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The food of love… or the love of food…

Prince Charming has a weight problem. I may have touched on this in a previous post, but it has become a bit of an issue. The thing is, when he is thin, he is so weary and tired that he loses his charm. But

he’d rather be grumpy than fat.

Let me give some background.

Shortly after we met, Prince Charming told me all the bad things about himself he thought I should know before making a major decision about living happily ever after with him. The things he was really worried about were pretty insignificant, I thought, and the things he didn’t rate were important, but that’s another blog. This one is about his weight.

So, I knew weight was a big issue for him and I knew he had a gastric band to help him to control it. He tried really hard to keep this from intruding on my social life or diet, and cooked wonderful meals for us both and any visiting children. So far, so good.

Faded Charm

However, after a year or so, his charm was fading. He was tired all the time. He was irritable. He seemed to be depressed. He didn’t want to go out or be active at all. His idea of an active evening was to change channels on the tv from time to time. If I wanted to go out riding on a white charger, I had to do it alone!

Now, second wives will sympathise here when I tell you that Previous Wife (and Real Mother of Stepson) had warned me about him.  When she heard that there was to be a new Mrs Charming, she asked to see my ring and announce that she would congratulate me “but we were happy once, too. He changes.”  At times,  it niggled.

Food is the Food of Love.

It turned out, Charming was missing important elements from his diet: like iron and folic acid. His doctor discovered he was VERY anaemic. Showing him his blood test results, the doctor, suggested that he would die a premature and painful death (possibly at my hands) if he did not change his diet. This marvellous man gave Prince Charming a strict prescription of Sensible Eating which involved loosening the gastric band to allow steak, chips and baked goodies, but in sensible quantities. He appointed me guardian of the food cupboard and sent us home.

Now we are balancing a precarious tight rope. Prince Charming is enjoying a wider range of food than he has known for nearly a decade. He is full of energy, fun kindness once again. He wants to go out for walks and climb mountains. He is still cooking delicious meals, but is now – and this is the crucial point – eating them too. And life is wonderful!

BUT he is putting on weight. It was bound to happen and we were prepared for an increase. The initial rate has slowed considerably and we are hoping soon to see a sustained drop. But in the meantime, all advice would be welcome.

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After the Happy Ending.

 

The traditional tales don’t provide a template for the real story after the marriage. The stepmother is supposed to be deliberately evil. The real father is supposed to die or be so besotted he doesn’t notice her cruelty. And the real mother should be kind, beautiful and dead. Not so in real life.

There has been some progress in the new castle. Several weeks off work has allowed me to regain strength and energy. The pictures are now up on the walls, after some months of negotiation and trial. There are new plants in the garden and a large, rogue ash sapling has been cut down. I feel a sense of emotional ownership. Walking around the house, I see evidence of my influence and it makes me feel better.

Stepson has had three weeks away on a residential holiday and with his Real Mum. One of my boys has been staying. He and Prince Charming have been spending happy times together: whisky tasting, playing darts, sharing debate about all kinds of things. We have done happy family things, like playing pooh sticks and making pizza and baking cakes. It has been fun.

Darts seem to be an important ingredient of family harmony this week. A match is quite short; it’s interesting enough to watch without being prevented from doing anything else; you can play alone to practice or have a tournament to involve everyone. And there’s a lot of social learning to be done. We are past all that taking turns business of course, but there is the whole issue of winning and losing and taking part to deal with. Three of us are competitive but gracious losers. The fourth has yet to learn to lose without feeling significant loss of face. He blames the darts, the weather, the board, the rules, the furniture, the maths and anything else that might distract from the obvious fact that he didn’t actually win.It is kind of sad and we need to show him that taking part is also important and that sharing time together is what actually matters.

It seems that as the rest of us grow closer and create bonds of friendship, this one is becoming the Odd One Out. We don’t want to slow down out fresh growth and relationships… but does our bonding have to leave one child behind?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Beauty and the Hungry Beast.

