Having been raised in public school in a public school neighborhood – the sole kid who went to private school did so because his priest informed his mom that he would be going to parochial school – I have numerous misgivings about private school. If I were honest with myself, I’d probably have to admit that some of my misgivings are really prejudices. There might even be a bit of jealousy thrown in. Luckily, I’m not honest with myself.

I did go to a private college, and those were four incredibly happy years that I’ll be paying off for another twenty. I frequently dream that I’m back in college and wake feeling sad. Private college is kind of like private school, I think, except better. So I can see that there must be some pros to private school: small class sizes, high percentages of teachers who care, compared to public school, fewer teachers who went to school to avoid the draft … the list could go on and on.

Nevertheless, I remain rather unimpressed with private schools. After all, I went to a public school from kindergarten through high school, and here I am today writing this post. I haven’t spent even one night in jail, and I’ve yet to inject even a single, solitary drop of heroin into my eyeballs. Right or left.

Private schools are nice and all, but they’re not perfect. And they’re not necessarily that much better than public schools, despite the advantages. My elementary school was in a poor part of town, for example. It was – this is true – built as a “temporary” school back in the 70′s. A temporary school. In a permanent community. It’s still there today, and I won’t contradict the cynic who suggests that has something to do with the socioeconomic status of the voters in the area. But I simply can’t imagine that there is a single private elementary school in town that provides a better experience than the one I had. I also still dream of that school, just like I still dream about college, although when I wake I’m glad to have been dreaming. Puberty was unpleasant once; I’d rather not repeat it.

But with private school, there’s stuff like this that Katie went through earlier this week:

It was already dark outside and the school felt thoroughly deserted. I walked into the cafeteria, where the last three kids and one or two aftercare workers were hanging out, waiting for the neglectful working moms. As I walked in, I could see the look of disapproval on one of the aftercare worker’s faces. I tried to ignore it.

I approached E, who was sitting at a table, and in a cheery voice that belied my tiredness, asked him to gather up his things. As he did, the aftercare worker with the disapproving mien approached me, and told me that E had been loud during the study hall period of aftercare. I turned to E, who had his things ready by now and was waiting to leave, and I asked him to apologize for his behavior. But before he said a word, the aftercare lady turned to him and said in a tone of voice CLEARLY intended to convey that what she was about to say was actually for me, and not for E, “That’s okay E. All of us at the school understand that it’s REALLY, REALLY HARD to behave when you are so tired of your mother leaving you in aftercare so late.”

I’m not going to go into detail about what I think about this poor woman, although I will say that I am somewhat amused by the crazy hypocrisy in her statement. Even if she doesn’t have kids, she has a weird double standard. And I can only assume that the other kids who were still there had parents just as terrible as E’s.

One difference between my elementary school and E’s was the daily train of vans at my school, lining up to take kids to the daycare centers where many of my classmates spent the time between when school ended and when their parent(s) got home from work. I never had to go to daycare, but I did spend time at neighbors’ houses after school instead of mine. And there was a period when I had a key to the house and would spend some time alone at home every day. I don’t think I ever got upset that my mom couldn’t always pick me up at school every day and take me to get a cherry Icee, but I was very aware of how lucky I was that my mom was a teacher and got summers off.

Meanwhile, my step-kids get upset about staying at their posh school an extra hour or two before Katie can get off work and pick them up. Not that I blame them, and it certainly isn’t their “fault” that they feel this way, anyway. It’s just that they’re in the minority at their school, where, like most private schools in our area, few moms work. And all they can see is that their friends’ moms don’t work, so why should theirs?

It really makes me frustrated, because there’s no way I can explain to them how truly lucky they are. And if I even try, I end up saying something ridiculously along the lines of “kids these days don’t know how good they’ve got it.” So instead I sit there, biting my lip and explaining one more time that their mom does work and will work and that’s just life even if they don’t like it. And then I say a mental prayer for Katie, who I’m sure feels slapped in the face every time the kids complain that she has to work.

