I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
March 18, 2006
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“So is this your only one?”
The woman behind me at the supermarket grins at my two-year-old daughter, who is happily munching on a cookie in my cart.
“No, I have two stepdaughters who live with us, too.”
“Oh, really? How old are they?”
“15 and 12.”
“Oh really? Wow. That must be rough.”
I’ve had this conversation more times than I want to remember. I try to tell people that it’s actually not “rough,” that my stepdaughters are easy and loving and kind, and that while being a stay-at-home-mom and stepmom isn’t easy, it’s a lot more fun than I ever thought it could be.
But when I say these things, I get looks of suspicion. Doubtfulness. Guarded sympathy. There is no way, they’re thinking, that it can be anything but arduous to raise a toddler and two teenagers who aren’t even my own children.
For all the public bluster about making blended families work and letting a village raise a child, society continually functions like jock itch on the uh, Olympic athlete that is my family. Not only do perfect strangers pass judgment, the parents of my daughters’ friends and schoolmates do as well.
“HI, Lucinda. It’s ME. Helen.” One of the two moms in my 15-year-old’s high school carpool stands outside my car window as we wait for our younger girls to come out from the neighborhood junior high.
“Oh. Hi, Helen,” I smile.
“Yes. I just wanted to remind you that you’re doing carpool TODAY and TOMORROW. And you will have FIVE riders.”
“Yes, Helen,” I say patiently. “We talked about this last night on the phone.”
“That means you’ll need your SUV,” she continues slowly. “Because you’ll have FIVE riders and your BABY. You can’t fit them all in your sedan.”
“No, I can’t,” I say. What’s this woman’s problem? “That’s why I’m driving the SUV now, actually,” I pat the side of my Expedition for emphasis. “Remember? I brought your daughter home from school an hour ago?”
“I just wanted to make SURE you KNOW what’s going on,” she says.
Oh yeah. I know what’s going on, all right. Helen never fails to be as rude as she can without quite making me cross over into I’m-really-fighting-the-urge-to-punch-this-bitch-in-the-nose territory. She’s the worst of the unofficial first wives’ club in my suburban neighborhood. Some of the moms have been kind and supportive, but others follow Helen’s lead and treat me with undisguised iciness.
“The thing is, I kind of understand where they’re coming from,” I said to Hubs when we talked about it last night. “I can’t say that I won’t be tempted to do the same thing ten years later when the baby’s in middle school and I see a twenty-something stepmother come trotting through the school door.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“I might. Who knows?”
I thought for a minute. Even now, I honestly couldn’t say I’ve gone out of my way to befriend the other non-typical parents I know. There’s a grandmother I’ve met once or twice who’s raising my younger stepdaughter’s best friend. And there’s a lesbian couple rearing one of my older stepdaughter’s soccer teammates. To my chagrin, I realized I’ve done little more than stare at the two mommies in fascination when they’ve shown up at school events.
These women love their children just as much as any traditional mom in town. But deep inside, I had subconsciously assigned them second-class parent status, the very label I was rankling at receiving from the neighborhood first wives.
Well, maybe I needed to give my fellow outsiders a call. I thought for a minute. A second wife, a grandma and two lesbians. We made an intriguing combination. Perhaps we could have margaritas together at the local taco stand. Or we could start a band and call it 4 Non Moms. Even better, we could star in a reality TV sitcom, appropriately named, Who’s Your Mommy?! Our unusual union would inspire books, docudramas and multiple appearances on Oprah…
I shook myself out of my reverie.
I could at least start by introducing myself the next time I see one of them. I could sit with them at soccer games. I could pull my head out of my own self-absorbed world long enough to realize that if I feel out of place and disliked among the neighborhood parents, these women must feel ten times more awkward.
How can I hope to change the way my neighbors see me if I can’t change the way I’m looking back at them? Maybe broadening my perception of others is one of the lessons I’m meant to learn during this time in my life. I only hope I can remember it, long after my girls grow up and stepmother stigma is a distant memory.
This post originally appeared in Mamazine.
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