stepmothersmilk.com

Repress, Obsess and Deny. I’m told this is an unhealthy mantra. I admit, it’s a little polluted. But so far, it’s been my step-mom formula for success.

It may not be restorative, but it’s working for me. I mean, at least it’s realistic.

When The Husband proposed to me in the lobby of The Peabody Hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, I spilled all the bar snacks on their elegant floor and screamed, “Are you seriously kidding me right now?”

Of course he said NO, he was not kidding and of course I said YES, I would marry him.

But, where to begin this life of eternal bliss? Surely the lover of my loins and I should build a hospitable nest.

At the time, we had a hood to call a home.

The Husband had a loft in the East Bay that I frequented, but did not live in (see Flickr photos right). His informal, industrial, airy, living space struck many as an urban, artist’s dream, but with regular gun shots next door and screaming, crack crazies in the street, it was hardly the ideal neighborhood to host a block party or start introducing myself down the corner liquor store as the new step-bitch in town.

What really pushed us out the door was one unacceptable truth.

If we were all going to live together- my two stepsons, their father and I- we needed to get out of Oaktown. Snarling pit-bulls and police sirens aside, what really pushed us out the door was one unacceptable truth: my lover’s loft came with only one bathroom. You do the arithmetic. Three dudes, one of me.

I mean, honestly, there is no amount of love that makes this a livable situation. Am I right?

But, after a long, hard talk with realtors, we sadly recognized that any suitable home in the Bay Area with four walls and more than one toilet would eventually put us in a cramped and shabby, poor house, or out on the street with the crazies we just gave the finger to. Or worse, the suburbs.

We’d have to move.

Surely, there must be a support group, is what I naturally thought. In California, there’s a support group for everything. My Austin therapist says no. She has heard of no such thing.

“Really? No meetings in auditoriums with fluorescent lights and metal chairs?”

“It is a step-mom group you’re looking for, right?”

Apparently, I have no idea what sort of miserable fate I’ve signed up for.

If there is no local support group, then where are all the step-moms commiserating? Surely they’re not all battling it out with themselves in the bathroom mirror, like I am. Gnawing on one’s lower lip every time there’s an uncomfortable moment can’t be healthy. Can it?

So, I decided to go looking for advice on-line. What I found was a scant depressing. Step-parenting sites droning on about survival secrets, coping mechanisms, how to experience more joy than pain, the hardest job in the world and my favorite, “a one-to-one dialogue with God to help you through the struggles of step-motherhood.”

That’s right. Jesus, help me.

Apparently, I have no idea what sort of miserable fate I’ve signed up for. Perhaps I should pack my suitcase now, steal out in the middle of the night, lest I be tempted to buy a gun…and stay.

On second thought, maybe that’s not such a good idea. Even for a new and wannabe Texan.

Instead, we decided in the mirror last night, I’ll just have to laugh my way through it.

When that doesn’t work, I’ve found that a glass of wine doesn’t hurt. And if that’s not enough, I conjure up an equally apalling and entertaining memory from my own step-kid lore to remind me that even the most challenged families survive.

If there were any time for a gun, that would have been it.

I look in the mirror and tell myself the story of the time my older step-sister (a natural tomboy and troublemaker) hid so many dirty dishes under her bed she attracted a racoon (A carnivorous North American mammal) into her box-springs. If there were any time for a gun, that would have been it. Instead, the parental unit settled on a lot of lip biting to calm down.

In fact, twenty years later, with no bullet wounds to speak of, my step-sisters and I are only mildly scarred. Some close calls with friendly fire, but in the end, we’re still a family unit. Strong and very much intact.

I am no longer a single woman who can decide at nine o’clock at night that cheese and crackers is a more than sufficient dinner. I can no longer sit for hours on end, enjoying the sound of my own silence, pondering what life has in store for me. Not anymore, chickie.

These days, I’ve become responsible, at least 50 percent of the time, for the well-being of my two, new step-kids. And these aren’t little kids, mind you, but medium-sized boys who have big ideas of their own regarding what it means to be well.

