Before Noah, I had very little experience with children.
I’m an only child, and I never baby?sat; I never felt the urge.
I have a cat.
I feed her once a day, clean the litter several times a week and return her occasional affection.
This has seemed to satisfy any maternal instincts I might have.
Yes, the clock is ticking.
(Mostly for my mom.)
I’ve just never been a person who sees a baby and reaches for it.
Baby animals make me gush.
I could take them or leave them.
I blame my maternal deficiencies in part on the fact that I was the family princess while growing up.
Even in adulthood, I still settle back into childhood whenever I’m so indulged.
Then I met Bob.
He and his wife divorced when Noah was 1 year old, and we began dating shortly after.
As far as I know, I never sent Bob the vibe that I was the slightest bit maternal.
Of course, he wasn’t looking for that.
He’d had a wife; Noah had a mother.
For a while, I could be just me, the same me I’d always been.
Until, of course, I couldn’t.
Obviously, Noah was never a secret.
(For a brief but emotionally charged time, that’s what Noah called me: the other one.
Before that, he called me “Joanie.”
Joanie is the cat.)
I already loved Bob.
We all moved in together a year agoBob and I full-time, Noah every other weekend and Wednesdays overnight.
We were still evolving as a family but committed to making it work.
In our house together, the family bed didn’t seem appropriate (and neither did the couch).
I’ve always been a supportive, generous person.
Now I’m the bitch in the bed.
But as we wait to marry, we increase our chances of partnering up with a divorc?
and, in many cases, his children.
On the flip side, let’s face it: No one wants a stepmother.
To be an adult.
To know what to do.
After all, he loved me; he loved Noah.
Of course we?d embrace each other.
And if we didn’t?
This generally meant fitting in and playing nice.
I got myself a therapist.
It’s still a struggle.
On good days, I feel like an impostor.
Sometimes, Noah and I hug, but I never kiss him.
It feels presumptuous and fake.
I’m acutely aware that to outsiders, I seem like a cold, detached mother.
One guy said he looked like me.
I’ve quit setting the record straight each time this happens.
Bob says he was a hyper child and is still, at times, a hyper adult.
He takes what I call a skater-dude approach to parenting.
Together, he and Noah are sometimes a little uncivilized.
Noah is always the loudest kid in the playground, the crankiest one at the party.
He talks nearly nonstop from the moment he gets up until the moment he succumbs to sleep.
I feel disempowered because Iamdisempowered.
And so I step back.
I do feel for Noah.
His obsession with his fatherand most men, in factis both unsurprising and kind of heartbreaking.
He talks about Mommy a lot, generally when we’re all having fun.
So, of course, Mommy’s zoo has better animals.
Mommy’s Christmas tree was also bigger, with better ornaments.
Mommy shows up in conversation whenever I make a run at do something nice for him.
The squeezable applesauce I picked up at Whole Foods?
Mommy’s snacks are better.
And usually, I amas long as we’re both in the mood for it.
(He didn’t.)
Kids aren’t dumb.
They know how to get you.
Sometimes I wonder, What did I do to deserve this?
Then I realize that he probably feels the same way.
But just because I empathize doesn’t mean I always act age-appropriately.
Sometimes, it’s simply too much.
he cried over and overI took a spoonful of the stuff and hurled it at him.
It barely grazed his cheek, but we both burst into tears.
But for a while there, I thought, This is it.
I’m not proud of myself.
The situation is what it is.
There are nights when I’ll read Noah a book before bed or help Bob pack his schoolbag.
In many ways, it’s why I’ve remained so emotionally hands-off.
I like Noah, but I don’t love him.
I can enjoy his presence, but I don’t miss him when he’s gone.
Partly, it’s protection in case this whole blended-family thing doesn’t work out.
It’s also, quite possibly, the best I can do.
Around Noah, I’m not entirely sure who I am.
As he grows, his feelings about his parents, his home life and me will change.
I want to be his friend.
That’s not a relationship.
That’s a job as a nanny or, at the very least, a one-way street.
People tell me that it’s different when it’s your own kid.
And maybe, if I decide to have children, it will be.
But in the meantime, Noah isn’t going anywhere.
Nor do I want him to, not really.
(He earns far more than I do but, with child support, takes home less.)
And I know I don’t make it easy on him.
(Then again, I never was an easy child.)
This has been a hard truth to accept.
I do win some.
Noah is not allowed to wipe his hands on the couch (yay!).
Or when he wants cheeseburgers and I want pizza.
Noah and I, in fact, are quite alike.
He wonders what he’ll have for dinner while eating breakfast.
(So do I.)
He’s painfully cranky after a nap.
(Me, too.)
He prefers jelly Munchkins.
(Who doesn’t?)
And, in the end, he’s looking for his place in this family.
The other day, I heard him ask Bob if I was his girlfriend.
Yes, Bob answered.
“Is she your wife?”
It’s no wonder he questions who I amespecially when I’m still questioning who I am.
But like everyone in this world, Noah wants to feel safe and know that he’s loved.
Truesleeping on the floor and dodging cottage cheese projectiles might make this considerably harder at times.
But at what point does becoming a mother figure mean losing myself?
Stepparenting can be a daily exercise in humiliation and feeling like the third wheel.
Am I setting myself up for a lifetime of hurt?
My friends say Bob’s a package deal, and it’s a deal I chose.
But my shortcomings were visible from the start.
Perhaps we were both foolish for thinking, hoping, that those differences don’t matter.
I take his hand and try not to feel guilty, and we keep moving forward.
Photo Credit: Onoky Photography/Veer
