Hello I'am Meggan Welcome to my website.
Even Stepmoms Think You Should Wear Sunscreen
A little reminder I left taped to the bathroom mirror for my stepson Reilly when he attended dirtbike camp this summer.
The child did not want to wear sunscreen.
He was twelve and he wanted a tan.
Now don’t get me wrong. I shunned the sunscreen as well in the foolish and smooth skinned days of my youth. I remember laying out in the backyard of my friend Heather’s house with nothing on but Def Leopard, a bikini, baby oil and reflecting pieces of tin foil. If you had a slice of tomato and piece of lettuce you could of substituted me for cooked bacon and I would of made a wonderful BLT.
That was 1989. In 2009 I sit here looking down at my sun damaged decolletage and think that my puckered skin would make a lovely pair of leather boots or in the right hands a nice handbag. I tired to explain to both my stepsons that sunburns are damaging and so 8o’s, but as I look at my stepson’s neon shirts, all the classic Ray Ban sun glasses the kids are wearing, and the fact that my stepsons think Ferris Bueller’s Day Off is the coolest movie ever made (which I introduced them to) I realize the 80’s are in…again.
Hella cool. Dust off my leg warmers S.T.A.T.
What’s a Stepmom to do? Preach “do as I say, not as I tanned?”
We are visiting the beach and the boys have been frequenting the ocean. They come home each day and proudly display their red and tender skin.
“No sunscreen…that’s how we roll,” the boys proclaim.
Not on my watch! That’s when I break out the aerosol spray aloe and 50 s.p.f. sunscreen and literally chase the boys around the house spraying sunscreen at their bodies as they dodge me and I screech out like every bit the crazed Stepmom I am…
“wear sunscreen, you’ll thank me when you are forty…wear sunscreen, you’ll thank me when you are forty.”
I don’t think I am having much affect on the boys choice to wear sunscreen and their ability to still get a tan. I keep on trying though, even if does remind me of growing up in the 80’s.
HOWEVER, if Harrison comes home with a bad perm and Reilly bleaches Billy Idol into his jeans our days of blast from the 80’s past might be numbered. Once was enough.
I Need To Apologize To My Spine
After riding The Colossus...a colossal need for a chiropractor
The six of us: The kids, Tweety Bird, me...and my bra strap and sunburn
It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Take my stepsons, Harrison, Reilly, and Reilly’s friend Kyle, to Six Flags at Magic Mountain and ride the roller coasters with them. I used to be quite the little roller coaster bad ass and I figured I could bond with the boys while traveling 100 m.p.h. in 3 seconds while strapped into a steel cage.
Never was I so wrong! It was horrifying, terrifying, body jarring madness. Plus, if I wanted to hear screaming and randomly smell puke all day I could of stayed home.
The rides at the park had names like The Vortex, Batman, The Riddler’s Revenge, Tatsu.
Those rides should of been called:
The Spine Eater
The Pre-Mature Ager from Intense Fear
The Ass Clencher a.k.a. The Constipator
The You Are No Longer 21
The Bitch You Are Crazy and Too Old To Be On This Ride, Sit Your Ass Down With A Nice Book And Quit Torturing Yourself (I rode that one twice)
The boys on the other hand LOVED it. They were determined to ride the rides for twelve hours (from open to close) and that is exactly what they did. They were unphased through intense heat, hair ruining rides that soaked us in water from head to toe, rides that defied sanity and gravity. When Kyle got nauseous and threw up after Batman and Reilly blacked out after Golliath the boys literally took a five minute break to “shake it off” only to get back on those roller coaster horses and ride again.
Meanwhile my ankles swelled (see photo above), my skin crisped in the sun, my bra straps gave up the valiant fight of maintaining dignity, and my body begged to not travel at speeds over 55 m.p.h. along rails of track.
In the end though, we did bond. There were super yummy iced lemonades and churros, we all got fake tattoos, took turns on the Oxygen Bar and decided we got ripped off by flavored air and the next day we still can’t stop talking about our trip.
