by Carol Mason
PushingTheLimits replies:
This child is 9? That is way too old to be sleeping with daddy! Kid needs to be taught boundaries and OH too! What he did before you moved in was his choice, but this is your house too now and your rules have to count as much as his.
BloodBoil replies:
Same here! Told OH no more kids in our bed, or no more blow jobs. He got the message pretty quick!
It’s like really bad reality TV. I want to click off. I should click off. But I can’t look away, and click on another thread.
Moanie Minnie:
So sick of smelly, sulky stepson! This kid is 11 years old and hasn’t even basic manners! DH and I get on so well when he’s not here but we are fighting all the time now because he says I need to be more understanding. I’m always the baddie! He will never find fault with his son! Wish this kid would vaporise!
KatyG replies:
This is your home, and your SKID doesn’t get to rule it. You need to have a talk with OH about the custody arrangement and your role in the family. And your OH needs to have a talk with his son about his manners.
I read on. And on. And on. Among all the negativity, there are some really constructive questions and some insightful replies. When I look up from my phone, half my coffee is still sitting there, cold. Looking out of the window, I can see it’s started to rain. At the bottom of the page there’s a link to start a new topic. I click on it. My alias pops up, along with an invitation to type a subject and a message. I ponder for a bit, and then start typing.
Dear all,
I am a new stepmother – a few months in. Having a very hard time bonding with DH’s 14-year-old daughter. She can be sullen, silent, a bit of a telltale and troublemaker, and quite angry at times. I have tried to give her space, befriend her, give her alone-time with her dad . . . all to no avail. She won’t eat what I cook, doesn’t like my gifts, leaves the room when I walk in. My worry is – what if it will always be like this? If I can never bond, or feel part of this family? I am starting to dread the nights when they stay with us and I feel so guilty! Not at all what I imagined! Any and all input would be appreciated!
Signed,
Miserable.
FIFTEEN
When I log on to the S’MOTHERHOOD forum during my dinner break at work, I have quite a few replies.
The first is from Patience of a Saint:
Dear Miserable. Stop trying to please her. She’s not upset with you. This is not about you. It’s about changes in her family. She doesn’t want to get to know you because you represent this change. Your goal should not be to bond with her but to have a degree of agreeability between you. Being rude is not okay though. I would insist DH speaks with her. She doesn’t have to love you but she has to be polite.
Too Much Mothering says:
I echo Patience of a Saint. When I came on scene, SS was 15. It was horrible! 5 years later, things are great. But it takes time. Just stop trying so hard. She doesn’t eat? Don’t cook for her – she knows where the fridge is. She hates your gifts? Spend your money on yourself! You don’t need to try to win her over. Please don’t be so hard on yourself! BTW, you don’t mention how OH is and what BM is like . . .
Mumstheword:
SKIDS are pond life and stink like fetid water. You will never love them, so don’t even try. You need a big talk with OH. It’s his job to speak to his kids. Yes, there’s going to be confrontation. If he can’t do that for you then he’s not worth being in your life. IMHO.
The last one is from Odd One Out:
I understand everything you’re saying and feeling. I don’t believe stepkids are inherently horrible and that you’ll never love them – that’s so cynical in my view. They’re trying to feel their way around some big changes. Like Patience of a Saint said, it’s not about you. My strategy, for what it’s worth, avoid confrontation with OH for now. Try to take one small step in the right direction each visit. Aim low: one short ‘normal’ conversation. Deciding on a TV show you can watch together . . . Stay positive. Give it time. Hate the cliché but Rome wasn’t built in a day!
I read them several times. Odd One Out sounds the most sensible. But even then, I’m not exactly uplifted. I take a few minutes to craft my reply.
Dear everyone. Thank you for your honesty. Like Odd One Out, I don’t want to assume I’m never going to love them! That’s so sad! To answer your questions, DH is generally a fair guy, though he’s not always perfect. We haven’t had any sort of confrontation about his kids and I hope we never will. I certainly never want him to have to feel he’s got to take sides. BM – as you ask – was never there – always working. DH was the main parent. BM is fine I suppose. Wouldn’t want to be on her wrong side. Thanks again for the input! I remain optimistic.
After about twenty minutes I see that F$%KthisShit has replied to my reply:
What is this, the 1950s????!!! You don’t want to put DH in the position of having to take sides because he’s a great guy and you want to give him the impression you love his kids and you’re so under his big manly thumb that you can’t even speak up for yourself?!! WTF!! I mean, sorry, but this takes the pathetic biscuit! Attitudes like this from women these days just make me puke! I’m, like, is this person for real???? I might be the lone wolf here . . . but hon, my serious advice, GROW A PAIR is all.
Too Much Mothering replies:
F$%KthisShit – don’t comment if you can’t be helpful. Clearly Miserable is a decent person. I perfectly understand her not wanting to create a rift already. I still think Miserable should try putting herself first, focus more on herself and less on others. Hoping the rest will fall into place. If not, we are all here for you to vent – even if some of us say stupid things and maybe we shouldn’t be in this forum if we can’t control ourselves!!!!
I reread F$%KthisShit’s reply. And while she’s obviously some sort of angry, disenchanted nutter, her words bother me. Why am I so afraid of confrontation?
I’m just about to sign off when a new reply pops up. From Odd One Out:
Ignore the haters! Their sad life is not yours! You’re doing fine as you are. You say your OH can be a fair person. Sounds like he’s married to one too! Stay the course!
I quickly reply:
Odd One Out – thanks!
SIXTEEN
On Saturday I work 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. Fortunately we’re not busy, so I manage to keep a fairly low profile and catch up on some paperwork, even taking a full hour for lunch and a catch-up FaceTime call with Sophie.
‘Maybe we can go for dinner next week?’ I say, after we’ve talked a while.
‘I’d love that!’ She smiles. ‘Charlie’s been doing quite a few late shifts lately. Let me see when he’s got a night off.’
‘Or we could just go ourselves this time. Like the good old days.’
‘Sure,’ she says, after a tiny hesitation. ‘That would be great.’
I have no idea if she truly wants him to always be joining us. Has it become a bit of a habit that she’s not sure she can break now? Or are they so disapproving of my relationship that she feels she needs an ally around for whenever the topic comes up?
‘Okay,’ I say, weakly, because I’m not sensing oodles of enthusiasm and don’t quite know how to address it. ‘Give some thought to the best night for it and text me tomorrow.’
When I get home, too late to read Toby his bedtime story, Joe is sitting on the sofa listening to a podcast. He sees me but doesn’t get up to kiss me.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask. ‘Where’s Grace?’
Instead of answering he indicates the opposite chair for me to sit.
‘What’s wrong?’ I say.
It takes a moment before he meets my eyes. ‘Did you have a conversation with Grace about her underwear, by any chance?’
His face is stoic, his awkwardness palpable. My blood heats up to a thousand degrees. ‘What?’
‘There was some insinuation that you felt that she was dressing inappropriately . . .’ Then, like he’s g
ot some horrible smell under his nose, he adds, ‘Around me . . . Some reference to her being Lolita and me some sort of . . .’ He doesn’t finish.
‘Oh my God! I . . . No . . . I never said any such thing! There must be—’
‘But you talked to her about her clothes.’
‘Well, yes, but . . . it’s absolutely not what you seem to be implying!’ My tongue is suddenly sticking to the roof of my mouth. ‘I . . . I definitely didn’t say she was Lolita or . . . or anything about you. How could anyone . . . How could you even think that?’
He doesn’t answer. His mouth flexes. A seed has been planted that I’ve implied something unsavoury about his daughter – and him. And not a seed Joe wants in his fragrant garden. Then he says, levelly, ‘I’m just not sure why Grace’s clothing had to be a topic at all, to be honest. I mean, it’s not really your place, is it? To tell my daughter what she can and can’t wear?’
This blows me back like a bomb blast. ‘But I—’
He gets up and walks over to the window, stares out, his back to me.
‘Grace is very upset. She doesn’t want to stay here anymore. And Meredith is pretty furious. She was ready to march over here and have it out with you, but I persuaded her to let me talk to you first.’
Of course Grace told her mother. And her mother told Joe. I try to picture them all dissecting it. Dissecting me. What happened to, If there’s a problem, let’s talk about it?
‘This is ridiculous,’ I say, thinking Grace is upset? How about me being upset about her telling a pack of lies? ‘It’s a huge overreaction . . . I don’t know what was said, but Grace obviously blew it way out of proportion.’
‘Of course. She would, wouldn’t she?’ He turns and meets my eyes. ‘Because you are never to blame, are you?’
I am stunned. What is he even referring to?
I go to try to articulate this, but my heart just drops. ‘Wow. That’s really hurtful . . .’ I try to swallow my sadness down. ‘I mean . . . Don’t you want to hear my side, at least?’
‘I think you just stated it.’ There is a certain finality in his tone.
He walks back over to the sofa. ‘Anyway, this is not about taking sides, Lauren. It’s about speaking out of turn when you’ve got no business. You can’t just say hurtful things to her. She’s got feelings. She’s never had an adult tell her what she can and can’t wear before. And frankly nor should she.’
My heart is blazing at all these mixed messages he’s sending. One minute I’m being encouraged to stand up to her, and the next I’m speaking out of turn.
A surge of defeat rushes at me from the ground up.
‘I think you should apologise to her,’ he says. ‘And let’s hope Meredith will leave it at that.’
Me apologise? I am suddenly furious at this threat of Meredith coming over to chew me out, like she’s some sort of dog he’s trying to call off, for which I should be grateful. ‘I did already,’ I say, firmly. ‘We had a conversation.’
He meets my eyes. ‘Well, clearly you need to have another one.’ His tone is cutting and superior.
Half an hour later, I am still rattling with the injustice of it. I should have insisted he get Grace on the phone so I could have this out with her while everyone was listening. Instead, I just got defensive.
When I can’t sit here any longer, with him shut away in his office, I grab Mozart’s lead and my jacket, and take him for a walk around the block, sucking in big breaths of fresh air.
But it won’t go.
I cannot believe how ‘put in my place’ he made me feel. It makes me think of what that woman in the forum said: What is this, the 1950s? Urgh!
Mozart goes to poo and I almost walk on. I’ve practically forgotten he’s there.
Calm down, I think, as I wait for him to go, my heart hammering. Keep it in perspective. Surely Joe must know that Grace doesn’t always speak the truth. But if he does, he clearly wasn’t going to entertain the idea that she might have just overreacted. His daughter’s word is inviolate.
And I’m expected to apologise!
But then a part of me thinks that if I don’t, then this isn’t going away. Grace will stand her ground – refuse to come and stay with us – and I’ll be the bad guy.
And so, before we reach our gate, I dial her number.
When she doesn’t answer, I text her: Grace, I’d like to talk. Can you please pick up?
No reply.
I try calling her again, and as each unanswered ring passes, I feel more peeved, and less inclined to eat humble pie.
Finally, it clicks on to her voicemail. So I suck it up and say, ‘Grace . . . Look . . . your dad is very upset.’ I can hear the jag of nerves in my voice. ‘I’m very upset by all this . . . Believe me. I had no idea that what I said offended you to the extent it did. I thought I’d already apologised, but obviously it wasn’t clear.’ I take a breath, try to swallow my humiliation. ‘I’m sorry for what I said – for embarrassing you. It was thoughtless of me. I truly – truly – hope we can get past this. We want you to come back and stay with us – this weekend, and every weekend, for that matter! It’s your home . . .’ I feel an inexplicable surge of emotion. ‘Can we please try to move on? Please come over tomorrow. If you don’t, our weekend will not be the same without you.’
