Evil Step-Mothers

Hollywood has rediscovered fairy tales. While I’m excited to see Once Upon a Time and Grimm, I can’t help but think about how fairy tales treat families. Ever notice how fathers are generally absent, leaving the children behind in the wilderness, or, worse, present but under the influence of an evil step-mother?

Now, I know that in the realm of archetypes and psychology (and, frankly, natural instinct) the evil step-mother type makes sense. Mothers are instinctively going to be more protective of their biological offspring. But as the “nuclear family” is continually redefined, I’d like to think that we’ve actually outgrown some childhood stories.

Then my step-daughters hide a basket of laundry in their closet rather than finish the chore or admit that they didn’t finish the chore.

Yes, on occasion I’ve been the evil step-mother. Following the hidden laundry basket incident, I aired our dirty laundry on Facebook (the pun just could not be ignored). I wanted all their family members to know how irresponsible they had been.

Did it get the laundry done? Nope. It didn’t even motivate them to finish their laundry the next weekend.

Did it make me feel better? I have to be honest; it did a little.

I keep thinking that if they were my children they would have been more responsible, but that is a fallacy. My boys have to be told to do a task multiple times before it actually gets done. Truth be told, they are more likely to talk back or question my instructions than Hubs'.

The problem with being a step-parent is finding the discipline boundaries. I can joke around with my step-children; when I’m treating them like my students our relationship is great. Thanks to me the girls love Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and I even have one considering my alma mater for college (Augustana).

But I can’t undo the lessons of their real mother or father. Their cleaning habits will never be the same as mine, and they are accustomed to no one following up to see if they have done their chores.

All of this makes me respect my sons’ step-mother even more. Her parenting style is about as far from mine as Rush Limbaugh is from Bill Mahr, but she is consistent in how she parents all her kids. She was a single parent of one before marrying my ex, and, for reasons I won’t go into, could never have more children. My boys, she told me, are her “bonus children”; she’s told them the same thing. At all their events, she is taking pictures and preparing their scrapbooks.

(We won’t talk about my photo-taking lapses or lack of interest in scrapbooks; I’m happy to share that parenting duty with someone else.)

So maybe Snow White’s step-mother was tired of Snow White borrowing her cosmetics and hair products. And maybe Cinderella’s step-mother had washed one too many loads of laundry. Sadly, they both missed out on the blessing of “bonus children.” Which makes me believe maybe we can learn something from the old fairy tales after all. 

It's Daisy Duke's Fault

When my ex and I first separated, I made several poor financial decisions. Within two weeks of his asking for the divorce, I was in the process of buying a house. At the time this seemed empowering. He earned almost three times as much as I did, so to demonstrate that my income and credit rating qualified for a mortgage felt like a necessity. By the first of October (we had the conversation Labor Day weekend), I was signing papers and packing boxes. 

Looking back, I wish someone had told me to take some time and rent for a while. I bought the house in 2005. Less than a year later I was moving out of town. Remember the housing market in 2006? Yeah, I didn’t sell the house for almost two years and eventually had to settle for a short sale, which ravished my credit rating.

As much as I regret the decision to buy a house, I don’t regret my other incredibly bad financial decision: I traded in a one-year-old, paid-for car on a new Jeep Wrangler. I took on a car loan and really poor fuel mileage, but also fulfilled a life-long dream.

Remember The Dukes of Hazard? I am convinced my obsession with Jeeps is Daisy Duke’s fault. One of the few female characters I remember from childhood, Daisy embodied sex appeal and sass. She could keep up with the boys, charm the bad guys, rock the short-shorts, and drive a manual transmission. I begged my dad all through high school to buy me a jeep. Not happening.

During the early stages of our dating, Hubs and I went looking for a new truck for him. He was set on buying a Dodge Ram, and Dodge dealers are typically Jeep dealers also. After I mentioned my thwarted dream, Hubs said he thought owning a Jeep would be fun. Finally, someone who didn’t think I was out of my mind. That little bit of encouragement was all I needed; a month or so later I was in a 2006, school-bus-yellow, extended length Jeep Wrangler.

