You’re a Really Good Mom

To the woman at Target who leaned in, smiled and said quietly, “You’re a really good mom.”

Exhausted from a two hour Urgent Care visit, resulting in two cases of strep throat, a guilty conscience because I missed a meeting at work and ended with navigating through Target with two sick, very tired kids, I was wrapped up in my own thoughts, feeling like there was no way it was only 1 PM. I simply smiled back at you, laughed a little at the mess we’d made on the aisle floor and said “Thank you.”

But as you walked away, and we picked up the mess, I felt the realization of what just happened. You didn’t know that my instinct was to respond by clarifying “Thanks, I’m actually their stepmom.”

You didn’t know that I’m 16 weeks pregnant, exhausted and anxious about everything I touch, eat and feel. That I’m trying to navigate through the changes and emotions of being pregnant for the first time. Hearing variations of “Congratulations! You’ll be a great mom,” taking the kind words for how I know they were intended but also feeling a little twinge of confusion because I felt like a mom 17 weeks ago.

You couldn’t know that 3 years ago, I didn’t know these kids. I didn’t know their father. And now I’m taking them to urgent care, buying them sneakers at Target while we wait for the pharmacy to open so we can finally, hopefully, get rid of strep that keeps coming back. You didn’t know that every time I check them into the doctor, a fear swells up in my throat wondering if I’m going to have to admit that I’m not actually their mom.

You didn’t know that every time I’m asked about their medical history, it’s pulled from memorization, not from memory and a part of me is always saddened by it.

"Ok mama," the nurse says every time. "You’re the parent, correct?" She asks, handing me back the insurance card.

"Yes, I’m the stepmom," I say, because both are true.

Waiting to see if the reaction I get is going to be kind and supportive, like it would be for any parent checking their sick kid into a doctor’s office or whether I’m going to stop being called "mama" once I reveal this information.

Waiting to see if they let me past the front desk so we can finally see the doctor or if instead I’ll hear: "Since you're just the stepmom, we’ll have to call dad."

You didn’t know that every school function I go to I look around wondering if other parents think of me as a fraud.

What’s she doing here?

You didn’t know that when I tried to check my stepdaughter out of school for an early dismissal so we could get our nails done, that I was held for 30 minutes at the front desk while they had to go down the list of approved people to check her out, only to realize I wasn’t one of them. "Should we call mom?" The school secretary says. She doesn’t mean me. Standing there, embarrassed, like I’d done something wrong, waiting for my role to be confirmed by a document on an outdated elementary school computer.

This is good, I tell myself. We want the school to be diligent and cautious when it comes to the kids. It’s just stepparents who feel that wound a little deeper every time we’re not on a list.

You didn’t know that I question myself by the minute about whether I’m making the right call, whether I’m patient enough, whether I’m good enough for this role. For my husband, for the kids. You didn’t know any of this.

You simply saw me talking my stepson through making a decision about his new sneakers. You saw me notice he was talking about getting the less comfortable blue shoes because they didn’t have laces even though the gray laced ones were much more comfortable. You heard me say “I think if you like the blue shoes better, that’s great; let’s get them. But if the only reason you don’t want to get the other shoes is because you’re nervous about having to tie them, then that’s different.”

You saw the corner of his mouth turn up as he made a look that confirmed I was right.

You saw me kneel down, look him in the eyes and say “Here’s the thing, what we don’t want to do is to make decisions like this simply out of fear or what makes us a little nervous.”

“I’m just really bad at it. It gets really knotted.” He said, already frustrated at the mere idea of it.

“Guess what,” I answered, “just like everything else you learn how to do, it takes practice. You’re going to practice tying your shoes and one day you’re going to wake up and not think twice about it. Because you’ll be a kid who ties his shoes. That’s just who you’ll be.”

You saw him smile a little and nod as he put the blue, unlaced shoes back on the shelf.

“Oh sorry,” I said “We’re in the way,” as I saw you trying to maneuver your cart past us.

“You’re a really good mom,” You said.

It takes practice. Sometimes, it gets really knotted. Sometimes I get scared, sometimes I doubt

myself.

But what we’re not going to do is, we’re not going to make decisions out of fear or what makes us a little nervous.

Today, in the shoe aisle of Target, I woke up and realized I am a mom.

Nothing to clarify, nothing to add.

That’s just who I am.