World of Step has opened up that fascinates me and has gotten me writing again.

But more than anything, I couldn’t ask for a better partner than my Lovely Man.

So when you add it all up, I think I’m very, very lucky.

What makes you feel lucky to be with your “partner in step”?

The Unnegotiables

Boy A once described something as “unnegotiable” – I’ve never forgotten the clumsy word.

A brilliant post from Urban Stepmom got me thinking about what is “unnegotiable” for me.

In the past, I’ve tended to put up and shut up a lot, endeavouring to silently tolerate situations that leave me grinding my teeth.

It’s not that I’m planning to institute a Reign of Terror, but there are certainly aspects of our stepfamily life that give me so much stress or plain niggling annoyance that I need to try to change them.

In the end, gritting my teeth and trying to endure just causes a kind of overflow effect, where the pent-up stress makes me less able to handle other stresses that wouldn’t normally rock me.

The little things often seem to create more frustration that the Big Bad Majorly Ugly Issues.

I’ve always taken the view that I can’t make changes happen by myself; without the Lovely Man on board nothing will be different. Some of these I’ve half-heartedly tackled in the past, been met with assurances that things will change and then watched, frustrated, as the same old song kept on a-playin’.

Maybe it’s a question of really speaking clearly and firmly about my feelings, negotiating solutions and then following through with determination.

In a stepfamily don’t ask, don’t get sometimes translates to don’t insist, don’t get.

One thing I’ve learned is that in selected matters that are REALLY important to you, you can’t afford for your concerns to represent the path of least resistance, or the extended family members who don’t mind recruiting Nasty or Whingy to get their way will automatically prevail.

After all, if I say I really want something, but back down from insisting, the Boys or their Mum’s contrary wishes will always bulldoze through, leaving me waving my tiny garden trowel and squeaking But!.. But!.. in their wake.

So here are some matters I’m going to aim to have formally added to the Family Unnegotiable List over the next few months.

No kids in my ensuite bathroom.

The Lovely Man recently commented that if we were to do a planned remodel where we move the weirdly-sited back toilet into the main bathroom and turn the extra space into a walk-in pantry, we would need to be flexible about letting the Boys use the ensuite if another kid was already in the main bathroom.

If that’s the deal, I’d rather keep my cooking appliances in their current unreachable ten foot high storage cupboards and retain my ensuite sanctuary.

After all, we have another bathroom that the Boys can use in the studio.

Our ensuite is the only place I have in the entire house guaranteed kid free. Otherwise known as The Sanity Room.

Sanity and wee on the floor are mutually incompatible, in my view.

No toys in the loungeroom

Our loungeroom is basically a wide hallway. I’ve tried asking the Lovely Man to encourage the kids to keep toys out of the walkway. I’ve even corralled toys onto one rug so we can transit the loungeroom without clocking up painful Kid Recreational Equipment Injuries.

No matter what I do, the lounge instantly becomes an obstacle course of Lego, remote-controlled vehicles of various descriptions, comics and general junk the moment the kids arrive in our city. I can’t handle the complete encroachment of kid chaos any more.

From next visit, there will be a designated playroom set up near the kitchen.

(Oh, and please don’t tell me That’s just living with kids. We are talking about domestic crazy of Hurricane In ToyWorld proportions here, not just normal kid mess. I have the pictures to prove it.)

Pleases and Thankyous – every time!

Self-explanatory… I don’t feel good about giving or doing for the Boys unless they Use Their Manners.

They’re getting a lot better already – at the instigation of the Lovely Man, impolite requests and answers are met with Pardon? Pardon?

I’m sure it’s violently irritating to them. But it’s also highly, highly effective.

Effective is good.

Kids who don’t answer when offered food/asked for their flavour preference/their opinion don’t get what’s on offer/don’t get consulted further.

I am not going to stand begging them to pick from raspberry or chocolate like they are doing me a favour.

Currently they know that the Lovely Man will make sure he persists until they eventually decide to pay attention.

This visit, they’re going to learn that if they’re not on the ball by my second inquiry, the opportunity to get whatever it is will just fade away.

What’s on your “Unnegotiables” wish list? Or what would you like to put on there if you could?

Dilemma

Is it better to insist, for reasons of character development, that the Boys contribute properly to picking up the twelvety-kajillion pieces of Lego, ranging from microscopic to Great Dane-sized, currently spread in a tide line across the loungeroom floor?

Or is it ok to just do it personally, thereby sparing myself the grizzling, need for constant reminders, threats to my stepmotherly/adult-in-the-house authority, risks to sanity and general hair shredding required by such an outrageous imposition on their weekend?

(Better yet, I could make a short but valiant effort, then retire to the bedroom to blog about it while the Lovely Man takes the helm. Yep, liking that option…)