So here I am approaching my sixty second birthday. Sixty-two doesn’t sound so bad when you
consider that I have an aunt who is approaching her one-hundred-and-second
birthday. I called my aunt on Mother’s
Day. Although her hearing and eyesight aren’t what they used to be, she’s still
sharp as a tack. Before she goes to bed
every night, she spends some time reflecting on her long life. She raised two boys on her own and ran her
own business. She could play the piano
and had a pretty good singing voice. She
was always tough, but she had to be. She
has outlived two husbands, all of her friends, and one of her children. In my comparatively short sixty-two years
I’ve had a chance to reflect on my own life. Choices good and bad, the best
laid plans that aft gang agley, like my first marriage. That marriage didn’t last very long and there
were no children. When I remarried, my
second wife came with a pretty cool car (a vintage Stingray) and two children,
a fifteen-year-old son and a ten-year-old daughter. Now I was facing one of the toughest jobs on
the planet… step parent.
Fortunately for me, their biological father was pretty much
out of the picture. That made things a
little easier. At least I didn’t have to compete with anyone.
I’m not what you would call a fun guy. But I tried to be the
fun dad. Take it from me, it doesn’t work. It was easier with my step
daughter. I surprised her with Riding
Camp when she turned ten years old, and I built stables for her Breyer Horse
collection. She wanted a fish tank; I got her a fish tank. She wanted to play
the violin; I bought her a violin. Is
anyone out there interested in buying a violin?
It was a much tougher with my step-son. He was turning sixteen so we indulged him
with a car. HUGE MISTAKE! When he blew
it up I paid for a new engine. EVEN BIGGER MISTAKE!
It was also tough on him.
He was taken away from all of his friends, his school, and his whole way
of life. I was the lucky so-in-so who got him when he was at his most
rebellious and fell in with the wrong crowd at school. I didn’t know how to
relate to my step-son and he didn’t know how to relate to me. To tell you the
truth, I don’t know how either of us made it through those years. My toughest
lesson was learning how not to be the fun parent. Learning how to say
NO! That was tough. My daughter wasn’t used to a step-dad who
said no. My daughter is now twenty-four.
Then there was the problem of what to call me. My step-son called me by my first name. My step-daughter didn’t call me
anything. It was only through my wife
that I found out she referred to me as her dad in front of friends. It took
years before she called me ‘dad’ to my face, and even more years for my son to
call me ‘dad,’ though he feels more comfortable calling me ‘Pops,’ which I don’t
mind. I called my own father, ‘Pop.’ My
son’s now twenty-nine years old and married.
We get along very well. I just wish he wouldn’t kiss me on top on my
head.
The toughest thing about being a step-parent is that you
never share that instant bond I’m told people feel with their biological
children. It’s never there and it’s the biggest void you can experience. You’re
their dad, but you’re never really Dad. You can’t be. That’s something every
step-parent lives with.
So that’s what I reflect on.
What do I look forward to?
Walking my step-daughter down the aisle and maybe in the not-too-distant
future, holding my first grandchild in my arms who will only know me as
‘grandpa.’
D. G. Weiss
