urbanstepmom.com

I often hear from the urban step mom that her girlfriends and close family members do not get it. We plan these pity parties and no one shows up. Or they show up and they want to drink the martinis but they are at a loss as to what to say when we started spewing our negative emotions about our home life. It used to be that we could call our girlfriends in any boy crisis and everyone would rally and offer hours of support and wine. Now, I’m afraid my dear, you have entered a realm that most people cannot comprehend.

And it isn’t their fault. If your friends are single, on some level what you talk about terrifies them and they retreat into a self protective shell. If your friends are mothers, well, most biological mothers simply have a wall that goes up when you discuss “your” kids. They can’t help but project, “what if another woman was taking care of my kids?”, and then things turn all ugly for them inside. They cannot be there for you. In their world, you do not have kids and they can’t help but secretly judge you for “pretending” that you do. 

But this doesn’t have to mean that you are on your own. You can still drink martinis with your friends, in fact I encourage it, but don’t expect them to jump on the band wagon and give you their full sympathetic attention. The fact is, that you are on your own to deal with life as an urban step mom, unless you know other women in your situation. And it is up to you to figure it out. This is a huge adjustment for us, but it also offers great learning and growing opportunities. There are not “how to be an urban step mom” books out there. There isn’t a right way, and there isn’t a wrong way. In fact, every way is different. That is good news because it means, you can make it whatever you want. You can create your life, your relationship with your man, his kids, his ex however you desire. It is all quite empowering really.

Now, back to your friends and family and those martinis. What I have found over years of needing to vent and blow and scream and shout, is that being an urban step mom is not my entire life. I have an exciting career, I have hobbies, dreams, goals and I have lots of friends. I have learned that it is wise for me to regularly walk away from the chaos that my home life can be, and continue to develop the rest of my life. When I return a few hours later, I am fresh, happy, re fueled and feeling groovy. 

 When I am with my friends and family now, I do not even necessarily discuss my home life. I do this for a few reasons. First, it is very important for me to have a life outside of my husband, his kids and his ex. It empowers me and I remember that I am a confident, fun loving, self sufficient human being. Second, my friends make me laugh and that is very healing all on its own. 

I meet so many urban step moms who are in the throes of overwhelm and frustration and emotional turmoil. And I was there for most of my five years in this step madness. But eventually things settle down. They either settle or you realize this is not for you, either way, you are ahead of the game for trying. And once they settle, you hope you still have your friends. You hope they still find you fun and pleasant to be around, and not consumed with the negativity that can come from dating or marrying a man with kids.

So even though they might not get it, continue to spend time with them. Go for long walks, go to movies, the theatre, take off for a girls weekend, and just try to not even bring up your man or his kids. I guarantee you will feel lighter, more like your old self, and you will have more fun.

I spent the better part of my Saturday night with my husband’s ex while we watched one of “our” son’s hockey games. We were so engrossed in conversation we missed his first goal. 

I always find it amusing the way that other parents react when we sit together and engage. Because of schedules we are often not at games together, but when we are we are now at the point where we tend to sit together and genuinely enjoy each other’s company. You can usually see the shock on people’s faces when this happens. It is just not the norm that the mom and the step mom interact without awkwardness. We are getting to know each other and we are starting to like each other.

“Like” is a strong word, and it wasn’t always the case. There was always civility and being polite, but there was a lot of tension and discomfort to say the least. But after five years of both of us doing separate, deliberate, focused work on ourselves, we have come a long way. 

It is work, we both agree, to deal with everything that comes up in dealing with each other, as women, as mothers, as  spiritual beings on our own journeys. It is work, but it is an opportunity to grow as humans. To “shed our shit” so to speak.

She wouldn’t have been a person I would have sought out to befriend. In many ways she is the opposite of me. I would describe her as a free spirit, a quality that has always intrigued, yet alluded me.  I have been driven my whole life to “be something” (also an alluding quest), while she has focussed on accepting herself and taking on as much in life as she is comfortable.

