I Am a Mama Cow

My mom is a mama bear. I have seen her corner a teenaged boy in a gymnasium, instill perpetual fear in a grade school principal, and nearly attack a middle aged man in a shopping mall, all for the alleged mistreatment of her children. In the last example, my apology for bumping into a man in a busy mall was not well received. That was enough for my mom to verbally assault him, and the only reason it didn’t turn physical was because my sister and I restrained her. My money was on Mom, for the record.
Oh, and in that last example, I was in my mid-twenties.
You mess with my mom’s kids, and I pity you. Claws come out, teeth are bared, and her most ferocious weapon is unsheathed - her tongue. I’ve always had a fearful awe of my mom in those moments. Her singular focus, the violence in her eyes…it’s really something to behold.
I am a mama cow. I do not have a large belly or skinny legs or a voluptuous udder. Well, now that I am pregnant, I might have two of those three attributes. 
I digress. I am a mama cow.
Unless you’ve raised cattle or gone predator hunting, you are likely to be unaware of the following fact. In a herd of cattle, when one of the young exhibits distress, all the mamas come running. You’d be surprised how quickly those ungainly animals can run! They stomp out that coyote with their skinny but fierce legs, unconcerned about whose calf they are protecting.
A few months ago, my 9-year-old step-daughter was delighted when I granted permission for her to return the “buggy” to the cart corral at WalMart. It never ceases to amaze me how the mundane and small are critically important and exciting to children. Don’t get me started on the importance of the color of plastic plates at dinnertime.
While I finished piling the groceries into my car, I heard a loud honking directly behind me. I looked up and saw that my big girl was rattled by the honking. I rapidly deduced that she (in spite of incessant reminding) had likely not looked both ways before running across the aisle of the parking lot. But I heard no evidence of a sudden stop from the car in question. In fact, they were still moving forward, not having braked at all. So why was she honking at my kid?
In a flash of rage, I stepped toward her window and made that exact inquiry in a less-than-friendly manner. Thankfully for me, she had the sense to drive on. It would have been embarrassing, to understate, had my girls watched me slug a 60+ year old woman in the face in a WalMart parking lot. And the legal recourse…
Not two weeks later, I happened on a scene where my nephew spanked one of my girls in a surprise attack. In this case, I had no temptation for physical retribution, but that unsuspecting kid got an earful of stern reprimands because my girls will be treated with respect.
So it turns out, either by genetics or conditioning, there is within me a raging protectiveness of my step girls. I have no biological connection to them, and in fact, I harbor a particular aversion to their biological mother. Even so, you mess with my girls, and I’ll stomp your face in. And that’s what makes me a mama cow.

