I am a stepfather. I married a woman named Barbara, who had two young sons. Her sons lived with both parents, split about 50% of the time each until they grew up and moved out.
Some people do not like the “step” terms: stepfather, stepson, and so on. Friends told me I should call the boys my sons and they should call me father. The problem with that, their father was a good man and in their lives. He was their father, and the boys were his sons. I was there to support my wife when she needed it.
Barbara and I met online. She mentioned her sons from the start; they weren’t a secret when we met. We had several dates before I ever met the boys. It was awkward at first. Okay, it was uncomfortable for a while. They were young boys, and I was this strange new man.
Barbara and I were married after knowing each other for about eighteen months. The boys attended the wedding and the reception. We had a honeymoon (without the boys) then returned to our new life.
After the honeymoon, we had two homes, one in Georgia and one in Alabama. We mostly lived in Georgia early in our marriage. On our first night after the honeymoon, at least one son didn’t know I was going to stay with them in the Georgia house; he thought I’d drive back to the Alabama house. The innocence of youth.
The younger son called me “fake dad” in the early days.
I’m not sure I want to know what the older son called me.
The boys hated my dad jokes, so I was sure to tell these jokes from time to time.
Barbara worked a full-time job then, yet she went to a lot of trouble preparing elaborate meals for her sons. She would be exhausted most nights. I told her she was going to too much trouble; she said these were her babies and wasn’t going to feed them crap. I had a long work commute, and she was usually home well before me. Once she called to let me know she was working late, and could I prepare dinner for her sons. I said I would. On the way home from work, I bought large bags of fish sticks and fries. That was it. I baked these, and the boys were eating when Barbara came home. They raved about the food. She stopped preparing fancy meals after that.
Before we married, Barbara was adamant that she was in charge of her sons and didn’t want me spanking them or trying to take over the discipline from her. This sounded good to me. I’d never spanked/whipped/beat a child in my life (still haven’t), and I didn’t want to start with them. I was happy for her to handle the discipline.
Early in the marriage, the older son hit me with a piece of apple at the dinner table. I resisted all temptations to strike back. Barbara got in his face for one of her terrifying lectures, which was worse than any physical discipline.
Sometimes the boys were slow to come to dinner when Barbara called then. Often, they were playing video games and weren’t ready to stop. I got tired of this. She called them for dinner once, they kept playing their video games, so I went to them and turned off the television in mid-game. They screamed; they were outraged. I gave them a lecture (less terrifying than hers) about respecting their mother. From then on, when she called them for dinner, they saved their games and came to the table.
We’d been married for a while when Barbara had an extended argument with her older son. He was being unreasonable, and the disagreement went on and on. There were raised voices and slammed doors. I sat in the bedroom and kept my mouth shut.
Eventually, she came into the bedroom and was really upset. She said, “Why didn’t you help me with that argument?”
“Because you told me not to discipline your sons.”
There was silence. Then Barbara said, “We have a new rule, if they’re being jerks, you need to back me up.”
I said, okay. Luckily, that rarely happened.
I survived several years with the stepsons. I never raised a hand to either one, and I’m glad I didn’t. I raised my voice a few times, usually when helping Barbara. For years, her sons outranked me, and sometimes they still do. Maybe I’ve been promoted a little.
The boys are grown, live on their own, have college degrees and jobs. I see them sometimes. They’re still Barbara’s babies.