My daddy always said if you’re feelin’ like a person of authority, try
bossing around someone else’s dog.
The same can be said of stepchildren.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get the hang of the whole “stepmom” thing.
Chap’s son and daughter already have three people barking orders at them, I’m fairly certain they wouldn’t take kindly with another, so I walk that slippery line between friend and Wicked Step-Monster.
And of course, the rules for The Princess are different at their mother’s house than they are at ours, and the kids take full advantage of it—as well they should—they are, after all, kids.
And they are all about pulling a fast one— fourteen-year-old Princess tells me her mother lets her shop at Victoria’s Secret, let’s her drive, and my favorite—allows her to slug down six-packs of wine coolers while juggling fire batons. Of course, when I pick up the phone to do a little fact-checking, much back peddling ensues.
Last weekend, she was setting the table for dinner without being asked, and piercing alarm bells pinged around my frontal lobe.
“Mom said I could get my belly pierced if you would take me,” she said, knowing full well that her mother was in Europe and virtually unreachable for the entire next week.
“Hm,” I said. “Did you ask your dad?”
“I was hoping you could ask him.”
“What, so then we would both get killed after he recovered from his triple coronary?”
She grinned, giving me her best puppy-dog eyes.
And I had to be the Evil Stepmother. Again.
“We need to wait until your mother gets home,” I said. “If she says yes, then I’ll take you.”
“You’ll talk to Dad, then?” she almost squealed in delight.
“Tell you what,” I said. “You don’t get anything below a “C” next report card, and I’ll talk to your dad.”
She almost did a cartwheel, then stopped and decided to press her luck.
“Will you get one with me?”
I almost dropped my dinner plate.
I am not opposed to piercings, no matter what body part they’re poking, after all, Austin is my hometown and the River City practically invented tie-dyed hair, bizarre piercings through multiple orafices and *ick* body branding.
The sad truth, however, is that I am a big chicken, right down to my custardy core.
Here’s the thing. I figure I came pre-equipped with just the right amount of holes in my body with the ones God gave me. Not even my ears have been poked, peaked or otherwise tampered with. I mean, have you seen this elf ear thing going on?
But I know a bargaining point when I see one.
I said, “If you get nothing below a “B” this quarter, I will go with you and I too will defile my body.”
She did squeal then, though the excitement of this newsflash stopped just short of bringing her to the point of cart-wheeling.
She did, after all, have to perform a Lourdes-type miracle of pulling off a straight-B quarter.
I have not mentioned any of this to Chap.
The Princess and I are both now in the wait-and-see mode. After all, I will tell him, it could be worse . . .