Prince Charming had turned back into The Beast.  He had become grumpy and irritable, weary and boring. He wanted to spend all his time slumped in front of the telly and the only thing he had the energy to charm was his mobile phone. 

I was wondering if I had accidentally married a Frog. The laughter and romance, roses and wine were dim memories and I was feeling like an Old Married Woman. I was starting to have sympathy with the hags of the world.

Anyway, I could see that Prince Charming was ill. He insisted he was fine but if this was fine, I’d rather go and live with the ogres in the swamp. Then one day he announced that he’d been to see the doctor and the doctor thought he might have ME or a sort of mini bi-polar. This was NOT the fairy tale ending (or middle) I had ordered and I was very troubled. It’s all very well to promise ‘in sickness or in health’ but I had definitely expected to get  a whole lot more health before the sickness kicked in.

Trapped in Turmoil.

All of this coincided with my six week holiday; the time when I do not have to go to work and can spend my days at home in my castle, being charmed by my prince and cleaning away the cobwebs of life. Instead, I was trapped in a tower of turmoil, with a grumpy beastie. Something had to change. I knew what it was, but I needed to persuade him…

The Weight Issue.

Have I mentioned that Prince Charming has a weight problem? He had a gastric band fitted about seven years ago and, being an all-or-nothing type of hero, he had it as tight as the nurse would make it. Some days nothing would go through. On a good day, he survived on a home- made avocado smoothie and determination. Oh, and gallons of fizzy pop. His mood was directly related to the amount of pop consumed in the previous two hours.

None of this made me feel any better. I was sure he needed food; he was sure food would make him fat. I wanted him to loosen the band and be human; he preferred to stay grumpy and hungry. It was a stalemate. At last, we went together to see the doctor and the doctor spoke sense. Grumpy recognised the words of wisdom and agreed to loosen the band.

The Love of Food.

That weekend was wonderful! After seven years, Prince Charming could again enjoy crusty bread, bacon, a crumpet, steak, and chips. Just watching him was a delight! His smile very quickly returned and he ate like a well-behaved lion, rejoicing in every mouthful of protein he was given.

That was a month ago. He did put on some weight and is now more cuddly than a perfect Disney prince should be. But he is strong and healthy, energetic and hopeful. He is once again charming to live with. And he is taking sensible steps to contain his weight. The Beast is back under control.

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Playing Pooh Sticks.

Now, I admit that Pooh Bear is not really a traditional tale but he is part of the great canon of English Literature and an essential element of family life. I am not talking about the Disney version with its exaggerated behaviours and over-bright colour. I mean the original Winnie the Pooh books with their line drawings and their delightfully differentiated characters and their gentle humour which appeals to adults as well as children.

Anyway, although I am a firm believer that bedroom activities should remain private and not be discussed on social media except in the most general terms, I will just share the fact that Prince Charming does enjoy a Pooh Bear story at bedtime sometimes. We will draw a veil over the fact that he frequently falls asleep before the end of the chapter, despite my best rendition of the characters’ voices – in the style of Alan Bennett, who was born to play Eyore – and simply move on to the main point of this post.

It was a warm day in early August. Son Number Three was with us and we were all a bit bored and lethargic. Son Number Three suggested pooh sticks and Prince Charming responded with a completely blank face.  Either he had quietly been taken over by a zombie apocalypse, or he had no idea at all what pooh sticks might be.

Eagerly, Son Number Three and I explained the basic level version of pooh sticks. The facial expression changed from blank to incredulous. We made the unanswerable argument that you should not knock a project till you have tried it and the three of us set out within minutes.

On the way, Prince Charming was reluctant. He didn’t see the fun in this at all. Son Three and I busied ourselves with finding suitable sticks, offering him excellent specimens in a spirit of sportsmanship and generosity which he did not initially appreciate. However, seeing our enthusiasm, he began to take more notice and before long the competitive element had kicked in. By the time we reached a suitable arched bridge over a stream, he was snapping twigs and weighing for comparison with the rest of us.

