Dear Frances-
I’ve never dated a man with a child before. When your dad first told me that he wanted me
to meet you, I remember thinking, “This is a good thing.” I enjoyed that for approximately 2.53
seconds. And then I started to get
nervous.
What if you weren’t okay with your dad dating? What if my mere presence upset you? What if I said the wrong thing? What if you resented me immediately for dividing
some of your dad’s attention? What if I
caused unnecessary angst in the life of a wholly-innocent 11-year old? How could I live with myself? And underneath all that concern about how
this would affect you, there was also this overwhelming dread: what if you just
didn’t like me?
I did what I usually do when something scares me—I started
reading. I checked out everything the
library had on the subject. I read
fourteen different books on stepparenting, blending families, and how not to be
a stepmonster. In the beginning, the
books scared the beejeezus out of me. All of a sudden, I was aware that I could
say all the right things and you would still hate me.
I kept reading.
Eventually, I was prepared for you to spit your gum in my
hair, or steal money out of my wallet. I
knew all the warning signs. Red
flags. Landmines. The way kids can sometimes pretend to be
charming and fun in front of their parent, and then be really hateful once
their parent isn’t watching. I tried to prepare
myself for the (apparently) inevitable moment when you would tell me you hated my guts and wanted me to die. I practiced all the responses the book suggested:
“It makes sense that you feel this way.”
“I’m so sorry this is hard for you.”
“I know you hate me right now, but I’m trying really hard to
love you.”
After several weeks of intense reading and
line-rehearsal, I felt like I was finally prepared to meet you. Even still, I was a nervous wreck. I spent the day making brownies because I had
to have something to do. I took deep
breaths and practiced more lines. When I got in the car to drive over to your
house, I thought my heart might beat out of my chest. I even thought of cancelling. But I didn’t cancel. And I didn’t go into cardiac arrest.
When I walked in your front door, I told you how excited and
nervous I was to meet you. You smiled and
started telling me about your timeline of pets, beginning with the cats your parents had
before you were born. Your dad had to
interrupt us to tell us it was time to go to the concert. I think we talked most of the way there. I know we talked all the way home. It was a good start.
Since then, we’ve collaborated on the world’s longest Father’s
Day. And on the world’s biggest
party-of-three birthday party. Ever. You’ve tried to
teach me to play guitar. I’ve tried to
teach you how to make pancakes in the shapes of letters. We’ve exchanged books. And camp songs. And tales of rescuing neglected cats and
dogs. We’ve played board games and card
games and totally made-up non-games. We’ve
watched movies. We’ve played basketball
and air hockey and putt-putt golf. For
me, getting to know you has been a total blast.
One day last week, your dad had to work late and the
babysitter had to leave at 6:30. I was thrilled
for the chance to take you out to dinner. After we ate, we hung out and played games. You commented that your dad was no fun at
playing board games because he was too competitive. And then you said:
“But, wait. I’m not
telling you that because I want you to stop liking my dad. I mean, I like you. So, like, I want you to keep liking
him.”
On the way home, I realized we’d crossed the alone-together
threshold. You’d finally been given an
opportunity to tell me what you really thought about me. Tonight was your chance to tell me anything without
your dad cutting you off. You had a pass
to tell me exactly how you felt. And you
did. You told me you liked me.
Sweet girl, I like you too.
Sincerely,
SEE
