The most common response I get when introducing my children is behind-the-scenes calculation while they try to figure out just how young I was when the oldest was born. Depending on who it is and how much time I have, I sometimes just let them think I was a mere 15-year old sophomore in high school when Derek was born, and that I’m the one who gave birth to him. It’s even worse now that he is off in the Army. I don’t care that they think I was a young mom, honestly. Sometimes that is better than them thinking I am not a “real” mom because I didn’t carry him for nine months in my body.
Have you ever had that happen? Someone finds out you’re “just” the stepparent and you suddenly haven’t had the experiences that make you a mom? It’s the worst feeling, I think, to be disregarded so terribly. No, I wasn’t there when Derek was born 23 years ago. I wasn’t with him that first week in the hospital when he almost died of a blood infection in a hospital on an Air Force base in Germany.
By the time I came into the kids’ lives, Derek was 10. Way too old, in his opinion, to need “mothering.” I wasn’t there from the beginning. I guess in some peoples’ eyes, it means I am not the “real” mom. I was there, though, when Derek needed a soccer coach, was there when he broke his arm, was the one who helped him write his first resume. I was the one who watched him graduate from high school, and cried when he left for basic training. I am the one who lost sleep at night thinking about him being in Iraq – the one who waits impatiently for each phone call, email, and letter to come now that he’s stationed in the safer but oh-so-far away Japan.
It wasn’t my body that carried the twins, or had to be on bed rest the last two months awaiting their arrival. I wasn’t the one who had to have a c-section and then learn within hours of the birth we had a perfectly healthy little girl but that our little boy had Down syndrome. I wasn’t the one who laid in bed those first few months and wondered what kind of life Kyle would have with the challenges he would have to face.
When I did enter his life, Kyle was 6 years old chronologically but no more than 12 months old developmentally. He was a baby—still in diapers, still needing help being fed, still needing to be lifted into the car and pushed in a stroller. I wasn’t there from the beginning, but I was there when he had surgery that allowed him to hear for the first time. I was there when he broke his leg and I had to push him in a wheel chair because he couldn’t walk on crutches. I was there when he learned how to write his name and have been there to watch him grow and watch him struggle as he’s dealt with some of the effects of his disability.
Kira was 6, too. She made my heart ache for how much she missed her mom and how desperately she wanted me to like her — but how threatened she was that I might take her Dad, her only lifeline. She was so sweet and so insecure and so unsure of her future. I wasn’t there from the beginning, but I was there when she worried over her looks, when she cried for her mother — and when she stopped crying for her. I was there for the first boyfriend, the first bra, her first period. I was there when she joined her first cheer team, had her first fight with her best friend, and when she lost someone she loved to an early death.
Even more important than being there for all the major events, like other stepmoms, I was there for all the mundane parts of life too. I was there when the kids were sick and we had to cancel our plans at the last minute. I was there when Mom flashed back into their lives for a moment and all they wanted was her.
The great thing, though, is that I am still here. I am the one Derek writes to when he is homesick. I am the one Kira comes to when she has big decisions to make about her life. I am the one Kyle trusts, and the only mom he remembers. I’ve been there for the food fights (and started some), for the laughter and joy, for all of the small moments that count so much. I’ve watched my two biological children bond with my stepchildren without even a thought of different lineage. We’re family. We eat at the same table, share the same home, and have the same mannerisms. It’s not about the blood. It’s about heart.
The next time someone makes you feel like you’re not “real” because you didn’t give birth, just remember that.
Read Shadra’ s book, Stories From a StepMom, available on Amazon Kindle. Read more or request a review copy.
