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.