The stream was slow moving, which meant we had to be quite creative about making the sticks travel. Soon we were merrily debating what level of remote propulsion was permitted and leaning perilously far out over the parapet to check on the progress of the contenders in each race. There were several ‘last races’ before we eventually headed home, happy and invigorated.

This experience made me realise that the Prince of Charm has not had any of the simple pleasures of family life we take for granted in my family. He grew up in an isolated, rural location on a farm. His parents were busy and his next sibling was ten years older. There were no neighbouring children. His own son was kept away from him by Real Mother, and there was none of the father-son rough and tumble which both people need. He needs to be taught how to play.

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My Wand is Broken

I need a magic wand. I need to wave it at the house to make it larger. I need it wave it at the bank balance to add a few thousand pounds. I need to wave it at my charming prince to encourage him through a low patch in the business world. I need to wave it at myself to give me some energy to face the new academic year. I have been waving it around pretty vigorously but with little impact. I think it may be broken.

I staggered to the end of term and parked my professional broomstick in the corner of my classroom, leaving it there to gather some dust while I came home to the new castle to settle in better. The pictures are not quite all up yet and negotiations continue. It reminds me of the scene in ‘When Harry Met Sally ‘about the wedding present wagon- wheel table.  There are two previous lives to fit onto the walls and as yet not many new memories to put up. It is hard to find enough wall space to accommodate all the photographs of children, pictures of parents, certificates of achievement from assorted offspring, hand-embroidered tapestries from deceased mothers and the pictures and ornaments we each simply like for no very good reason.

The pictures have been hung where there are hooks and little sticky pads have been posted where hooks need to go. Then they have been rearranged … and rearranged. Two rooms are fairly sorted and the rest remain in flux. Precious pictures take it in turns to be propped up on the floor of the landing, waiting to be assigned a definite location. It is amazing how much sentimental value can be attached to a simple print of a holiday destination which only one of us has visited. And as for anything depicting a person now departed, or made by their hand …. The word sacred doesn’t even begin to cover it.

All advice gratefully received and if anyone knows of a good wand repairer, please post a reply!

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Even witches grow weary

Image result for tired witchI am tired of this step-parenting now. This wicked witch business isn’t as much fun as the stories suggest.

First of all, I had to move to a new kingdom where everything is strange and unfamiliar. I don’t know where the broomstick shops are or where to go to buy toads and cauldrons. I have to get to know a whole new set of courtiers and citizens, and learn to understand their accents and fit in with their ways. I left my lovely castle, where I was totally at home; my real fire; my utility room; my garden with its herbs and precious plants. And I came to this foreign castle, with its unfamiliar customs and its strange pictures on the wall and its oppressive heat and its adorable but irascible prince.

Worst of all, I took away my own children’s castle too. I thought they were ready to move on to their studies in their chosen kingdoms but I now realise they were not. Perhaps I was not.

Anyway, now I am about to change the decor of this new home. The wicked stepmother strikes again, changing the treasured memories of the stepchild, invading his childhood home with pictures and ornaments and photographs which mean nothing to him. Having been the wicked mother, I am now the wicked stepmother too.

This morning, Prince Charming and I went to the storage unit to bring back the pictures I had brought back from my old home. I found pictures my eldest had painted over twenty years ago, in pre-school. I found my second child’s cushions and pictures in a box; and the SATs paper my third-born had written as a ten year old. And I knew that the old kingdom was well and truly gone…and the new one is still strange.. and my old life won’t really fit here. Wicked witches cry sometimes.

So now, at home (my new home), I have taken most of the pictures off the walls and over the next few days and weeks, Prince Charming and I will sort them and rehang them. Perhaps we will buy some new ones for our new, joint life. Perhaps we will sell our two castles and buy a new one together.

Whatever happens, I will have abruptly ended my children’s childhood and uprooted them to a new and unwanted region, where they feel out of place and unwilling to settle. And I will have invaded the stepson’s castle and made irreversible changes to his lifestyle: eating at a table; limiting screen time; marrying his father but not being his mother. Image result for limit screen timeAnd actually, I do resent his presence here now because my own children are NOT here. I don’t want to chat to him when I should be talking to them; I don’t want to see his clutter around because it reminds me that theirs is no longer there. My children are grown up and gone, and I am not ready to be a mother again, second time around. It is harder than I expected. I don’t particularly choose to be a wicked stepmother, but it seems I cannot avoid it.

