The politically incorrect guide to Step-parenting

Today I begin to share with you my experiences as a parent and step-parent...

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would be considering writing about the ins and outs (...of madness), pardon me, of step-parenting...(same thing if you ask me!)

I knew from a young age that the process of giving birth and hanging around with small children was not going to feature in a big way in my life. As soon as I started menstruating and was subjected to the monthly hell of cramps and flooding I had very little interest, or I might add, loyalty to my womanly bits – that is unless there was something in it for me...if you get my meaning.

It must have been written in the stars, because despite plenty of fun times – I managed to avoid the stork all but once, and although that was 21 years ago...I remember it like it was yesterday. True to my worst fears and predictions, giving birth was nothing short of what I imagined it would be like to have your limbs gradually ripped from your body in one of those ancient Chinese stretching torture devices...except you are expected to remain awake...and get this, actually play an active part in this ritualistic attempt to turn a human body inside out!

To hell with your natural birth and midwives – I know why they are called MID-wives too. MID-way through my ‘long, hard’ labour she snuck home for a sleep...Stick your meditation birthing CD's and fuck off with your hippy bean-bag, TENS machine and balancing on all fours so the baby can just slip on out assisted by gravity...

Two epidurals, one shot of pethidine (mmmmmm), and thank god, an obstetrician later, the manitau was wrenched from my loins courtesy of the dexterously maneuvered (before she fainted, my friend Catherine said the Dr had his foot braced against the end of the bed as he attempted to yank the baby out...) delivery technique known as the ventouse extraction. This precious thing I had spent 9 months growing and playing classical music to, arrived looking like an over-baked cone-head, and was immediately whisked off to the neo-natal unit for some other bugger to look after. 21 hours of torture and I didn’t have anything to show for it!!! I remember feeling like the Little Christmas Tree on Boxing Day...a has-been!

Upon reflection, 21 years later, I’m glad I didn’t abort. I love my son more than anything on this earth. I still call him most days. His mates call me smother mother. I ask them to look after my baby when I am not there. So you see, the stork’s solitary visit really did turn out well.

Some people learn from the past, and know when to leave well-enough alone. Some people DON”T live in fantasy land and play out unrealistic scenarios in their head when they fall in love.

Suffice to say, when making the list of what I wanted in my perfect partner, I added...he must have a child. I wish I could say that I had forgotten to take my medications that day. I wish I could say I was drunk that day. I wish I could say that I had bashed my head into a brick wall that day. But no, I was in fantasy-land, and my perfect man had to have a child.

To be fair to myself, I was thinking that men with children tended not to be as self-centered as those without kids (ha!). I was thinking that we would have our children in common. I was thinking that being around a child would keep me ‘young’ (double ha!).

To cut a long story short, I fell in love with a man who had a (then) 5 year old son. This was two years ago, and so began my descent into the hell that is commonly known as step-parenting. Read on if you dare!

Future chapters to be added...

Chapters

Anger management

Acting classes

Making poisons

Discipline

Grand parents

Taking it up the arse

Redefining love

Commitment

Being committed

Boarding school

The relief of Alzheimer’s