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Authors: Valerie Bertinelli
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children arrived for spring break. I feared that if anything was going to cause me to lose control in the kitchen late one night (hey, the warning light was on!), it would be the stress of dealing with all those kids.
Mind you, much of this stress was self-imposed. From the moment Tom told me that he had four children, which he shared on the night we met, I told myself that I wanted to be the best step-mom in the world. I would bet that a lot of women in similar situations say the same thing. But I may as well have decided to become an astronaut, too. It was impossible. There were too many complications. Five years later, I just wanted to come out a survivor, with my sense of humor and waistline intact.
The first summer that the kids stayed with us, I was determined to make every day spectacular. I made pancakes for them in the morning and three-course meals for lunches and dinners. When they arrived the next summer, I put cereal on the table for breakfast, served sandwiches for lunch, and hoped for a hot dinner at night. By the third summer, I was out of recipes. I let everyone make his or her own breakfast, and midway through their visit I groaned, “They’re staying the whole summer?”
• • •
Now, as we looked ahead to the fourth summer, I had nothing planned. But in my heart I knew without a doubt that I loved the children. Tom’s oldest, Tony, had moved in with us midway through his junior year of high school. He quickly grew close to Wolfie, who surprised me by immediately adjusting from his previous existence as an only child. Rather than have separate bedrooms, they moved two beds into one large room. Tony also plays the bass, and the two of them jam endlessly.
Tom’s youngest, Dominic, now ten, is an adorable, energetic boy who walks on the balls of his feet. He’s always ready to play or snuggle. But he’s the only boy in history who hates French fries. He doesn’t like cheese either. Yet he loves quesadillas. Go figure.
Next up is Angela, the family’s Italian beauty. When we are out in public, people mistake her for my daughter. An A student, she has the preternatural savvy of a child who grew up quickly. She’s fourteen going on twenty-four. Then there’s Andie, a coltish seventeen-year-old with the biggest eyes and best legs I have ever seen. She has a passion for creative writing and a fascinating imagination that has Tom and me wondering how she will use it as an adult.
Their hugs at the start of those summer visits put me in the best mood. The problems began a few hours later when everyone wanted to know where they were sleeping and what we were doing for fun the next day. It was typical family stuff, except it involved seven people with seven different agendas. Invariably someone whined that he or she was bored, someone else carped about not liking dinner, and after dinner there were too many people of different ages for everyone to agree on one movie.
Life under one roof like that was a challenge. But it was, in many ways, an even bigger challenge when the other three kids were inArizona, looking to Tom for advice or help or the kind of everyday dad stuff that kids want and need. Long-distance parenting strains everyone. I wish I had a dollar for every time I looked at Tom and said, “So you had such a bad marriage that you had four kids.”
Gradually my attitude changed. I toughened up, didn’t worry as much, and became more realistic about what I could do and what I
would
do for the kids. I knew I couldn’t be perfect. No one is—except Mary Poppins, and her calling card said she was
practically
perfect. I came to realize that one day as I was preparing three different versions of dinner, trying too hard to make everyone happy. As I told Tom, I would have been better off letting everyone be miserable, like me.
Hee hee.
After losing weight, I realized that I had changed even more. I didn’t want to pretend to be anyone I wasn’t. In a way, that was part
Mind you, much of this stress was self-imposed. From the moment Tom told me that he had four children, which he shared on the night we met, I told myself that I wanted to be the best step-mom in the world. I would bet that a lot of women in similar situations say the same thing. But I may as well have decided to become an astronaut, too. It was impossible. There were too many complications. Five years later, I just wanted to come out a survivor, with my sense of humor and waistline intact.
The first summer that the kids stayed with us, I was determined to make every day spectacular. I made pancakes for them in the morning and three-course meals for lunches and dinners. When they arrived the next summer, I put cereal on the table for breakfast, served sandwiches for lunch, and hoped for a hot dinner at night. By the third summer, I was out of recipes. I let everyone make his or her own breakfast, and midway through their visit I groaned, “They’re staying the whole summer?”
• • •
Now, as we looked ahead to the fourth summer, I had nothing planned. But in my heart I knew without a doubt that I loved the children. Tom’s oldest, Tony, had moved in with us midway through his junior year of high school. He quickly grew close to Wolfie, who surprised me by immediately adjusting from his previous existence as an only child. Rather than have separate bedrooms, they moved two beds into one large room. Tony also plays the bass, and the two of them jam endlessly.
Tom’s youngest, Dominic, now ten, is an adorable, energetic boy who walks on the balls of his feet. He’s always ready to play or snuggle. But he’s the only boy in history who hates French fries. He doesn’t like cheese either. Yet he loves quesadillas. Go figure.
Next up is Angela, the family’s Italian beauty. When we are out in public, people mistake her for my daughter. An A student, she has the preternatural savvy of a child who grew up quickly. She’s fourteen going on twenty-four. Then there’s Andie, a coltish seventeen-year-old with the biggest eyes and best legs I have ever seen. She has a passion for creative writing and a fascinating imagination that has Tom and me wondering how she will use it as an adult.
Their hugs at the start of those summer visits put me in the best mood. The problems began a few hours later when everyone wanted to know where they were sleeping and what we were doing for fun the next day. It was typical family stuff, except it involved seven people with seven different agendas. Invariably someone whined that he or she was bored, someone else carped about not liking dinner, and after dinner there were too many people of different ages for everyone to agree on one movie.
Life under one roof like that was a challenge. But it was, in many ways, an even bigger challenge when the other three kids were inArizona, looking to Tom for advice or help or the kind of everyday dad stuff that kids want and need. Long-distance parenting strains everyone. I wish I had a dollar for every time I looked at Tom and said, “So you had such a bad marriage that you had four kids.”
Gradually my attitude changed. I toughened up, didn’t worry as much, and became more realistic about what I could do and what I
would
do for the kids. I knew I couldn’t be perfect. No one is—except Mary Poppins, and her calling card said she was
practically
perfect. I came to realize that one day as I was preparing three different versions of dinner, trying too hard to make everyone happy. As I told Tom, I would have been better off letting everyone be miserable, like me.
Hee hee.
After losing weight, I realized that I had changed even more. I didn’t want to pretend to be anyone I wasn’t. In a way, that was part
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