My Husband

I would be remiss if I didn’t devote an entire post to my husband. And this isn't lovey, mushy stuff. For those of you who are entering a second marriage and you have children, you'll find in this some critical tips. My husband should write a book on the topic, seriously.
Here I am, 34 years old, jumping into parenthood for the first time, not with a squishy little newborn, but with two vivacious girls, 8 and 4 years old at the time, used to things being done a certain way at Mommy’s house and another way at Daddy’s house. I descend upon their lives with yet another vision of how family life should be.
I started by binging on parenting CD’s (Love and Logic people, look it up!), subjecting hubby to these audiobooks as well. Then there were changes in bedtime and routines followed by incentive charts. Next were restrictions on bathroom use during church, demands for better forms of communication from the girls, and on and on. Basically, thanks to my husband and his open-mindedness, I, with no previous parenting experience, was given a voice in this new household - a real, equal-partner voice!
Talk to enough step-parents, and you'll hear phrases akin to, "I feel like a stranger in my own home," or, "I'm neutered, with a total lack of say in how things run in my house."
Here's an article by a fellow stepmom blogger that further describes the challenge of those feelings for stepparents.
But this was not so with my husband. He gave me a voice, and I'll be forever grateful for that.
And while I was making suggestions and changes, was my husband a doormat? Absolutely not. That would not gain him a shout out.
He engaged, listened, gave input, and was flexible when it didn’t matter to him. We’re still communicating and figuring out how we’ll be as a parenting couple, but we’ve got each other’s backs.
So giving me a voice was my husband's first great gift to me. But there were others. First, he allowed me to struggle and fail. He was patient when I raged, lost sleep, and struggled before finally reaching a point of balance (delicate balance), all without condemning me or making me feel inept. I know I’m inept! Thank goodness he doesn’t point it out!
Second, he prioritized me. One night, we were talking about the girls, about how we’d like our family to operate, and he spontaneously told me that I was the most important person to him. He loves his girls, but I am his top priority. I hadn’t asked for that assurance, but having it was gold. And I committed to myself in that moment that I would never make him choose. I will not be one of those wives who is jealous of the affection my husband lavishes on his daughters. I wouldn’t have him any other way with them.
If I have concerns about the way one of the girls is interacting with him, I go to him and talk it through. The best gift my husband and I can give those girls is a united front, a functional union. They don’t get that at their primary home, so our relationship becomes even more important. That’s hugely motivating to me. Who we are as a couple will be a lifeline to our girls as they grow into adults.
Third, my husband is forever thanking me for all my time and efforts with our girls. A lesser man might think, "She entered this partnership with me, and these are her new obligations, like it or not. Why would I thank her for fulfilling her responsibilities?"
And that lesser man would be correct. I definitely signed up for this. But when my husband thanks me for all I do, or try to do, with the girls, I redouble my efforts. When he tells me I'm doing well, I find the stamina to keep going. When he gives me a night off from the bedtime routine just because I'm running thin on patience, I come back refreshed and ready to tackle a new day and give him breaks too. His appreciation is far more motivating than a brutal reminder of my contractual agreement to those two little she-monkeys.
So thank you, my love, for giving me the space to grow, patience when I fail, and the support to succeed. You can't possibly know how much I love and admire you. OK, that was a little mushy. Sorry 'bout that.

Thankless-er

If parenting is thankless, step-parenting often feels…well…whatever word is the comparative of thankless. Thankless-er?
One weekend, only our little one came to visit. Our big girl stayed behind to be with her grandma. My husband was working on Saturday, so it was just the two of us girls for that 24 hour shift. We had a full day of one on one development time, which was wonderfully fulfilling. There’s nothing like one on one time with a little person to increase your affection for them.

Our primary task was to get my little one riding her bike without training wheels. She was so ready.
I put on my workout clothes, and off we went. Up and down the street, over and over, me running and catching, her growing in confidence. She was sporting an Under Armor t-shirt I’d bought her that said, “I don’t chase boys. I pass them.”
My kinda girl.
It wasn’t long before she really caught on to it, and off she went. She was yelling, “I’m doing it! Look! I’m really doing it!”
My eyes welled up, and I felt true parental pride. She was so brave and beautiful, and I had helped her discover that. It’s a marvelous feeling, watching my girls develop confidence in themselves. We loaded up the bike and drove to Daddy’s work to show off a little. On the way, she feel asleep. I guess she’d worked hard that morning.
So I sat in the car, the AC running, letting her get some much needed rest. Then Daddy came out, and the bike wheels were spinning again, with a grinning little blond perched on the seat. She and I were both proud all over again.
The next day, my husband and I drove her back to her mom. She jumped out of the car, ran to her mom with a huge hug and kiss and an “I missed you Mommy!”
She skipped back for a kiss and a hug for Daddy, and then she was off. No wave or hug or kiss or thank you or anything for step-mom.
I admit, it hurt my feelings. I’d poured myself into that little woman for the whole weekend, and we’d had a major developmental breakthrough together. I taught her to ride her bike without training wheels, and I’m taking credit for that! But she was off to her important people without a backward glance for stepmom.
As I reflected on the experience and many others since then, I've concluded that being thanked is not my motivation. I don’t love those girls so they’ll someday thank me. I don’t put aside my needs and preferences in order to teach them so that I’ll have some kind of recognition.
I love and serve my girls because their future depends on it. I can show them that faith, fidelity, education, and kindness will make their lives wonderful. I have the ability to redirect the river of dysfunction that has run through generations on their mom’s side. I am a powerful woman and can teach them to be the same.
So I love and serve because they have been given to me, because I have been uniquely qualified by life’s experiences to show them a better way. I don’t need recognition; I need to get to work. It’s not about me, after all.

