Learning About Kids

That Little Voice 

I didn’t have children of my own, but I’ve stumbled through the terrifying experience of attempting to be a step-parent.

There are no rules for this role, just trial and error efforts to get through each day without damaging these youngsters, physically, mentally, emotionally, and/or spiritually.

I found it helpful to hang onto my limited supply of sanity seasoned with high doses of humor and tolerance, while being ignorant about the teenage mind.

My first experience in ‘not being a mother’ mother, was with four teenagers, ages 12, 14,16, and 17. One would think at 30 I would know certain things, but there were large gaps in my knowledge closet concerning children, teenagers, boys, and parenthood.

For instance, I had no idea that at 14, boys did not know to pick up obviously used underwear and deposit it in the dirty laundry basket. Thank goodness for a business partner who was the mother of five boys. She gave me helpful hints about this phenomenon of clothing littering.

She solved the problem by taping the dirties on the bathroom mirror. Of course this went unnoticed until one could not see the mirror for the soiled briefs, which led to the realization, “I don’t have any clean underwear.” She would simply say, “Guess you will have to wear dirty ones.”

That technique may have worked with her boys, but my one didn’t hesitate to take one of the unwashed pants from the bathroom glass and stride out of the house with no worries.

I also was surprised some teenagers didn’t know they smelled rank if they didn’t apply deodorant to their armpits, especially if they came in sweaty from football practices.

No one mentioned perfectly normal, rational, smart boys take on personalities unrecognizable when they reach about 13. That is the age when it is wise to put them in a closet and shuffle food trays through a small door until they are 25 or perhaps even into their 30s.

The one boy of this new venture into parenthood lived with us fulltime, while the girls were permanent residents with their mother, but seemed to enjoy being with their dad and this woman who couldn’t cook, and didn’t know the first thing about her role in this new family configuration.

Having grown up in a family of three girls, one mother, one father, and one bathroom I did understand sharing facilities could be a bit congested, and there could be a bit of controversy about whose toothbrush was what color, and whose turn it was to take a bath.

Often the girls would come to our house after school, stay for dinner, and spend the night, sharing the spare bedroom and the bathroom, and the seating area in the living room. Our tiny living room allowed only four people to sit down at one time on a piece of furniture, so if more than four were there, well, the floor would catch the overflow.

Stories abound within all families, some funny, some sad, some life changing, most not remembered, but my years with a houseful of teenagers was the catalyst for understanding why parenting was not my calling.