Sue Fagalde Lick
This morning as I was cutting up a peach for breakfast, I remembered how my stepson wanted his apples cut up for his sack lunch. It never occurred to me to cut them up, and I didn’t know how to keep the apple slices from turning brown. I had no experience as a mother. His own mother had already raised two kids before he came along. She knew about apple slices. She knew what he liked and what he would refuse to eat. I had no idea. What kid doesn’t eat lettuce?
Maybe all of them.
When my husband Fred and I were married, his youngest son lived with his mother in Texas. He visited us on holidays and summer vacations. He flew from Austin to San Jose by himself, shepherded by airline employees. He would arrive complaining of headaches and nausea and hide in his room much of the time. All of his friends were back home in Texas.
Just before he turned 12, his mother decided it would be better for him to live with us. The schools were bad where they lived, and the boy didn’t get along with her live-in boyfriend. I had watched my husband weep every time his son left; I couldn’t say no, even though it turned my life upside down.
Suddenly we were full-time parents to a shy, skinny, sweet kid just entering junior high school. Although I welcomed the chance to use my mothering skills, I soon discovered I had a lot to learn.
I had to take him to the doctor for a school sports physical. I had promised him this would be an easy visit, that there would be no injections, nothing unpleasant. The doctor asked what vaccinations he had had. I didn’t know. He got three shots. Had he had measles? Chicken pox? Mumps? I looked at my stepson. He shrugged. It was as if he had arrived from another planet with no instructions.
I was not qualified for this job, and he knew it.
When I married Fred, I thought his three kids would make up for the ones I would never give birth to. That did not happen. They already had a mother.
The older two were in their teens when we met, and they were angry about the whole situation. By the time we married, the oldest was on his own, but on paper we had custody of my stepdaughter. While we went on our honeymoon, she went through my things, used my makeup, and invited her friends over for a party. When we got home, we had a big screaming fight. She ran down the street, her father chasing after her. I did not know how to share with this teen I barely knew. I had no children and no sisters. This was foreign to me.
I had no control over anything with Fred’s kids. I saw musical talent, but could not arrange music lessons for my stepson. I was active in my church, but I could not share my religious faith with him. The officials at school called me when he played hooky, but when parents met for college planning, I was not invited.
Fred’s children, who already had two sets of grandparents, never bonded with my parents, nor did my parents reach out to them. They oozed disapproval of everything Fred’s kids did. When the youngest called them Grandma or Grandpa, they didn’t respond.
Some people develop a close relationship with their stepchildren, but the step between Fred’s kids and me remained huge, partly because he was a hands-off dad. He mostly ignored them. I was the one buying birthday gifts, worrying over late nights out, and planning a rush wedding when the daughter got pregnant.
When people asked if I had children, I said I had three stepchildren. On Mother’s Day, folks who knew me saw how hard I was trying and insisted I take a bow, but it never felt right.
They grew up and apart. When Fred fell ill with Alzheimer’s disease, they left his care to me. Yes, they lived at a distance, but when my parents were ill, I dropped everything to be with them. Why didn’t they? After he died, two out of three attended the funeral, but I haven’t seen any of them in the 12 years since. I send birthday and Christmas cards, but feel like they have written me out of their lives.
Now when people ask if I have children, I say no. I don’t.
When you enter a childless marriage with someone who has children from a previous relationship, it’s possible you will create a wonderful loving family. It happens. But more often, there will be a wall between you and these kids who don’t look like you, who don’t have the same roots, and who have another family that feels more like home. To succeed at stepparenting means always respecting that reality, that these kids do not belong to you. At best, they’re on loan, yours only as long as you have your partner as the link that connects you.
Are stepchildren better than no children at all? Sometimes they are. Sometimes, particularly when the birth parents are troubled or gone, you can provide that parental love they crave. And sometimes they just exacerbate the pain of not having your own. Every case is different.
As for cut-up apples, coat the slices with lemon juice. Better yet, give them grapes instead.
Photo by Julia Filirovska on Pexels