McDonald's: "Making Stepmoms Evil, since 1697"

Going from child-free to stepmom has been a crash-course in parenting. Emphasis on crash. You're not supposed to have children before birthing children. Biologically speaking, I'm 99% sure that the propagation of the human species depends entirely on this premise. Irrefutable evidence: step-parenting has taken me from "I definitely want kids" to "We'll see...."


Of course, being a stepmom has it's rewards. After our first afternoon together, Sophie told Tristan, "I wish Jenny was your wife so she could stay here forever."And there were the two paintings she made and decorated with stickers - one for my house and one for my office. And many other random gifts proffered in love: plastic yard-sale flowers, hair bows, spare change, her dad's gum, the unforgettable Harriet.

But you're not supposed to know before you get knocked up how much work kids are - or how easily they can rip out your heart, stomp on it, and then skip away laughing and singing nursery rhymes. And this is why I now believe that Cinderella may have turned her stepmom evil. Her, or McDonald's - it's way more evil and insidious than stepmothers and five-year-olds combined.

When my sister visited over Christmas break, I discovered that she's a natural at playing with Sophie, which made me feel jealous and inadequate. (Why couldn't I think of hilarious things for my Barbie to say?) Thinking I'd feel better if I found my own way to win favor with Sophie, Tristan suggested a red-blooded-(and artery-clogged)-American family tradition: bribing her with McDonald's. So one morning on the way to daycare, I took her to Micky D's. I even let her get a Sausage McGriddle AND those cinnamon-y things. And for the day, she thought I was awesome.

But a week later, Ronald reared his creepy, super-sized clown head to repay me. Less than five minutes from school and breakfast, the Golden Arches glinted on the horizon. Right on cue, Sophie whined, "My tummy hurts. I'm reeeeeeeeally hungry. Breakfast has chaaaaanged. Now it's later at school. I can't wait. I'll starve!" I felt a little guilty not stopping, but most days she can't even remember what she had for lunch, let alone what time it was served. (Tristan later ascertained that she wasn't starving and was just angling for a treat.)

As we pulled into the school parking lot, the daycare kids were putting their games away - to get ready for breakfast! I felt vindicated that I hadn't starved my stepchild after all. That's when she said, "You don't need to wave at me when you leave. That's just for Mommy and Daddy."

Ouch.

Sure, she'd hit me with other zingers before, the most notable knife-to-the-heart being: "Mommy's not really okay with me loving you." But that was her mom. This was Sophie saying loud and clear: "You're not my parent, and I don't love you as much." Combine that with her recent "Don't call me So-Bear - that's just for Daddy," and my heart splattered on the pavement, beating along in time as the kids on the playground chanted, "Cinderella, dressed in yella, went upstairs to kiss a fella!"

I was trying really hard to be a good stepmom, and I felt like she'd slapped me and said I was a bad one who didn't deserve as much love as a real parent. (I might have been slightly more emotional than usual that day thanks to an angry uterus. Or maybe I'd moved on to completely hormonally-imbalanced. Or maybe Sophie had been possessed by Cheelzebub, demonic Lord of the fast-food Flies. Hard to say, really.)

So I texted Tristan to tattle on her.

I threw an internal tempertantrum.


I put her clothes on for her every morning, I find the shoes she's lost, I do her laundry, I clean her room, I make her snacks, I don't cook food she won't eat, and I fix dinner while she and her daddy play so she can have alone time with him. And this is the thanks I get?!? Being told I'm a second-class citizen?!?

Then I pouted the rest of the day.

Tristan tried to comfort me by texting that she'd been "forgetting" to wave at him lately as well. And how on her birthday she had told the woman who'd had her stomach cut open to bring Sophie into the world, "Don't take this the wrong way, Mommy, but I like Daddy better than you." And how that had recently changed to "I can't wait to go back to Mommy's house!"

She's five - she just started kindergarten - she changes her mind five thousand times a second. Except about wanting McDonald's. (Curse you, Ronald! Curse you, I say! <shakes fist in the air>) Case in point: when I picked her up that afternoon, she dug into her backpack and handed me a wadded up drawing of flowers, explaining, "It has 'Sophie' on it, but it's just for you," and followed up with, "I am soooo lucky - because I get to have you as a stepmom!"

When it comes to being a pseudo-mom, I'm just in kindergarten myself. My fledgling parental emotional IQ can barely keep up with this five-year-old whiz kid. Unlike Tristan, I don't have five years of good times to lean on when she wavers in her fondness for me. All I have for judging the strength of our bond is the present, which changes five thousand times a second.

So when Tristan got home, I was still reeling and seasick, being tossed about on an ocean of McNuggets and love. I exploded into a sobbing fit in his arms, breaking his heart too. So we talked, and I cried, and we talked some more, until partly through words, and more through the osmosis via loving arms wrapped around me, I had soaked up enough parenting wisdom to know that in the hearts of Tristan and Sophie alike, regardless of Happy Meals or the flavor of the millisecond: I was loved, I was appreciated, I was a good stepmom, and I was very much a full-fledged member of our family.

The next day on the way to school, Sophie asked, "Do you want to wave at me?" I told her that we could do whatever she felt most comfortable with. After all, getting used to having a stepmom is probably harder than being one. Because despite my meltdown, I  am still the adult, and she's just a little girl. She only has five years of emotional intelligence to cope with life, the universe, and everything. So we settled on a quick hug and "I love you," leaving her free to run off with her friends and me feeling warm and fuzzy....

....until yesterday afternoon when the first thing out of her mouth as she climbed into the car was, "Do you have a job yet?!?" LOL. This child has a knack for saying the exact words I don't want to hear. Apparently, her favorite friends weren't there to play, and my unemployment was to blame for my tardiness. Nevermind that having a job would have made me later. And nevermind that I'd cut her fun short the day before by arriving too early. Clearly I needed to better coordinate my schedule with Eshmae and Nan's to maximize play time. Two days ago, they weren't friends anymore, and she'd had to make due with Chianti (the girl, not the wine) - who knows what could happen tomorrow? She might be forced to befriend Brussel Sprouts! Life is short, especially when you're the whim of a five-year-old girl. Carpe diem while you can.

***

Author's note:

Q: Why do I disdain McDonald's?

A: Because they're a golden-fried idol soaked in evil, my activist friend Robert doesn't like them although I've forgotten his really good reasons why as I am wont to do, I feel bad about having tried to buy my stepdaughter's love with it, and their disgustingly delicious food makes my butt fat. There. I admitted it. You happy now? ;)