A Brief Respite

The house is dark and quiet for the first time in 9 days, and I'm finally alone. Sweet, blessed relief. You full-time parents are thinking, "Cry me a river. 9 days? Try 9,000 days!"
But cut me a little slack; this is still pretty new territory for me.
I can't remember the last time I missed church, but my little stepdaughter brought me an early Christmas gift this week on her holiday visit - a flu/cold monstrosity made more delightful since I'm pregnant and can't take much medication. So this morning I helped my girls get dressed, hair done, and then sent them off with Daddy for a few hours of church.
Now I'm alone and able to hear myself think. These girls hound me every moment of the day when I'm with them. I go to the bathroom, and they urgently need to tell me something which turns out to be utterly un-urgent. The little one slides her fingers under the door and asks if I can see them. Of course I can see them! The real question is, do I want to be seeing them when I'm using the restroom (or pretending to use the restroom, actually just hiding for a few minutes)?
They literally follow me around from room to room, and it's not enough just to be in my presence. They need my undivided attention; they compete for it.
"Watch me do my cartwheel," for the 30th time this morning, or, "Look at my picture. Can I cuddle with you? Let's play store. This girl at school..."
It never ends. And not only is the talking incessant, the physical contact never stops. While I'm eating cereal in the morning, I look rather like a t-rex with my elbows pinned to my side by one girl or both. Watching TV used to be a respite for me, where I could shut off my mind and relax my body. Now I may as well try to hold a kangaroo on my lap for all the bumping and adjusting these two do. And actually hearing the show? Forget it.
Remember when I used to be able to move freely from one room to another? Yeah, those were the good old days. My girls are 9 and 6, which seems old enough to avoid contact on a normal walking route. But these two are forever under my feet. I constantly jostle and squeeze my way around them, but sometimes they barricade me in the room. The fee for passage is my 46th hug of the morning and usually a kiss too.
One time, while on a family bike ride, my big girl insisted on riding so close to me that she collided with my front tire. It was all I could do to push her out of the way while I fell on both bikes and took a major hit to my right breast from her handle bar. She was fine. I'm convinced I'm still lopsided.
And my name! I've never disliked my name so much as when it's used for the 276th time with yet another request for time and attention. I have considered banning my name from their vocabulary. It. Never. Stops.
So now the house is dark and quiet. I take a deep breath and turn on the Christmas tree lights. All I can think of are my wonderful little girls and their amazing daddy. I sit down to write this post about them, and I'm thinking I'll surprise them with homemade chocolate chip cookies when they return.
I hope they're being good for Daddy at church. I hope they grow closer to God today so they can feel His love when we send them back to their mom's house this afternoon; I can't be there with them, but He can. I hope they know just how much I love them. I hope that in the last 9 days, I played with them enough, held them enough, let them know just how remarkable they are. I hope they never felt my impatience with their chatterbox tendencies and their constant need for physical affection.
The house is dark and quiet, and I realize I am the luckiest wife and stepmom in the world. My little girls love me. They love me! My husband is my rock and my best friend. The girls' needs are constant, it's true, but this time is fleeting. Before long, I'll be soliciting their attention and affection, and I'll be competing with their cell phones. So while they're little, I'm going to dig deeper and hug them yet again, listen to them ad nauseam, and play with them as much as possible.
And now, I'd best see to those chocolate chip cookies.

