My vision of the ideal wedding included the following: 1) My cake would be pink. 2) A gospel choir would bring down the house. 3) The Ex-wife would not be included in the festivities.

In my mind, these were all perfectly reasonable requests and I proceeded to plan accordingly. I found a Memphis music producer who assembled a kick-ass gospel ensemble. Check. I found a Pastry Chef who specialized in pink fondant cake. Done. I didn’t invite the EX. All hell broke loose.

I was called out for my discourteous social skills. I think the word used to describe my tactless behavior was “insensitive.”

Yikes. I was puzzled. How do I react to this?

Clearly, this could get yucky and no one likes a yucky bride. A resentful bride is even worse, so I resisted my knee-jerk reaction to please and quickly drop an invite in the mail. I asked my mother, “I’m all for getting along, but don’t I get one night off for good behavior?” No comment is what she said. Smart woman.

Don’t I get one night off for good behavior?

Was I missing something? Why does the ex-wife want to be part of our wedding? I needed my therapist for an emergency session on boundaries. An honest analysis of the relationship revealed the following:

The EX and I are friend-ly. For two women who share a history with the same man, we’re brilliant sports. We’re cordial grown-ups and behave better than most women splitting the needs of two kids. But, that doesn’t mean we’re pals, exactly. We’re not getting together to braid one another’s hair, and we’re not assigning each other the role of flower girl! For God’s sake, isn’t this my wedding? Can’t we get together for sushi instead?

Weddings are tricky. Politics are thick and money is typically tight. When you’re talking about organizing hordes of family and friends, there’s bound to be someone who doesn’t get their way (which is why supplying platters of crab cakes and free liquor can make you popular again). I just didn’t figure that on my wedding day (in between yanking on the spanks and fastening heirloom diamonds around my neck), I’d be worrying about the hurt feelings of the ex-wife. So, I didn’t.

Instead, I played the Belle of the Ball card. I was getting married in the Grand Ballroom of The Peabody Hotel. I had to stay true to character.

On June 10, 2006, I made a commitment to one man and focused intently on him. I was aware and accepted that our union meant I was marrying a whole mess of people: The Tall One, The Young One, the in-laws and even, the ex-wife. However, on our wedding night, her needs would have to wait.

I invite you to leave comments about “Marrying the Ex-wife,” but please keep it clean and reasonably kind.

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It’s the first day back to school and finally, I met her: The Tall One’s (girl)friend. (See Meeting Snuffleupagus) She was standing at the front door just over one hour ago with polished black hair, black lines around her eyes and a long black… something or other.

Do you see the common denominator here?

The girlfriend wore BLACK and this immediately triggered a distress call. Danger ahead! My paranoid and slightly judgmental inner voice rang; you think this girl is trouble because she’s wearing her dark side on her outside. And, because you can’t see her eyes through all that dark makeup. I found myself squinting intently at her and I still couldn’t tell. Was she looking at me?

The Tall One recognized my mounting apprehension and quickly ushered his friend away from the house and into the getaway car.

That’s when it hit me. I’m alarming THEM! I’m the uptight Stepmom at the front door, the thirty(ish) woman completely disconnected from her youth. Oh Dear God! I’ve lost touch with my fifteen-year-old self.

I think dressing like Siouxsie (without her banshees) was the armor I wore to hide my vulnerability.

When I was fifteen, I wore heaps of black. Layers of black lace, ripped leggings, tattered skirts that hung down to the sidewalk and gloves with the fingers chopped off. My mother confirmed this morning that the memory of myself is correct and even threw in, “You were pretty scary looking.”

Thanks Mom.

I don’t necessarily agree that I was a fright to behold. You can’t appear too shocking with plump and pink cheeks like I had. I was hardly a death angel.

For me, wearing black was a fashion statement (and not necessarily a good one), and it was also my timid way of surviving the socially awkward teen years. On some days, black was my way to get noticed. On others, it was my attempt to be ignored. Looking back, I think dressing like Siouxsie (without her banshees) was the armor I wore to hide my vulnerability. I hoped the dark textures (patent leather and polyester) would protect me from a world I didn’t yet understand, and cover up my changing body, which was an even bigger mystery.

I think, to some degree, my little “optical illusion” worked. Very rarely did adults ask me to reveal myself, ” Izzy, just who are you anyway?” More often I got, “What the hell are you wearing?”

So, if I look at The Tall One’s girlfriend through similar mascara-caked eyes, I can replace my stepmom assumptions with empathy.

I know this girl, even if she doesn’t know herself yet. And there’s nothing scary about her.

What were you wearing at 15? What are your (step)kids wearing? Add your comments.

Photography by Alexei Hay published in the New York Times Style Magazine, Fall 2007.

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“I love your haircut. You don’t look homeless anymore,” I say to The Young One.

He levels his eyes at me. He’s not amused.

