The Wicked Stepmother

Growing up, I always wanted to be a mother.  I changed my dolls’ diapers, cradled them, swaddled them, and put them down for their naps.  I imagined all my children gathered around the dinner table, happily sharing a family meal.  I dreamed of being a mother…not a stepmother. 

Who dreams of being a stepmother?  No one.  That’s right.  Euripides said, “Better a serpent than a stepmother!”  She swoops in and bewitches Cinderella’s papa, then makes her a servant in her own home.  She is so jealous of Snow White’s beauty, she sends the woodsman to kill her.  She is evil.  Wicked to the core.  Children, beware!  Try explaining these characters to your stepdaughters as they look up at you, making the connection to that word - STEPMOTHER - in their innocent little brains.

Stereotypes and generalizations aside, being a stepmother is hard.  Really, really hard.  The day I got married, I instantly became a mother in all but title to twin two-year-old girls.  Since then, I have wiped bottoms, bought clothes, made school lunches, driven them to and from school, planned birthday parties, made crafts, bandaged boo-boos, given baths, kissed away tears, mopped up spilled milk, rinsed vomit out of my clothes and theirs, provided nutritious home-cooked meals, encouraged frightened girls into the swimming pool, sternly clarified boundaries and expectations, gently wiped raw noses, danced in my pajamas, cleaned accidents in the middle of the night, hidden Christmas presents from Santa, answered countless questions about life, swept up broken shards of my favorite dishes, held sick girls in my arms through sleepless nights, mediated disagreements, decorated birthday cakes, volunteered at school, given cooking lessons, taken them on their first amusement park rides, and so much, much more.  And yet, at the end of the day, I am not their mommy. I have no legal rights.  In fact, if my husband died tomorrow, I would likely never be allowed to see my daughters again.  As far as the law is concerned, my role in their lives is insignificant.  Not even worth mentioning, and certainly not valuable enough to protect.

Being a stepmother means carrying the weight and responsibility of parenting your children without having the ability to make decisions about how to raise them.  What school is best for them?  Are they ready to have sleepovers with friends?  Should they be drinking milk every day?  Can they wear those Disney shoes they like so much to school?  What punishment is appropriate?  How much technology should they be exposed to?  Where will they spend their vacations?  Which days do they spend with Mommy, and which days do they spend with Papa?  Should they get the flu shot?  Can they eat candy after dinner?  All those questions that parents grapple with – I have no part in answering them.  My opinion, even my professional opinion as an early childhood educator, means absolutely nothing.  I know this, because I naively asked my husband’s co-parenting counselor once to help me define my role and find my place in the decision-making process.  She looked at me like that was the wildest thing she had ever heard and explained to me that I am not the parent, and I don’t get to make decisions.  She even went so far as to say that it wasn’t necessary for me to be privy to the conversations or decisions my husband made with his ex-wife, because I shouldn’t be doing any real parenting.  It was then I realized that to her, and to many I meet, I am nothing more than a glorified babysitter.  A body in the room, and little more.

It is a fascinating thing to watch a person’s face when you tell them you are the stepmother.  You see, my daughters look a lot like me.  Every person we encounter initially assumes they are my biological daughters, and I do not correct them unless it becomes necessary through the course of the conversation.  Usually by that point in the exchange, we have discussed things like how beautiful they are, how well-behaved, what grade they are in, that they are indeed twins, how well dressed they are, and more.  Then, the other person will ask some sort of awkward question about their birth or my experience as a mother of twin infants, and I have to tell them, “Well, I am not sure, because I am their stepmother.”  I’ll tell you this much: it is a great way to end a friendly conversation.  They often look at me with a mixture of confusion, distaste, uncertainty, and annoyance – I think maybe at the fact that they just gave me a bunch of compliments that were clearly undeserved since I am only the stepmother.  I am not sure why, since blended families are so common these days, but many people speak to me differently once they realize I am just a stepparent.  It’s like they assume I don’t know anything about parenting, and they’re not really sure that I should be trusted with the children.

To top it all off, I simply do not like the term “stepmother.”  I knew this going into it.  STEPmother.  STEPdaughter.  What does that mean, exactly?  A step down?  A step away?  Step aside?  As soon as my husband and I were engaged, I began thinking about what I should be called.  All versions of the word mother, even stepmother, were out.  I knew his ex-wife would never approve.  Most stepmoms go by their first name, but that idea didn’t sit well with me.  I am from the South, where kids just don’t call adults by their first name.  So, I settled on a pet name: Imo.  It means “auntie” in Korean, which is where I grew up.  It feels good.  My own special name in my own special family.  I have always been “Imo” to my stepdaughters, which is why they were completely thrown off kilter when their preschool teachers told them I was their stepmother.  STEPMOTHER?  One of my daughters spent two full months getting used to me again, all because of that word - stepmother.

Honestly, I think it had more to do with the fact that they heard the word “mother” in there.  I never claimed to be their mother, but it was an intriguing idea to them.  The girls even tried it out a couple times, calling me “Mommy” instead of “Imo,” just to see how it felt.  One day, one of them brought me a card from school with the word “Mommy” written on it.  When she handed it to me, I encouraged her to give it to her mother, but she insisted that she had made it for me and that it said “step-mommy.”  I knew she didn’t know how to spell stepmom or Imo, so I opened the letter – a paper in the shape of a heart with a picture of the box crusher at the grocery store hastily drawn on it.  I ooh’ed and ahh’ed and stuck it on the refrigerator.  A few days later, my poor husband was lambasted by his ex-wife because I was apparently stealing the precious cards that her daughters made for her at school.  This is when the girls started telling me, “Mommies make babies in their tummies.  You did not make a baby in your tummy, so you can not be a mommy.”  And it was then that my dear Sweet Girl pulled away from me.  She wouldn’t hug me for a month, and she started only wanting her papa to buckle her in, hold her hand, fix her hair.  It was heart-wrenching.  I knew she was just reacting to the fact that her mom was so emotionally compromised by the new term and the confusion that I might also be their mother, but it hurt.  Even to this day, Sweet Girl will say something like, “These beans are really good…[long pause]…but they are better at Mommy’s house.”  As though enjoying herself when she is with me is a betrayal of her mother’s love.  I wish, oh, how I wish it didn’t have to be so confusing for her sweet, sensitive heart.

Can there be anything redeeming about being a stepmother?  Hard to imagine, right?  But, yes.  There are actually some really great perks that come with being a stepmother.  The first is what I like to call “part-time parenting.”  That’s right.  We have the girls for about half of their waking hours, and during those hours, we devote all our attention and time to them.  We play board games.  We make dinner together.  We paint and make crafts with glitter and jewels.  We play dress up, dance around the house, and decorate sugar cookies.  And when they are gone, I get to clean up without wondering what new mess is being made in the other room.  I get to go to the movies, spend lazy mornings in bed with my husband, eat junk for dinner, and do pretty much whatever I want to do.  It’s great.

But by far the most rewarding perk about being a stepmother is my daughters themselves.  I suppose I am a little prejudiced, but I think they are the best kids in the world.  No children are as beautiful, as smart, as funny, or as pleasant as my two daughters.  They make my heart melt when they give me juicy wet kisses, and I feel warm pride spread through my body as I watch them help younger kids at school.  Their bright smiles can drive away the weariness of my day.  Their constant curiosity makes me feel young again.  The way they approach life with carefree abandon makes my heart soar with love for them.  I couldn’t possibly imagine my life without them.

So, no, it was never my hope or dream to be a stepmother, but this is what I am.  And each day I have been a stepmother has been a blessing.