Although our lifestyles are very different and in some ways our values, we share many experiences and in fact have a great deal in common. Of course we have shared the same man, which is where a lot of the problems and threatening behavior is born between the ex and the urban step mom. We are both “mothers” to the same boys, another land mine for two women. And we both acknowledge that this ride is an intense personal growth boot camp, which we both seem to be up for!  

I find that I can share things with her that I can’t share with other girlfriends. I still feel a judgement  that my experience doesn’t count even from my closest friends when I weigh in on parenting issues. But with the boys’ mother, the experience is the same and that cannot be de valued. Whether it is their rules of snuggle time or a sudden stage of obstinacy, it is exactly the same experience for the both of us. They seem to treat us both the same. We can then share the best way to handle this, how it feels and further talk about the nuances of their developing personalities.

When people ask me, shocked at our ability to relate, how we do it, I have to say the secret is we both recognize the importance of  getting over it, dealing with it, letting it go and getting on with life. We recognize that we do not want to be carrying feelings of anger, animosity, control, fear around with us. 

I credit her. She has embraced the fact that her precious sons share a maternal bond with another woman and she has decided to look at this as a healthy, positive experience in their lives. She has expressed that she is grateful for me in their lives, or at least that she is grateful for how much I love and adore them. She decided that she did not want to fight “what is”. I decided I did not want to go through the rest of my life feeling jealous and threatened. We both just let it go. A simple, but not easy task. It took five years.

It is over, done, finito. The year is done, but more importantly, the Christmas, New Years Crazy season is over. This is a great achievement in my books to have survived it without having a nervous breakdown. It is always a fine line as an urban step mom at Christmas time. But what would Christmas be without some step-drama?

The plan this year was that we would get the kids on Boxing Day. I’ve never liked this plan but the urban step mom has little or no say over such things. Everything depends on what Santa and Mrs. Claus work out as the best situation. I would rather the switch take place on Christmas at 2pm ish (not that I’ve thought about this…much), so that one parent gets them Christmas Eve and Christmas morning and the other gets them for dinner on Christmas. Makes sense to me but apparently not to those in the North Pole.  So for me and my husband, the holiday was all focussed around Boxing Day, the day the boys arrive and have Christmas with us.

 With Christmas “done” in terms of decorating the house and the tree, buying and wrapping all the presents, stuffing the stockings, my husband and I were free to have a night off on Christmas Eve. We had our neighbors over for a drink and had a romantic dinner just the two of us. No drama there.

We woke up on a gloriously sunny Christmas morning, opened a few presents, walked the dog and visited my parents. The boys and their mum  dropped by with some presents for us and she had asked if she could take my dog for a walk. It was the first time she had asked to take my “baby” for a walk and at first I resisted. Then I remembered  that I take her “babies” all the time, it would be the least I could do. While she was gone I thought, “we should invite her to stay for a drink or some tea” but when she returned with Dexter, the words did not come out of my mouth.

We had invited some kid less friends over for Christmas dinner while the boys were spending a quiet Christmas with just the three of them.  As I was putting out appetizers and decanting the wine for our friends I thought we should invite the three of them over here to join us, but again, the thoughts did not produce an action. We had a wonderful time with our friends, lots of laughs, but in the back of my mind, I was thinking about the boys and their mum.

Then Boxing Day, the day we were all waiting for, the kids came over around 8 am and had a wonderful second Christmas here. We had a fun day doing nothing except playing with our new stuff, eating chocolates and  and enjoying being all together. 

The next day, the boys and their dad all left at the crack of dawn for a hockey tournament while I prepared to have 12 people for a big turkey feast. The boys’ plan was to come back around noon for an hour or so and then leave again until 5:30. It was my goal to give everyone involved the Christmas dinner of their dreams. The boys would have a big family around them sharing a big traditional feast and their happiness was their father’s happiness, my parents would be grateful for having all three of  their kids together, my father would get sausage meat and sausages with his turkey, my sister would get rum and eggnog and I would get the altruistic joy of creating a wonderful evening for everyone. There would be laughs, joy, amazing food and an incredibly beautiful table set for the feast.  It would be perfect!

