My best friend once told me that I’d make a better stepmom than a biological mother. I thought he was the biggest fucking asshole for saying that. He said that I’d view all the idiosyncrasies of my kids as a reflection of me and what I passed onto them. That I would see every human flaw my child exhibited as my failing as a parent. Having been a stepmom for three years now, I’m troubled with the thought that he knew be better than I knew myself. Fucking truth-telling asshole.
I refer to my stepkids as “my kids”. I don’t know what makes a parent a parent. I do know I love them. I think about their well-being all the time whether I’m with them or not. I encourage them. I argue with them. I observe what their favourite foods are and stock our home accordingly. I help them with their homework. I tend to their boo-boos. In turn, they come to me for advice. They challenge my views. They laugh at my jokes. They snuggle up to me when they want some loving. They tell me stories about their friends. They share their crazy big ideas. My life has become infinitely richer with them in it. They’re my kids.
It confuses a lot of people when I say that. I’m 38 and my kids are 13 and 15. I don’t seem like the kind of person who would have kids at 23 because I didn’t. I’m generally a square person who followed the prescribed path of good immigrant children. Study hard, go to university, obtain a professional degree, get a good job, study some more, get better job, etc. I’m also 5’2 and my daughter is 6’0. My son is already taller than me and quickly gaining inches. In a few years, people will see family photos of us four and wonder when they adopted a little Chinese girl.
My kids couldn’t be more different from each other. They’re both kind hearted, loyal, funny, bright, curious, and I’m sure share other common traits, but they are like night and day. My daughter Sophie lives her life large, which is to say she’s loud, has big movements, and commands attention wherever she goes. Everyone she meets is a new friend. She has the kind of confidence that I’m always in awe of when it is not intimidating me. She is quick to shake off any issues she encounters. Basically, she is the opposite of me. I was worried early in our relationship that I would have difficulty connecting with her. She was so much like my best friend who I grew apart from because I couldn’t handle the constant criticism (the same one who said I wouldn’t be a good mother) and conversations which tended to revolve around them. What a load of crap! When I looked closer, Sophie is a younger version of my partner Joe. She just hasn’t grown into the person she will become. Until then, she is a teenage girl helping me workout childhood trauma I have about the cool teenage girls I was never one of.
My son André has a rich inner world. His head is full of big ideas and his heart is full of big emotions. His is quiet and reflective. He worries constantly about whether he’s doing the right thing. As a result, he is overly apologetic, lives in self-doubt, and berates himself when he makes mistakes. Basically, he’s me. We share no DNA but we are people-pleasing, anxiety-ridden soulmates. It’s the absolute worst living with someone who reminds you of all the things you dislike about yourself. I cannot help but try to “lovingly” “correct him” as if I could save him from himself. What a load of crap! Imagine if I birthed this kid. I would feel a million times worse for passing on my insecurities to this innocent creature. But I didn’t. I have no idea what this means for me as André step-parent.
People always talk about how children are the best teacher and I never really understood what they meant. I’d nod along politely and feign wisdom, “Oh my gosh, that’s so true isn’t it?” I get it now. They teach me about myself everyday. God I hope I don’t fuck them up.