The Young One likes to read the Bible on the toilet. Yes, I know this is a personal matter, but I have a point. A teaching, if you will.

I first witnessed The Young One praying (in his own particular way), when I caught him in the Act. Jeans down around his ankles, reading from the Book of Luke.

I wasn’t surprised to discover him occupied with a good story. He savors the written word, whenever and wherever he can get it.

He’s a devout student. The kid hauls thirty-five pounds of library books to and from school every day. We, the parental unit, have suggested that his slight frame can’t withstand such a scholastic burden, but he won’t hear of it. He won’t sacrifice a one. He’s a bit of a zealot.

His devotion to a varied range of literature is impressive (Robin Hood, Sky Mall, Wiring 1-2-3). He dives into most topics with equal intensity. But lately, he reads The Bible in earnest.

We’re not sure where his spiritual fire comes from. Without getting into our family politics or religious affiliation, I’ll just say that The Young One is holier than thee.

That said, I don’t want to discourage his spiritual practices, but the kid’s just not being practical. Other folks need to use the facility.

The day I caught The Young One praying on the Porcelain God, I was minding my own business.

I passed by the boys’ bathroom and the door was ajar. So, I pushed it open.

“IZZY! he screamed. CLOSE THE DOOR!!!!”

The kid was mortified. I’d intruded on a private moment. I honestly don’t blame him for scolding me, but everyone knows that a door ajar is as good as open. Isn’t it?

Since then, he became religious about locking that door. He turned our toilet into his personal pew.

And that’s when disciplinary action became necessary. The kid was denying others time in the sanctuary.

So, what is my point to all this? This little power play brings up a fundamental question the stepfamily must face. What is the role of the stepparent when it comes to governing? Are there distinct disciplinary lines we dare not cross? Do I, Stepmom of the house, get to say, “Five minutes in the Johnny. That’s it!”

The day I caught The Young One praying on the Porcelain God, I was minding my own business.

When the boys starting living with us full-time, my default role was to back away. Let the bio-parent handle it. I’ve got no business setting the rules and regulations.

But, this quickly made me crazy. My tongue got sore from biting it and The Husband got worried.

He said, “Don’t be afraid to assert yourself.” He suggested, “This is your house, too.” He encouraged, “Why don’t we parent together?”

With that, I kissed him on the lips and got out a pen and paper and together we created the House Rules. It was very romantic.

Now, when The Young One steals away for some inspired reading, leaving his older brother with nowhere to go, I take charge. I pound on the bathroom door and say, “I know that God is everywhere, including the bathroom, but can you wrap it up with The Boss, so your brother doesn’t pee in the hall?!”

Usually, he obeys and opens the door. On one of his more rebellious days, I was forced to say to The Tall One, “Dude, the spirit is stirring in there. Your brother won’t budge. You might have to hit the hedge out front.”

For further discussion on “What is our role?”, add comments to this post or visit the Whole Milk Forum.

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Earlier this summer, The Young One claimed he was suffering from “separation anxiety” (his words). He hadn’t seen his Mom for months and he was missing her with intensity (see The grass is greener in Paradise). His dismal mood was made evident by slumped shoulders, apathetic table manners and a dramatic display of affection.

The kid was oozing with emotion, of the Soap Opera variety.

For example, when his dad went out to the garage, The Young One would treat it as a formal departure.

“Bye Daddy. I love you.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m just going to the garage.”

“I know. I just love you, anyway.”

He started throwing that L-word around like it was losing popularity.

“Bye, daddy. I love you. Bye.”

Poor kid. Heartbreaking times.

His nerves were fried. He’d reached his threshold of ten-year-old bravery. It had been too long. He needed his mom, the original, not the step. Mama Bird was still living in California and we’d moved on to Texas. Video-chat was not cutting it. He was tired of talking to her forehead.

Let’s talk about love.

The Husband recognized that his little man was no tough guy, and indulged him. “Love you, too.” With that, he’d close the door to the bathroom and leave The Young One standing in the hall, waving a tragic goodbye.

I know. You want to take him under your bird wing and let him cry it out, don’t you? Well, today’s post is actually not about separation anxiety. It’s about the L-word.

Let’s talk about love.

I noticed during The Young One’s mini-crisis that his freedom with the L-word left me feeling very uncomfortable with my own reluctance to release the sappy sentiment. Why was I withholding?

A recent story in New York magazine asks, do parents really love their adopted children differently than their own offspring? A similar question can be posed to stepparents. Can stepparents really love their stepkids like they were their own flesh and blood? I’ve got to be honest. I think the answer is yes and no.

This love business. It’s a tricky thing.

I believe that with stepchildren, falling in love isn’t always instant. Just because you adore their father, doesn’t mean you immediately fancy his kids. Or them, you. Why would this relationship be automatic? Women screen men for years before they find one to truly cherish. Our love is selective, isn’t it?

As much as I like the blissful act of letting go, of finally giving in to love with reckless abandon, I don’t say the L-word until I really mean it. Not only is this my rule for the man; it’s my rule for his kids, too.

I believe that with stepchildren, falling in love isn’t always instant.

I’ve always felt like society expects women to feel tenderness for anything with a heartbeat. Just because I have lady-parts, I’m supposed to love all of humanity? How did this ridiculous rumor get started?

I admit it. This confession makes me wonder if I’m missing a maternal gene. Perhaps my DNA is botched. Whatever the case, I hope my honesty here gives me a little absolution.

When The Husband and I got together, there were many who assumed that I’d fallen for all three of them. They expected that since I’d become an overnight mother of sorts, my natural, maternal instincts had kicked in. Again, sorry to disappoint, but I did not feel this way. I wasn’t going to donate a kidney should either one of them get sick. Not right away.

Now, let me be clear, I thought the boys were lovely and I was very fond of them. But neither party was gushing l’amour. We were not living out a fairy tale. It was awkward. And, I thought our hesitation made the situation very real and strangely, comforting.

It wasn’t until over three years into our relationship, that the words escaped my lips. One evening, I sat on the edge of The Young One’s bed, feeling sad for him and his nostalgia for the way things were, and it just hit me. I love this kiddo. I said, “Hey weirdo, I love you.”

And instantly, I knew I meant it.

For further discussion on the L-word, add comments to this post or visit the Whole Milk Forum.

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