With the boys gone and the house empty I suddenly realized the magnatude of what I had gotten myself into. This would be only my second turkey I had cooked, and it was 20 pounds. I was alone in the house and I was freaking out. I could hardly carry the thing (which took on many nasty names as the day went on) from the fridge to the sink. How was I going to do this? I had made the stuffing the night before which was smart, but I did not know which way the bird was up and which end the stuffing went into and which end Dad’s sausage meat was supposed to be stuffed.  I had Martha’s “how to do Christmas” book out on how to prepare and  cook a turkey (it’s her fault I got a 20 pound bird as she says it is the juiciest) but it may as well have been in Greek.  I suddenly felt completely over whelmed and  in ept at the endless, urgent tasks ahead.

The table was supposed to provide the Entrance of  Awe with gorgeous white linen table clothes, sparkling red and gold center pieces, red chargers and regal, and radiating candelabra. That was until I realized with the extra table to accommodate everyone I was half a table cloth short. Many of my go to people for such things to borrow were out of town so I called my parents and told them to bring one when they came over later in the day. There would be no Entrance of Awe when they walked in the door, sorry Martha, and it seemed like the end of the world to me.  Why was it so important to create this perfect, flawless dinner? Why were the wheels of the Christmas train rapidly falling off?

When my husband came home  between hockey games (he was smart enough to not ask me what was for lunch) the turkey was miraculously appropriately stuffed and in the oven, and the potatoes were peeled, but I was in the middle of the melt down, slumped over, head in hands, “what have I done, I have no idea what I’m doing, why don’t I know what I’m doing, I am a lousy woman”, I kept saying over and over like a crazy person. This is my default head trash when faced with domestic issues that I feel some how I might have known how to do if life had worked out differently. If I had had my own children I would know exactly what to do with this 20 pound beast, I somehow rationalized. He tried to calm me down as best he could even offering to get someone else to take the kids to  the hockey tournament. I couldn’t let him miss his kids play hockey for my meltdown, so off they went leaving me alone with all my insecurities, my neurosis and my 20 pound “Muthu Effer” as it soon became known as.

My brother the chef, showed up with all my family around 5:00 and swiftly rolled up his sleeves, donned an apron and got me, and It, under control. The turkey was delicious, there were mashed potatoes, yams, peas, gravy and cranberry sauce.  The dinner was indeed filled with hilarity and joy and a spectacular feast (and table) enchanted us all. My sister was a Saint who did all the dishes at the end of the night so I wouldn’t have to wake up to them in the morning.

I was pretty much catatonic the next day and in the days to follow from expending so much energy and emotion. People had given me good books for Christmas so I plopped myself on the couch for the entire day. My goal was to zone out and put all the turkey trauma behind me.

As for New Years, I was done trying to impress everyone. I just wanted to be outside, preferably somewhere snowy with the kids and some other close friends who would understand if my holiday exhaustion rendered me quiet. My wish came true and the kids all enjoyed snow ball fights, sledding and hot chocolate. I got to be with my best friend and her family as well. The fresh air and snow lifted my spirits and rejuvenated me. It crossed my mind during one of the snow ball fights, to wonder where their mother was on this special night, the end of the decade? I’ll bet she’ll wish she was with her special boys on this night too.

The next day, in the morning, she called. She misses the boys. Can she see them earlier than planned, she asked? Maybe next year, I’ll be grown up enough to know which end is up in the turkey, and maybe even, I’ll call her if I need a linen table cloth, and even invite her to join us for a spectacular feast. Wouldn’t that be something.

