What does it take to be an awesome “step?” -Lauren Conaway talks about why she wishes every stepkid had a step dad just like hers.
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Step. Step. Step. Step.
I am fifteen years old and am jogging down the tree lined sidewalk of my street, raggedly breathing in the crisp, cool morning air as I doggedly, rhythmically put one foot in front of the other.
Each step is an admonition as I trot behind my stepfather, Dave. It is 6:00 am, and this run is not an idyllic bonding opportunity for us, but a punishment. I have mouthed off (again), and gotten caught smoking (again), and we’re trying something new. Rather than another grounding, I am being forced to clear some of the cobwebs from the lungs I so frequently abuse by going on one of Dave’s morning constitutionals with him. I would much rather be sleeping, or feeding on the nightmares of small children, or whatever it is angry teenagers do at 6:00 am on a Wednesday, and I serve my sentence resentfully.
My mother and Dave married when I was nine years old and were together for several years before that. I can’t actually remember a time when he wasn’t around. On their wedding day, Dave and I also said vows to each other as part of the ceremony. In these vows, Dave promised to love and care for me as his daughter and I promised to respect him as the father figure he was to become. As a nine year old, I’m sure I didn’t understand the significance of what we were taking on. I just knew I was excited to be getting a pretty ring and a lot of attention. Now, with the perspective of years, I realize that on that day and every day since, in Dave I have found a quiet tower of strength. He is a man who has always been truly invested in me, and my future.
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Very few people understand our dynamic, as stepparents have been mostly relegated to the parental rubbish heap. After all, the “step” relationship is fraught with landmines – how does an often untried, untested interloper act as parent without stepping on a biological parent’s toes? How close is too close? What level of discipline is appropriate? What kind of rejoinder does one have to, “You’re not my real dad!” I can’t even imagine how difficult it must be to integrate into an already formed, albeit often broken family unit.
Amongst my friends who have blended families, I frequently hear phrases like, “Well, that’s not my kid, so I’m going to let him deal with it” or “I feel bad asking him to pick them up from school – they’re not his kids.” As someone who has experienced step-parenting done all in, statements like that break my heart. Dave truly seemed to get (and I suspect that my mom helped him along in this knowledge) that to love my mother for who she was, was to love me completely. He knew that these two women in his life, his wife and the little one she loved so fiercely came together as a team. I wish that for all of the stepkids out there.
Of course, at the time of this forced exercise, I willfully ignored his paternal love, choosing instead to be annoyed at Dave’s constant involvement (or intrusion, as I saw it) in my life. It certainly didn’t help that I got along great with my biological father. Dad was always the “fun” parent and by the time I hit my awkward, pissed off teen years, I had three young siblings. He was often too distracted to discipline much or impose many rules. This was a welcome departure from the laser-like focus I received at my much quieter primary home, populated just by my mother, my Dave, and me. As far as I was concerned, the constant questions about grades, who I was hanging out with, and the smoking were a serious cross to bear.
… she was crying because Dave’s use of the phrase “our kid” rather than “your kid” made her so happy.
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It all crystallized for me one day, when my mom pulled me aside to listen to a voice mail on her cell phone. The message was simple enough, consisting of Dave, growling, “Our stupid kid has been tying up the phone line for the past hour and I wanted to tell you that I’m coming home early tonight. Love you.” I looked to my mom sheepishly, assuming that she was going to berate me for being on the phone far past my allotted time but she was smiling with a faint glint of tears in her eyes. I was confused, and exasperated that we still hadn’t joined the 21st century and gotten Call Waiting.
Mom explained that she was crying because Dave’s use of the phrase “our kid” rather than “your kid” made her so happy. At that moment, I was more wound up at being called stupid – but after fifteen years of reflection, I think I understand why that moment was so meaningful to my mom. (Yes, I also kind of get how tying up the phone line for hours on end, night after night, might elicit the occasional frustrated jibe from one of the most patient men I have ever met.)
It had never occurred to me that this was something my mother thought about, the hope that Dave viewed me as his child. I certainly didn’t, ensconced as I was in the firm belief that in our house, all roads led to me. It had never even crossed my mind that I wasn’t Dave’s daughter. Then, I could attribute that to the hubris of youth but even now, there has never been a day when I felt “less than” where he was concerned. That probably seemed unremarkable, judging by how easily I blew it off, but today I recognize how truly special that is, and how truly special Dave is.
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I always struggle with Father’s Day presents, as both of my paternal figures tend to buy the things they need when they need them. I asked Dave what he wanted this year and he gave me his usual, unhelpful response – that my gift to him should be me not spending money on crap he doesn’t need. That’s why, this year, in the words of Elton John, my gift is my song (or blog post, if you will). My gift is the acknowledgement that Dave has been a phenomenal father to me, even when I didn’t want it, even when I didn’t understand it. It’s one thank you amongst the millions he deserves for choosing to love me, when he had no stake in the game as far as society was concerned. For having the courage to be unpopular with an angry teenager because it helped her to become a better person.
Perhaps most importantly, this year my gift is the recognition and the admission of the overwhelming gratitude I feel, that he was there for so many of my steps (even the sweaty, forced ones), when there is absolutely nothing “step” about him.
Lauren Conaway is also the author of “Judging Jeopardy – How I Learned to Love an Aggressive Nerd Named Arthur Chu”
Picture: the author and her “step-dad”
Until I wrote this article, I had no idea how many people were so fortunate to have such amazing stepparents. People have been reaching out in droves and it’s really been eye-opening and gratifying.
Thanks, Joanna!
Love this, Lauren!
I was raised by my stepdad, too! It’s a gift.