I am the Stepmom
You can see Jake’s official frat photo in the collage behind us.
“Hi. I’m Sandy. I’m the Stepmom.”
I found myself saying this repeatedly at my stepson’s college parents’ weekend. My husband, Garrett’s son, Jake, is a sophomore at Oregon State and a fraternity brother at Pi Kappa Phi. Jake’s freshman year Garrett went to Parents’ Weekend solo. This year I tagged along, enjoying my role as the invited stepmom.
Garrett and Jake both professed to a fun-filled weekend together in Corvallis, Oregon for Jake’s freshman parents’ weekend. With many activities planned, Garrett had a great time meeting other parents while enjoying refreshments at the frat house and attending a Beaver football game. I knew a good time was had based on the many texts received from both Jake and Garrett throughout the first-year festivities.
It seemed like another boys’ adventure for parents’ weekend was the perfect plan for this year as well. Well, so I thought until a curveball was tossed.
The first inkling of a change in this year’s plan came from Garrett.
“Sandy, you need to come with me to parents’ weekend this year too!”
My response was a mishmash of ‘Oh, Garrett, you are too kind…but this is about you and Jake having a weekend together. I’m just the stepmom…It’s all good!’
Garrett wasn’t hearing it, so I turned to Jake. I was sure with Jake reiterating that it was fine for me to stay home, this would finalize a solo flight by Garrett. I thought Jake’s desire would be to stick to the father-and-son combo.
Another curveball came with Jake’s response.
“Sandy, you should come. It would be a lot of fun!”
I was outvoted and my flights were booked. This unexpected turn of parents’ weekend events also created a moment of reflection for me. I would never have believed five or so years ago this current change in the stepmom tide; specifically, the now warm sentiment between stepmom and stepson, me and Jake.
Our story began thirteen years ago. In late 2009, I became part of Jake’s life and he, part of mine. Our lives intersected with one common denominator, Garrett. I started my role as the girlfriend when Jake was a mere six-year-old. He loved his dad, and so did I. Common goals meant instant attachment, you say? Not so much. Conflict ensued with us both preferring having Garrett to ourselves.
When Jake was ten, I graduated from the role of dad’s girlfriend to that of stepmom. Having three sons of my own, I saw him in the light of comparison to my sons with Jake comparing me to his own mom. There were lots of differences. Conflict ensued.
The shared love we had for Garrett eventually eased us into a new stage of our stepmom-stepson relationship. We moved on from conflict and into the comfortable zone of tolerating each other. Not a huge step forward, but much more amenable for Garrett. When together, Jake and I went through the motions to keep his dad, my husband, happy, a sacrifice both Jake and I silently deemed worthy.
An unexpected new stage took over our delicate stepmom-stepson relationship in 2019. While spending his high school years in New York, Jake decided to come live with us for the summer of 2019. Garrett and I were living in a very small rental house in Boise, Idaho. As a new empty-nester, I had visions of that summer being one of us living carefree and childfree. When Garrett gleefully told me that Jake had chosen to live with us for the summer, I did not feel the joint joy of winning the lottery.
As a point of context, although Garrett and I had been together for ten years, Jake and I had never truly lived together before. For his entire childhood, his dad and I commuted back and forth from Denver and Omaha, allowing our kids to stay in their schools by their other parents. Other than joint family trips and some shared weekends, Jake and I went our separate ways more often than sharing the same roof.
Our summer in Boise was the first of consecutive days spent together. We were officially onto our new stage of being roommates. Just tolerating each other was no longer an option.
Holding two jobs and without a driver’s license, Jake dutifully went back and forth to work on his electric skateboard. Although I was impressed with his work ethic, I was under-impressed with his messiness. Used to having his dad to himself without a stepmom around so much, Jake was under-impressed with me being invited along to all activities. But he was impressed with my cooking and the availability of meals and a stocked frig.
Early in our summer together in Boise, I had just taken Jake to Trader Joe’s, his favorite grocery store. I wanted him to choose items he liked so he would feel at home. Jake and I made it an adventure, renting scooters to Downtown TJ’s and then enjoying a lunch of sushi together. We began our summer as roommates with Jake getting into the rhythm of his summer job while I worked from home.
On the morning of the potato incident, Jake decided to make a big breakfast for himself. He was self-sufficient in caring for himself and planning his days. The open kitchen was adjacent to where my little makeshift office was situated. I could smell the delectable aromas coming from the potatoes he had baked in the oven. Scents of garlic and seasoning salt filled the potato-infused air.
Noticing Jake was done eating and carefully packing up the leftovers, I was annoyed that he hadn’t offered any to me. Feeling a bit of martyrdom knowing I contributed time and money for the newly purchased TJ potatoes, and I cooked for him, I asked for my share.
Me “Hey, can I have a few of those? They smell great!”
I fully expected an apology for his faux pas of not originally offering.
Jake “Um, no. They’re mine. I want these for leftovers.”
I thought he was kidding. He was not. Without any more words, Jake put his potatoes into the frig for later. And then he left for work.
I was infuriated. My mind swirled with thoughts of ‘What a spoiled brat! Selfish, selfish. I cook for him every day…I buy him whatever food he wants. I let him stay here…he takes us for granted’ The more I spun on it with lingering smells of potatoes in the air, the madder I got.
I then translated these thoughts into texts to Garrett, father of the said selfish child. Garrett was working in an office while we were in Boise, so he was receiving these rants on potato sharing while he was trying to work. He simply answered that we would discuss it when he got home. I later learned that he got a similar string of texts from Jake. The potato war was on.
