I'm Susanne. I'm 27, I'm an accountant, and in July of 1997 I married Karl, who came with a great laugh, a decent lawn mower, and two kids: Melissa, who is now 11, and Evan, who is now 8. They live with their mom, and they're with us every other weekend, every Wednesday night for supper, and half the summer.

Before I got married I had read exactly zero books about stepfamilies. I had babysat. I had a niece. I figured: I like kids, kids like me, how hard can it be? (You may laugh now. I do.)

Two years in, I've made just about every mistake there is and a couple I'm pretty sure nobody ever made before. I'm putting them all here in the hope that the next new stepmom can skip a few. I am not an expert. I'm one stepmother in Indiana with a spreadsheet and a lot of board games.

One rule I keep on this page: I don't say anything about the kids' mom except good things. That's not me being saintly. She's their mother, they love her, and some day they might read this. She's a good mom. That's all you'll get from me on the subject, and it's all you need.

1. Let their dad do the discipline, at least at first. The first summer I tried to enforce "my" house rules about wet towels and TV, and all the kids heard was a lady they barely knew bossing them around. Now Karl sets the rules and handles the consequences. I back him up, and when he's not home, I'm the babysitter: "Your dad says no TV until the dishes are done." It took about a year and a half before I could make a rule of my own without a fight, and it's still a short list.

2. You're another grown-up who cares about them, not a replacement. They already have a mother. They don't need a second one. What they can use is one more adult who's on their side, shows up to the spelling bee, and knows how they like their grilled cheese. That job is open, and it's a good one.

3. Don't compete. Not with their mom, not with their memories, not with the old way of doing things. I once spent an entire Saturday making a fancy birthday cake for Evan because I wanted it to be better than the one at his mom's house. He ate the frosting off one corner and went outside. Lesson learned. The cake isn't the point.

4. Expect loyalty conflicts, and don't take them personally. If a kid has a great time with you, part of them feels like they're betraying their mom. So sometimes, right after the best day ever, they're awful to you. It's not about you. It's a kid trying to love everybody at once and not knowing how.

5. Give it time. Then more time. Somebody at our stepfamily group said it takes four to seven years for a stepfamily to feel like a family. At first I thought that was the most depressing thing I'd ever heard. Now I find it comforting. We're right on schedule.

6. Mother's Day is complicated. I don't expect anything. I spend it with my own mother, Arlene, who taught me most of what I know about patience. Last May, Melissa called me that evening, on her own, to say "Happy Mother's Day, sort of." I had to sit down on the stairs. "Sort of" is perfect. I'll take "sort of" any day.

7. Have a life of your own on the off weekends. Read. See your friends. Go to the movies with your husband like the grown-ups you are. You'll be a better stepmom on Friday if you weren't one on Tuesday.

Biscuit, the Commuting Hamster

For Evan's seventh birthday, Karl and his ex-wife agreed (after several phone calls) that Evan could have a hamster, on the condition that the hamster went wherever Evan went. So Biscuit, a golden hamster with a very poor attitude, has two cages, two water bottles and two wheels, and travels between houses every other Friday and Sunday in a shoebox with air holes punched in the lid, lined with paper towels and a handful of cedar shavings.

The shoebox says BISCUIT - THIS SIDE UP on it in Evan's handwriting, and on the bottom it says FRAGILE, in case anybody is unclear on the matter.

I'm not going to pretend I understand hamsters. But I'll tell you what I've noticed: the shoebox is the one thing that goes back and forth that Evan is in charge of. He checks the holes. He holds it level in the car. He tells Biscuit when they're almost there. A kid who doesn't get to decide where he sleeps on Saturday night gets to be the one who takes care of somebody else on the trip. I think that matters more than the hamster.

(Biscuit bit me in March. We have since come to an understanding.)

It was a Wednesday in April of 1998, at supper, the night of the green beans. Melissa was ten. I said something completely ordinary, like "two more bites," and she put down her fork and said, loud and clear, "You're not my mom."

Every stepmother hears it sooner or later. I'd read that. I'd practiced not reacting. And I still felt my face go hot, and what I wanted to say was something like "Well, I'm the one who cooked these green beans." Thank goodness I didn't.