Next time we go to a theme park though, it is my turn to pick…here we come…Nap World.
Happy 16th Birthday Harrison
June 2009
June 2006
Dear Harrison,
Happy 16th Birthday!! I can’t believe the little boy who I used to carry around on my shoulders just drove me to Target. I have thought long and hard (and of course cried) thinking of what to say on such an important milestone in one’s life, and to such an important person in my life.
There are the obvious life philosophies and teachings, which I tell you all the time. Don’t drive crazy, act crazy, or talk crazy. Don’t do drugs and don’t drop out of school. Don’t wash whites with colors and don’t lie to your stepmother.
Do show and practice kindness to others. Do give back to others in gratitude for what you have been given. Do laugh, enjoy life, and try new things keeping in mind that life is a continual journey of education and growth. Finally, do always remember to call your stepmother.
Those are the life philospohies to keep in mind as you grow from teenager to young man. As I sit at my computer thinking and looking around the condo at the life and family we have all built together, I know that on your 16th birthday I also want to say thank you. When I first started dating your Dad all those years ago I was so scared that you would resent me for stepping into your life and that I would be viewed as the “evil Stepmother.” In a million years I would never want to do that to you. Your Dad assured me that you were a wonderful and accepting kid and that we would get along just fine….and you know what, your Dad was right. You were a great kid, and now you are growing into a great young man.
So THANK YOU Harrison for never making me feel “step” anything, for treating me with love and respect, for welcoming me into your family, and for all the great memories and laughter we have shared.
Happy 16th Birthday! GO GET ‘EM!
Love Your Proud Stepmom,
Meggan
Baby’s Got A Brand New Bag
They say there is nothing like a boy and his dog bag. Lucas working his new pink purse, which he takes very seriously. Now if only his shoes matched.
Cash, The Family Language of Love
A recent conversation with my 12-year-old stepson Reilly.
Reilly: Meggan will you buy me some Fourth of July fireworks?
Meggan: No, not this year Reilly. Last year I spent $60.00 on you alone buying fireworks.
Reilly: YOU DID????????????????
Meggan: YESSS, I did. You don’t remember?
Reilly: Nope.
Meggan: Remember, it was really hot?
Reilly: Nope.
Meggan: Remember, I drove you to THREE different fireworks stands so you could have the best and most perfect combination of fireworks?
Reilly: Nope.
Meggan: Remember, you said it was going to be the best Fourth of July ever and I was the best Stepmom in the world?
Reilly: Nope.
Meggan: Dammit Reilly, how am I supposed to buy your love if you don’t remember I bought it?
Reilly: Guess you’ll just have to love me some more.
Meggan: Apparently.
Reilly: SOOO, since you are trying to buy my love, does this mean you’ll buy me some fireworks this year?
The Apple (Finally) Didn’t Fall Far From The Tree
Hallelujah, evidence Lucas is actually related to me. Carrying him in my body for 41 weeks, blood tests, and witnessing him emerge from my vagina was not quite enough evidence for me to prove Lucas was actually mine, I needed more proof.
You see, Lucas looks nothing like me. To me Lucas doesn’t look like my husband either, but that is a post for another day. According to the masses though, Lucas looks just like Ettore and my step-son Reilly. Lucas looks so little like me, that if men could get pregnant and carry a child, I might insist that Ettore had a secret affair, and then when HE delivered and had HIS vagina shredded like pulled pork tell HIM that birth was just pushing and “some pressure”. Just saying. Sorry, daydream. Back to how Lucas doesn’t look like me.
Lucas looks like he is not related to me. That was until tonight, when we went to dinner at a steakhouse.
The complete extent of my DNA in my child came pouring out.
When the food arrived…my son did a dance.
