I had one of those nights last night. I was tired. My eyes were barely able to stay open, yet my mind was as wide awake as it has ever been. Earlier in the evening, an incident between me and my stepdaughter had escalated into a situation in which I let the F-word fly out of my mouth in a moment of uncontrollable anger and frustration.
Let me describe the incident, then I’ll tell you all about why I am really upset…
Heather (not her real name) had changed the baby’s diaper of her own accord, but had neglected to snap his outfit back together. He was crawling around with the unsnapped flaps of his bodysuit just hanging there. I asked Heather to finish the job of changing his diaper by snapping his outfit together. As soon as I finished saying those words–not as I was saying it, but after I had already made the request–she picked up the TV remote and sat down on the couch without a word. From there, it went a little like this:
Me: [calmly because maybe she didn’t hear me] Heather?
Her: Whaaaaat?
Me: [still calm, but with a little more emphasis here and there] Could you do it now, like when I say it?
Her: ::silence::
Me: [getting a little pissed] Heather!!
Her: Whaaaaaat?
Me: [with incredulity] Now!?
Her: I’ll do it in a minute ::sigh::
Me: [beginning to lose control of my anger] Why can’t you just do it now?
At this point, without taking her eyes off the TV, she leans forward and asks the one-year-old to “come here.”
Me: [seconds away from throttling her] I think we both know that’s not going to work. Just.get.up.and.get.him.and.snap.his.outfit.back.together.
Her: ::silence::
Me: Now, please!!!
At this point, her dad finally walks through the room to find me glaring at the back of the still-seated-comfortably Heather. He has either been in our bedroom or outside doing yard stuff. Either way, he hasn’t heard anything that has gone on between Heather and me. He walks casually around the couch that Heather has planted her stubborn ass on and heads toward the front door. He pauses before heading out to survey the situation, which has now gotten me to the boiling point.
Him: What’s goin’ on?
Me: [to him]I asked her to do one simple fucking thing for me, and she sits there like she’s on a throne ignoring me. [to her]Why can’t you just do one thing for me?
Then I head to the kitchen to throw away some trash that I’d been holding the entire time. While in the kitchen, I let a few more colorful words and phrases out to play.
Her: I’m not your [eight-year-old] son!
Me: No, you aren’t. He would’ve gotten his ass in gear about 45 seconds ago.
While I was in the kitchen, she finally got up, snapped the outfit together in a characteristically half-assed way leaving one of three snaps untouched, and went to her room.
And now, the real reason I am so upset…
The incident I described is just one of many, many similar incidents that have taken place over the five years I have been an active part of Heather’s life. Each time I have complained about her total lack of respect, I am brushed aside by my husband, who tells me that he doesn’t know how much longer he can live in a house with two warring women. I’ve told him that, first of all, she is not a woman (at least not to the extent that I am), and second, it isn’t warring. It’s her lack of respect for my place in the household.
I am responsible for keeping the house clean. I don’t mind that. What I mind is when Heather will glide through the house pointing out areas that need to be addressed with the vacuum cleaner or furniture that needs to be dusted. Of course, her dad never sees any of that, so it’s hard to convince him that it even goes on. I am treated like a maid by my stepdaughter and like a lunatic by her father. I get no support from him.
As a matter of fact, in regards to what happened yesterday, he dismisses my problems with her based solely on the fact that I said “fuck” and he thinks we are teaching our kids to cuss. Because that word came out of my mouth (never mind that it was because I literally couldn’t take it anymore…that doesn’t seem to matter), he has decided that none of my concerns has any merit. Every time I try to discuss this issue with him, he goes right back to scolding me for cussing. I told him he’s putting too much effort into trying to protect a sixteen-year-old high school student from a word she probably utters between every normal word she says all.day.long. He shrugs.
I know that he is using it as an excuse to keep from dealing with what he sees as nothing more than my inability to deal with a teenager. He preaches that parents should choose their battles. I told him that I have chosen to battle for respect from her. That is my battle. I have never wanted anything more from her than politeness, respect, and compassion for others. I am not the one who harps on her about her grades. That’s her dad. I am not the one who demands that she keeps her room clean. That’s her dad. I am not the one who forces her to keep in touch while she’s out with friends. That’s her dad. I don’t ask her to do a damn thing except be nice.
Here are the reasons I feel I deserve respect from her. She could pick one reason from the list and I would be fine.
- I am a human being.
- I am her dad’s wife.
- I am someone else’s mother, sister, aunt, granddaughter, daughter, cousin, and friend.
- I am the mother of the baby brother she loves so much.
- I am an adult who has gone through serious turmoil and tragedy on my way to where I am today.
The divorce rate is high among those who bring their own children into a new marriage. I don’t want to be a statistic. I love my husband more than I ever thought I could love another man after I got divorced the first time. He is affectionate and kind. He is a great daddy to our baby. He hasn’t been a great role model for his daughter. He neglected so many aspects of her upbringing. It never occurred to him (or any of the rest of his family) that this girl needed to learn how and why one should be polite to other people and why it’s a good thing to show compassion and why people need other people to lean on for support.
I can’t help but be a compassionate person. I care a little too much at times about others–almost to the point of shortchanging myself. This is what has happened over time with Heather. I can’t bring myself to be rude to her. I can’t even fake it to teach her a lesson. I am so mad at her. Her mother lives in the same town, and when she spends days at a time over there, I am a much happier person. I hate to say something like that because I feel like I am going against my own nature to say or even think something so ugly. At the same time, I continue to help her with certain things. I am eager to try to help her with her homework. I don’t mind showing her how to do things. I don’t expect gratitude, but maybe that’s a symptom of my obsessive-compulsive do-gooder disorder. I am taken for granted.
All I know is that when I was growing up as a stepchild in a well-run household, my dad made it crystal-clear to me that I was to show my stepmother the utmost respect. I was told that she had as much to say about how I was raised as my dad did, and there were no exceptions. He only had to tell me once.
I would love for my husband to put his foot down and tell Heather that she is subject to the three-strikes rule. Let her make the choice to leave this house so the blood isn’t on my hands. Tell her what the new rules are. Tell her that she either follows those rules or not. If she chooses not to follow the new rules, she chooses not to live here. She has to clear out her room. She has to surrender her house key. She must then make arrangements with us to stay here when she wants to see us. I know that sounds really harsh, but after five years of constant friction, eighteen is just too far away for me. I have run out of patience.