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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?

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Trapped in my Ivory Tower

Today I am Rapunzel, although if I actually have to rely on my hair to escape, I will be confined here forever. My locks have never cascaded any further than my shoulder blades, despite many years of encouragement, and if I plait them they make a fine string rather than the kind of fat, strong rope in the pictures of the story Ladybird published for the maidens of the seventies.

Anyway, it is not all doom and despair. My cage is definitely gilded. I have been confined to the bedroom, which happily has a very comfortable en-suite with flushing loo and power shower. Neither of these get a mention in the original Rapunzel story, which makes me wonder whether Rapunzel had to throw the contents of her chamber pot out of the window. If so, it was fortunate that she did not do so just as the handsome prince was passing. It was also a happy coincidence that he was not put off by the no doubt considerable pile of regal waste which must have been composting happily at the foot of the tower by the time he rode by. Perhaps princesses produce particularly pleasant poo… But I digress…

Not being a real princess, I do need access to real food, a hot shower and a flushing toilet if I am to be confined anywhere at all for any length of time. This is all good. I have a phone by my side and strict instructions that if I need anything, I am to text my jailor, who also doubles as my husband.

Now, as a feminist, I am aware that I ought to be rebelling and making plans to escape from my captivity, but as a pragmatic woman, I am letting things lie for a while. Let me explain.

It is a Friday and I would normally be at work but the kindly chaps at the meteorological office organised a huge fall of snow overnight and so my place of work is closed. The call yesterday evening which brought the news of my day off caused an initial protest from my Other Half: “You can’t be at home tomorrow! I have plans!”

Having known him now for some time, I understood that it was the change of plan and not the prospect of my company that filled him with despair, and anyway I was too delighted by the prospect of an unexpected day off to bother producing a proper display of petulance. The snow day had happened to fall on my birthday, and I had a sneaky suspicion that the plans were preparing some kind of surprise for me anyway.  My suspicions are increased by the fact that the bedroom door is being kept firmly closed (to block the aroma of baking, I surmise) and there are sounds of an electric mixer being used in the kitchen.

Anyway, I was presented with a tray earlier this morning, on which were laid: a mug and a pot of tea; a jug of milk; a bowl containing two Weetabix; a plate bearing a round of toast; and a pot of marmalade. I was also provided with my laptop, my phone and my current book of the  moment. I actually could do with this kind of captivity more often. I can’t leave the room to check the pet, water the plants, start the washing machine, load the dishwasher or attempt any of the other vital tasks which would normally fill a day at home.

So, here I sit, yielding to my imprisonment with uncharacteristic obedience, and thoroughly enjoying it. I know it will be over soon enough and I will be back in the world of independence and equality. I can absolutely see why Rapunzel needed to get out of her tower; but I can’t help wondering whether she ever missed it just a tiny bit when she got fed up of the demands of life on the outside.

I suppose we’ll never know…

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School Shootings.

When I am not being a princess (which, if I am honest, is the vast majority of the time) I work in a school. This week, President Trump has had the amazing idea of arming teachers with guns. Not all of us, obviously. Just those of us who can already shoot.

I do take a quick mental register of the staff and wonder which of us is the secret crack-shot. Nobody springs to mind as the obvious candidate but then I suppose that is Mr Trump’s… erm… trump card. The rogue gun-slinger will not enter the school if s/he does not know which member of staff has the semi-automatic secreted under her jacket. Well maybe. But it does rather depend on the mad gun-slinger being rational, and I have to say I have my doubts on that score. I wouldn’t take bets on someone who is prepared to enter a school and shoot a random sample of the youngsters it contains operating on the same decision-making criteria as the rest of us.

But anyway, let’s suppose it’s worth contemplating a plan from the Trump brain cell for a moment. Let’s imagine the scene:

Year 10 pupils are studying ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’. They have just read the chapter in which Atticus shoots the rabid dog. Out of the blue, as if to add a soundtrack to the lesson, gunshots ring out down the corridor. There is a short moment of breathless silence before the children duck under their wooden tables, eagerly watching to see whether their own familiar teacher is The One With The Gun. She is. She stealthily removes her Smith & Western from her inside pocket and kisses the barrel. Kicking off her sensible, flat teaching shoes, she slips into a pair of black stilletoes and strides confidently towards the door, shaking free her lustrous hair and grinding her spectacles underfoot as she goes.

The pupils gaze in amazement at their formerly ordinary teacher, and every girl realises that she too can be cool, confident and powerful. The boys are also forming their own new realisations, but it is perhaps better not to follow those too closely. Their mothers might be reading this blog.

In the tense silence, the footsteps of the killer can be heard approaching. Miss swallows carefully; moistens her ruby red lips. The gun is poised in her hands as she waits for the moment to strike. There is a slight sob from a corner as one of the pupils gives way to the terror in the air. Miss looks scornfully in the direction of the sound and another pupils stifles it with a school tie across the mouth. The atmosphere is charged with adrenalin; the footsteps are closer than ever; the teacher takes a sharp breath; the door opens. 

In less than a second, it is over. There is a tremendous explosion of gunfire and a sharp smell of fear. Several children scream and then there are groans. Miss lies on the floor in a pool of blood and the gunman stands strong and tall in the doorway. He did not care who he killed or where the bullets landed, whereas she spent her final seconds trying to reconcile herself to shooting Little Sammy, her pupil.  He sprayed the room liberally and the teacher had no chance.