MY BOY! Evidence my genetic line has been passed on to my son! When food arrives, whether it be Subway or the latest five star restaurant I am overcome with happiness and the desire to do a little jig. I often sing the name of the food I am about to eat as well. Corn Beef makes me particulary melodious, and I channel my inner Whitney Houston ever time goat cheese hits the table. Lucas is a chip off the old block (of cheese). Tonight when his Jr. Steak was delivered we both started rocking and rolling. No DNA test required now, ever time we eat together I will know Lucas is my son…whether or not he has my eyes.
Family Photo Fun
I was going through some photos today and I came across these gems of our last family trip to the mall for the dreaded family photo. The smiling black and white photo you see on my About Meggan page didn’t start out so smiley. To turn this photo shoot around and get some smiles out of these kids I basically had to promise fake I.D’s and a trip to Vegas…and that was just for the baby, Lucas!
Dinner Reservation For Lucas, Your Floor Is Ready
This is not what I imagined feeding a toddler would be like. I just got over a good old fashioned gut wrenching cry. My baby won’t eat his food…unless it is on the floor. He also won’t wear clothes or his diaper. So what does that leave me with, a naked baby eating food off the floor. I try so hard.
B.B. (before baby) I was all about the pontificating. I will have boundaries and consistency. My baby will not learn bad behaviors because he will not be given the opportunity to learn them. For instance, B.B. I thought if my baby throws food on the floor then lunch is over and he will just have to wait till dinner to eat again. That way my baby will “learn” that throwing food on the floor is unacceptable.
I was sooo full of shit.
That was before I knew that a hungry baby = an angry baby complete with blood curdling screams, a continuous whining sound of waaaah – waaah – waaah, wanting up and then down simultaneously, little hands scratching my eyes out, and some no nonsense pulling of my hair. My baby doesn’t need baby sign language to communicate, he is saying, “Fuck you!” I don’t need $75.00 of Baby Einstein tapes to tell me my baby is pissed and wants his food…on the floor.
So I toil away in the kitchen battered and bruised, (and missing patches of hair) lovingly cutting up over priced organic fruit that I have to drive half way across town to get. I carefully butter Lucas’ stone ground bread with organic butter from a small farm in Vermont with a picture of the “Bessie”, the family’s dairy cow, on the packaging. Only to have Lucas throw the food on the floor…not to mention Bessie the cow’s hard work. It’s not easy having something pull on your udders all day. Show some respect child.
I take Lucas out of his high chair and before I can even turn around, the diaper is off and my child is scurrying around naked on his hands and knees eating his food off the floor like a child in a Save the Children commercial with Sally Struthers.
That’s when the bawling starts, my bawling. My child has a will of his own. He is growing up, going from baby to toddler. All which is good….I guess…right? It is frustrating though I have to admit. Is true love still feeding something, despite the fact that the something you are feeding, scratches your eyes out and pulls your hair. I don’t want to turn into an inflexible Mother. “It’s the high chair or NOTHING!” That would be horrible, but a balance between the two is something I am working on. In the meantime, dinner is served.
See you on the rug.
Evil Knievel Jr.
Emergency Room, meet Lucas. Lucas meet Emergency Room. I think the two of you will be getting to know each other quite well as the years go by. I think I have a future dare devil on my hands. This is a photo from the gym play room. As I approached the playroom I could hear loud baby yelling and crashing noises, I knew it was my son. They gym room attendant informed me that Lucas Evil Knievel Jr. had taken off his shoes, hopped on the tricycle, put on that head gear, and was ramming into the wall and all the toys in the playroom. It was totally adorable. My 16 month old future motorcross bad ass. At least he is wearing a helmut.
Helping Mommy
I have been saying for a while now that I need more help around here. Lucas must of heard my cries call and decided to help me with the dishwasher. I thought I said help Mommy unload the dishwasher, he must of heard…stand on the dishwasher. Beggars can’t be choosers.
My Twitter
Reilly: "Meggan, I don't think of you as my Stepmom anymore...your more like a man to me." 1 week ago
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