I have been married less than a year. My husband and I lived together for two years before we tied the knot and had known each other for five years before that. We were devotees of late-night long distance phone calls that lasted from 10pm when the rates went down to 3am when they really went down. I thought I knew all his dirty laundry and I thought I was okay with that. They were his choices; he was young and stupid. Perhaps he was never taught any better.
My friends marvel at how I have lasted this long with him. We are about as different as two people can get. We're both stubborn but that's about as far as our similarities go. He doesn't like something; he has nothing to do with it. Whether it's asparagus and cauliflower or mowing the lawn he will throw a tantrum like any five year old. On the other hand, I gracefully accept the food I am served and peacefully tend to the chores of the household to keep me in the comfortable environs to which I am accustomed. His philosophy runs along the lines of "if it breaks it can be replaced" and "its easier to ask forgiveness than permission" and mine....does not.
As he relates the story to me, he and his girlfriend we not on great terms anymore--hadn't really gotten along lately, hadn't really been intimate with each other--when they celebrated the holidays with her parents who allowed them to get drunk and stupid. By stupid I mean pregnant. They were barely out of their teens and not yet legal to drink, he had already dropped out of college and was making minimum wage. The day they took the stick test was the last day they smoked pot. They were being Responsible. Mature, even. They were idealistic and educated (at least had the privilege of attending private college) and in their rebellious natures planned to raise this child the way they never were raised: with love and understanding and without any pain or harshness or unfairness that parents burden children with.
And so was born my stepson.
And as any marriage built on such a blessed foundation it ended, soon after he was born. My husband stayed involved in his son's life and his ex-wife's life. He saw both every day, after they moved to separate residences, as they thought it best (both for their economic circumstances as well as the Sake of the Child) to share custody. That worked till he went back to school to finish what he started and try to make the best of his life. She seemed to have different plans for him, namely keep him working to pay for "her" son so she could keep schooling herself so she could become a professional and move "her" son to another part of the country when she established her career.
So she moved with his child (and of course new husband) from central Texas (no great loss) to middle of nowhere Midwest (great big loss). My husband of course followed as quickly as he could at their heels to bring him near his one and only son (they decided it would be wise to have him fixed so they didn't get pregnant again). And because I love my husband, I also moved to this empty pocket of country.
I think it is too strong to say I hate my stepson; I don't. But I don't love him either; nor do I intend to. I know it seems cold. Harsh. Unfeeling. Selfish--after all, as the saying goes, I knew what I was getting into. The ex-wife naturally thinks so highly of her offspring that she wishes everyone would love her son, and give him things, and support him, and make life easy and good for him. My husband wishes that I could love him, as he loves us both. But here is my thinking:
I have spent the last two and a half years by my husband's side, smiling and making polite conversation with his colleagues, real estate agents, what have you. His story is simple and rehearsed. He moved here because he has a son and needs to be close to him. We need another bedroom in the house we're looking for because he has a son who visits 4 days a month. Never am I mentioned in his prepared spiel. He didn't also move here to be closer to me; that just happened to be convenient. He gets to convert another bedroom into an office but where's my private space?
I am also a good ten years younger than my husband (I'll be the first to admit I may be selfish and immature). I used to work in a nightclub. I was used to making ends meet, working all day and night. Now I was bored. Comfortable but bored. I adapted to a regular 9-5 gig, lived well within my means and began to think about my future. Here. Out...here...I have no friends out here. No family. No reason to be here except him. I thought about children--having my own children--more and more. Of course, I know I can't have my own, not by my husband anyway, and he doesn't want me having anyone else's baby even if it is a gift from a sperm donor. Adoption is expensive, and I would rather adopt a school aged child and bypass the need for diapers and daycare, but he is afraid he won't be able to bond with a child and would rather find an infant. So here I am, all of 27 years old with no prospects. Why? I am an adult, I have an education, I am gainfully employed....but I can't have children. Heavens, how dare I think of such things? When there's already a child in my life I could spend my money and love on? My husband balks at the idea of a 5 year old waltzing into his life but I'm supposed to effuse warm fuzzies over a 14 year old?
