A special welcome to new (and hopefully) regular contributing GLBTQ author, writer, and new step-parent and partner, Drowning Pisces.

Eight months ago I was single with no children.  I knew that children would soon be a very big part of my life from here on out, as I was readying myself to move two states away to be with my partner…and her two young children. A career of babysitting starting at age nine and having two half-sisters a decade plus younger than I, and a natural affinity for children were a steady foundation, I thought, for the changes coming my way.  I was right in many ways. Being around and caring for my new step-daughters, having them in my life and being a part of theirs, in and of itself, is easy but….

(you knew it was coming)

BUT… there was more.   I should have known there would be more; that it couldn’t be that easy.

I hadn’t thought about The Ex, my partner’s ex-husband.  I hadn’t thought about his new wife, “the other mother.”  I hadn’t considered that my new circle of friends would be made up entirely of women who had at one time been married to men and had birthed one or more children.  I hadn’t pondered that my step-daughters would struggle with filing me somewhere between family and friend in their young, sheltered, cognitive filing cabinets.  I just hadn’t thought that anything would be obtuse about loving and caring for children. I hadn’t even considered that I wouldn’t even be the “other mother”, but instead that I would really be the “other other mother” or that I wouldn’t be seen as any kind of mother at all.  I just didn’t think.

I didn’t think, but now I know that The Ex, apart from being a jerk in general, has niggled his way under my skin on an almost weekly basis. His action or lack thereof is disrespectful—to me and my partner yes, but more importantly to his daughters, my partner’s daughters, OUR daughters.  However… being the “other other mother,” I have no voice.  I have no legal standing to stop, curtail, impede or flat out squash his ignorance.  My partner does, of course, she is the birth mother.  The new step-mother does, she is legally married to the ex.  I, “the other other mother,” can only listen to frustration from my partner and wipe tears from the children’s eyes when they cry for they-don’t-know-why other than things aren’t like they used to be.

I didn’t think, but now I know, there is a big difference between being a mother and being an “other other mother.”   I find myself, more often then not, standing amongst a group of women, our friends, our community, my partner, nodding my head as if I understand exactly how they feel when they talk about their children; the cute little things each of their children did as toddlers, the frustration of everyday parenting, the undeniable, untouchable, unconditional love and bond between them and their children.  I stand there nodding and feeling sick inside because I don’t.  These mothers know, even the “other mother” knows because she is part of that sisterhood of motherhood.  I don’t and I won’t.  I will never feel that total connection to someone.  I will never be able to authentically tell the tale of being a mother…  other, other other, or otherwise.

I didn’t think the girls would have trouble accepting me as a mother figure.  I thought the step-mother concept would transfer easily between their dad’s new wife and their mom’s new wife.  I didn’t think that the words “Happy Mother’s Day” wouldn’t cross their lips for me as it did for their mother and their “other mother.”  I didn’t think that would hurt as much as it did. I didn’t think the girls would stumble when introducing their friend to their mom and… and… and… “their mom’s friend.”  I didn’t know I would cause them discomfort.

I didn’t know these things and more.

But… (heh, sneaked another one in)

I also didn’t think… that having a blond haired seven-year-old sing my name, throw her arms around my neck, and kiss me on the cheek , would make me forget about everything I didn’t think about.