Every mom has at least one story, the story of how her child came to be. Even though becoming a mother has resulted in permanent brain damage (“baby brain” never really goes away, people), all the moms I know can recount with shocking accuracy every detail of her pregnancy and an almost minute-by-minute account of the actual delivery. Granted, I’ve only done it once. Not sure if Michelle Duggar would agree with the above statements. But even my friends with multiple children can speak confidently about each pregnancy and birth they experienced.
On Caroline’s most recent birthday, I told her the whole thing. Everything I could remember. The conversation her dad and I had at Moe’s when we decided we were ready to start trying for a baby. The day I found out I was pregnant (which just happened to be Mother’s Day). How she would kick so hard, it would scare me to death. How my water broke at 3 AM, two days before Christmas, three weeks before my due date, on the day I was supposed to be hosting a Christmas party (the seven-layer dip was already made and in the fridge). The phone calls I made from the hospital. The actual labor and delivery. The unexpected trip to Shands on Christmas Day to check her heart murmur.
She was enchanted by it all. She was known and cared for and loved before she ever was. The story of how I became a mom is beautiful and precious and held close to my heart at all times. I regularly give her a big hug and thank her for making me a mom.
But some of us have other stories too. We have stories about how we became stepmoms.
Those stories are very different. Being a stepmom is not something you dream about as child. When people find out you are having a stepkid, nobody asks you how you’re feeling or offers to throw you a shower. Even adopting parents are hailed as heroes and enthusiastically celebrated and supported by friends. Stepmoms tend to be quieter about their stories, because it can make people uncomfortable. Here’s why.
When you become a mother, many times under normal circumstances, it’s a good thing and it comes out of something good. Love, a marriage, a covenant to be together forever. And life grows out of that love.
But when you become a stepmom, it comes out of brokenness. Yes, there’s love in the new marriage. But that love followed a death. Sometimes an actual death. Sometimes the death of forever, the forever that is no more.
Steppeople are becoming more and more common. But let’s be honest, Disney sure didn’t do us any favors. The very first time I heard the term ‘stepmother’ was watching Cinderella. Stepmother = villain. Got it.
I used to love that movie as a child. But the first time I watched it with Caroline (as a divorced adult) I was just horrified. Mom dies. Dad remarries. Enter stepmother and stepsisters. Dad dies. Stepmother and stepsisters become abusive. Cinderella is mistreated for years. Fairy godmother shows up (not real). Makes her a fake princess, but only for a few hours. She meets the prince. They dance, they sing, they ‘fall in love’ after said dance/song. Time runs out. Cinderella bails. The prince is determined to find her, come hell or high water, because he’s IN LOVE with her (based on her beauty, her ability to sing and dance, and her shoe size). They are finally reunited and married. The End.
Takeaways: Steppeople are evil. Magic will save you. Marry a good-looking stranger who can sing and dance and you’ll live happily ever after.
What. The. Ever. Lovin’. Crap.
But I digress.
I don’t know all of my stepkids’ stories. I don’t know their birth weights, what their mom’s pregnancies were like, how they liked to be held as babies, what their first words were. I wasn’t there for any of that. Even when I started dating that good-looking stranger from Orlando, I didn’t make the jump in my head that the kids he talked about all the time could one day be mine. And then at some point, it just started happening.
They may not have grown in my tummy, but they grew in my heart. I loved them before I ever knew them, before they even knew I existed.
I remember being on the phone with Brad one night when Beau was sick. Sounded like a stomach virus. I was surprised at the urgency I felt to care for this child I had never met. “Does he have a fever? Is he hungry? He needs to just suck on some ice chips to stay hydrated. Is he comfortable? Put a movie on for him,” I bossed from an hour away. I remember texting a friend, “Why do I feel like I should be there?” But I did. I really did.
Brad told me about Sydney getting her ears pierced for her birthday party at the mall. All her friends were crowding around watching. The piercing happened without event, but Brad saw through her brave façade, pulled her aside and let her have a moment. Again, my heart was there, wanting to protect and comfort her.
But in case you’re wondering, there’s no stepmother instinct.
When you become a mom, there is this sixth sense that kicks in when you just KNOW stuff. I remember when Caroline was a baby, she was fussing and unhappy about something. Without even thinking or stopping conversation, I made some adjustment and the crying stopped. My sister looked at me in amazement and said, “Wait, how did you know to do that just now?” Maternal instinct kicked in without me even realizing it.
No, there is no stepmother instinct. It is all trial and error, stops and starts, collisions, unexpected connection sometimes immediately followed by confusion, detachment and ambiguity. Instead of the ‘just knowing’ of motherhood, you become a constant student of your stepkids, frantically making mental notes to make up for lost time.
I remember the first time I made a picnic lunch for my new blended family. Brad watched me for a few minutes then gently informed me that I was doing it all wrong. They don’t like that much mayonnaise on their turkey sandwiches. Beau likes grape jelly, not strawberry. Sydney likes green grapes, not red grapes. A wave of discouragement hit me and I realized just how little I knew about my two new kids. I felt like I should have known that stuff. A mom would know that. And I was A mom. I just wasn’t THEIR mom. I was a mom-like figure, a mom-ish presence in the house. But none of us knew what that was supposed to look like.
At first I dove in. I didn’t know how to be a stepmom, but I knew how to be a mom. So I went with what I knew. I stepped on some toes and was brushed back from the plate. Then some well-meaning friends and family members began offering advice, suggesting that I back off. After all, they weren’t REALLY my kids and they probably didn’t want me that involved in their lives anyway. So I throttled back, trying to give them room. But that didn’t feel right either, to me or to them. I wanted more of them and, to my surprise and delight, they wanted more of me too.
And so I signed up for the dance: the lifelong dance of stepmothering. Forward, back. Left, right. (Oops. Sorry about that. You okay?) Faster, slower. In, out. Hold on, let go. Do the Hokey Pokey and turn yourself around. That’s what it’s all about.
All that to say, I don’t know what I’m doing. But Beau and Syd, I promise to keep doing it. I’ll risk crowding you to make sure you know how loved you are. I’ll err on the side of getting all up in your business so you know you’re wanted and cared for.
And in case anyone was wondering, Beau doesn’t like tomatoes on his salad. Sydney prefers peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches (very thin layers of each) in her lunch. The best ways to bond with Beau are to watch him play video games, risk your life to do some crazy-ass Navy Seal 5k with him or watch Lord of the Rings while eating nachos. And Sydney connects by sharing her art with you (something made, written or performed), doing your hair (God knew I needed this in my life) or offering fashion advice.
I’m getting it, guys. And I promise to keep loving you, pursuing you, and learning you for the rest of my life. And even though you’re not genetically mine, we still belong to each other.
Thank you for making me a stepmom.
