Mom
Growing up, I pictured myself childless. At my earliest, I daydreamed of becoming a criminal psychologist, seeing the good in the people society hated, and incidentally writing non-fiction about their plights and our interactions. Later still, while girls around me dressed dolls and pushed miniature strollers and cuddled lifeless plastic, in my pretend world, I was a CEO of a successful company, clad in business suits in my New York City loft. Maybe I would have a dog or two, I‘d told myself, but why waste my hard-earned money on children?
As I grew into my teens, this sentiment still echoed true, despite being told it was a phase. I didn’t need tiny, angst-ridden humans blowing snot on me and then years later resenting me. No, sir-ee. Not my idea of a good time. I’d inevitably screw up my offspring and I knew it. I ruthlessly practiced safe sex, fearing I’d become a teen mom with a label hung over me for years to come. That was not me. I was responsible, self-assured, and I was going places. But then it happened. It happened swiftly, and almost without warning, and it actually happened a lot easier than I had thought it would, without much of a second thought.
I had just turned 19 when I met my future husband. I was a go-getter, I was fun, and I was finally able to buy my own beer: as good a combination as any. I had gone out with a friend for the evening. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine; everyone’s cool,” she assured me as I anxiously rode the bus to get there. I was greeted at the door by him, the twenty-one year old man I became smitten with. But more importantly, I was greeted by her…All 2 feet of her. She had the blondest hair, with humongous sparkling blue eyes. Her name was Brooklynn. “We’re just headed to get some dinner, this is my daughter, sorry.” It fell so quickly from his mouth. Did he just apologize for feeding his child? I thought to myself, and then they were off.
If there’s one thing anyone who knows me knows, it’s that I suffer from anxiety. It’s not so bad now, but in my teen years, it was debilitating. Suffice to say I spent the entirety of the gathering, on the balcony “getting some fresh air”. Lo and behold, this new Prince Charming and his daughter accompanied me, missing out on what I assumed was much better conversation and a few card games. We talked about everything: mental illness, families, hobbies, how hard it was to date with a child so young, and by the end of the night we were referring to his daughter as “My Shadow”. She followed me every time I went to go to the bathroom, grabbed books, we sat and read, and she even asked me to tuck her in. The next day, I invited them up to my house, where my mom (who had always loved and wanted as many children around as possible) catered to her every whim, much as I did the night before. And boy, what a ride it’s been since then.
By the time I was 20, he had gone from a weekend parent to a full-time parent. Where was my childless future? I thought to myself in the nights that followed the abrupt entrance of her into my everyday life. I was so careful. I wasn’t supposed to be a teen mom, or even a young mom! This wasn’t part of my plan! But the world had different ideas.
There has been plenty of ups and downs, mostly self inflicted. In nearly every book or movie that features a stepmom, she is vile and evil. While I do pride myself on my ability to get Brooklynn to do an awful lot of chores, I am not a stepmother of the Cinderella persuasion. I’ve also read lots about step parents encroaching on their kids, trying to take over, throwing the title of Mom and Dad around all willie-nillie. I never wanted that. I have carefully played out everything. When she moved in with us, she should start calling me Mom. No, wait. Not the right time. She has a mom. When we got married, I became Mom, but again, I didn’t want the title for fear of confusing her. When her biological mom was out of the picture, maybe Mom should be introduced again. But at every turn, it felt wrong to impose.
I’ve had friends’ relationships start and end in the time that I have been Brooklynn’s stepmom. My friends’ kids latching on to the new parental figure and integrating the title of Mom or Dad quickly, but for me, it just hasn’t happened. It would sting when she would call me “Lindsay” out in public. My mind would race as to say, “But I’m not just Lindsay. If you knew our relationship, it wouldn’t be just Lindsay, I swear!” But, just as easily, if someone commented, “Your mom looks so young!” I would interject with, “Oh, she’s my stepdaughter! No young babies for me!” I am “mom” to her teachers, her friends, and whomever she passes in the street, but never to my face. It made me furiously want my “own” children, ones who would call me Mom, and who I wouldn’t have to explain the “situation” to. At other times, it made me never want to have children, because, let’s be honest, a lot of my life has been dedicated to another life already.
My daughter (I refuse to call her “step” anymore. The title just doesn’t fit), is almost 12 now. Hell, she’s almost as tall as me. She is feisty, a perfectionist, throws around a mean attitude, and she is brilliant. She is creative. She is kind and generous and will overlook anyone’s flaws. She is everything I’ve ever wanted in a child, even in a child that I didn’t think I would want. “Lindsay, Lindz, Mama Bear,” whatever the nickname is, I am her Mom. And no matter what happens in my life, she will be the best part of it.
