We're Going to Need More Wine - Gabrielle Union Page 0,74
us proud, and one of my jobs as a stepmother is to remind him how smart and amazing he is. These boys are totally worthy of all the devotion I can offer.
When I first met the boys, I just wanted to be authentic. “I’m a cool motherfucker,” I said to myself, checking my teeth in the mirror in the minutes before the introduction. “People like me.” It was like we were all on a blind date. “Where are you from? What are your hobbies? What are your favorite movies?” And on we went.
As our relationship grew, I was determined to never try to be BFFs with the boys. I did my best to be a cool, reasonable, consistent adult. That’s my advice to you stepparents out there. Whatever it is that you are, just be consistent. You can’t be the cool permissive hippie one day and the disciplinarian the next. And to all current or potential stepmothers: unless the mother is dead or in jail—and even then—it’s just a mistake to even try to scoot into her place. No one wants their mother replaced, whether she’s Mother Teresa or a serial killer.
The boys were in on it when Dwyane proposed to me in December 2013. We all went to brunch in Miami and then the guys told me they wanted to go on a tour of our new house, which was still under construction. I say under construction, but it was more like a few pieces of wood and some nails.
“Are you gonna do your hair?” Dwyane asked me several times. “Are you gonna put on makeup?”
“To go to a construction site?” I asked. “No.”
When we got there, the boys ran ahead of us to stand by what would eventually be our pool. “We want to do a presentation for you,” said Zion. I thought they were going to do some kind of skit.
“Turn around,” said Zaire.
So Dwyane and I faced away from the boys.
“Okay, we’re ready,” they said in unison.
The boys were all there with a sign. “Nickie, will you marry us?”
“Oh God, D,” I said, thinking the boys were doing this on their own. They had been after us to get married for two years. “This is awkward,” I said, turning to Dwyane.
He was down on one knee with a ring.
“Will you marry us?”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh. This is a thing. You guys are serious. Yes. Of course, yes!”
I love that they had agency in asking me to join the family. I never wanted to be the party crasher. The boys would have been especially vulnerable to someone trying to manipulate them because, as kids being raised by a male figure in a world that valorizes mothers as the sole models of nurturing, they all love the idea of “moms.” If “traditional” moms had trading cards, they would have all of them. “The Cookie Baker.” “The Classroom Volunteer.” I don’t fit into a traditional role, and I have too much respect for myself and these boys to attempt to fake it. They worship my mom, who they call Grammy, and my dad’s wife, Nana to them. These women take being grandmothers very seriously, going to every school play and recital they can. They don’t miss many.
But I do. A lot of events happen when I am literally out of state, at work. It doesn’t matter why—all kids know is that you’re missing it. It’s even harder for D. He misses things because it’s a game day, or he has practice. Even if he is in town, his work hours are not like anybody else’s. He doesn’t have the luxury of taking off early or having someone cover his shift. There are periods of time when neither of us is present, and this is not what either of us wants. As much as I try to be consistent, I’m often just absent. It’s shockingly easy to parent by text or apps like Marco Polo or WhatsApp. But that feels lazy, and the whole time I’m using any of them I am thinking, I’m failing them. I’m failing them. I’m failing them.
I wish I had a job where the boys could see me leave for work in the morning and come home at night. They could watch me work on my lines and be a producer. I film Being Mary Jane in Atlanta, and I do movies wherever the good work is. I’m gone for a week, then swoop in for thirty-six hours of in-your-face time before flying out again.