One of the biggest complaints I hear about urban step moms is the duplicitous lives we lead. It is like our personality has split off and is out there living multiple, separate lives. In my case, I have a thriving career in an exciting industry that focuses on “show biz” and having fun. I have a lot of fun, I laugh hard every day from the antics of my coworkers. I make good money and would say I command a degree of respect from my peers due to my success and longevity in the business.

Then, after work, all hopped up on ego stroking and closing big deals, I jump into my SUV and slam my foot on the gas peddle to get myself to the grocery store, the drug store, the pet food store, the dry cleaner and the day care to get the kids before it closes. The boys don’t acknowledge me as I screetch into the daycare to pick them up. My hand is left hanging in the air as I wave to them and call their names with a big smile on my face. Some of the people that work there know me and smile sympathetically, others wonder if I am the aunt or their mum’s friend. The kids head in my direction without eye contact, grab their stuff and follow in the general direction of the car.

I get them home without conversation in the car that includes me, they go to their room and play games. I throw down bags of groceries, purse, coat, and get busy in the kitchen. My husband comes home, goes straight to see how the kids are, get changed into his comfortable clothes and flops down and reads the paper tired from his day. At this point, I often take a moment and ask myself, how the heck did I get here? Is this really my life?

Dinner is  miraculously served hot and nutritious on the table at 6:30 like some finish line in Amazing Race as I stand there calling “come and wash your hands” in my suit and high heels. How do I do it, I wonder as they all clammer to the table, famished and ready to eat. They are unaware of the great feat of someone like me, pulling off dinner on a regular basis. This is not my skill set. I close big deals, I help businesses grow, I help create images and branding for companies…I do not cook a mean spaghetti bolognaise, I do not know what kids like to eat, I do not naturally  keep up with the toilet roll and laundry detergent replacement.

So why do I feel that this is the expectation upon me? Is this my expectation that I am supposed to know how to polish silver and clean a tile floor? Or is it the expectation of my husband? Do all husbands have this expectation of their wives? Do all wives know how to do all this? How, in my mid forties do I not have the key to this secret world of domesticity? Did I miss a meeting?

Am I supposed to know what to say to a kid when he wakes up with a nightmare, or what to give him if he’s sick? Am I supposed to clean the kitchen to a spotless state after a meal with a smile on my face? Is it all supposed to be effortlessly efficient? I want to yell to the three of them “don’t you know what I do for a living?” but that is in another life, and I remind myself, it is not remotely useful in getting dinner on the table.

All of a sudden the week is over and the kids are with their mom for a week and I want to rebel. I want a life of no responsibilities again. I do not want to make dinner. I do not want to rush home to attend to the house’s endless demands. I want to work late, eat while standing in front of the fridge, hold the remote control and channel surf through reality TV Shows. I can’t forget that I have a husband though. And although he assumed the role of Super Dad last week while I assumed the role of Super Step Mom in some frantic, fast paced Adventure Game, now it is just he and I and I feel I need to be Super Wife and act all sexy and romantic. More expectations. 

When I was single, I used to think of myself as sexy and romantic but now I wonder how the heck I am supposed to pull that off? Where did she go? I may have flushed her accidentally down one of the toilets when I was on a cleaning frenzie, I’m not sure. But she does not seem to be living here with us at this time.

And so it goes, week on week off, eight hour shifts of different, separate lives. I’m not sure how full time working, full time moms do it, but maybe they get into a rhythm. Maybe if you actually birth the babies, you get some sort of rule book implanted in your brain that tells you how to run a house and keep a family fed and still be sexy and romantic. But for me, despite my expectations that I should know how to do all this stuff, and be happy doing it, I feel completely under qualified. And maybe, secretly all working moms feel  this way and they just don’t ever talk about it. Maybe we all have these expectations to be perfect women, maybe it isn’t just the urban step mom. Maybe no one knows what they are doing and we all feel like we are trying to be action heros in an Adventure Game. Maybe we all just want to stand in front of the fridge and eat whatever we want. Yes, the person that I am right now, in this life,  is going to go with that theory.