Meanwhile , the real mother is lurking in the shadows, making everything more complicated. But that is another blog.

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Love, Law-Suits and Litigation.

Now, the question is, when did Snow White decide it was time to tell her story? It was safe enough to tell the story of the evil witch and the poisoned apple: when someone already wants to kill you, there’s not much to be lost by broadcasting the truth to the world. But what about relations between the Royal Children and the Grandparents? What if Prince Charming turned into King Flatulance? Did the story stop at marriage because everything was sweetness and light from then on, or because Snow White was troubled that the Seven Dwarves would sue her for stereotyping, and the Fairies would complain about her revelations about the relative merits of their christening gifts?

Now that I am poised on the threshold of Blog publicity, I am treading a delicate path. (I know that is a mixed metaphor, but that really is a minor concern at the moment!) The people who already view me with suspicion and dislike (and there are not very many) are unlikely to read this; the people who actually like me may read it and there is a danger that they may be upset by the portrayal of their private affairs to the wider world. So, how private is this?

What would the lawyers say about all this? Is it ok to reveal the deep depths of depravity in the Stepmother psyche? Or to be honest about how I feel about the children? What about the First Time Round? How much can I safely write about that? Is it ok to say how I love my children? To give detail about redecoration of the Palace? To mention the illness suffered by one child and the hypochondria of another?

Advise me, and I will follow your lead. And otherwise, I shall write as I please, because no one is reading this anyway and it is simply bringing some clarity to my heart and soul as I work my way through this step-mothering minefield. If you are a step-mum and have found any answers to the complications of being a step-parent, please let me know! Being a real mum was easy compared to this!

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Embracing the Inner Witch.

The trouble with being a wicked stepmother is that it is actually extremely difficult to do. I am not that good with poisoned apples and I never had a magic wand. I have a deeply engrained sense of responsibility  towards children; I have thirty years of teaching experience as well as my own parenting skills, hard-earned and well-honed. I actually can’t send the child to live with seven dwarves, or palm him off on a passing witch, or sell him to a fair. I grew up hating the stepmother and knowing that she was evil. I can’t suddenly join forces with her.

So here I am, with a teenager to care for and his own bitterly estranged parents to negotiate. After nearly thirty years of parenting my own children, I was looking forward to a bit of time off for good behaviour. I had followed that excellent advice given to me when my boys were small: a mother’s job is to make herself redundant. And with my youngest about to head off to university, I was blissfully looking forward to a few years of ‘me time’ before any grandchildren appeared to polish up my rusty skills.

That was when I met Husband and, in due course, his son. It seemed straightforward enough. Stepson was with his dad alternate weeks, which would leave ample time for Husband and me to develop our newly-wed bliss, whilst also finding quality time for Stepson.  Stepson was a well-behaved, intelligent boy who was doing well at school and seemed to present no problems.  I could swan in and out of his life, much like a favourite aunt, bestowing well-chosen advice and praise, and the occasional treat.

Are you laughing yet? Of course, it did not work out like that. Life is never that simple.

The first thing I noticed was that Stepson was, on the surface, extremely obedient to his dad. In fact, he was so very compliant that I wondered if his dad was different with him when I was not present. I went to great lengths to check, but could find nothing untoward. Then I realised that Stepson  was outwardly compliant but frequently failed to do the things he was supposed to do. Like many boys his age, he ‘forgot’ a lot.

Eventually, I diagnosed that Stepson was keeping his head down to avoid angry or frustrated reactions from either parent. Their hopes and dreams for him, their methods of disciplining him and their communication with him, about himself and each other were at best confusing and at worst toxic. The child was constantly in No Man’s Land and simply trying to avoid the shell holes and barbed wire.