And maybe they’d still feel this way if they went to the schools where I went, but I don’t think so. The pros of private school likely outweigh the cons, but the cons sure can be unpleasant. I just hope we can find some middle ground for C when she gets old enough. I understand that the neighborhood school for our gentrified part of town is a Montessori school a few miles away, and I’m not sure that I’m ok with that.

Strictly speaking, the word “parenting” means nothing more than rearing or making sure the kid you’re in charge of is supported until she can support herself. But we all know there is a lot more to parenting than that. To support someone is just to provide the bare minimum of food, shelter, and clothing. But you’re not parenting if you’re not guiding and shaping, too. And that’s the hard part.

I probably have an unusual perspective on parenting because I became a step-parent before I became a parent. I don’t want to offend anyone here, but step-parents live in a certain hell that is parenting without being a parent. I would never claim that H, J, & E are my kids, and I will correct people who make that assumption. But while I am not their parent, I do parent them. I’m not one of the two primary people in charge of supporting them until they can support themselves, and I am not one of the primary people in charge of guiding and shaping them, but I still get to do it.

When you’re not a step-parent, you know the child’s whole life. You were around when they were born, and you’ve changed diapers and tied shoelaces. But most step-parents meet their charges-to-be when they’re much older. You don’t have the luxury of a shared past. You have to build trust. You can’t just parent; you first have to get the right to parent.

I realized a few days ago that parenting can be something you do deliberately or unconsciously. With C, who is not quite two (dammit), parenting can be as basic as helping her speak. C will ask “read book?” or “C read book?” and I will respond not with a yes or a no but with an unconscious “you want to read a book?” That’s parenting without noticing. You’re shaping the way they speak by repeating and correcting their speech. At other times, though, C will pitch a fit because she doesn’t get what she wants, and I will very deliberately let her pitch her fit. At those times I have to struggle not to swoop her up in my arms and try to console her, both because it wouldn’t work and because she needs to learn how to recover on her own when she doesn’t get what she wants.

But as a step-parent of older kids, I didn’t get it so easy. As a parent to a baby, you learn a lot yourself through trial and error. There’s a fair amount of wiggle room, because a toddler isn’t going to remember what you said last time, and because parenting starts out small. But there is little room for trial and error with older kids. Saying yes when you should’ve said no can have much worse consequences when a child is fourteen instead of not-quite two. And step-parents don’t have the luxury of saying no all of the time without losing the affection of their step-children, who will never be as close to you as they are to their parents.

And it only gets worse when the kids are old enough to be gone for half of the summer. There are months when I only see J for fifteen minutes every few days. And then I have to decide when to let things slide because I don’t want to be too negative. Or I have to make an extra effort to be positive just so that I can do the occasional negative parenting. But I’ve found that it takes a lot of positive to outweigh any negative.

All I can say is – and I say this with total sincerity – I am lucky that I landed in such a wonderful family. There are many difficulties to step-parenting that parents don’t face (ignoring the fact that there are many difficulties caused by step-parents that parents then have to face), but the kids have always made my job way easier than I ever had any right to expect.

I just got this note from Katie:

BTW, this morning E told me that even though C is your “real” kid and he isn’t, he’s pretty sure you love him as much as you love C. I told him that he is right

Obviously, Katie gave the right response. I only wish E spent more time at our house rather than the schedule of alternating weeks necessity has created.

But E’s remark got me thinking in a different direction: there is an oddity in life that to E’s cousins, who have known me just as long as E has, I am “Uncle” Jon. But to E, I am just Jon. My nieces and nephews refer to me with more respect, if that is the right word, than the kids in my house. To my nieces and nephews, I have a title and a place. To H, J, and E, I am Jon.

It’s not that stepparenting is a new thing, either. I am sure it used to be quite common when life expectancies were much shorter. I am sure that everyone in Jane Austen’s day knew someone who had remarried after losing a spouse. Then there are those so-called step-dads who became “dad” at some point. But E already has a dad. And he certainly can’t call me “Step-Dad” instead of Jon, as in “Hey Step-Dad, can I watch some tv?”

I guess there’s no solution. There just isn’t a good term for what I am. I am more than Step-Dad and more than Jon.

I guess if I am lucky, and I do my job right, “Jon,” too, will mean more than “Jon.”