What I said, after a breath, was: "You're right. I'm not your mom. You've got a great mom. I'm Susanne, and I'm the grown-up at this table tonight, and I'd like you to eat two more bites." And then Karl said, "Two more bites, Mel," and she ate them, glaring at me, and went to her room.

About an hour later there was a piece of notebook paper pushed under the bedroom door where I was folding laundry. It said, in purple marker: Sorry I said that. You're not my mom but your OK. (Yes, "your." I have never once corrected the grammar on it. It's in my jewelry box.)

We didn't talk about it that night. The next time she was over, she asked me to French braid her hair, which she had never asked before. I braided it. That was the whole conversation, and it was the right one.

She's said it twice since then, both times when she was tired and mad about something else. Both times I said "You're right," and both times it passed. It's a true statement. It doesn't have to be a fight.

Our holidays are written into the divorce papers, so nobody has to argue about them, which is a gift. In our case:

• Thanksgiving alternates. Odd years with their mom, even years with us. So this year we're having a very quiet turkey, and the kids come over Friday for leftovers and pie.
• Christmas is split. Christmas Eve until noon on Christmas Day is with one house, and noon on through the next day with the other, and they switch every year. Last year we had Christmas morning. This year we get the afternoon.
• Halloween alternates too. Odd years, trick-or-treating is at their mom's. (See the October calendar for how that works out this year.)
• Birthdays: the kids have their party at whichever house they're at, and the other house does a family dinner as close to the day as the schedule allows. Nobody gets two parties. That was their mom's idea and it was a good one.

What I've learned: the date doesn't matter. Kids don't care if Christmas morning happens at two in the afternoon. They care whether the grown-ups are happy to see them. So whatever day we get, that's our Christmas, and we make a big deal of it.

The best advice anyone gave me came from Carmen at our stepfamily group, who has been a stepmom for eleven years: Don't try to copy their old family's traditions. Start new ones that belong only to your house.

So we have:

• Friday Pizza and a Board Game. Every Friday they're with us. Pizza comes at six, half pepperoni, half plain cheese for Evan, who believes pepperoni is "too spicy." Then a game at the kitchen table. Right now it's Clue, which Melissa wins every single time because she takes notes. Evan likes Sorry! because he enjoys saying "Sorry!" in a voice that is not sorry at all. Karl cheats at Uno. Everyone knows it. Nobody can prove it.
• The Wednesday Question. At supper on Wednesdays, somebody gets to ask a question everybody has to answer. Recent ones: "What would you do with a million dollars?" (Evan: a pet shark.) "Which teacher would win in a fight?" "What's the worst food on earth?" (Unanimous: my tuna casserole. Fair.)
• Christmas Morning at Noon. The years we get the afternoon, the kids walk in at noon and it is officially morning. Pajamas go on over their clothes, I make pancakes, and presents get opened like it's seven a.m. Evan thinks this is the funniest thing that has ever happened.
• The First Night of Summer. When they come for their half of the summer, we eat supper in the backyard on a blanket, and we stay out till we can count ten lightning bugs.

Here's a thing nobody tells you: a stepfamily starts with the kids already there. A regular couple gets a few years of just the two of them before the babies come. We got about four dates before I met the kids, and they were at the wedding. So we have to make time on purpose.

• On the weekends the kids are at their mom's, Saturday night is ours. No talking about the kids, the schedule, or their mom for the first hour of dinner. (We usually last forty minutes.)
• We talk about the hard stuff in private, never in front of the kids, and we come out of the bedroom agreeing even if we didn't go in that way.
• When I'm hurt by something one of the kids did, I tell Karl, and he listens, and he doesn't defend them right away. That took practice on his part.
• When he's sad on the Sunday nights he drops them off, I leave him alone for a while, and then I bring him a bowl of ice cream. Being a part-time dad is hard in its own way, and I try to remember that.

The Stepfamily Association of America was a lifesaver our first year. They're a national organization for stepfamilies, and they have books, a newsletter, and local groups in some areas. Through them we found a small stepfamily group that meets one Sunday night a month at a church here in town. Six or seven couples, a pot of decaf, and nobody who thinks you're crazy. Don and Carmen have been running it for years, and Carmen has a better answer for every problem than any book I've read.

If you're a stepmom, a stepdad, or about to be one, write me. I'm happy to compare notes, swap game recommendations, or just tell you that you're doing better than you think. You probably are.