By midafternoon I was still fuming. Knowing Jake and Garrett would both be home from work soon, I wanted Garrett to deal with Jake himself. I left the house. Not having a car in Boise, I grabbed my backpack and hopped on my bike. I had no idea where I was going. I just didn’t want to be home. I wanted to come home to the issue resolved to my liking and without my involvement. Garrett’s son. Garrett’s problem.
After riding around our little neighborhood I noticed a favorite local brewery. Perfect. After locking up my bike, I ordered a big plate of smothered fries. My very own fries not to share with anyone. Adding on a beer, I slowly devoured my personal feast. If I was to live in a home that didn’t share, I would just buy my own and have my own fun. That was the thought process of my irrational adult mind. Well, maybe the thoughts were influenced by the beer.
My thoughts then progressed to I how didn’t raise my own sons to be selfish. This was my internal comeback although I should have checked with the stepmom of my sons. She likely would beg to differ. I finally floated home on my bike with a potato-filled stomach. My hope was that Garrett would have reached a resolution by now as this was his problem.
My entering the house ended a tense conversation between father and son. Jake turned to me offering a forced apology.
“Fine! I’m sorry, Sandy. Geez! It’s not a big deal. They are just potatoes. Have em!”
Being the adult, I start spewing back words like a rabid teenager verbally fighting with her brother. Back and forth, Jake and I lobbed our excuses and accusations.
Taking it all in but not contributing, Garrett gave us his parting words.
“You two are going to have to work this out. I’m not getting in the middle.”
And then he left the room.
No longer were Jake and I looking at him to give our sides of the story. No longer did each of us have one of Garrett’s ears to debate for his final verdict. It was just us. Any resolution lay squarely between the two of us. Roommate #3 was out of the discussion.
Knowing we had an entire summer in front of us, Jake and I eventually talked rationally and found common ground. Over the course of the next 30 minutes, I found out that Jake was used to a food situation of everyone in the family cooking for themselves and having their own food (like roommates sharing space). He thought the TJ food was simply for him. His cooking. His eating. And his side of the frig.
I explained to Jake that I always cooked for my family. I bought the groceries and made sure everyone had food to their liking. But we always shared. Eating was a family event and cooking was a nurturing love language for me. Once we each stopped to listen to the other, we understood the background stories. Our reaction to the potato fight now made sense. It was also clear that our perception of the intent of the other was totally wrong. The crafted stories in our minds of the evil stepmom and the selfish stepson evaporated with the long-gone potato aromas.
We went on with our summer in Boise as a party of three. I kept cooking and stocking the frig with Jake’s favorites. He showed more gratitude toward me for doing these things. And I stopped looking for what was wrong with Jake and instead started seeing the good things. Jake started cooking occasional meals for all of us and offered to help more around the house. He worked hard and had fun, both qualities I admire. We had a good summer.
Our transition from tolerating each other to appreciating each other started in Boise. Although I like to say it started with a pan of potatoes, the shift in the trajectory was when we decided to get to truly know each other and seek to understand. We slowly found we had more in common than different. Jake and I started valuing each other outside of any preconceived roles. I stopped mentally comparing Jake to my relationship with my own sons. And I believe Jake stopped comparing me to his mom. We are all different people who play important, but different roles. Garrett gave us a gift by forcing us to work it out ourselves.
Jake spent his next two summers with us in Durango. He continued to work hard. He and I found commonalities in favorite books and movie interests. He started coming to me for advice on college and things that he sought an outside opinion. I was finding the stepmom role to be much better than I earlier believed. I had no skin in the game, thus why Jake enjoyed getting my independent perspective. I could share my insight without all the overthinking and conflicting worries of a parent. I found myself siding with Jake on debates on things like taking his dad’s truck to work (Jake got to drive the truck BTW).
I have enjoyed watching Jake grow up into adulthood. I admire his intelligence (book and street), his resilience, and his great work ethic. When I give him a compliment, he knows it is real and deserved. We could have gotten by all these years tolerating each other, but that is not the path either one of us ultimately chose, and we are both better for it.
Last summer, Jake took a job in Tahoe, rather than coming back to Durango. At the end of the summer Garrett and I went on a visit that included white water rafting. Gearing up on the boat, the guide asked if I was Jake’s mom. We both looked at each other, shaking our heads profusely.
Me: “No, no, no… I’m just the stepmom.”
The conversation continued with Jake saying to me, jokingly and truthfully “You know, I didn’t like you at first.”
Without missing a beat, I responded “Well, I didn’t like you either.”
We laughed together, bringing up our inside joke on ‘the potato incident’ which no one else on the raft understood. Our new communication style is one of directness with a bit of humor, which is much better than tolerance.
The next time I saw Jake was Parents’ Weekend. Our party of three (father, son, stepmom) had a weekend full of exploring campus, visiting the Oregon coast in the rain, lots of good food, and great conversations. I was so glad I was invited. Although my being the stepmom at parents’ weekend was normal to us, I found myself unwinding other parents mistaking me for the blood mother role.
A handshake with Garrett, introduced as Jake’s father, was followed by eyes shifting to me with “Oh, you must be Jake’s mom.”
Me: “No, I’m not his mother. He already has a mother.”
Although this was funny to me and a little bit to Jake, it was awkward. I found myself in the fraternity parking lot swarming with Beaver parents and their students. I chose to introduce myself with my proper title before anyone had time to assume otherwise. And it stuck. It became the weekend of “Hi. I’m Sandy. I’m the Stepmom!”
Following this up with a smile and a firm handshake, there was no room left for discussion on bloodlines.
At the end of the day, that is my role. I am the stepmom.
And I’m good with that.
Go Beavers!