My boys, two and five at the time, called the Jeep my “super hero” car. In this bad-ass contraption I felt as sexy and powerful as Daisy Duke, and it must have shown. While I was cleaning the Jeep at a car wash, a biker-type older man began flirting with me. This was not a normal experience for me. At all.

Another unexpected benefit of owning the Jeep was the “cred” it gave me when I began teaching in a rural school. Just as my tattoos had impressed my urban students, my Jeep with 30-inch off-road tires wowed the truck-driving country boys.

Unfortunately, the equation of 15 miles-per-gallon times $4 a gallon times 1,500 miles a month equaled more than I could afford. My gas expense was as great as most people’s car payments. Hard as it was, I realized I had to “cut my losses” and make a more practical purchase.

That was almost five years ago. My heart breaks a little every time I see a Jeep, especially a yellow one. While Hubs plots for the day he will be able to invest in a classic muscle car, like a GTO, I have no such desire. Nope, no sports cars—old or new—for me. When my children are grown and I have discretionary income again (yeah, right), I’ll be looking for Jeep and heading out mudding. 

Fourteen Again

I have a list of topics more directly related to parenting (being a step-mom, Sunday junior football, etc), and this post will eventually get to parenting (I promise), but first it is going to meander through my “perpetual adolescence.”

**wow, I absolutely would not let a student begin an essay like that**

Over the years I have learned that I have a tendency toward obsessive behavior. When my VCR (remember those?) died during a weekend marathon of Babylon 5, I had to run out to buy a new one. During the fourth season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I developed a fan-crush on Marc Blucas and spent the infamous Y2K watching anything he had acted in (Buffy, Eddie, Pleasantville). That was 10 years ago, and since then I’ve been fairly ambivalent about T.V. and the idea of celebrity in general. Too many reality T.V. “celebrities” becoming famous for absolutely nothing has disillusioned me. (One more topic to add to my list.)

Then, Darren Criss appeared on my screen. Those of you who already know of my Glee love might not realize it didn’t start until a second season episode called “Never Been Kissed.” Criss’s charisma mesmerized me, and I’ve been fourteen again ever since.

I’ve joined on-line forums, I’ve spent hours watching youtube videos of a Harry Potter parody and Darren Criss concert footage, I have my sons singing his song “Status Quo,” and I have now planned my first trip to New York to see him perform in a Broadway musical (112 days and counting as I write this).

Now, I would be lying if I said this fascination was only due to his immense talent—the young man is easy on the eyes, but I was 16 when he was born (the year of first boyfriend, first breakup, first battle with cancer) and have no desire to be a cougar. Truthfully, though, I am elated to see someone achieving the status of “celebrity” and actually deserving it. He plays several instruments well--including the violin which, yeah, I’m impressed—writes songs that stick in my head, sings and performs with amazing energy, and by all accounts is still humble about it. Just trying to write about him has me running out of adjectives.

So, I wonder—and this is where we get back to parenting—how does one raise a child like this? I want to sit down with his mom and dad and take copious notes. Some of it must be nature; no amount of vocal training could make me a singer, not in my genetics. Fan accounts describe him as an Energizer Bunny. That can’t be taught either.

But, how did his parents cultivate this genius? Does this mean I have to re-think my laid-back parenting approach? And how do I do this over every-other weekend and seven weeks in the summer? I’ve had one small success: After all my not-so-subtle suggestions this summer, B. has joined band. The boy (mine, not Darren, although he has great moves too) can dance like crazy and both my boys sing pretty well, so I keep showing them selected parts of Glee and planting the idea of joining show choir in high school (football in the fall, track in the spring, and show choir in-between). Unlike the world of Glee, show choir is a big deal in the Midwestern town where they live with dad.

This post has gotten long, so thank you if you’re still reading. I’m at a loss as to how to close because this topic isn’t finished. I’ve got to keep working on all my kids and instilling this philosophy (courtesy of Darren Criss): “There is nothing more badass than being yourself.”

(Actually, my favorite Criss quote came from an interview where he was asked what he looked for in a woman and he responded: “Vocabulary. You want to wake up next to smart.” Where was he when I was in college? Oh, yeah, pre-school. Damn.)