I think, Mr Trump, we would do better to teach children to admire Atticus, and to stop anyone – teachers and mad people from carrying guns.

 

The real world is not a fairy tale, nor a thriller movie, Mr Trump. It is a world of flesh and blood and tears and laughter. Treat it with the respect it deserves.

 

 

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What’s in a name?

Shortly after I met my husband (who wasn’t my husband then, obviously) he began to call me ‘Princess’. It rankled me a bit because it reminded me of all that nonsense about feather beds and peas. Who wants to be so easily bruised that they can be damaged by a dried vegetable under forty assorted mattresses, feather or otherwise? And even if I didn’t mind being so tender I had to be protected from random attacks of petits pois, I had my republican tendencies to consider. I’ve always disapproved of all that divine right of kings nonsense, and being a princess seemed to fall into that category.

I let it go for a while, thinking he might swap to something more democratic, but he stuck with Princess so I asked him about it and explained why it troubled me.

He laughed a little. We had very early on agreed to differ about the monarchy, not believing its existence or demise was going to make any material difference to our relationship. The pea and the feather beds took a bit more explaining but he understood fairly quickly. Then he explained his reasoning. I can’t possibly tell you about it without a sick bucket by your side, as it is impossible for one person to hear another person’s loving conversation without either laughing or vomiting, so I will just give the gist. Basically, it was about him wanting to treat me as though I were a princess: with respect and deference and protection, like a knight of old. It meant I had the power and he had the duty. Sounded like a good plan to me!

To be painfully prosaic and honest, he does not always manage to treat me like a princess. But the ideal is there and he keeps on trying. And I do not need to wear pink tutus and a bling tiara. I can be tough and get bruises and he will hold ice on the injuries. I can hack my own way out of the forest, and only ask for help when I need it. I can check out the dragon and decide how and when to fight it. And he will sharpen my sword and fight by my side, and whoever gets home first will make the dinner.

I think the lesson I have learned from all this is that I do not need to accept a preconceived version of a name or a title. We can create new interpretations. We just need to check what the name means to other people and make sure they know what it means to us.

And just to reassure you, he calls me all kinds of other names besides Princess, some more polite than others. Maybe I should think through those too?

 

 

 

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Real and Ideal: Girls Still Locked into Stereoptypical Roles.

The Grown-Up.

With every passing year, I grow further away from Snow White and closer to being a hybrid of the wicked stepmother and the sleepiest dwarf. Sometimes I am the old hag who brought Snow White the poisoned apple and sometimes I make the effort to be smart, and morph briefly into the well-dressed and sexy wicked witch (although a somewhat shorter and considerably less glamorous version) but I am never quite as I aimed to be.

That’s the trouble with stories: we want to be Elizabeth Bennet – or at least Princess Fiona – but most of the time we  identify with a powerful monster like Lady Macbeth or a total wet flannel like Cosette. Or an Ugly Sister. And don’t deny it. Just think about how you react to World Book Day, or any kind of fancy dress, or even a wedding.

The Child:

I remember teasing my dad years ago with the old rhyme:

‘I’m the king of the castle;

You’re the dirty rascal!’

And my dad replied, ‘Dirty rascals have more fun!’

I absolutely disagreed, at the ripe old age of six. How could the poor, dirty rascal possibly have more fun than the rich, well-dressed king? But maybe my dad had a point. Maybe just questioning the received wisdom of the stories and rhymes was a vital step.

The Paradox:

I thought I was pretty well insulated against the sexist stories of my youth. I made sure my own children heard a range of alternative tales; my boys were given dolls as well as swords; I earned a salary to match my husband’s income and I refused to accept sexist terms or behaviour. Yet I still wanted the fairy tale. I still expected the happy ever after. And I was still deeply shocked when the happy ever after didn’t turn out to be real.

I have to confess that, despite growing up in a western democracy, studying for a degree in English and having a very genuine belief in equality of all kinds, I still count Pretty Woman and Mama Mia as two of my favourite films. I  feel like I shouldn’t, but I do. It’s like the way I know I should eat lots of fruit and vegetables, but I still buy white pasta, wine and chocolate. The theory and the practice don’t match up.

My Conclusion:

I know this is old news. Feminism is hardly hot off the press and I am far from the most radical female of them all, but even so, I am still influenced by the same stereotypes and shaped by the same ideas as my grandparents and their grandparents. My strong, female friends are still bound by expectations which are as crippling as Victorian corsets; although less obvious. And the female pupils I teach are restricted by a new set of expectations which are already shaping their personalities and moulding their behaviour.

And actually, I think it is getting worse. I think my friends’ daughters have a more sexist world to negotiate now than I and their mothers did in the seventies. So I’ve been thinking about how the world managed to mould me, and how I might manage to protect the next generation. Or maybe I was just very naive.

My Question:

What do you think? What do you know now that you wish you’d known when you were 18? And is there any way to share that information with the 18 year-olds we care about now, or does every generation have to learn the hard way? Experience, as my dear dad used to say, is the best school… but it charges the highest fees.

Lifelong learning isn’t only about career development. It is far more importantly about character development. I am still learning and nowhere near graduation yet.