Step Mothers: The things that come out of their mouths

Stephanie sat in the back seat on the way home from karate class and said, “Mom, can I ask you a question?”  

“Sure.”

“Don’t get mad, and don’t talk to Jenny about this, but, Jenny said she doesn’t miss me when I’m not there.”

Silence.

“Well,” I started, and then Stephanie continued, “Why do my real mom and my real dad feel sad when I leave but Jenny doesn’t?”

First reaction, completely mum and blissfully unknown to my 9-year-old daughter:  “What in bloody heck am I supposed to say to that one?!”

Second reaction, at almost lightening speed considering the circumstances, so as to fairly effectively cover for the fact that reaction #1 even occurred:  “Stephanie, I know that sounds kind of odd, but I don’t think Jenny meant it the way it sounds.  She loves you very much, but the thing is, she’s a Yoga teacher.”  I wanted to add that she claims to sense people’s presence at large distances without the aid of sight, sees the color of auras, fondles crystals, and talks a lot about vibrations, but I bottled that impulse and explained, “ She has beliefs that are colored by Buddhism . . .”  at which point Stephanie interjected that she didn’t think Jenny was Buddhist, to which I replied I thought both she and her father Glen were but perhaps she subscribed also to Hindu beliefs.  At which point we got into a discussion about the Hindu origins of Buddhism, and got distracted from the troubling words of her step mother, newly married to her father, my ex-husband for the past five years.  But those words floated back to us and hovered, demanding a response.  

“See, I think Jenny believes what Buddhism teaches, that we suffer because we get attached to things and people.  She’s probably practicing being able to let you go when you leave on Sundays, without grasping after you, trying to hold on, because that’s what causes pain and suffering.  So I think that’s what she really meant – she’s trying not to cling to you.”

I finished that explanation as I pulled up the driveway and got out to empty the mailbox.  We entered the house, our out-of-control mini dachshund smothered Stephanie with barks and licks, and she was back to laughing and playing with Barbies.  She was either distracted, or satisfied with my explanation, or not at all satisfied and mulling it over in the way that young children do.  I’m not privy to this process, but I know it’s happening when I hear the same question again a week or a month later.  I will let you know if the question repeats itself.

In the meantime, I’m left to reflect on the queer juxtaposition of rage and appreciation, cattiness and protectiveness in the ways I feel, and behave in spite of how I feel, about my daughter’s step mom.  I want to spew sarcastic spittle when I think of her heinie sitting in practiced pose at a Yoga class, her lips softly beseeching her students to open their chakras and breathe in their stress, because their hearts are big enough to take it all in.  The last communication I received from Glen, after asking him to attend mediation because he was not honoring three requirements of the divorce agreement, consisted of “Leave me alone or take me to court”.  Mature, and very Buddhist.  And don’t for a minute think Miss Yoga had nothing to do with that.  I made that mistake once, thinking she loved Glen in spite of seeing clearly his shortcomings.  And yet, when it comes to my daughter feeling loved by someone so important in her life as her step mother, I will cover that same heinie with the last scrap of rational excuse I can muster up in her favor.  

And now that I’ve spewed my cattiness, I will tell you a secret:  I entered a den of witches last week (good witches, I believe), one of those new age crystal stores that also sells soaps in the shape of plump naked goddesses.  I asked for a few stones that might help my daughter’s separation anxiety.  She’s been crying a lot on weekends when she’s with Glen and Jenny.  I put the stones in a little velvet pouch and gave them to Stephanie, saying she could give her worries and sadness to the stones if she wanted, to get them outside herself.  She reported two days later that it didn’t work, and I wasn’t surprised.

I want to draw a line between me and Jenny, to define myself as different, better than the sort who meditates in peace yet speaks discord.  The largest part of me feels that moral superiority.  But a small but persistent voice is laughing in the background at the absurdity of it all, thinking we are different when we are oh so very much alike.  I am reminded of the Biblical passage that we see through a glass darkly.  I realize that 5 or 10 years from now, or on my deathbed, I will probably hold understanding, and a decided lack of fury regarding Glen and Jenny that I find so elusive right now.  Right now, I can’t quite reach that equanimity.  

Right now, I just want to give that heinie a good swat.