A Formula for Loving

December 1, 2014

I love my stepdaughters. I can say that with full and honest conviction, though the love isn’t always coursing through me. They certainly test my love, at times making it difficult to find. But it is always there.
Now I might be extraordinary in this way; I’m some super-human-benevolent-lover-of-other-people’s-children, but I don’t think so. I do love other people’s kids, but I’ve always loved that they’re not mine. It’s different with these girls, with my girls. I feel extraordinarily blessed to have them in my life and thankful for the light and purpose they bring to me much of the time. We laugh together, stress together, cry together, and just try our best to love through it all.
Even in our darkest times, like 10:30pm on Christmas break when they’ve been screaming in a coordinated mutiny/melt-down for 2 hours, pulling things off the wall and ripping books, when I know my life would be much simpler without them, I don’t wish them away. I wish the situation were different. I wish they were being raised differently, but I don’t want them gone. They were given to me, and I’ll be damned if I don’t love and serve them with everything I’ve got.
If you’re looking for my revolutionary tips on how I’ve been able to love them, here they are.

1. Pray like crazy
2. Delight in them
3. Remember their circumstances
4. Fake it ‘til you make it

Pray Like Crazy
I come home from a stressful day at the office. Politics are running high, and I’m not sure how to fix them. I’m emotionally tired already. Inside my house is a husband who would be pulling out his hair, if he had any, over the extreme demands of two little girls who are starving for positive attention but will take it however it comes, positive or negative. Those two little girls will be excited to see me, but in the throes of an insecure life situation, their moods are volatile. And it can get rough sometimes.
I turn off the car, breathe deeply and feel this last moment of silence. I reach up with my thoughts and pray that I can love them enough. Please help me to have greater love, greater insight, to know what to do and what to say. Please help me to be enough.
One more deep breath, a smile on my face, a brisk walk inside and huge hugs for everyone. Shanna is home, and there’s nothing she’d rather do than play hide and seek tag and Uno, listen to endless stories about who is sitting where at school and what drama happened at daycare this week.
I pray a lot in my car but also morning and night and in the heat of some ugly moments. I pray out loud, in my heart, in my mind. And miraculously, my heart expands; in comes the love for these two little women. I am enough.


Delight in Them
My older girl is exceptionally athletic for a 9-year-old. I’ve told her so, and my husband and I have bought her a softball bat and mitt so we can encourage that. We race each other, play tag, do YouTube kids’ dance videos together, and wrestle.
My 5-year-old is a zany, creative, hilarious little leftie. For her, we do hours of art projects and dress up, and when it’s not important, I let her choose her own outfits and put on her own makeup. She usually looks like a combination of transient and drag queen, but she’s delighted to be creating in that way.
I look for these positive attributes, focus on them, and communicate them often. In this way, I delight in my girls as they are and seek to not hyper-focus on the struggles they/we have.
Sometimes when my girls are around, I pause to really look at them. They are BEAUTIFUL. Like stunning, can’t stop looking at you, totally enchanted by your eyes, get out the shot gun Daddy gorgeous.

My little one has perfect baby teeth all in a row with wet cherry lips, light hazel eyes, and flawless, fair skin. Our older girl has a darling, unruly row of freckles that dances across her nose, and a different color of translucent hazel eyes, made even more stunning by her naturally tan skin and dark hair.
I didn’t make them, but I can appreciate perfect art when I see it.
As a part of delighting in the girls, I can’t overemphasize the benefit of paying sincere compliments.
We’d had a particularly tough day with our little one. After a profound meltdown at the zoo and constant competition and bickering between the girls, we were finally near bedtime. Bless you bedtime, for your existence, and for being at 8pm in our house. I could feel round 2 coming on of the little one’s meltdown because she started trying to control her Daddy and wasn’t motivated by our sticker chart to make any changes in behavior.
Taking a page from my husband’s book of parenting, I dragged the little one over to me by her foot, which she thought was pretty funny. I rubbed her tummy and quickly came up with something I just absolutely loved about her. I don’t remember what that was now, but I do remember her mood softened, she felt secure again, and she went to bed without a problem.
I guess I’ve learned that playing together, looking at them, praising them, and overall just delighting in the people they are right now, flaws and all, has helped me to love them the way they need to be loved.