When I hang up, I realise I’m almost breathless. But it’s over.
But I don’t open our gate and walk blithely up to our front door. Instead I stand there, lifeless, staring at the light on in the living room.
Perhaps I can put Grace’s behaviour down to her being a hormonal teenager who’s carrying a lot of baggage that somebody needs to help her unpack. But I can’t feel the same nod of charity towards Joe. He has sunk in my estimation – like he did once before, when I glimpsed a trait in him that I didn’t like.
When I go inside, everything is quiet. Feeling oddly displaced, I hang up my coat, take off Mozart’s lead, top up his water bowl and pour myself a glass of water.
Joe is sitting up in bed, working on his laptop, when I go into our room. He briefly glances my way, and then his eyes return to his keyboard, but he’d doesn’t resume typing.
When it’s obvious he’s not going to be the first to say something, I tell him I rang Grace and left a message when she didn’t pick up.
There’s a stretch of silence, then his index fingers start pecking the keyboard again.
Fine.
I walk over to our wardrobe, slipping off my cardigan. The typing stops again. As I reach for a hanger I can feel his eyes on me.
And then he says, ‘I know.’
I turn to look at him.
‘She just texted me. She seems fine. I’m going to pick her up in the morning. Bring her over here.’ And then, as though this had only been a trifling matter, perhaps a favour I needed to do for him, he adds, ‘Thanks.’
I have no idea what to say to that – what I can civilly say to that – so I say nothing.
I undress and pluck my nightgown from behind the bedroom door. In bed I tug the covers over my shoulders, lie there on my side, barely moving, barely blinking, the whole thing going through my mind on an endless loop.
Grace might be fine, but this is not fine.
His letter said, it’s not complicated anymore.
But it was.
SEVENTEEN
The weekend is uncomfortable. But – somehow – only for me. Grace seems very much her normal self when Joe collects her from her mother’s on Sunday morning. Joe acts like nothing’s happened. In the morning, I build a fort with Toby on the patio, and try very hard to look Grace in the eye and not think of the pack of lies she told about me. Later in the day, I take a walk to Regent’s Park to give them time with their dad. When I return home, after a forced attempt at civility, I make my excuses about having to update my e-portfolio, then take a long bath. Come Monday, I am worn out by the undercurrent of bad energy that only I seem to be able to feel.
The second they are both off to school, and Joe has lef
t for a meeting, I refill a big mug of coffee and take a notepad and pen to the chair by the window.
In our second year of med school we learned about the Gibbs reflective cycle, one of the models of reflection that is used in the health care industry to learn from good and bad experiences and to apply that knowledge to future situations. Very simply, you first describe in detail an objective account of what happened. You then state exactly how you felt about it, moving on to what you might have done differently, and what you will do when something similar arises again.
On my pad I begin by writing the key headings: Description. Feelings. Evaluation. Analysis. Conclusion. Action Plan. I then spend about half an hour writing up as much as I can, coherently, for each section. When I’m done I am pleased with my head versus heart approach.
But somehow, it still doesn’t feel half as satisfying as a good natter with an old friend – on what ails you, or on just about any other topic, for that matter.
I pull out my phone and text Sophie, remembering she never did get back to me about our dinner plans.
Free of kids Weds night. Dinner? Pig’s Ear?
I try to coax her with the name of one of our old favourite pubs.
When half an hour passes and she still hasn’t texted back – perhaps she’s at work – I find myself irresistibly drawn back to the forum. Within minutes, I’ve typed a new post.
Dear all,
Do you ever get days where you feel a little lonely in your marriage? As though your OH and his kids form a unit you’ll never be part of?
I very briefly explain the gist of what happened. And then I end it with,
I thought I’d married a man who would always have my back. Now I feel that his support is something I will continually have to earn and negotiate. Any input is welcome!
