You hear stories of wicked stepmothers all the time – and admittedly, I was probably one of them, sometimes. But, somehow, my stepkids still loved me – so much, in fact, for a while, when they were young enough to still think I was kinda cool, they called me the cutest nickname.
But before I get to that, here’s the background for context: the whole step-parenting gig began for me when I was just 19 (officially, via marriage, at 25), and ended at 33.
Being a step-parent was so hard, that when I divorced my husband – a man who had two kids from two previous marriages – I swore I’d never re-partner with another parent; once was enough, thanks very much. My experience of being a stepmum is that you get a lot of the responsibility, and none of the authority. But the reality is that these kids come into your home – but it’s their home, too. Just by your presence in their dad’s life, you become family.
And I joined that family at a very young age, when my stepson was four and my stepdaughter was nine. The thing is, I was probably too young to get married, and definitely too young to be a stepmum; but as these things always go, it didn’t feel like it at the time. Looking back now, at age 42 and also as a mum to an 11-year-old myself, I made so many mistakes.
But one thing was always the case, and remains true even today: I loved those kids and just wanted to make them happy.
This Glorious Mess
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