The Birth of a Child Is The Day A Mother Is Born

I cry when I read poems about mothering. About mothering sons. About mothering young ones, who will inevitably grow (if we’re fortunate). I think, this is exactly it and also, this is not anywhere close to it.

My older son sings Johnny Cash to me and grins when he leans a bit too far into a pun. He asks for hugs and snuggles in and tells me about the latest addition to his arsenal of imaginary characters or, if I’m very lucky, his super secret crush. He waits until bedtime to talk about the latest story that is perhaps too vibrant in his mind, or about his latest theory on life, or maybe even about his recently admitted fear of aliens. Every night I sweep the hair back from his brow and kiss his forehead as I remind him that he is safe and so very loved. 

My younger son clings to me when I try to walk across the room. He tiptoes like a cartoon villain - I can almost hear the staccato music with each step - and yells as he attacks me with a hug. He tells me his worries, or simply that he is worried, and his thoughts skip steps in a way that is almost impossible to follow. Every night I tuck him under three blankets and make sure the preferred stuffed toy is within reach. I drop silly kisses across his forehead and cheeks and tell him that I can’t wait to see him in the morning, and that he is so very loved. 

I lay awake at night worried about older son, who sometimes has trouble sleeping. ADHD overrules tiredness and there are mornings when we find that his light has been on all night, that he’s only slept for a couple hours. In the darkness the house settles, and I wonder if that is actually him, playing or reading or tiptoeing out for a snack. I remind myself that he is safe, even if he is tired, and I try to sleep. 

I lay awake at night worried about younger son. Things are so hard for him right now. He is somehow so similar to the younger me, and I worry that the struggles I carry with me will weigh him down. This mirroring between us is so confronting. He has no idea that when I get frustrated because of his refusal to eat it is really frustration at myself, because my immediate thought when I am upset is also to deny myself food. And so I sit at the dinner table and eat, even though I don’t want to, so that he can learn that he is worthy of taking care of himself.

I had no moment in which I was born to motherhood. I snuck into it. It was a path set before me, that I could choose to follow or not. I took steps, some gentle and easy, others hidden and stretched far apart, and still others rocky and slick. There was no sign post that announced WELCOME TO MOTHERHOOD in the bold letters of a delivery and your baby squirming against your exhausted body. I knew I was en route, of course. I tried to prepare for my arrival in this place, but it was uncharted and I worried (still worry) that I was displacing someone else with my arrival. 

I don’t know when I crossed the border. Suddenly one day I was there. Here. It is nothing like what I expected the land of motherhood to look like, and also exactly what I imagined. I question sometimes if I am really here, or am I just pretending or horning in on someone else’s territory. 

It seems the world doesn’t look too kindly on stepmothers. We aren’t valid. We are wicked. We’ll keep you locked in your room or force you to work. Maybe.

Or maybe we comfort you when you cry, and teach you to tie your shoes. We test your temperature with a kiss on the forehead. We listen to your stories and laugh at your jokes. We go to parent-teacher conferences and therapy appointments and make sure we have the correct flavor of toothpaste fully stocked. We bake a cake with you to celebrate your mom’s birthday (chocolate, of course, with blue icing), and hold you when you miss her.

Step-parenthood is its own thing, the overlap of the Venn diagram, somehow both parent and not. It is, “Hey, Mama?” Yes, Dear One? “I want my mom back.” I am Mom, and yet I am not. Step-parenthood, I think, is the total embodiment of Both/And.

I like to imagine that somewhere there are versions of fairytales in which Cinderella rides to the ball with her (step)family. Snow White introduces her new dwarf friends to the queen. No one is forced to dance in red-hot shoes, because there is no need for punishment or revenge. They are all just families - imperfect and flawed, but full of love. I suppose until those fairytales exist we will just need to keep writing our own.

Once upon a time, there was a family. They carried a heavy grief with them, but they were buoyed and strengthened by love. Not every day was perfect - some were far from it - but they always returned to each other.

This story is far from finished, but you can believe that they are wrapped in that love. And in the end, they do live happily (and sadly and anxiously and angrily and joyfully) ever after.