“Goodbye, buddy. We will see you soon!”
I hug my stepson one last time and grudgingly unwrap my arms from his ever-growing torso. I wave my hand back and forth with much more enthusiasm than required and watch as his father gives him a high five and a bear hug. We walk him halfway across the grocery store parking lot and release him after a final round of hugs. We watch as he climbs into his mother’s SUV and turns out of the parking lot, onto Interstate 70. Gone for two more weeks.
A stepmom at 24, I know now that there are many miseries in this life as a stepparent. The constant fighting between the blood parents, the friends who take sides, the endless court hearings and paperwork. But the absolute worst part is when the child returns to the custodial parent.
I recently worked out the overnights awarded by the court to my husband and the mother of his child, and the results are disgusting. My husband spends a little more than 20 percent of an entire year with his son. And that is after spending tens of thousands of dollars on attorney fees and fighting for over three years.
The U.S. Census halted the practice of collecting information regarding divorce, marriage and remarriage in 1990, so statistics are hard to come by and are based on information that is 20 years old. But there are some interesting numbers.
According to the Census Bureau, “Of the 60 million American children under the age of 13, half are currently living with one biological parent and that parent’s current partner. By 2000, the U.S. Census estimated that more than half of all American families would have at least one step-parent.” Considering that one of every two marriages disintegrates and 50 percent of divorced parents remarry, 1,300 stepfamilies are created every day in the United States.
We are one such family, and constantly face the difficulties and emotional turmoil. After we hand off my stepson to his mother, desolate silence descends on our vehicle as we travel the 7 miles back to our home. I watch my husband as he tries to stifle the sense of loss he encounters every other Sunday night. We open the front door to our small house and immediately are reminded of the one thing we wish to forget.
My stepson’s tadpoles have turned into frogs now. His shoes are scattered around the foyer. His video game controllers and discs are towering precariously next to the TV, and the plastic cup still half full of milk sits on the end table. His spirit is everywhere.
This is where I spring into action. Laundry, still bearing his scent, is promptly set to wash. Errant toys and books are stowed away in their respective positions. Bed made, curtains drawn, these are the chores I jump to in order to gain a sense of peace.
But where does one go to escape the ghost of a person who is still alive? How does one go about the living of a life while separated from the one they love most in the world? How does a wife attempt to fill a hole left by a child? These are the questions I ask myself while scrubbing strawberry-flavored toothpaste from the basin of the sink, while collecting wayward Hot Wheels and stuffed animals, while stealing glances at a husband who is busy stewing in anger and defeat. I attempt to cheer his spirits with culinary masterpieces, but a full stomach does not make a contented heart.
I research lawyers and parenting plans, but both require funds and this is something we lack. I question the laws of a country which pits parents against each other: to the parent with the most financial resources go the spoils. But I can do nothing to improve this situation, and that is perhaps the hardest part.
My husband is alone in his pain, and I will never be able to resolve it or abate it. That is the worst part of holding the title of stepmom. I can cook him his favorite dishes, adore his son to pieces and make certain that reminders are hidden away for another week, but I cannot make him better.
Krista Cox (krista.dawn.cox@gmail.com) of Silt works in the lumber industry. For more resources, visit www.thestepmomstoolbox.com.