Professionals don't make nearly as much as an ordinary Jane like myself may think, especially when you start your profession 10 years later than your cohort. My husband is no exception. After the house, his student loans, and the car payment he needs because there is no public transportation where we live, he has oh, just enough to 'set aside' for his son (they're much too civilized and learned to utilize the cold court system for child support). I take my earnings, save and spend wisely, and do what I can to take some of the edge off of my husband's other debts. I do this because I know that his income is desperately needed if by some cosmic chance circumstances change and he does agree to adopt a kid with me we will need his credit to be clear. All that really means is he spends less, so he puts aside more for his son.
And because my beloved husband works so hard, he is quite understandably exhausted. He also has some general fatigue issues that I've grown accustomed to. It is not uncommon for him to come home from the office, plop down in the recliner and promptly doze off. It is no rare occasion that he cancels plans we've made because he's just too tired and wants to veg or sleep. You can count on him to put in at least 8 hours at the office on a Saturday morning. And it isn't suspicious at all when he--Surprise!--doesn't have to go in on the weekend and stays up past 11pm watching movies in that same La-z-boy after a day of driving into the city to go pleasure shopping. And which weekends would these be? I'm all for him doing things with his son, believe me, I encourage it. All I was asking for was an hour of conversation over dinner, or to please go to the store to pick out some household items we really needed. Maybe a movie, or even a walk down the road to the video store.
I have so become aware, every day of every month of my life, of my future. A future I was naive to think long ago would be determined by me, my choices, my hard work and discipline. My will to earn privileges, to strive toward goals. But that's not so. My future is determined by my choice of mate. That's all. Because I love him, I live here. Because of him, I welcome an intruder to my routine into my home 4 days a month. And because of him, I probably won't ever have my own family.
Another way to phrase it is:
Because of my stepson, I had to move. Because of my stepson, I won't have my own children. Because of my stepson, I have to plan my life around him, who I had nothing to do with creating, but now have to support. I have to watch my husband be psychologically and emotionally abused by his ex-wife. I have to watch his relationship to his son falter. I get to keep quiet as the home, the one thing that has my name on it, is disregarded because my stepson does not know what it means to take pride in him or anything, or to treat anything that doesn't belong to him with any sort of respect.
And I know what people, even you, may say: How can I blame him? He is just an innocent child.
And I laugh and say, Honey, I blame my husband, but I blame more the ex-wife. They were stupid, yes. Careless, yes. Inconsiderate of the future and how other people's futures and lives will be affected by their selfishness all those years ago, yes. And that's what they are teaching their son. To think first of his own happiness. To not care what others say. To be who he wants to be to do what he wants to do. And that's a brilliant self esteem builder. In theory.
In practice, it brings another woman's life to a halt. It puts my life in their balance. Maybe things work out or maybe the ex-wife suddenly decides her son has some pressing needs that require a heftier financial boost from my husband. Maybe history will repeat itself and my stepson will become a teenage parent, forcing upon us further financial burdens. Maybe he'll drop out of school and decide to stay home and daydream. They think all these scenarios are just fantastic pretendings that will never take a concrete form.
But they were never good at planning ahead, were they?
