I’m a hostess, not a mother
I was a pretty shy kid, often in rolled up corduroys with unruly, geeky hair. I collected stickers. I flunked out of Brownies. I played the clarinet. Badly.
I believe, then, that it came as a big surprise to those who knew me in junior high especially (that is, passed me in the halls with hardly a glance) that I evolved rather seamlessly into a Miss Popular of sorts. A fun-times-merry-maker with coveted fashion sense. An A-list invite (okay, maybe a B plus). An adult whose hobbies grew to include: throwing parties, attending events, meeting for drinks, going out on the town.
That’s when it dawned on me: I’m a hostess not a mother.
Of course it makes perfect sense to me given the strong influence of my grandmother, a classy woman who never let that get in the way of having a good time. She impressed upon me at a fairly tender age the importance of social grace; setting a nice table, preparing adventurous food, inviting the neighbors over, playing black jack and mixing another round of vodka and tonics.
For years now, I’ve felt very much myself in my hereditary role as middle-class socialite, high heels dashing out the door, jumping over cable car lines, late for another soiree.
So, it gave me great discomfort when my two stepsons moved into our house and did not treat it as the bash of the century. There were no initial hugs and screams, “OH. MY. GOD! Your home is soooooo amazing! Who decorated?” They did not absolutely die over the arrangement of fresh hydrangea on the dining room table or gasp (hand over mouth) at the illuminated, votive candelabra in their personal bathroom.
No. They were not going to play my grown-up games. They were tired and wanted to go to their rooms. What a couple of party-poopers!
That’s when it dawned on me: I’m a hostess, not a mother. And this evening doesn’t wrap up in three hours. They’re staying for good.
They were not going to play my grown-up games.
This latent awakening could have very well triggered an unbecoming, unladylike meltdown. Lots of senseless cleaning followed by a panic headache. But, by the grace of my grandmother, I remembered that every great hostess has a back-up plan. An alternate means for having a good time when the crowd is less than pleased.
With that, I cleverly devised Situation B.
I’d need to rearrange my expectations and approach to these young guests since clearly, I wasn’t dealing with the average visitor. Let’s face it- these kids were quickly becoming residents.
When they woke up the next morning and shuffled out to the kitchen, I gave it another enthusiastic go! and greeted them with, “Welcome to our home! Ready to get this party started?”
They ignored me and went straight for the fridge.
I continued, “Of course, I want you to make yourself comfortable but first, we’ve got a few house rules to discuss.”
“Rules?” they met my gaze. What did this have to do with a party?
“Yes, I cooed. Special rules for special guests. This is going to be sooooooooo much fun. Get yourself a root beer and have a seat.”
Tags:bay area, fun monkey, grown up, hostess, Izzy Rose, miss popular, Rules and roles, Single gal to stepmom, socialite, social grace, The man children, The Tall One, The Young One
Congratulations! Stepmothers Milk is a winner! I finally
had a chance to browse your website. Since I’ve been
a Stepmother for over three decades, I can truly relate
to some of your experiences. I never put rules on
our refrigerator — that’s a good one!
I will tell people about your Stepmothers community.
I wonder whence the derivation of the name “step” mother.
It never seems quite loving to me. The name itself is
alienating. My husband’s children are adults now. I always
refer to them as my children, not stepchildren. But
sometimes for clarification to certain people they
become step-children.
It’s not easy being a step-mother and no doubt not
easy to be step-children. I never felt when they
were growing up that I had the right to say, “Don’t do
that.” Better to keep the peace, I thought. However,
once in a while a “don’t” would escape my lips. The relationship
is different for different people. Your website will be helpful
for many people. When is it okay to say, “don’t”? There are
many stories evoked by that one word.
Wish you had the website when they were living with us.
A little too late. But I will pass it on and check in with it myself.
It will provoke a lot of moments that I might be able to use
in my memoir if I ever have the courage to write one.