For
the Mother of My Children
By Susan Law Corpany
This is the month
that we honor mothers. I would like to thank the
mother of my children. Usually when you hear that
said, of course, it is by a man. But today I would
like to honor the mother of five of my six children.
(I daily honor the mother of the sixth by giving
in to her whims, letting her sleep in, and a host
of other indulgences too numerous to mention.)
I am a stepmother,
and there is another mother who came before me,
also named Susan. It makes things convenient for
my husband, and the house was technically, already
in my name. Actually, that part has been rather
complicated. “Let me get this straight.
You want to take Susan off and then put Susan
back on?”
It was especially
confusing at the bank, where an account in her
name was kept open for direct deposit of Social
Security checks for the kids. Explaining to one
employee the reason for the accounts for Susan
A. and Susan C., he wanted to know what happened
to Susan B.
We are, I’m
afraid, doing our small part to keep the polygamy
rumor alive.
It is difficult to
be the spouse who follows in the footsteps of
a partner who died. I took to introducing myself
to new friends as “Susan, the Sequel.”
One inquisitive fellow asked if he was true that
the sequel is never as good as the original. I
told him that I thought Toy Story II was
pretty good.
There are times that
I have been jealous of her memory, I will be the
first to admit. When the attendees from the Red
Cross class told me that my husband had bragged
about me the day before (when I was off enjoying
Waikiki Beach while Thom taught the first session),
I was anxious to hear what he’d had to say,
until I realized that it was a different Susan
he had been talking about. Her work for the Red
Cross after Hurricane Iniki was something logical
to bring up in a Red Cross class, and the confusion
was understandable when I showed up the second
day and was introduced as “my wife, Susan.”
After the class,
I told him that from then on when he said “my
wife, Susan” he had better be talking about
me. I told him he could share as many stories
as he wanted about her, but he needed to find
a way to differentiate between us — my late
wife, my sainted deceased wife, my dear departed
wife. Having a dear departed husband has helped
me to be (mostly) understanding at these times,
but not always.
It is likewise sometimes
difficult to be the new parent on the block, to
be expected at Thanksgiving to make Mom’s
special Jell-o salad that everybody wants but
nobody has the recipe for. It is not easy to come
into a new family bringing different rules and
expectations to kids that have their own expectations
and habits and having it all come together.
To be competitive
is human nature. I have often reminded myself
that we are running different halves of the same
race. She ran the first part, and then the torch
was handed to me, and I am doing my best to run
the second half of the race.
The problem with
this metaphor is that the person who runs the
second half of the race is the one that will get
to cross the finish line (not that there truly
is such a thing in parenting), will be the one
holding the trophy, and in this case, be the one
who has the easier part of the race.
Mommy Come
Lately
She did all the hard
stuff. She gave birth. She changed the diapers,
and did the toilet training. She did the crowd
control in church while Dad sat on the stand or
was off on high council assignment. She did the
science fairs, fundraisers, parent-teacher conferences
times five.
She suffered through
the lean years, and the absentee husband flying
around the country on business. She looked forward
to the day when the frequent flier miles could
be cashed in for a wonderful trip to Europe.
I came along for
a couple of missionary farewells and some launchings,
several of which have been postponed like they
do with the space shuttle, but I have every hope
and belief that soon all six of our kids will
be flying successfully in their own orbits. I’ve
been there at the weddings — two so far,
with a third one coming up. I am the one traveling
with Thom. I have never had to look under the
couch cushions for money to buy milk. I am the
one who is enjoying the fun of being a grandmother.
It hardly seems fair.
A Continuing
Legacy
She is much of the
reason Becky is such a thoughtful and giving person.
She is much of the
reason Rob loves to read and is so smart.
She is much the reason
Aaron is such a loving, hands-on father.
She is much of the
reason Shawn is so sensitive and caring.
She is much of the
reason Christopher is such a character.
I have come to know
her through her children, through the stories
I hear about her, and also through my own communications
with her from time to time, usually when I have
struggled to love one of her children. “Tell
me again how cute he was when he was three.”
I remember once driving
out of the parking lot at the grocery store after
a rainstorm. There was a big puddle of water near
the exit. Christopher asked me if I would drive
through it really fast. I told him that as long
as there weren’t any people standing nearby,
I would do it. Sensing a little nostalgia, I asked
him if that was something his mother used to do.
“Yes,” he said, “but I wouldn’t
have had to ask.”
Another time Shawn
held a door open for a lady coming out of Blockbuster.
“Good job, Mom!” she said to me. I
thanked her. Back in the car I told Shawn that
I wanted him to know that that compliment belonged
to his mother. I told him I didn’t feel
a need to explain our family situation to the
lady, but I wanted him to know that I only accepted
the compliment on behalf of his mother.
Sometimes when a
new stepparent comes on the scene, the kids are
young enough that they address a stepparent as
“Mom” or “Dad.” Sometimes,
depending on their comfort level, even older children
and adults with stepparents use “Mom”
and “Dad.” More often than not, in
those situations, though, a first name or nickname
is used. I became “Soozer.”
My stepchildren have
never felt comfortable calling me “Mom,”
and I have never expected them to. I told myself
that that jersey has been retired.
Sometimes someone
does such a stellar job that their number goes
with them. I have explained my reasons for just
calling them all my kids. “I always expected
to have more than one child. You never expected
to have more than one mother.” You see,
I knew a lady who always referred to her adopted
daughter as such, and it seemed she wanted to
make sure everyone knew her superior genes were
alive and well with her begotten daughter, who
was much prettier than her sister. It felt to
me she was distancing herself from her daughter.
I have, of course, joked to the kids that my motto
as a stepparent is:
