stepmothersmilk.com

On the subject of disciplining (or not) our unruly stepkids…

How are we supposed to keep a distance, not meddle and still exercise control over our own households? Hey, I may not be the mother, but this is where I live. I’ve been invited into this family and how far do I go in?

Many of you, I’ve read, are frustrated with your husbands for not exercising enough control over their sons and daughters. I’ve read complaints ranging from… He’s a pushover. He’s too indulgent. He’s afraid to be the bad-guy.

In my house, I often have the opposite dilemma. The Husband is a graduate of the School of Tough Love and he’s become a powerful Instructor of Discipline himself. His lectures are persuasive, but sometimes he needs to soften his delivery. I’m often asking him to pull back, not push harder.

So, naturally, I’ve wondered– what’s the difference between my situation and yours?

It seems that many of you who are battling with your husbands over a lack of discipline are living with stepdaughters. Could this be the variable? Maybe the dynamics are different when it comes to a divorced man and his girls versus a divorced dad with boys?

I may not be the mother, but this is where I live.

When I was younger, my stepdad avoided situations where he had to discipline me. He said, “I was afraid to [discipline you] and didn’t think I really had the standing to assume that role.” My stepdad left me alone, but he had no problem disciplining his own daughters– my stepsisters Piper and Gigi. When it came to his bio-kids, he was one demanding dude.

Stepladies, I understand we all have very unique situations. Every step family has its own set of defects that need adjusting and still, I’m curious about the common threads that run through our lives.

As always, please do weigh in.

“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.

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.

I flaked out on my running buddy this morning. Already sore calves (see I heart boot camp), crampy uterus and too much wine in the system make for a very sluggish jog. I asked her to forgive me. “I promise to change, I said. Please don’t break up with me.”

“I’ll think about it, she said.” Funny girl.

I appreciated her leniency. The night before, there had been wine. Much wine.

When it’s 90 degrees after the sun goes down, The Husband and I (recent transplants from the chilly Bay Area) declare this immediate cause for celebration. New to Texas summers, I’m elated that I can walk out of the house with exposed arms, neck and bare feet. But, it took me a while to warm up to this idea.

For many months after our arrival, I carried around a security jacket, kept my boots zipped high and stashed a scarf in my purse. I could be sweating and on the verge of heat stroke, but I clung to my fear that a piercing gust of unpleasant wind was right around the corner. “Just wait, I’d pant. It’s coming.”

But, that was last summer and now it’s a year later. The Central Texas rains have passed and the Heat. Is. On. Perfect weather for sitting on the back patio. Calm. Comfortable. No jacket required.

Last night, with conditions like these, a bottle of wine seemed an appropriate homage to our new, thawed out selves.

Well into the evening, my step-sons reminded us with malnourished dog pound looks that maybe we ought to serve them a meal.

I reserve the right to declare, “It’s make your own dinner night.”

Now hold on! It sounds worse than it is. Let me explain.

Six out of seven nights of the week we make the kids a home-cooked meal. The menu includes ridiculous amounts of meat and milk and often catches me off-guard, reminding me in an instant that I’m no longer single, but married, and responsible for growing meat-eaters.

It’s a lot to stomach.

Sometimes I lament (quietly to myself in the bathroom mirror), “Can’t I go back to my old life where an evening meal was the simplicity of cheese, crackers and two glasses of wine?”

I’ve been told by veteran step-moms that at least one night a week, I reserve the right to declare, “It’s make your own dinner night.”

Our therapist institutes a similar tradition in her own home, but she calls it “free dinner.” Either way, it’s just a nice way of saying; we’re not cooking tonight.

This is how I have explained it to The Tall One and The Young One: We, the parents, have the night off from cooking. We all fend for ourselves. You can eat whatever you want, I tell them, as long as you make it and you clean it up. I have even gone so far as to say, “If you want to eat an entire jar of jam, knock yourself out. Just clean it up.”

The first time we tried this routine, the man-children just didn’t get it. They looked confused and naturally, hungry. I reiterated, “Like I said, if you want to eat an entire jar of jam…”

Last night, not only did we declare the sweltering heat a cause for barefoot celebration, we announced, “Guys, it’s make your own dinner.”

The Tall One poured himself a huge bowl of Special K and heated up an entire can of Ranch Beans. OF COURSE, the combination was disgusting, but he sat at the kitchen table with his two bowls of gruel and an over sized wooden spoon in a state of complete empowerment.

So you see, we all win here.

My boot camp instructor is evil. And I love her.

The morning Drill O’ Pain starts like this:

Alarm goes OFF at 5:15 and DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT SNOOZING. Fumble (I’m hurrying, I’m HURRYING) into my workout clothes in the dark. I’m running out the house (already panting, where’s my water?!) and driving myself in a mad frenzy, praying the whole time that I make it to the gym (ON TIME!) to line up with twelve other disheveled-looking women who have elected to work out with The Evil One.

We are all professional, self-respecting women who wear lipstick, high heels and boss other people around, but no one would know this at quick glance, at our trembling assembly line of fear.

