A Second Chance

Jul 14, 2011 by Peggy Nolan

Note: the author of this guest post wishes to remain anonymous

I have been a stepmother twice.

I had a young stepdaughter in my first marriage; she was a holiday visitor. My anger and resentment about the whole stepfamily situation was a wild beast caught at the base of my throat. I forced all the right platitudes out past the beast. “Your past made you what you are now” I said graciously to my first husband. “That’s OK if she doesn’t like me; it doesn’t bother me,” I said about my stepdaughter. I set holiday tables with the china my first husband and his first wife had received as a wedding gift; I lounged on the furniture they had chosen for their home (which I now presided over). I slipped “I don’t want to spend extra money when this item is so nice” past that wild beast in my throat many, many times. My first husband worked so many hours that entertaining my stepdaughter often fell to me and I hated it; I didn’t want that responsibility—I wasn’t the one who had gotten married right out of high school and had a child within a year.

I visited the ex-wife’s parents with my stepdaughter and communicated with head nods to keep my feelings inside. When my stepdaughter needed surgery while states away at her mother’s, I told my first husband “Of course I want to be there with you.” “She is beautiful, isn’t she?” I cooed when my stepdaughter and I visited my first husband’s family. “And so well behaved” I said, nodding vigorously while she studiously ignored me and refused to speak to me.

Over the years, the wild beast in my throat grew bigger and bigger. It grew huge claws that it would rake across my windpipe whenever I was confronted with my status as a stepmother. I started growling comments like “at least I was smart enough not to get married right out of high school” and “why don’t you do something with your daughter instead of sitting there watching TV?” I never made comments like that to my stepdaughter; instead I started ignoring her just as she ignored me. I never once thought of life from her point-of-view. My first husband started buying me more and more gifts, more and more expensive gifts. I never asked why he did so; I assumed it was because he felt guilty.

One day the wild beast burst out of me. I was angry and I was letting the world know. I was resentful and I was going to tell the world every reason why. And I had plenty of reasons; it wasn’t all about my stepdaughter. I said I wanted a divorce; he said his daughter would be glad.

Time passed. I realized that I wasn’t happy with the way my life had turned out. I started seeing a counselor, and she helped me understand that wild beasts don’t belong caged up. They need fresh air and space to roam.

Eventually, I fell in love—with a divorced father of two! These children looked at me with wide eyes; they spoke to me. And they lived with their father four days of every week. As we spent more time together, I came to understand that I had failed being a stepmother in my first marriage.

It was quite a shock to my system; that wild beast jumped right back into my throat and I snarled at the world. I never failed anything—never! I was an A student through my whole educational life! I never never never never failed! I had just been promoted at work last year! I wasn’t A Failure! The man I love said to me “When you are upset like this, it upsets everyone around you. Look at the kids. Can’t you see that?” I did look; his children seemed awfully quiet, they looked at me out of the corner of their eyes. And I remembered that feelings need fresh air and space to roam freely, wild beasts don’t belong caged up in my throat. I said, “I am A Failure. I already failed at being a stepmother; I don’t think I can do it again.” He took my hand, “You are smart. Learn from that failure and be a better stepmother this time. You can do it. We’ll help you; we will all help you.”

I started working on me; I started asking questions of people; I started asking for help. I started talking about feelings. We are married now; I am a stepmother again. I say things like “I feel grumpy when I find food wrappers in the living room. Will you try to remember to put them in the garbage? I can help you when you forget.” and “I can’t listen to any more about their mother today, can you take over so that I can go for a walk?” and “I know we can’t afford to get new furniture right now, but would it be OK if I painted this room?” and “I would like to know what you think.” I ask the children about the pets they have at their mother’s house; I laugh at their jokes; I give them big hugs when they bring me flowers from the yard; I read picture books out loud when the youngest has an upset tummy. I wave from the front porch as my husband and his children drive off to visit my in-laws. I say “It would be wonderful if the children said they loved me, but I understand that that might not happen. We are happy as we are.” My husband kisses me and says, “They love you and I love you. We are happy.”

I did fail my first turn as a stepmother; I know I won’t fail this time because when I use my calm, clear voice to ask for help I hear three voices responding.

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