Shawn Henfling gives us a peak into the mind of a step-father.
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I sometimes like to joke that I came into my family at precisely the right time. No diapers to change, no long nights of crying, or teething babies. I managed to miss the potty training and terrible twos, the biting, the agony of the first day of school, and the constant neediness that comes with raising a child from birth. I am proudly a step-father. I also managed to miss what many consider the best times of being a parent, short of watching your children achieve their dreams and perhaps begin a family of their own. The reality is that I came in too late. Though I consider them both my own children, and have almost since the moment we became a family, I’ve never really been fully assimilated. The role of the step-parent is to always try and become a natural part of the family but to never quite make it.
I’d have to say I failed my son. Our relationship, what is left of it, is in tatters. We rarely speak, and when we do the tension and apprehension is rife with emotion. We expect conflict with every interaction, and though I’ve tried, I’ve been unable to overcome that. I haven’t stopped trying, but his troubles with the law, other adults, and irresponsibility have bred a resentment in me that I know shouldn’t be there. His father, though in the picture, is more interested in being his friend than a role model, and my son’s expectation that I do the same has only added to the strife. That is an story for another day.
My daughter, on the other hand, has been a challenge of another kind, and the reason I question myself as a parent. At 14, she is growing and changing, struggling with hormones, self -identity, self-esteem, and everything else a young teenage girl encounters. I believe she is learning to be herself with grace, honor and strength. I see a strong, intelligent young woman ready to emerge, and I fear for her. I read the statistics on rape, sexual abuse and partner violence and cannot help but wonder if we have prepared her for the horrors of life.
For a long time, I couldn’t live up to the stature of the specter she knew as her father. Absentee at best, he came into her life only long and often enough to hurt her or glean information that he could someday use to hurt us. To this day, I harbor a dislike so intense I fear that just interacting with him will cause me to lash out. I’ve accepted my place as the surrogate, even as she begins maturing and realizing which of us has earned her love and admiration. I won’t disagree that I’ve been bitter, but I’m finally starting to enjoy our relationship.
A couple of years ago, as she began to develop, she and her mother began choosing clothes with a more adult look. Often, I voiced my displeasure. Occasionally, I’d “win” these disagreements. I couldn’t seem to get past my own definition of what my daughter should dress like. I felt as though she needed to be more conservative, to hide her body and it’s development. It turned out that my opinions were driven by fear and a refusal to accept that she was growing up. I was doing more harm than good, and may have realized it just in time.
Typically, I now keep my opinions to myself. I want her to be proud of her body, and my admonishments were not allowing it. I want her to develop her own self -identity outside of what society seems to think she needs to be. Crushing her individuality for the sake of promoting a false sense of modesty was not only detrimental, but selfish. I rely on her to make healthy, intelligent decisions not only about her dress, but also about her friends and the young men she chooses associate with. If I constantly judge those decisions, I’ve also judged her, and she deserves better than that. So, as our relationship has evolved, so to have the rules. There are still expectations, punishments, and rewards. When possible and safe, we allow her to make her own decisions and earn more freedoms. She’ll make mistakes, stumble and fall, but she’ll learn.
I know that men and boys will look, and I will struggle to maintain my composure when I catch it. I had to choose not to be the dad that daughters grow up fearing. I will not “slut shame” my daughter, and I’ll not deny her the opportunity to show off a body she’s proud of. I still fear the men in her life, especially those who feel entitled to take that which doesn’t belong to them. I fear the parents who neglect to teach their sons that revealing clothing, flirtatious attitudes and a come hither smile do not imply permission. I simply want her to feel safe wherever she may be, and wonder why, in an age when we are supposedly more enlightened, this is still a struggle.
Step -parenting is playing the role of parent without the biologically granted right, especially when you’ve come into the picture late. My wife, for her part, does her best to include me, but there will always be a part of her that rallies around her children thinking “They are mine!” It’s really an impossible task. Raise children as your own, care for them, but allow them, sometimes daily, to remind you that they are not, in fact, yours. The words “you aren’t even my real dad” are both gut wrenching and demoralizing, and have at times caused me to question my inclusion in their family. However, here I am, nearly 9 years later, finally learning to be a parent, only to have missed my opportunity. A family isn’t like Kool-Aid, you can’t just add Shawn, stir it up, and expect it to be just right. An exquisitely complicated dish, prepared out of sync, is a better analogy. By the time you’ve compensated for getting things wrong, the guests have departed and your meal has turned cold.
Photo: Pierre Lognoul