The general rule is that if we work out inside the gym, someone is likely to vomit on the treadmill, but if we’re sentenced to outside training for the hour, we worry that someone’s gonna end up dead.

Because we learned the torture versus extreme torture rule pretty quick, our group often begins a desperate muttering of “please not outside, please not outside” as soon as we get into line. She can smell our apprehension. And this seals the deal.

“Get in formation. We’re heading out. Leave your waters behind.”

I’m dead. And I’m gonna die thirsty.

This morning the beginning of the end begins with blindfolds, wet grass and fresh, baked cupcakes.

“Get on the ground,” she barks. We drop to our knees (a word about shorts. Never a good idea under these circumstances).

Someone’s gonna end up dead.

She explains the obstacle course of cupcakes (white sugar- BAD!) that she’s devised for us. It’s a hidden maze of frosting and flour in tall blades of grass that we’re forced to navigate in total blindness. One false move- should even a cuticle graze the cup of the cake- and it’s one mile, my pretty.

The miles add up fast and The Evil One is enjoying every minute of this frantic scene. Twelve women crawling around on the ground with scraped up hands and knees, begging for proper directions (Which Way, Evil One? Left or right?!)

Once completely covered in blue food coloring (who buys blue cupcakes), dirt, blood and your basic drool, we’re up off the ground, blindfolds ripped off (how very generous, thank you) and running for our lives.

“How do you feel?” she yells.

Are you kidding me?

But, truthfully, I feel good- disgustingly filthy and hideous – but good, and very much alive.

She yells, “Let me hear you say, ‘I’m selfish!’”

The Evil One explains that this sweaty, dirty, achy, humiliating, painful hour of suffering is all ours. It’s ours to OWN. One hour to spend on our bodies and our minds. No one tugging, asking, talking or needing us in any way (Thank God because I can barely take another step without peeing on myself). An hour to be self-aware and self-consumed. An hour to take care of ourselves because for the rest of the day we’ll be taking care of everyone else.

She’s right and this is why I heart boot camp.

This early morning hour of mine takes me out of the S-mom routine just long enough to miss breakfast table battles over milk, endless searches for socks and the infinite line of questioning: “It’s time to go, why AREN’T YOU READY?”

If I stay home for this, I become The Evil One. And I’d much rather reserve this title for someone else. My boot camp instructor fills the role just perfectly.

I feel just fine using my “selfish” time to opt out on this disciplinary portion of the day because often, boot camp is a breeze compared to the stepmom drill. One is a grueling physical challenge, the other mental. Both involve feeling desperately around in the dark.

Just after The Husband and I moved into our ranch house in downtown Austin and before the boys (my soon-to-be-step-sons) took up residence with us full-time, I found myself with endless afternoons to unpack our combined loot while the breadwinner was off at work.

The move from CA to TX had reduced me to unemployed houseperson status. Never mind that just two months ago I’d been producing award-winning television in San Francisco and hauling in a decent amount of cash. I had decided to wait (some call this foolishness, some thought it daring) to look for work once the dust settled.

It seemed, just overnight, I’d become the little lady at home, polishing the silver and putting it away in its’ own, linen-lined drawer. In the absence of a career, I took up whistling.

I will not let this be the soundtrack of my death.

There were many mornings when The Husband pulled out of the driveway, a luxury we never had in the Bay Area, and I’d wave a limp wrist from the front door. He’d look back at his sophisticated City Girl who was wearing, (with regular frequency now), a dowdy, maroon fleece vest and flannel pajama bottoms. Hardly recognizing myself in this pathetic Lands End outfit (and believe me, this vest wouldn’t even make it to the clearance rack!), would be just the motivation I needed. I’d watch his car disappear down the block and I’d be at the sink, dumping out my coffee and going straight for the hard stuff. Or at least, that’s what I wanted to do.

I’d think, “How has this become my life?”

People (my ex-colleagues especially) would try and talk me into enjoying these isolated afternoons. They’d say, “take this time to figure out what you want to do next…enjoy the quiet…paint a wall…find yourself.”

I was finding myself at Linens N’ Things in the middle of the day.

Before I offend a large population of women, including friends and family, let me just say that buying towels is a perfectly acceptable thing to do. It’s just that after many years of working 10 hours a day in the frenzy of a loud newsroom, where someone’s always shouting “We’re LIVE in 5 minutes,” where seconds mean everything and everyone’s writing, editing and running in a panic right down to the wire…

Linens N’ Things was just a little too quiet. Except for that damn smooth jazz.

I will not let this be the soundtrack of my death, I thought. I am better than this fleece vest. I am not Mrs. Bread Winner.

How many women have reached their personal breaking point at a mini-mall buying scented candles they don’t really need?

I’m sure I’m not the first, but I might have been that day in Linens N’ Things. I apologized to the woman shopping next to me, “You know, I’m just not ready for full-blown domestication.”

The silver would have to wait until the night before Thanksgiving. It was time to get back to my career. I put the window treatment down and whistled right out the door.