Scary Stepmom

This blog isn't just about being Roman's momma. I also have a stepson named Coleman who is 7 years old. We had a situation Thursday night which I will now admit, I didn't handle well.

If I'm going to be honest with myself, the main feeling I'm experiencing is just embarrassment. But because of my embarrassment, I reacted with anger.

Stepmom of the year award, right here.

So, Thursday night around 9:30, I had just put Roman to bed. I was so tired, I would have preferred to put him to bed at 8 and go to sleep myself, but Coleman needed to be put to bed, and Josh wasn't around to do it.

Exhausted, I went downstairs and--I'll admit it--did some lazy parenting. Usually we have this whole bedtime routine involving scriptures, prayer, a Primary song, and sometimes even a family snuggle session. This time I just told him to turn off the tv, brush his teeth, go potty, and go to bed.

I know. I can feel the judgement coming from you already. Don't worry, it gets worse.

Thinking that I was free and clear of all parenting duties for the night, I put a pot of water on the stove so I could make some herbal tea. I also set the timer for four minutes because I often turn on the stove and forget all about it until the water has evaporated and the house is filled with smoke.

I had four minutes until my water was done boiling. I thought to myself, it's been a few hours, I'd better go into the bathroom and address something in the feminine hygiene product department (good ole' "Aunt Flo" has come for a visit for the first time in 16 months). I went into the bathroom. The bathroom is connected to our master bedroom, and that door leading into the bedroom was open, but both the bedroom door and the bathroom door leading into the hallway were closed.

So there I was, in a very compromising situation: pants down, attempting to remove a certain feminine hygiene product from my body (let me know if I'm being too graphic. I really don't know any other way to say it), when suddenly, I look up. Coleman is in the master bedroom, he has just seen the unthinkable, and now he is running out of the room as fast as he can.

Horrified and embarrassed, I did some quick thinking. If it had been anyone else I probably would have screamed at them. In a fit of rage, I would have told them off. But this was Coleman. He's seven. And he's a good kid. If he knows he's going to get in trouble for something, he generally doesn't do that thing.

But I was still angry, and, I repeat, SO embarrassed. I was absolutely mortified at what I know he has just seen. So I said in a voice louder than necessary,

"Coleman you need to knock!"

"Okay." I could hear the despondency in his voice.

"What is it you want? You're supposed to be in bed!"

"I just wanted to know what you want me to do now."

It's not completely his fault that he was unclear about the next steps after brushing teeth and going potty. After all, he's used to our regular bedtime routine. In my rational mind, I know this. At the time however, I wasn't using rational thinking.

"I already told you! Go to bed!"

It's like I said before. Stepmom of the year.

So he went downstairs, probably feeling just as embarrassed as I was, plus now he has just been yelled at for something he totally didn't mean to do.

Don't you wish that when you're in a bad mood, you could just hide all alone in your closet and send out a happy clone of yourself that will play with your kids, give them hugs, and never lose patience with them so that you don't have to risk taking your bad mood out on them by flying off the handle when something they do is mildly annoying?

Yeah, me too.

So I finished up, feeling horrible about what just happened, when suddenly the smoke alarm went off. The whole house was filled with smoke. I looked at the stove.

It was ON FIRE.

Could this night get any worse?

Apparently I had turned the wrong burner on, and without a pot on top of it, it had gotten too hot, and there must have been some food at the bottom of the burner (from a previous meal) that caught fire. Just then, the four minute timer I had set went off. It's the type of timer that doesn't stop beeping until you press "off". So I had the timer AND the smoke detector going off, and a fire on the stove to put out. I grabbed the biggest pan lid I could find and dropped it onto the blazing burner to snuff the flame. I pressed a button on the stove to turn off the stove alarm. Now I had to deal with the smoke alarm, which was still going off. I thought for sure Roman would wake up. Luckily, he didn't. In my state of panic, I couldn't think of anything to wave at the smoke alarm to get it to stop. There were no magazines or newspapers around. So I grabbed one of Josh's jackets and flung it around like a maniac at the smoke detector until it stopped. When it finally did stop, I laid down on my bed and just sobbed--out of exhaustion. Frustration. And, remembering the incident with Coleman, total embarrassment.

The next morning Coleman felt terrible. He told Josh that he felt bad because he walked in on me going to the bathroom, and then he heard me crying. He hadn't known there had been a fire. I told him I was crying because of the fire, not because of the bathroom thing. The truth is, the bathroom thing was a big part of it. If Coleman had been my own flesh and blood, this would have been a total non-issue. I would have been used to getting walked in on ever since he could walk. But there is a certain standard of privacy on both sides that is expected when you're the stepparent. While I did help him take baths when he was four, I don't think it is appropriate for me to see him naked now that he is seven. If he'd walked in on me in the bathroom when he was four, I don't think it would have been such a big deal. But he's seven. He's old enough that he might remember this for the rest of his life! I don't think embarrassment would ever be an issue if he was my son (not my stepson), because he likely would have seen it before and we would have a closer relationship than we do.

Being a stepparent is hard. Being any kind of parent (stepparent, grandparent, fosterparent, or just plain parent) is hard. I guess we're all just trying to make it through their childhood without screwing them up too much.