our china and crystal was his half of the settings they had chosen when first married. Our chesterfield suite had been chosen by his first wife—a woman I never met, but who contributed more baggage than merely the beige loveseats that managed to outlast all three of his marriages. My partner always claimed these possessions were too expensive to replace; they were costly, indeed.
The symbolism of the house, the furniture, the crystal and china would not strike me until much later. My immediate concern was the preschooler who lived with us more than half the time and whose care had suddenly become my responsibility. When I dropped Greg at his daycare on the way to my office, he would dash in ahead of me and slam the door in my face. Suspecting the problem, I inquired one morning, “What would you say if someone asked you who I am?” He replied without hesitation, “I would say that you are nobody.”
When we later explained to him that I was his stepmother, his reaction was one of relief. “Just like Cinderella,” he sighed. At least he had a context for me—whether or not it was a positive one.
I had no better an understanding of the role of stepmother; what I did was try to be a mother. I read bedtime stories, made Rice Krispies squares and sewed on buttons. It wasn’t long before I was the one making sure Greg was enrolled for swimming and soccer and earning Cub badges. One of my more misguided efforts was organizing Greg’s birthday parties.
I would spend an inordinate amount of time finding prizes for ice fishing down the laundry chute and inventing life-size board games to play in the basement; his mother would breeze in with an ice-cream cake she’d picked up at Dairy Queen. The cake, of course, would be what Greg would mention as the highlight of the party when I tucked him into bed that night.
Greg already had a mother. He would quickly correct anyone who mistook my identity. Mother’s Days came and went, usually without recognition for the role I played in my stepson’s life. (Although I was both saddened and touched when he showed up at the doorstep on his bicycle one year with some wilted flowers he had evidently been hiding for me.)
Our daughter was born when Greg was five. He was delighted to have a baby sister, his father was thrilled to have a daughter and I was relieved to be a “real mother” at last. My partner and I had still not married. There were too many times when I wanted to jump into my car and drive away from a life over which I seemed to have little control. In addition to his scheduled periods with us, Greg came to spend weekends or stay with us whenever his mother didn’t have time to take care of him or had other plans; my time commitments and my plans were largely immaterial.
Once my daughter was born, I abandoned any fantasy I had of raising a child alone. She screamed for most of her first six months of life, and I was extremely grateful for her father’s support when he came home from work. I thought that having a child of my own would make me happy; I discovered that as much as I loved her, she was not a solution to my angst. I had, however, waited a long time for this much-wanted child and couldn’t imagine having someone else raise her, so chose to maintain my freelance writing business from home. Clients were understanding when I breast-fed her at meetings or changed her diapers on boardroom tables. I found I was adept at typing with one hand. I could work once I got her to sleep at night or while she played at my feet during the day.
Prior to my daughter’s second birthday, her father and I decided to marry and buy a house together. I found it discomfiting to have Greg’s mother drop in on some pretext or another at any time, or to have her feel free to go through the house looking for something he had left behind. I thought that legitimizing our relationship and having a home in joint title would change the power imbalance. Surely a wife’s needs and
The symbolism of the house, the furniture, the crystal and china would not strike me until much later. My immediate concern was the preschooler who lived with us more than half the time and whose care had suddenly become my responsibility. When I dropped Greg at his daycare on the way to my office, he would dash in ahead of me and slam the door in my face. Suspecting the problem, I inquired one morning, “What would you say if someone asked you who I am?” He replied without hesitation, “I would say that you are nobody.”
When we later explained to him that I was his stepmother, his reaction was one of relief. “Just like Cinderella,” he sighed. At least he had a context for me—whether or not it was a positive one.
I had no better an understanding of the role of stepmother; what I did was try to be a mother. I read bedtime stories, made Rice Krispies squares and sewed on buttons. It wasn’t long before I was the one making sure Greg was enrolled for swimming and soccer and earning Cub badges. One of my more misguided efforts was organizing Greg’s birthday parties.
I would spend an inordinate amount of time finding prizes for ice fishing down the laundry chute and inventing life-size board games to play in the basement; his mother would breeze in with an ice-cream cake she’d picked up at Dairy Queen. The cake, of course, would be what Greg would mention as the highlight of the party when I tucked him into bed that night.
Greg already had a mother. He would quickly correct anyone who mistook my identity. Mother’s Days came and went, usually without recognition for the role I played in my stepson’s life. (Although I was both saddened and touched when he showed up at the doorstep on his bicycle one year with some wilted flowers he had evidently been hiding for me.)
Our daughter was born when Greg was five. He was delighted to have a baby sister, his father was thrilled to have a daughter and I was relieved to be a “real mother” at last. My partner and I had still not married. There were too many times when I wanted to jump into my car and drive away from a life over which I seemed to have little control. In addition to his scheduled periods with us, Greg came to spend weekends or stay with us whenever his mother didn’t have time to take care of him or had other plans; my time commitments and my plans were largely immaterial.
Once my daughter was born, I abandoned any fantasy I had of raising a child alone. She screamed for most of her first six months of life, and I was extremely grateful for her father’s support when he came home from work. I thought that having a child of my own would make me happy; I discovered that as much as I loved her, she was not a solution to my angst. I had, however, waited a long time for this much-wanted child and couldn’t imagine having someone else raise her, so chose to maintain my freelance writing business from home. Clients were understanding when I breast-fed her at meetings or changed her diapers on boardroom tables. I found I was adept at typing with one hand. I could work once I got her to sleep at night or while she played at my feet during the day.
Prior to my daughter’s second birthday, her father and I decided to marry and buy a house together. I found it discomfiting to have Greg’s mother drop in on some pretext or another at any time, or to have her feel free to go through the house looking for something he had left behind. I thought that legitimizing our relationship and having a home in joint title would change the power imbalance. Surely a wife’s needs and
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