Last weekend I lost a baby. I barely knew her, she was that young--17 weeks in the making and, as far as I knew, perfect. Her little heart had been drumming away on the Thursday afternoon ultrasound and on Friday, before the blue silence if the night was broken by morning birds, the aqueous world that surrounded that little life flushed forth. Her world was lost, and soon, she was lost to me.
She was the first child of my body, but the second to whom I have applied the word "parent". In the case of the first, I do so flexibly, because the boy I am helping to raise is not mine through birthright or blood. He is my husband's son. I am his stepmother. With his help, I am coming to know myself in a new way. I am learning to define and redefine the term "Stepmother" as it is a word and a character, often and easily, vilified.
The role of stepmother is as old as the human family, as old as death, as old as birth. We are the Other Mother, the Never Mother, the Interloper, the Replacement, the Understudy, the Second. We are charged with raising children who are not our own while subject to cultural, historical, personal, and evolutionary factors all of which seem to play a part in the complex enactment of this strange and somewhat ambiguous position.
At midnight tonight I will turn thirty-five. I have known my stepson now for three years, a period of time during which I have examined and observed, questioned, lamented, and exalted the role of stepmothers. It's a weird and natural history, one which has played a large role in my life as I have been both privileged and cursed by having had no less than three stepmothers myself. I have also had two stepfathers, or more accurately, one stepfather and another, rather difficult man, I use to refer to as, "the man my mother married."
As one might imagine, I have become a student of the blended family dynamic, and particularly, of the step-parent.
I have found that if you ask most people about step-parents, the stories are generally negative. When I entered into the role three years ago I began to ask questions at dinner parties, potlucks, and other social events about other peoples' experience of step-parents. I wanted to hear stories that might challenge my assumptions, and broaden my understanding of those people we call "Step". I incorrectly anticipated that I would come across a variety of thoughts and feelings expressed by people pertaining to their step-parents, that the spectrum would be large and include huge affections as well as great strain. I was mostly wrong. The majority of people I spoke with remember their step-parents with a mixture of resignation and resentment. I encountered very few positive stories. There were, of course, exceptions, but these were, by far, in the minority.
It was then that I realized, more deeply, the work that lies ahead of me if I am to redefine and take ownership of this new role. This collection of essays is an exploration of Natural History of Step-parents, but particularly of Stepmothers. It will examine the stories we have heard growing up, the science of territory, blood, hierarchy, and family, as well as take a close look at the history and significance of Stepmothers. It is also a record of my experiences, my blunders, epiphanies, experiments, ruminations, and lessons.
