“A child cannot have too many people who love them and want to help them succeed.” — Unknown
I never aspired to be a stepmother. Not having known one personally, I was only familiar with despicable characters found in the fairy tales of my youth like the stepmothers of Snow White and Cinderella, one guilty of attempted murder and the other who treated her stepdaughter like a slave.
After my life unfolded in ways I hadn’t intended, I had to erase my prejudice and redefine the role of stepmother as it applied to me.
Seven years after my first marriage ended, I met Bill. I was 47. He was 45. On our first date, we made it clear that we didn’t plan to ever remarry, but admitted it would be nice to find a traveling companion someday. One date led to another, then another, until, after a few months, Bill introduced me to his daughters. He and his ex-wife, Linda, had already dated other people before I entered the scene, but I was nervous to meet the girls because I wasn’t sure if eight-year-old Monica and eleven-year-old Jocelyn still hoped their parents would get back together.
When I met the two of them, they were more chatty and cheerful than I’d expected. Both of them had pretty eyes. Jocelyn's were hazel. Monica's were light blue like her father's. Jocelyn's honey-colored hair hung in braids. Monica’s blonde hair was short. Our first meeting went well although there was an awkward moment when Monica accidentally called me Judith, the name of the woman Bill had dated before me.
"Sorry, I keep forgetting," she said.
Jocelyn, being older, handled our initial meeting more smoothly. If she was uneasy, she hid it well.
As months went by and my relationship with Bill deepened, I spent more time with the girls. I tried to be pleasant and upbeat even when I felt like an intruder. We camped, enjoyed outings at UW Madison’s Memorial Union, baked cookies, did art projects, and played games at my condo. We attended shows and concerts at the Madison Civic Center and vacationed in Northern Wisconsin. Much of the time, their genuine laughter and grins indicated they were enjoying themselves, but other times they pouted and seemed sad.
“We’re bored. We want to go home,” they would say.
Going back and forth, spending time with their mom, then with their dad, made for difficult transitions, not just for the girls, but for all of us.
There were moments when the girls reminded me where their loyalties lay. They never said anything directly, only off-handed comments. Jocelyn liked her mom’s spaghetti better than mine. Monica, curious about my freckles, once asked, “What are all those spots on your arms? (Her mother had a lovely tan.)
During one of our long drives from Madison to Lake Tippecanoe in northern Wisconsin, the two of them conversed in their “secret language” while they rode in the back seat of the car. Unable to interpret their gibberish, I imagined the worst. Their giggling made it obvious they were enjoying the mischief. Despite these occasional pinpricks, I couldn't help but empahize with them. I had to put my ego aside.
Luckily, my experience as an elementary school teacher reminded me to be patient. I was comfortable working with children their age and understood how the beginning of each school year was challenging. Building trust with new students took time.
As months went by and Bill’s daughters realized I only meant well, things improved. Their dad was happy and so was their mom. She too, was involved in a new loving relationship.
After dating for a year and a half, Bill asked me to marry him. I didn’t hesitate to say, “Yes.” We planned an outdoor ceremony for the following year and asked our children to be our attendants.
My sons, in their twenties, reserved sharp-looking gray suits from a rental agency. The girls were fitted for bridesmaid dresses at a bridal shop. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much of a selection since bridesmaid dresses don’t usually come in styles and sizes for preteens. The girls tried on a few that we all thought were ugly and eventually selected the best option we could find. The dresses were navy blue, short-sleeved, squared-necked, and floor-length. The seamstress at the store tried to make adjustments for the girls, but they still weren’t quite right. Luckily, their mom came to the rescue and altered the dresses further to make sure her daughters looked their best.
Monica and Jocelyn looked quite cute in their outfits even though our wedding didn’t go as planned. After twenty minutes of waiting for our missing minister, Bill and I, not wanting to let everyone down, decided to marry ourselves. Jocelyn gave me a big hug and reassured me that everything was going to be okay. Her prediction turned out to be right. Not only was the wedding a success, our blended family has worked out as well.
Being a stepmother for nearly thirty years now, I can say the earlier years were the hardest. Unlike a classroom, where things usually settle down after the first few weeks, a blended family can take years to come together in a congenial way. We did not escape outbursts and tearful moments, conflicts and power struggles, or periods of rejection, especially during the girls’ teenage years. I was grateful that Bill and I supported each other.
Figuring out how to be a stepmother with no positive role models was challenging for me, especially since the girls dearly loved their mother. In the course of learning, I probably stepped on emotional landmines without realizing it until it was too late, but I’ve done my best to disarm the ones I’m aware of.
I quickly learned that certain responsibilities were taboo for me, like being their disciplinarian or boss. I never tried to be their leading lady, something reserved only for their mom. Instead, I chose to play an important supporting role, encouraging them and helping out when needed.
I'm sure I've caused my stepdaughters to roll their eyes on occasion. (Few parents, if any, escape that reaction.) At least I’m confident that Jocelyn and Monica know I’m not wicked or evil.
It's strange how some wishes come true even if they are slightly different that what was originally imagined.. When I was in high school, long before I was ever married, I told my friends I wanted to have four children: two sons and two daughters. I'm grateful I have stepdaughters as well as sons. They add to my life in many ways.
Without being pushy, they suggest products and appliances that make housework easier. They help organize and label shelves and storage boxes in our house and offer home decorating suggestions. They encourage me to try new things and provide daughterly tips about health, fashion, food preparation and appearance. Thanks to them, I get the best prices for prescriptions at the pharmacy, wear my shoulder bag in a less clumsy way, and have learned how to make homemade salad dressing. As a bonus (upon my request) they inform me of any embarrassing chin whiskers.
I appreciate our conversations and shared laughs as well as the cards and calls I receive from them on my birthday and Mothers’ Day. Best of all, I'm grateful they fully embrace me as their children’s “Grandma Barb”.
Our DNA is not a factor. What we share is love.
Thank you for being their stepmom.