I know my stepson is unaware of the strain he puts on my relationship with my husband. I know he has lots of good qualities. I know I don't share the same incredibly high opinion of him that his biological parents and stepfather share. And I just can't say it enough: I do not intend to. I do not intend to one day love this person. I believe in love, and as a four letter word I believe it is too strong, solid, and powerful to be uttered casually. I do not intend to stop resenting him for the constant reminder of what cannot be for me, for us--my husband and I. I have no intention of cleaning up after somebody else's mistakes, no intention to support this being after he turns 21. I have no desire to allow my life to be shaped by misjudgments past, for him to dictate where I live or how. I have no desire to catch myself scrutinizing my checkbook register, wondering where I could cut back because I find guilt rattling around my skull because his mother buys him cheap shoes that fall apart and my husband should really do something about that. No, I don't like that when my husband and I are in the middle of a major decision he wants to consult his son, a kid who cares nothing about learning how to clean up after himself much less the adult rigmarole of financing a house, or heaven have mercy, his son's opinion on what kind of child we should adopt. Some decisions are adult decisions and should be decided by adults only. I will be damned if I have to take into account the opinion of a teenybopper who doesn't even live in my house for deciding how I am going to create my own family. And I resent that, because of him, every move I make is watched--by the ex-wife, by family, by co-workers. I must have ulterior motives if I'm complaining again that he refuses to learn anything he is taught in our house. I must have ulterior motives if I suggest he needs tutoring because I will openly admit that his grades suck.
The only ulterior motive I have is to do whatever it takes to ensure he will be successful in his endeavors to not wind up unemployed on my couch ten years from now.
I dislike falseness. I will not be false to him, my husband or his ex-wife. I dislike many people. My stepson is no exception. He's 15, not much of a person really. Not bad, but not actively trying to improve the world either. He ekes by, mostly on the reputation of his good mother. I will not pretend to like him, cherish him, find him terribly clever. I will not condone behavior I find distasteful nor will I give praise where I do not think praise is deserved.
So one might wonder, how shall I remedy this situation?
Maybe I don't want to. Seriously. Maybe I don't want to resolve my issues. Am I worried about emotionally scarring my stepson for life? Not really. I have tried to get along with him and for a while, back when he was about 12, we got along just fine. But when the novelty wore off, when there were expectations to live up to, he withdrew. And not just from me. From his father as well. He would go home, telling his mother how horrible it was to stay with us. We asked him to vacuum, and didn't pay him. We made him rake up yard clippings, but didn't do any work ourselves (I'll leave you to make sense of that). We made him go over his multiplication tables because we were upset that he was in ninth grade and couldn't do fourth grade math. He is not comfortable in the house, regardless of whether I am present or not. Usually when I don't visit my parents on the weekends he's visiting he stays in his room. And when I am home, he stays in his room. And he isn’t getting any younger. Sometime in his life he will need to learn that relationships are built on the effort of both parties, not just one. I've made my efforts. I have played nice. I played my role as new girlfriend dutifully fawning over him, laughing, joking, all good times. But I'm tired of the facade. I'm tired of lying. And honestly, I don't think he'll be any worse off. He generally doesn't think about other people's feelings, at least not in a personal sense. Sure, he knows not to make racial slurs or demean women....he regards people's feelings in general terms like those. He just doesn't apply them to his everyday life. When he's not with us, he doesn't think of us. I don't blame him; after all, he’s just a kid.
I’ve been to the online message boards and forums. I’ve read about women in similar situations, dealing with their feelings and the ex-wives. I’ve read the posts from the ones counting the years till their stepchildren turn from 8 to 18. Well mine is 15 and with any luck will be off to college in 3 years and after that, on his own. So. What do I want to do till then? For those 144 required days, and 21 extra days during the summers, how will I handle them?
I don’t want to be bitter. I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want to be depressed, anxious, upset, seething, irritated, saddened or stressed. I don’t want to build a superficial relationship with my stepson or his mother. I don’t want to pretend I think he’s the eighth wonder of the world. I don’t care if he likes me or if he doesn’t like me.
He can stay in his room and I can stay in mine. I will make sure there is food for him to eat, towels and shampoo for his showers and that he has a blanket on his bed. I am not going to rock his world. He better not rock mine.
It sounds cold, bitter and harsh, but in reality, I think it will work. I don’t want to interfere with his relationship with his father. They both need to work on it if either ever wants it to feel right. I can’t do that for either of them. We stay out of each other’s way, exchanging pleasantries when appropriate. He’ll have no complaints when he returns to his mother’s waiting embrace so she won’t be able to argue with us over how we treat him.
One hundred sixty five days left to go. Less than half a year. I can deal with that.