I can’t help myself. “Really, you look like a kid who has a family and a home and doesn’t sleep in an open field. I bet the new sixth-grade girls will say you look cute.”

“Actually, Izzy, I don’t think a single one will even think that.” He’s still mad that his father chopped off his tangled locks. And I did not jump in to save him.

The kid likes, what I call, homeless hair, which probably isn’t a very nice thing to say. More accurately, it’s extreme bed head. Curls that lop over his face. Sometimes I call him Mr. Jack O Lantern, the gigantic roundness of the hairstyle resembling Charlie Brown’s pumpkin, and tell him to be careful crawling through caves or other small spaces.

My hair is my thang.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I like crazy, wild, arty hair on guys that play bass and are totally wrong for me. My preference is eccentricity, not conformity and I, in no way, want to force the kid to part his hair into symmetrical sections. So then, why did we cut his trademark curls?

“My hair is my thang,” he’d pleaded the night before, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a retired, blue towel draped over his slumping shoulders. The cruel grinding of the electric clippers started up, drowning out his final cries, “Daddy, you dig?”

I had to look away. After all, it’s gorgeous hair and I do dig, but it’s just too long and he’s heading back to school on Monday.

The last time it had gotten this long, he’d also gotten himself some lice. Those buggers know a good head of hair when they see one and they’d been living in bliss until his teacher spotted one saunter out of hiding to take an arrogant look around- conceited louse!

The Young One was promptly sent home to avoid “public humiliation by the other children.” I’m convinced the classroom banishing was truly meant to protect him from militant parents. Upon hearing the disgraceful news, they’d eagerly be calling for his beheading. “Off with his head. Keep that scornful child away from my innocent baby!”

Your lamb of a child is where he got the lice in the first place. Just sayin.

I think we all agree that when there are lice, the hair (not the head) has got to go. Let me qualify, almost everyone. When The Tall One was forced to cut his own rumpled mane (as a necessary consequence of sharing hairbrush, towels and your basic bathroom utensils with his brother), he was none to pleased. “I don’t care if I have lice, just don’t cut my hair!!!!” Spouting obvious crazy talk, his long hair career was abruptly cut short.

I think we all agree that when there are lice, the hair (not the head) has got to go.

The unwelcome louse in the house presented some tough realities, like: I no longer live alone. Gulp.

I now share my living quarters with man-children (and their lice apparently), so when they bring in unwanted critters that create sudden chaos, I can no longer retreat to my sterile apartment until all is clear. I’m now a partner in this, so I better start doing some laundry.

It was during this moment of self-awareness that I made a new household rule: HAIR IS KEPT SHORT UNTIL YOU’RE SIXTEEN. This declaration will buy me, if I’m lucky, at least one more year of louse-free living.

After forty-seven loads of laundry and several unhappy meals together, (“I won’t eat again until my hair grows back”), we emerged victorious…and very clean. I pronounced myself House General and said, “It was war and I earned every disgusting star.”

As a tribute to this success, my sister awarded me with an I Heart Lice t-shirt. “Make friends with your enemies, she advised. This is the only way to win.” I wear this “badge” proudly to Whole Foods where other weary mothers salute me. We share an understanding. On the battlefield for good hygiene, we carry on.

For a discussion on the battle for good hygiene, go to the Whole Milk Forum or leave a comment on this post.

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A woman in my book group said, “You have to build a nest. You can’t just fly into one.” Except that’s exactly what I’ve done. Flown, crashed, still recovering from the head injury. I’m giving it a go, but the building is problematic. My favorite materials for construction aren’t native to the original mix. I’m a new stepmom, after all.

Sometimes the little birdies like my unfamiliar blend and sometimes they gnash their beaks and take off in a fit, searching for their preferred perch, the one that serves donuts and allows more hours of TV. “That’s not healthy,” I screech!

I’ve been advised not to take their favoritism for another nest personally. It’s not that my twigs are bad; it’s just that my turf feels different.

You have to build a nest. You can’t just fly into one.

I think my dwelling is lovely. It’s comfy, smells sweet and has a nice view. But, it’s not Mama Bird’s nest. And at this point, she still rules the roost. That’s cool. I can digg it.

I prefer to be the young chick anyway, strutting my own special stuff. I tell the young fliers, “Hey, I’m always up for an adventure in the Hill Country, but I’m happy to fly solo, too. If you decide to meet me back at our tree for dinner, I’ll share my worms.” They cock their heads, thinking this over.

The other day I came across a bright, blue ceramic bird in a boutique downtown. She looks like one of the pack that follow Snow White around. I picked her right up and took her home where she now flies across my bedroom wall.

She has a confidant face and extends a protective wing. She glides across the wall with ease and grace, reminding me that my nest is a delightful place to land. Yes, we crashed into it all together and it’s a bit of a mess, but we’re rebuilding it with all of our favorite twigs. Eventually, we’ll settle in.

For further discussion of today’s post, please leave a comment or visit the Whole Milk Forum: What is our role?

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