Remember Their Circumstances
It seems that children of divorce have widely varying experiences. But a consistent theme is that Mom and Dad are no longer together. The family is broken apart. And that brings up a lot of questions and potential for insecurities, shifting loyalties, fear of the future, and anger. Often the parents are so self-centered that they exacerbate the damage that is already done by the dissolution of a marriage. My girls are blessed that their Daddy keeps himself aloof from pettiness and selfishness.
So it’s important to me to remember where my girls are coming from. When they’re in constant competition for the attention of their dad and me, or they’ve staked claim on one or the other of us, I remember the insecurity of their circumstances.
When they yell at each other and throw things rather than communicating effectively, I remember that’s what they see modeled for them for 12 out of every 14 days.
When they’re failing their school subjects, being held back grades, and have no attention span, I remember that they live by constant short-term entertainment at their low-quality daycare, with their personal TV set in each of their rooms, their own Kindle with mind-numbing games, and an utter lack of development happening in their other home.
When my 5-year-old drops the F-word at dinner and my 9-year-old flips off my husband, I remember that they see that from adult figures in their primary home, on the adult-rated movies they’ve been exposed to, and, of course, from their peers.
I remember all this so that I can structure my discipline better, not so I can excuse their bad behavior. The standard is the same. We treat each other with love and respect in my home. If you don’t abide by that principle, you will lose privileges and be separated from the family who will have a wonderfully loving, fabulous time without you.
I can often be found saying some variation of, “I know other people make those choices, but I expect better of you. You’re my good, smart, wonderful little girl, and I believe in you. Now, please make good choices so you can come be with us. We miss and love you."
In this way, I acknowledge their circumstances, but I ensure they understand my standard is unwavering.

Fake It ‘til You Make It
A couple of weeks ago, I was dropping off our little girls to their mom in our gas station parking lot. Those exchanges still feel weirdly like a drug deal from TV. Anyway, my little one ran back to me, jumped into my arms, and gave me a big, wet on-the-lips kiss. In my peripheral vision, I saw her mom rankle at that, and I thought, “You and me both, sister.”
We’re not lip-kissers in my family, and certainly not outside the genetic bond. The only exception to that rule is my husband, of course. But when these two girls burst into my life and wanted to kiss me on the lips, it became my prerogative to pretend it was the sweetest and most wonderful thing.
Same with our weekend morning ritual. Two fuzzy-headed, halitosis-bearing little girls stumble into our bed every morning at 6:30am. My big girl is on my left, and the little one sandwiches between Daddy and me, on my right. They lean in and tell me all about their dreams, and then they repeatedly ask for me to get up with them and start the day, all with their morning breath and occasional snotty noses, which are often being picked. And I hug them and rub their backs and pretend it’s my greatest joy.
I’ve clipped toenails, stopped bleeding wounds, and wiped a poopy bum on numerous occasions. No big deal, if they’re yours, or if you’re a nurse. I didn’t go into nursing for a reason!
The bottom line is that it’s not about me and what makes me comfortable. My role in their life is as a mother figure. Not their mother, but another figure of a mother. And as a mother, I want to be patient and loving, to delight in hugs and kisses and be willing to do the dirty work all as an expression of love. Sometimes it’s a sheer sense of duty that motivates my behavior.
I have ample genuine moments of tender affection for my girls. But when that affection is absent, or the task at hand grosses me out, I’m a major advocate of fake it ‘till you make it.
It’s not about me, after all. It’s about them.

All About Me

This is a blog entitled "Not About Me" that is, of course, all about me. Currently, my primary theme is step-parenting, but I allow the blog to follow my life and change topics as it will. I don't know if this will be read by one or none, but this is part of my coping, so it serves its purpose regardless.
I've been writing these posts for over a year now, so some of the content is back-dated. Step-parenting has been and will likely continue to be an evolution for me. You'll see that in these posts. And I allow that in myself.
Read, comment, agree, or disagree as you will, but let's build each other as we go through this crazy thing called life.
My single disclaimer for this blog is that I am not a child psychologist nor a family therapist. I write the anecdotes that make up my life, and I might observe a trend or two from my social sphere. But in no way do I advocate myself as a trained expert except as it pertains to my own experiences. In that realm, I'm the one and only leading expert.