So, what does a step-mum do in those circumstances? I didn’t want to get involved, or recommence the whole parenting rigmarole, knowing how hard it would be. Yet I was living with this child for half of my time and some of his habits were driving me mad. I needed to introduce a third level of parenting into his already complicated life to allow myself to function within what was now my home. I needed to try introduce to some level of consistency between his two homes. And I needed to establish a new method of communication with his dad, which allowed us to share care of his child without falling out ourselves.

How could I do all that without becoming the wicked stepmother? I couldn’t. So for several months I acted the role of the crone: changing the status quo in the home; setting new rules and making sure they were followed; removing his phone overnight; reducing screentime; enforcing bedtime; checking up on homework; insisting on showers and fresh laundry and clean teeth. And trying to communicate positively with Real Mum.

And so I became the wicked witch to everyone for a while, making myself unpopular with everyone (myself included).  I did almost despair, and I really tried to find a way to separate myself from the hassle and just leave Stepson to his parents, but it was not possible to do that and stay in the same house as his dad. It is not in my DNA to abdicate control of a teenager in my own house (even if it was his home first) so there were a lot of negotiations and discussions with him and with his dad. Image result for negotiationsOccasionally, I thought I had reached breaking point and I longed for my own, child-free space. Husband and I had to cover fourteen years of shared parenting in fourteen weeks. It is amazing really that we are still living and breathing… and married!

But the good news is that it seems to be settling. Harry laughs with us now and is as likely to take my side as his dad’s in any minor dispute. Husband and I present a fairly united front and I feel far more secure in my role as third parent/stepmum/de facto carer. And Real Mum? It’s hard to tell. Communication with her is intermittent and Stepson says little about life with her. We make his home here as secure and consistent as we can and we leave the rest to time and to God. We can only do what we can do.

Advice welcome from wicked stepmothers who have traveled this road before me.

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The Hills are Alive…

It’s not strictly speaking a fairy tale, but The Sound of Music is part of our national psyche. I can’t be the only woman who is unable to take more that ten booted steps on a fell side without hearing Julie Andrews in her head and, if there is no one around to restrain me, bursting forth into a quick rendition of the title number.

This week, my husband and I, with a selection of our children, took a walk in Wales. Apparently, it is illegal to climb the Brecon Beacons fewer than three at a time, so we duly conquered a trio of beautiful peaks with lovely and unpronounceable names.

The older boys are confident and experienced walkers, who have been striding over muddy moors and rainy hills since before they were born, but the youngest, Step-son, has only recently acquired a pair of boots. Having seen him drag his feet languidly over a short walk in town, his face displaying all the excitement you would expect of a pot-washer starting the Saturday shift, I was not at all sure how this walk would pan out, but in fact I was pleasantly surprised.

Map reading was the first challenge. Step-son had the map, studied it intently, and announced that we were probably on the wrong path. The others looked at him blankly, shrugged, and set off on the sole path up the hill.  A little further on, perhaps having realised his place in the pecking order of brothers, Step-son asked where we thought we were on the map. Uncannily, I heard my own words in my sons’ response: “Where do you think we are?” There followed an amicable study of the contours, the stream and the edge of the trees, and a route was cordially agreed. I watched with interest, the words ‘forming, norming and storming’ fluttering around the edges of my mind.

The next issue was the mud and dirt, rain and slippery paths. For whatever reason (and I have my suspicions as to the cause, but shall leave those for another day) Step-son was very nervous of parts of the walk: afraid of falling; unwilling to get dirty; troubled about heights. His dad tends to be somewhat unsympathetic to his anxiety, believing that a swift and unavoidable exposure to the fear will cure it. I tend to want to talk him through it, which is not the best idea when it is raining and cold, and Step-son excels in the art of teenage conversation. “OK,” “Fine,” and “No,” are by far his favourite words, usually delivered curtly and accompanied by a grumpy expression.

