stepmothersmilk.com

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.

I’m not saying the kids adhere to them, but they’ve hung on the fridge for nearly a year. If anything, the list seems to amuse our grown-up guests.

WE do not:

Run in the house
Leave doors open (one word: flies. We hate them)
Make messes that we don’t clean up
Make loud, disruptive and inappropriate noise (yes, you know what this is)
Barge into each other’s rooms
Leave toys, books, backpacks or shoes laying around*
Eat ANYWHERE other than the dining room, kitchen or sun porch table (Hansel and Gretel got away with crumbs. You don’t.)

*Parents reserve the right to apprehend any items found outside of your room and give them away to children who won’t leave them laying around

YOU are personally responsible for:

Getting yourself up and out the door on time
Keeping yourself clean (No stinky clothes, bodies or hair)
Making your own lunch (fasting doesn’t count)
Managing your own laundry: Wash it, dry it, put it away
Cleaning up your bathroom
Doing your own dishes (the sink is not your personal dumping ground)

We, as your parents, are not your maids or slaves. We are, instead, responsible for giving you the tools to be personally accountable and to succeed. We believe in you.

Now get to work.

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.”