What to Expect when you’re not yet Expecting

The two-year, self-imposed waiting period is officially over for my husband and I: we’re going to try to have a baby.

That we’re going to have to try is virgin territory for both of us. My husband has fathered other children so we know his sperm has passed muster. I, on the other hand, may not be as lucky. I’ve been on the pill since age 17 because of Polycystic Ovarian Disease/Syndrome. As a teen, I lacked ovulation-inducing hormones. My gyno put me on the pill and it’s been my faithful friend for 14 years. This Saturday, however, we are parting ways.

The impending break-up, and its reasons, have brought on reactions from friends, family and total strangers that I find, in a word, amusing:

My Mother-in-Law, who sent me a Mother’s day card: “So happy about you and Aaron’s decision. Can’t wait to meet baby Erickson!”
The nurse at my gyno’s office: “How exciting! I hope we see more of you soon!”
My gyno: “Have fun”
The scheduler for my mammogram: “I don’t have an opening until June 10. Oh! Trying to have a baby…what fun…Looks like I’ve got an opening this Saturday...Good luck with your project!”
My husband’s friend whispered to his wife while standing in our kitchen: “Did you hear -- They’re going to try to have a baby! Isn’t that fun”

I’m thankful everyone – even the stepkids -- we’ve told has been happy about decision. I just wonder – if this is how people react to us trying, what can I expect when we actually get pregnant?

That’s a saga for a different phase of life.

I'm a much better mother than a stepmother

I've come to the conclusion that I'm a much better mom than a stepmom. Stepmoms, by most people (and the family law system) are defined as the woman who married the biological father. They have no legal rights and are not expected to parent on the same level as the biological parent. This may be all well and good in households or families where one biological parent only sees the kid(s) every other weekend and sends love via child support check. Where it becomes a problem is in those instances where both of the biological parents are involved and one of the parents married a kind woman who doesn't hate kids.

I am that non-kid hating stepmom. I lucked out in the stepchildren lottery and married a man that has two great kids. They're far from perfect kids, but they've never been overtly mean, or cruel and are generally well-adapted. Their mom, like all of us, is also far from perfect as is their dad as am I. As a mom/dad/stepmom team -- we each have strengths where the others aren't as strong. Their mom is very loving and generous with gifts and bed times; their dad is extremely smart and good with money; I am the organized and detail-oriented disciplinarian.

Where this reaches a cluster-fuck stage is when my organized and detail-oriented disciplinarian self is called upon more than mom's gift generosity and dad's frugalness. Because everyone -- the kids, the parents -- are comfortable with me being strict, they allow it. Every piece of literature you read about stepparenting notes that stepparents aren't, and shouldn't, be responsible for disciplining children and should resolve to back up dad (or mom) rather than delve out any harshness.

Most family units also don't rely on the stepmom to help pay for sports, extra curricular activities and also be responsible for transporting children to and from school -- but, I do.

All said -- I take on duties that are very non-traditional as far as stepmothers are concerned. No wonder I have a stepparent identity crisis.

It's all in black and white

Coming from north of the Maxon-Dixon Line, I've rarely been in situations where the line demarking blacks and whites was so clearly drawn.

And then I went to South Carolina.

My husband and I were guests at my cousin Stacy's wedding this past weekend. In keeping with Southern tradition, the out-of-town relatives were invited to the 100+ person rehearsal dinner.

The dinner was held in a what I can only describe, but not confirm, as a gentelman's association replete with magagony walls, wing back chairs and rooms with plackards denoting the person who had enough cash to purchase said dining room. The dining rooms were straight out of the 1950s. So, apparently, were the hiring practices when it came to who served and who was served to.

In a room full of uppity, rich white folks, not one non-black person was among the serving staff. It was as if the civil rights movement never happened and we were back in Leave It to Beaver Land.

My husband and I couldn't help but comment on the disparity. We found ourselves helping clear our own plates and not being overly demanding as to not live up to the sterotype of snooty upper class white snobs.

What did I learn from this experience? Mainly that the South may have risen but they've not risen very far. Free your mind guys.

