MOTHERING

Time Sets the Rhythm for a Blended Family

by Fern Kupfer

Right before I married my second husband, my mother sent me an articleabout blended families. Studies showed that 10 and 13 were the mostdifficult ages for children to adjust to a second marriage. Ten and 13.The exact ages of the daughters who lived full-time with my soon-to-be.Thanks mom.

It was a lovely June wedding. We included the children, his twodaughters and mine, who was going off to college in the fall. We madevows to each other and to each child ("because you are the daughter ofthe one I love . . . "); then we all exchanged rings.

The minister read a poem about marriage being a rose garden "wheresquash is fond to grow."

Of course I had qualms. The notion of actually living with someone'schildren is enough to give anyone pause. Especially if you've alreadyhad children and know the commitment needed to turn out a reasonablysuccessful human being. To say nothing of the hours of car-pooling.

My husband happens to be the nicest guy in the world. It is, inpart, this quality that makes me love him so.

If I wanted pizza at 2 in the morning, he'd go get it for me. If Iwanted to paint the kitchen orange with brown checks, he'd say, "Orangeand brown checks if you like them, sure!"

Still, the nicest guy does not always make the easiest parentingpartner. For one, he'll do anything for his children, too. Whichfrequently means he does everything for his children. For another, hehas some difficulty in saying "no." Or at least saying "no" withauthority.

I knew this when we were dating. Like the night he had me over fordinner and made a meal: braised lamb and sauted eggplant with pine nutson a bed of saffron rice. Just smelling the food made me want to marryhim.

Then we sat down to eat. Well, everyone but him. He was up and down,waiting on the girls, who requested additional napkins, smaller spoons,larger glasses, and, at one point, even a menu substitution. I watchedthe food grow cold on his plate as he made a peanut butter sandwich.

I wanted to say to the children: "We're eating now. Get up and getwhat you need yourself." But it was not my place to say anything. Theywere not my children.

Later, the girls wanted to rent a movie, though it was already after9 o'clock and snowing. "Please, Daddy, why can't we get a movie?" gaveway to whines and declarations of their dreadfully bored state. I drankcoffee, my jaw tight. I wanted to say: "Your father said `no!' Ask againand we'll turn the VCR into a doorstop!" but it was not my place to sayanything. They were not my children.

The thing is, the second time around, you don't start off parentingtogether, looking over the crib rail at the tiny, new being that you'dcreated, together; you don't bumble along as new parents, figuring outthe ground rules about bed-time and TV and whining together.

Yet, there we would be the second time around, together aspartners, each with our own set of values and expectations. It happensquickly. You say "I do" and poof - you're a family.

So how is it working out now? Well, it's been three years and a lotof squash has grown in our garden. We're doing the best we can - whichis often good enough. We've had family meetings and moments of sharedintimacy; we've written out contracts and negotiated chores.

And, of course, the four of us have braved the modern panacea forall of life's problems: family therapy.

We actually "graduated" a few weeks ago when, driving together tothe therapist, all of us realized that we had nothing to say. "Actually,I never thought we were that dysfunctional," my younger step-daughterobserved after the last meeting.

Although my husband and I have fought about the children and becomeexasperated and cried, I have never once thought: "I made a mistake bygetting married." My husband has never said that he did.

After three years, the nicest guy has learned to say "no" withoutthinking the children will love him less. The girls have said only oncethat they'd rather live with their mother. And maybe a handful of timesthat they hate us both.

I am more able now to see the children as individuals, each with herspecial talents and needs. And I am comfortable in saying what I expectwithout relaying the message through their father.

The girls seek my counsel on clothes and school work and socialsituations. They know they can trust me.

The other day I heard one of the girls on the phone with a friend: "Justa second, I'll ask my parents if I can go," she said, turning to myhusband and me at the table.

Parents. The word came easily to her, proclaiming what we are inher life. I am Fern. He is Dad. But finally, we are parents. Together.

Fern Kupfer is a novelist and writing professor at Iowa State University. She is a frequent contributor to Working Moms' Internet Refuge.

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