Fortunately, I’ve got two things going for me: A) they don’t hate me yet and B) I was a surly, step-kid myself. I speak the language.

I have the street cred.

It is my own upbringing of schlepping from Mom’s house to Dad’s, splitting holidays and carrying around two house keys that makes this new life of mine less scary. In fact, it feels oddly familiar.

I’m no expert, but I do know a thing or two about being a step-kid and so, I feel like I have the street cred to make this bold statement: the step-family unit gets a bad rap.

If it hadn’t been for my own step-kid upbringing, I wouldn’t have gained two brilliant sisters who I adore, learned how to fry bologna and boil top ramen (as an unaccompanied minor) or heard time and time again why The African Queen is “such a great goddamn movie.”

Becoming part of a stepfamily is a huge life changer for a kid, and truly, it can feel like being blown out of a hot cannon into a freakish, other world. That said, tables now turned, being the step-matriarch of one such frantic circus can be a less-than-glamorous gig.

And very far removed from my recent, and very Izzycentric lifestyle.

What I try to keep in mind these days is that we (the man-children and I) are not all that different. Our childhood stories have a similar plot line, anyway.

So, to The Tall One and The Young One, I encourage you to hang in there.

Life under the big tent can be chaotic, overwhelming and a tad crowded. But, I promise you; it can be magical, too. I’m not going to stock the house with cotton candy and caramel apples, but can I offer you smoked gouda and water crackers instead?

One year ago I became a Stepmom, which is a different breed of Mom. In fact, we’re not breeders at all, are we? I prefer the term feeder, then, since my fragile parental worth and overall acceptance is most-often equated with the amount and quality of food I bring home from the store.

She feed me salmon. She good. She stay.

As my mother, an S-mom to my two sisters, explained recently to me, “We are women who have inherited children who, in turn, inherit us.”

As the story often goes, we fell in love with someone who already had kids of their own and suddenly they became our kids. Just like that. And just that quickly, we’re supposed to start behaving like nurturing, natural, grown-up parents.

We’re supposed to start behaving like nurturing, natural, grown-up parents.

The rules of intuitive bonding can be a little tricky with this snappy, plot line. After all, we did not carry these creatures in our swollen bellies, clean up their unoffending drool or quietly read them ‘Goodnight Moon.’

Unlikely.

Instead, we were minding our own business; buying designer t-shirts and drinking double Americanos in North Beach, when they just showed up demanding snacks.

I liken myself to the woman in some, old childhood tale who opens her front door one morning only to discover, aghast, that some bird with scrawny legs has dropped off a package. “Here you go,” the stork says and flies off with a smirk.

Quite literally, I’ve been delivered the package deal.

And, like most unexpected gifts, I’m overwhelmed with joy, surprise and a dash of apprehension. Should I unwrap it? What if I don’t like what’s inside the pretty box? Can I give it back?

In many cases, we S-moms imagined having children one day (didn’t we?) and so, we’ve welcomed our step-kids into our lives with ample amounts of love and excitement.

We just didn’t necessarily expect an almost full-grown-man-child to show up one Sunday afternoon dressed in size eight jeans with a hole in the knee. And want to stay past dinner.

I thought I was so clever with my inventive idea to start a step-mom blog, only to discover that an extensive “mommy blog” network already exists. Not only that, this community of matriarchal chit-chatters is beyond well established. I’m sort of late to the party pad.

I work in broadcast news. I’m a shameless slave to mass media, pop-culture and headlines. How did I so foolishly miss this exploding trend?

As a girlfriend so obviously pointed out, “Maybe because you weren’t being a Mom.”

Excellent point. And it’s my perfect alibi. Until one year ago, my most frequent Websites included The Daily Candy, TVNewsday, Open Table and The Superficial. As you will note, none of these on-line destinations include any of the following keywords: orthidontia, canned food drive, parent-teacher conference, and certainly nothing with the word step or kid.

But, now recently initiated into the S-mom club, badgered and beat up, I’m ready to lead today’s very pressing discussion titled, Where Did My Old Life Go?

Ladies, are you with me?