My Dirty Little Secret

By Yasmin

The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another, and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it. J.M. Barrie, novelist and playwright (1860-1937)

It was never meant to be this way. The fairy tales go “girl meets boy, boy loves girl or whatever it is that happens nowadays and they have children then live happily ever after.

It was never meant to read like my script.

Man meets girl. Man loves girl…

You see I loved this man and he loved me back like no one of his species had ever done. He accepted me with my quirkiness and me him and we spent lots of time combining our ideas on the ideal world. He fit so well into my grooves and made the road race called life worth the while.

Problem was he came with baggage.

Not undeclared STD’s or a harem of wives I had not been informed of. Nothing like having the night running habit firmly ingrained into his nocturnal timetable.

Children.

I was going to be “Insta-Mom” minus the title. I was going to be the evil one for a long time to come.

You see women (me included) have this notion in their heads that the man they marry will love them and only forever and even if they passed on would never look at another woman with the same eyes again. Fairy tales have not been fair either.

Have you ever heard of one which portrays a step mother in a positive light?

There are thousands of examples, not to mention books on how to be a good mother, lover, wife, friend, leader, but you attempt to be a step mom, you are on your own. Trust me; no one will lift even a hair to make your work easier. No one will give you a helping hand even when you need it most.

No one will feel you when you tell them of your step child’s sloppiness yet when you have a new baby, friends and relatives would listen attentively making appropriate comments when you describe the little one’s bowel movements in graphic detail, diagrams included.

So I was and have been on my own ever since. I have three wonderful children to whom I bear the title mom. I am the one they run to for comfort and the first one to get a hug when we all gather together at the end of the day.

It was not always this way. It has been a vertical climb with the abyss down at the bottom not being an alternative I even contemplate as a destination. It has been wonderful and excruciatingly difficult.

I belong to the old school of parenting which firmly believes and lives by the mantra I am the adult and have the sole veto power in the house because I pay the bills. Therefore any one who even remotely contemplates challenging my authority at any time should be armed with the ability to pick the tabs as they come and while at it set up a parallel institution of his/her own.
The old school believes too that childhood is a time to play and does not entertain habits that encourage small behinds to indent craters on couches for four hours at a time in the name of plays that involve terms like ‘playstation’.

We believe that the fear of the rod is the beginning of all wisdom as it will keep you on the straight and narrow before you grasp the concept of right and wrong. By then you shall surely be old enough to tell your bananas from your oranges and all the fruits in between.

Little hands too make work lighter and should be trained to be useful as soon as physically possible to avoid louts and leeches who shall overstay their welcome in the house of birth. The said louts could be foreseen coming home at the age of forty to see what mama cooked for dinner not only to eat as they cannot cook but to do their laundry as well.

With this foundation in place I set off to the task of parenting without the labor pains. The children were fine and daddy too though it was rather an adjustment for them having to cope with a power house of energy in an unbelievably small frame.

The relatives made it a business of their own to poke their noses where they could not fit.
The delegations would come to the house and sit in the living room making clucking noises and even shedding a tear or two, re-arranging furniture and generally hyphenating crocodile and tears once again. I was left wondering the purpose of the visits as I am reliably informed that the characters I witnessed in action were the most unfriendly suckers you could ever meet anywhere this side of planet earth.

Parenting of any child, biological or otherwise, is a step of faith. The odds are enormous, the process tasking and exacting in resources both physical and fiscal. Step parenting is twice as hard as you do not have the good will from the society at large. Any action on your part is set to be misinterpreted as by default you are guilty until proven otherwise.

You are expected to meet the children’s needs but woe unto you if you are ever caught exerting your authority. The negative labels will be stuck on your face and no one will ever listen to your side of the story.

I look back now and thank the people who stood by me. I have heard horrendous stories about mothers in law but I met one who should be an example to me in future. She accepted me with open arms and told me all women are different in the way they handle their households. That, there was no reason for me to be judged on the same bar as the other woman. That she was wonderful as only dead people can be, but she was human too and had her faults. Music to my ears!

So do I tell anyone that I am a step mom? Never.

Because as soon as I do, my head seems to grow sharp black horns and sympathy as well as visible discomfort sets in.

My interlocutors then proceed to make stupid comments like

“Do you love them like your own?’’

It is like asking me how much I love the man I live with and unless you are a marriage counselor or the pastor that is a no-no.

I love everyone differently. That goes too for my children. If only we could stay with the same forgiving heart as children, the world would be a much better place.

That’s my secret. I’m a step mom and loving every single second of it. Do not mention it to anyone.