Fortunately, the older boys stepped into the breach without even thinking about it. Laughing and teasing each other, they hurled themselves across muddy streams and down steep embankments, unconsciously demonstrating that generally, when young men under thirty slip, they roll, bounce back up and suffer no worse damage than a muddy rucksack.  Daring each other onwards, they happily negotiated boggy terrain, wide streams, rocky pathways and steep, rough steps. Pretty soon, their new sibling was copying  them, forgetting his fears  and reveling in the joy of youth, strength and health.

It was a really lovely day, with sunshine and showers, peaks and valleys, and just the right balance of solitude and conversation. The boys are all more than big enough to have prepared their own lunches, carried their own bags and kept on walking without blisters or weariness for the ten miles of the walk. For me and the older ones, it was a welcome return to our familiar, family customs, and for Step-son, it was an enjoyable new experience, made fun by the presence of people from his own generation. Instead of bumping into each other in the house, with its feeling of ‘us’ and ‘them’, we had all the space of a National Park. Instead of feeling like we have to fight to protect our separate identity and normality, we all felt free to share the pleasure which was there in abundance. Maybe we are beginning to blend together from two distinct units into something flexible and new.

I’ll keep you posted!

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Counting the Children.

So, here is where I may lose the goodwill I have gained so far. This is the point at which I confess the truth about the Wicked Stepmother: I don’t actually feel the same about all the children; I instinctively see them as ‘his’ and ‘mine’; I actually find my own birth children easier to be around than the step-child.

Don’t ring Social Services yet. I have not stooped to sending anyone off into the forest with a woodcutter who has secret instructions to murder the child and bring home his heart in a box. And whilst I haven’t explicitly warned him against elderly crones who live in houses made of gingerbread, I do make sure he texts when he sets off home and has a decent packed lunch in his schoolbag. It’s just that I feel I ought to be more warm and welcoming than I actually am.

Having aroused your suspicions, I shall have to give some nitty-gritty examples. Here’s the first:

When anyone asks how many children we have, my other half says, ‘Four’, whilst I give a churlishly accurate, ‘Three and a half’. Three originate from my first marriage and the latest is from his previous foray into matrimony. I could argue that the ‘half’ spends half his time with his real mum, but that doesn’t really make a differece. The other three are grown up and spend only a few weeks each year in my tender care, yet they each definitely count as a whole.

Now that I have begun my confession, let me carry on recklessly. Maybe there are other wicked stepmothers out there, lurking in dark corners, nursing their guilt. Maybe it is time to unite and throw off the shackles of traditional tales. Maybe it is not only the princesses who need to be freed from their cultural expectations.

So, here is another shocking fact. When the fruit of my womb goes off to stay somewhere else, I miss them. I get a tear in my eye when they leave and I feel as though something is missing. When my stepson goes back to his mum for a week or so, I say a cheery bye and prepare to make the most of the evenings without needing to be a taxi service.

When ‘my’ boys are around, I sit with them and chat about everything and nothing, and we laugh and share banter and time flies by. With my ‘step’ it is more careful. Jokes have to be explained, memories described, routines enforced. It is all harder work. On a scale of 1-10, where 1 is a serene, bountiful, motherly, home-baking, self-sacrificing madonna, and 10 is a slender, elegant and superbly cold regal figure in a black cloak, brandishing a magic wand, where does that put me? To be brutally honest, in appearance I am more of the motherly home-baker, but in terms of behaviour, the jury is out for deliberation.

Some of this is because the stepson is relatively new. He has been in my life for only two years, whereas my other boys have obviously been with me since before they were born. I have had twenty years and more to mould the older boys and to let them mould me. They share many of my values, and my sense of humour, and they know how to communicate with me. And they are older and so no longer need to be nagged about their homework or reminded about bedtime or checked up on about … well…. just about everything! When I am not being a princess or Rapunzel, I am a fully trained, champion, leader-in-the-field control freak.

So, assuming I am ever brave enough to promote this blog to a wider readership, what do you think? Am I the only wicked witch in the free world? Or does every step-mum secretly feel like me? And does time make a difference? And is it different if real mum is not around?

Most importantly, if you are past this phase (and I am hoping it will be a phase rather than a life-long commitment to apple-poisoning) what did you do to enable you to be more generous and loving?