It's not easy...

It is not easy, this being a mom.  Why did nobody tell me?  In all fairness, I'm sure someone told me that it is hard damn work - the hardest out there.  And I'm just as sure that I didn't listen.  I stuck my fingers in my ears and hummed the Brady Bunch theme with my tongue sticking out because I can do anything I set my mind to.  Nothing is too hard for this girl.  And I wanted this so badly.  I've wanted this for so long, to be a member of The Club.  And here I am, in a world inundated with infertility and IVF and last resorts and retirements spent...all in the name of Mama...and I have it and it was just. that. easy.  And so I tell myself that I shouldn't complain about it.

But it's not easy being a mom.  It takes a plethora of patience and sacrifice.  It requires getting up early and staying up late.  It steals time and saps energy.  It requires an abundance of hugs and kisses and hand clapping and occasionally some gagging.  It means that you get peed on and pooped on and puked on, on a semi-regular basis.  It means that you sometimes have to change your shirt...three times...in one hour...twice...in one day.

It's not easy being a mom.  But being a step-mom?  I know that nobody told me that this would be a lot of work because, really, when you love someone - when you're in love, you're quite certain that you can accomplish anything.  And the world looks pretty good through rose-colored glasses.  How hard can it be, you ask yourself, this raising of someone else's child?  No potty training, no late-night feedings, she could entertain herself, get her own cereal in the morning and she knew how to make her own bed.  If I'd had to venture a guess, I would have said: "Score!"  Well, let me tell you how hard it can be.  It feels like being in a teeny tiny boat in the sea and the only thing visible for miles and miles are the angry white caps; the beautiful green of the water, the deep turquoise blue that you know is out there, is hidden under the waves.  And don't even think about taking a moment to smell the salt on the air or laugh at the seagulls circling overhead; you're too busy holding on for dear life and praying, praying, that the waters are calm enough up ahead to cinch your life vest a little bit tighter.
.

It's not easy being a mom, but I can look at my son and I see my eyes in his; I see his dad when he smiles. I see that together we did something pretty dang awesome and even when he's inconsolable because his teeth hurt; even when his feet are in my face at 5 in the morning because he just can't get comfortable - not in his bed and certainly not in mine - I know that I'm molding and shaping this person.  That I get to start him out in life with the knowledge of the things that I think are important: treating others as you want to be treated, saying please and thank you, brushing your teeth twice a day, asking to be excused from the table after dinner, cleaning up toys when you're done playing with them, saying your bedtime prayer, being thankful.  I know that he looks to me for guidance and reassurance and I can give that to him; I don't have to explain myself or justify my actions.  He believes me and he believes in me.  And even on the worst days - and we do have them, the worst of the worst - I love being his mom.  There is nowhere I'd rather be than right beside him.

It's not easy being a step-mom.  Some days - most days - I feel like I am failing.  I look at her, and if I squinch my eyes real tight and tilt my head to the side, I can just make out some of her dad in her.  But mostly she is the spitting image of her mom.  Every day, I feel like I am trying to teach an old dog new tricks - and this is not a new situation; these are not new rules.  We've been doing this dance for 3 years but suddenly it's as though I'm asking the mailman to perform open heart surgery.  I feel like the time to mold her and shape her is long gone, packed away with the Barbies and the Pollys.  I feel like she's got her habits - most I can live with, but the bad ones, oh the bad habits I can't change and she refuses to try.  I feel like my connection to this girl, a connection that comes so easily with my son, is missing. I don't know how to get it back, and some days I wonder if it was ever even there to begin with.

It's as if I have short-circuited my life and I am lost.

It is not easy, this being a mom.  Why did nobody tell me?  In all fairness, I'm sure someone told me that it is hard damn work - the hardest out there.  And I'm just as sure that I didn't listen.  I stuck my fingers in my ears and hummed the Brady Bunch theme with my tongue sticking out because I can do anything I set my mind to.  Nothing is too hard for this girl.  And I wanted this so badly.  I've wanted this for so long, to be a member of The Club.  And here I am, in a world inundated with infertility and IVF and last resorts and retirements spent...all in the name of Mama...and I have it and it was just. that. easy.  And so I tell myself that I shouldn't complain about it.

But it's not easy being a mom.  It takes a plethora of patience and sacrifice.  It requires getting up early and staying up late.  It steals time and saps energy.  It requires an abundance of hugs and kisses and hand clapping and occasionally some gagging.  It means that you get peed on and pooped on and puked on, on a semi-regular basis.  It means that you sometimes have to change your shirt...three times...in one hour...twice...in one day.

It's not easy being a mom.  But being a step-mom?  I know that nobody told me that this would be a lot of work because, really, when you love someone - when you're in love, you're quite certain that you can accomplish anything.  And the world looks pretty good through rose-colored glasses.  How hard can it be, you ask yourself, this raising of someone else's child?  No potty training, no late-night feedings, she could entertain herself, get her own cereal in the morning and she knew how to make her own bed.  If I'd had to venture a guess, I would have said: "Score!"  Well, let me tell you how hard it can be.  It feels like being in a teeny tiny boat in the sea and the only thing visible for miles and miles are the angry white caps; the beautiful green of the water, the deep turquoise blue that you know is out there, is hidden under the waves.  And don't even think about taking a moment to smell the salt on the air or laugh at the seagulls circling overhead; you're too busy holding on for dear life and praying, praying, that the waters are calm enough up ahead to cinch your life vest a little bit tighter.
.

It's not easy being a mom, but I can look at my son and I see my eyes in his; I see his dad when he smiles. I see that together we did something pretty dang awesome and even when he's inconsolable because his teeth hurt; even when his feet are in my face at 5 in the morning because he just can't get comfortable - not in his bed and certainly not in mine - I know that I'm molding and shaping this person.  That I get to start him out in life with the knowledge of the things that I think are important: treating others as you want to be treated, saying please and thank you, brushing your teeth twice a day, asking to be excused from the table after dinner, cleaning up toys when you're done playing with them, saying your bedtime prayer, being thankful.  I know that he looks to me for guidance and reassurance and I can give that to him; I don't have to explain myself or justify my actions.  He believes me and he believes in me.  And even on the worst days - and we do have them, the worst of the worst - I love being his mom.  There is nowhere I'd rather be than right beside him.

It's not easy being a step-mom.  Some days - most days - I feel like I am failing.  I look at her, and if I squinch my eyes real tight and tilt my head to the side, I can just make out some of her dad in her.  But mostly she is the spitting image of her mom.  Every day, I feel like I am trying to teach an old dog new tricks - and this is not a new situation; these are not new rules.  We've been doing this dance for 3 years but suddenly it's as though I'm asking the mailman to perform open heart surgery.  I feel like the time to mold her and shape her is long gone, packed away with the Barbies and the Pollys.  I feel like she's got her habits - most I can live with, but the bad ones, oh the bad habits I can't change and she refuses to try.  I feel like my connection to this girl, a connection that comes so easily with my son, is missing. I don't know how to get it back, and some days I wonder if it was ever even there to begin with.

It's as if I have short-circuited my life and I am lost.