Before I became a parent at age 39 the allure of babies was a total mystery to me.
My experiences with them were more conducive to birth control than procreation. Whenever I got on an airplane, inevitably I’d be stuck next to or in front of the screaming, squirmy twin of Satan. The one exception, I remember, was a cute, well-behaved baby, sitting next to me on her mother’s lap. Until she coughed up the cud of a cracker onto her little palm and sweetly wiped it on my suit sleeve. Yeah. Good times.
So the maternal instinct never really kicked in for me.
Neither did the “step-maternal” instinct when I fell in love with Dave -- who was the father of 5-year-old Ryan. The only stepmother I knew of was that wicked woman who locked Cinderella in a closet then went and talked to some creepy mirror about “who’s the fairest of them all.” But Dave was the real deal for me, and I convinced myself that I really wasn’t the type to lock Ryan in a closet (although since then I’ve come darn close) so I decided to take the leap and marry his dad. Boom! Insta-Mom!
Two years later, along came Sam, followed 18 months later by Alex (both girls). And now I “get it.” How parenting can be the hardest and the most wonderful thing all at the same time. How parents need miracles sometimes just to make it through the day. And how many miracles our kids bring us at the very time we’re considering putting them on e-bay.
Which brings me back to Ryan, my now 15-year-old stepson who - like many of us who marry and/or start a family later in life - first introduced me to the mania and miracles of parenthood. If you find yourself standing on the precipice of step-parenthood, what Ryan taught me in the following story might help you navigate the leap (or at least laugh a little as you free-fall into the experience). Read on.
Expectations of Being Ryan's Mom
I never knew that angels could come disguised in snips and snails and puppy dog tails. This is the story of one who did.
Ryan was a mystery to me. A flurry of a five-year-old, chock-full of chatter. This "being," this busy boy-child of my soon-to-be, beloved husband, was soon to be my step-son. And I was terrified.
Ryan wasn't. He'd openly study me from across the dinner table, or from under it, as the mood hit him. He'd surprise me with a hug, then a tantrum, then ask me to color, all in a matter of minutes. He wanted to know everything, powdering every conversation Dave and I had with questions. Dave had the innate ability (which I think comes with having a child) to tune out all but the important noise. "Is he crying? Is he hurt? Does this question need an answer?" I envied him. I, on the other hand, heard and responded to everything, to my total exhaustion. I remember interrupting Ryan on one of his question-asking tirades, saying "Why do you ask so many questions?" His answer: "because I'm five and I'm CUE-we-us!!" Sigh.
But my fear of five year olds was nothing compared to my fear of meeting his mother. I was well aware that in many step-families, "ex-wife" and "step-mother" are synonymous with the Wicked Witches of the Western Hemisphere. I couldn't imagine how one would "greet" the other, without green venom spewing from their mouths. Ryan had proudly shown me his mom's picture, and I made a mental note that she didn't wear a pointy hat or ride a broom. In fact, as I told Ryan, she was beautiful. He beamed. I could see how much he loved her. That was great. But did I have to meet her?
The sudden unexpected "meeting place" couldn't have been more emotionally charged. Dave's grandmother had died. And she -- the EX--would be coming to the wake. Ryan, perfectly satisfied that great-grandma was an angel now, had replaced his sorrow over her death with eagerness that his mother and I would finally have the chance to meet. But at a wake? Where's Emily Post when you need her?
I tried to blend in to the walls of the funeral chapel, staying as inconspicuous as possible. But like a lioness defending her territory, I sensed when "she" arrived: the woman who my husband's family had adopted first; the woman who'd given them a grandchild; the woman who would soon become a part of my life forever.
I watched her take Ryan by the hand and go to kneel by great-grandma's casket. Here's my chance, I thought, to escape. The ladies room. A chapel pew. Heck, an empty casket! Anything to avoid the inevitable.
I wasn't fast enough.
From my corner across the room, I saw what looked to be the parting of the Red Sea; a little boy making his way through the crowd of mourners, dragging his mother by the hand. "Mom!! Mom!!" I heard him say. "You've got to come meet Kris!!" Oh, God. I saw fear scurry across her face after it twisted mine into the expression you get when you're about to throw up. I could feel everyone's eyes on us, sizing each other up like prizefighters before the bell went off. Would sparks fly? Would they implode upon impact? Would their heads spin around? No time to decide. Here she was.
"Mom, this is Kris. Kris, this is my Mom!"
Ryan's face was absolutely gleeful. Before she and I could exchange "not-so-niceties," he took her hand and tightly wrapped it around mine. As his father raced gallantly, although palely, to my side, Ryan then grabbed HIS hand and placed it on top of ours.
The silence was so thick, I expected a pin to drop and shatter it. Words eluded us. The grown ups, that is. Because no sooner had we begun the polite struggle to pull away when, in one last burst of triumph, little Ryan stretched up and wrapped his little hands around all of ours.
There!! He said. "Everybody I love is together!" His angel-face was elated. It was that simple.
And in that instant, the tension was gone. Here we "grown-ups" had been, with all of our societal and familial baggage, seeing only our differences and stereotypes, where a five-year-old angel, had seen only love.
We smiled. "Sometimes it takes a child, doesn't it?" I said to his mom. She squeezed my hand and smiled.
When love is the common ground, no one can be enemies. But It took a five-year-old angel to erase the battle lines.