Early in life I knew that I did not want children of my own. Unsurprisingly, the people around me had their opinion and assured me that I would change my mind. Often people would assume that because I didn’t want children that it meant that I didn’t like children. But I’ve always been fond of babies. I smile, wave, and coo at doughy infants nestled in their strollers or parent’s arms. Babies love to smile in return and giggle. I just never believed that I was equipped to handle the inevitable neediness and attention a child requires.
I had been dating my now-husband for three months when he suggested that I meet his daughter. I was unbelievably nervous. As hard as it is to believe, I’d had very limited interaction with toddlers. I am an only child and my closest friends were childless. I worked in a small office and had two colleagues I considered friends. Looking back, I feel silly, but I asked them for advice on how to talk to a toddler. As a perfectionist, I was planning this like a job interview.
Then, I met this bubbly, rosy-cheeked 3-year-old. She had her dad’s phone clutched in her hands as she snuggled up next to me on the couch. She showed me her favorite YouTube videos and we played with Snapchat filters. I had to adapt to her toddler language and quickly learned how much she loves having her photo taken.
Before I moved in with my now-husband, she would often profess that she wished that I lived with them. I moved in a little over a year after she and I first met.
I’ve searched the internet countless times for articles about stepmotherhood. So many articles are written by and for women who already have children of their own. Their focus is on stepchildren who resist their stepmother and families that contain stepsiblings. These articles don’t apply to me. I am childless and I am fortunate that my stepdaughter and I have maintained a harmonious relationship for two and-a-half years.
But that doesn't mean it all comes easy.
I am not her mother. My mom and I are best friends and have an irrefutable and indescribable bond. I know that I will never have that because I am not my stepdaughter’s mother. Most days, I cook dinner. I’ve learned my stepdaughter’s dietary habits. She does not like sauces such as barbecue or pasta sauce. She does not like sandwiches unless it’s peanut butter and jelly. Her food cannot mix; there must be a sharp divide between meat and vegetables. She loves rice and plain noodles. Even when I tick all these boxes, she often must be cajoled and reminded to eat. I tend to feel slighted by this and even more so when my husband decides to serve her a drained ramen, cereal, or a PB&J. If I had rejected my mom’s food this way, I know my mom’s response would’ve been simple, “This is not a restaurant,” but sometimes I feel like I am still auditioning for my role.
I don’t fuss with my own hair. My hair is naturally straight so a wash, a blow-dry, and a quick pass with the straightener are enough for me. But I have spent innumerable hours watching Instagram and YouTube tutorials so that I can learn to do my stepdaughter’s hair. I have a Pinterest board dedicated to little girl hairstyles. We sit on the couch every morning as I spray leave-in conditioner and spray gel in her fine, pin-straight hair. I adorn her with pigtails, braided headbands, ponytails, and her favorite: space buns. She loves bows and hair clips. She likes to commemorate her hairstyles and begs me to take a picture. I take a photo and her smile bursts through the edges of the frame.
Our home is her primary residence but we share parenting time with her mom. It feels like I lead two lives, that of a stepmother and the other of a young childless wife. Some days I make sure she is up in time for school and dressed. Some evenings are spent watching children’s TV shows on Netflix or playing board games. At other times, I am less worried about cooking and resort to fast food and casual dining. I watch mature programming like Cable Girls or Orange is the New Black. I possess all this responsibility while having none. I lack “mom guilt” because I’m not entitled to the same luxuries or obligations of motherhood.
My stepdaughter calls me by my first name. For the longest time, she didn’t know how to properly introduce me. At a play rehearsal, her classmate asked her if I was her mom and she replied, “No. She’s Adrianna.” But the friend asked again who I was and my stepdaughter didn’t know what to say. The first time I met her kindergarten teacher, Ms. H asked her if I was her aunt. She of course shook her head and said no but couldn’t elaborate further. Then I had to awkwardly present myself as her father’s fiancée.
In the days preceding this past Mother’s Day, she stunned me when she asked, “Are you my stepmom?” I explained as best that I could what a stepmom was and wasn’t. I was clear that she could tell people I was her stepmom if she felt comfortable doing so. For Mother’s Day, she gifted me a handmade card that included a felt heart, a smiling photo of her, and a photo of the three of us. She wrote, “You are special because you take care of me.” To say the least, I was touched.
I still remember a small toddler as she sat on the wood floor. Her ponytail was loose and wisps of dark hair framed her round face. As I sat down with her, she worked diligently on a child’s puzzle. As we worked, played, and laughed, she stopped and smiled and said, “I love you.” It was then I knew that I had been accepted and that a child’s unconditional love was mine.