What do you care?

I don't care what people think of me.
I don't care what people think of me.
I don't care what people think of me.

I keep thinking if I repeat it over and over I might actually believe it.

I suffer from "I care what people think of me" disease. I think I contracted it around sixth or seventh grade -- about the time I lived with my father. He was the type of guy who would tell me, after I ate half a box of Macaroni and Cheese for dinner, that if I kept eating like that I'd never get married because I was too fat. As crude as that sounds, I give the guy credit. He grew up in a physically abusive house and I very well could have suffered the same fate. His words, while harsh, were a thickening agent for my skin.

I tried not to let his words haunt as I've grown up; however, prophecies can be humbling whether they are self-fulfilling or not. I continued to eat Mac'nCheese and I did get fat, but then I developed a mild form of anorexia and got pretty skinny. I'm now comfortable in my size 14+ skin. Despite the prediction, I did get married; Mac'n'cheese thighs and all. My father walked me halfway down the aisle; my stepfather the other half. It was a beautiful day and my father told me, as we started our walk, that I looked beautiful. Tears welled up as I received the affirmation I'd waited 29 1/2 years for. Despite the conduct unbecoming a father, I really did care what my father thought of me. I always did. I still do.

Words, or lack of them, can serve as a harsh reminder of those feelings we thought we'd gotten over and forgotten about.

The same emotions I felt with my dad have reared their ugly head again although this time, it's not my father who's opinion and approval I so desperately seek; it's my husband's ex-wife.

During their divorce, she disapproved of my existence so much that she had me written into the divorce decree. As in, FATHER's GIRLFRIEND may not sleep in the same home as FATHER unless they are married. I did nothing to deserve the mention. I wasn't a home-wrecker. I met him several months after she left the marital home to live on her own. It took several years for her to realize I wasn't one of the evil second wives who throw the kids in the closet while stepmom goes shopping. Several years, thousands of dollars and many stepmom-takes-kids-to-school; stepmom-takes-kids-temperature; stepmom-takes-stepdaughter-to-ER-at-2a.m. events finally opened her eyes to the fact that I'm not entirely evil.

I know I'm a good stepmom -- I'm a damn good one actually. Yet, just like my dad, I seek her approval. I care whether or not she thinks I'm a good parent and a good person because, let's face it, if she doesn't she'll try to restrict their trips over here and will use me as the reason.

My "I care what people think of me" disease has caused problems at home, too -- most recently the other night when the ex- wife ignored me during a 60 minute t-ball game after which I was so annoyed I spent the rest of the night in a bad mood. My husband, who was married to her for 8 years, tells me repeatedly "Who cares what she thinks of you?" but with it just doesn't sink in.

I care.

What's on my nightstand

Long time, no write.

My sincerest apologies. I've been eyeball deep in work and working out and there just hasn't been much time for extra thought.

Now that work has calmed down a bit, I've cozied back in to one of my favorite pastimes: Reading

Despite several attempts, I can't seem to get into Son of a Witch, the follow-up book to Gregory Maguire's Wicked. I've had it for almost 6 months and am only half way through.

Eager to dive into another book, I kept my eyes and ears open for other options. This week, I hit a jackpot -- finding not one, but two books that have piqued my interest.

The first, The Feminine Mistake: Are we Giving up too Much? speaks to a topic near and dear to my heart -- the mommy wars. I cringe to hear women who have left the workforce for the sole sake of child rearing. Even more loathsome are the women who never even dare to contemplate their potential outside of motherhood. Don't get me wrong. I love children. I have two wonderful stepchildren and plan -- or hope -- to get pregnant this year. I also love the woman I've become -- a smart, creative, dependable businesswoman with a good head on her shoulders. The book lists study after study of women who gave up -- or never started -- a career because they were on the "Mommy Track." To each their own I guess. It's a good read. Pick it up if you've got an open mind.

The other book I'm reading is Skinny Bitch. A raunchy read with a Vegan agenda, the book offers a different perspective on eating protein and dairy (or lack thereof). While I don't plan on going Vegan, the book has opened my eyes to a few things.