Stepmothering is a kind of twilight zone between two worlds.
I have many of the responsibilities of a mother, but almost none of the authority. I love my stepkids, but even that is a twilight zone, because they feel a powerful loyalty to their mother. Affection toward me, or even gratitude for the things I do, seems like a threat to her.
The process of gluing together a new family out of the shards of two broken families is tediously slow, and your fingers get cut on the sharp edges.
Yesterday, at my stepson's request, I took some homemade Chai to school for a project. I was thrilled to be asked. It felt like a gesture of acceptance from him. It was the first time I have dared to step foot in the school without the legitimatizing presence of their father beside me.
From the moment I called the reception desk to try to find out what time class began, it was clear that I was an outsider. My husband takes responsibility for school related parenting obligations for his kids. I take care of those things for my daughter. So, when the receptionist asked the name of the homeroom teacher. I panicked. My mind went completely blank. I could not remember the teacher's name! I felt stupid, worse that stupid. I felt like I was trespassing by even thinking of walking into the building.
The receptionist must have thought that I was worse than stupid too because from the moment I admitted that I didn't know the name of the teacher, she treated me with great suspicion. I am pretty sure that she thought I was a stepmother after the tradition of Snow White's step-mother, likely to show up to class with a whole bag of poison apples. It seemed more like I was mounting a hostile invasion then like I was just dropping off a treat.
It all worked out ok. I gathered my courage to walk into the school and face the receptionist. I must not look as dangerous as I sound, because after she used the computer to confirm that I really was the stepmom, she let me take the treats to the classroom. Reportedly, the kids liked the Chai. Some even asked for the recipe so they could have it at home.
I agreed to do this because I wanted to do something nice for my step-son. I wanted to take another baby step toward finding my place in his life. It was a small thing, no different from the dozens of other ways my husband and I work toward gluing our new family together each day.
It was hard. It was risky. It was emotionally costly. And, it was worth it.
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