If you told me I would be excited about a weekend like this a few years ago, I would have told you I’m going to take a pass on the Holt Renfrew shoe sale. Same likelihood.

It is bizarre. I don’t recognize myself. Not long ago, I would have been dreading a full weekend with our kids and my sister’s kids, my parents, all in close confines.  I never used to be into family. I never used to get excited to see the boys and spend time with them. But we had a great weekend planned. We had a family golf tournament, my sister had the dinners organized, and all I had to do was enjoy myself with my family.

Then it occured to me that I might be giddy because I actually have a family to take to a family function. Not only that, but I like them all. I have a husband, kids, animals, brother, parents, sister, neices and nephews, brother in law. This may sound strange, but given that I didn’t marry until my early fourties, I have had a hard time embracing this whole situation. And now here I was giddy about spending time with everyone.

The weekend was extremely fun with lots of laughs and good times. The only thing that affected my giddiness was my parents reaction to my step sons and their reaction to my parents. Which can only be described as nil. Both ways, nil. Nil. Nothing. Nada.

It wasn’t like it was their first meeting or anything, but I had high hopes that the four of them would bond over the weekend, and my parents and stepsons would agree that things were “Grand”. I hoped that the kids would feel connected to my parents and that my parents would feel connected to the kids. But no. Perhaps I was the only one who held that intention.

The boys have always (as instructed) called them “Gaggy” and “Granddad” as their “cousins” do,  but there was definitely no connection beyond that. The kids all played with their “cousins” but there was no attention paid to their “grandparents”. And the “grandparents” made sparse effort to engage with the twins. In my parents defense, they are definitely aging and not exactly agile. One golfed, the other rode in a cart, and beyond that they couldn’t participate in the other kids’ activities of football and video games. 

 But still, I had hopes of an exchange of mutual love. Recently, I overheard my mother comment to someone that she has three grand children. I corrected her, saying she had five grandchildren and she looked confused. 

I  got to thinking about this and realized my expectations for instant love and bonding between them was unrealistic. Heck, it took me years to love and bond with the twins, and that was spending a lot of time together. Then I realized it is now because I love them like my own, that I expect everyone around me to feel that same love for them. 

I’ve come to the conclusion that this is one of those weird,  parallel universe things that can only be truly understood if you are a childless stepmom.

Not having my own kids, I consider the boys “mine” on some level and I assumed my parents felt the same way. Nope. Though they may celebrate all my sister’s kids’ milestones and birthdays, they do not think to celebrate the boys’ events and accomplishments. Same goes for the behavior of my close friends. While I may give their kids gifts for Christmas and birthdays, it does not go both ways.

But perhaps this is my fault. After all, it took me years to accept that I have a family of my own and to love the boys like my own. And certainly if I had issues or reservations about it, the people close to me would as well. So it is unrealistic to expect that they are on the same plane as me now.  Like my love for the boys, it will take time and can’t be forced or assumed.

None the less, my giddiness prevailed on the weekend. Acknowledging that I have a family of my own, loving their company and enjoying life together seems like enough to keep me very happy these days. And the feeling will probably last longer than my Prada shoes.

However, my summer has far surpassed my expectations for fun. I dove off a lot of boats into lakes and oceans, drank a lot of red wine and “skinny bitches” (vodka soda), I socialized a lot, swam a lot, played a bit of tennis and quite a bit of golf. It felt like I was in one on going beer commercial. I continued to work at my job but at a very low productivity level.

 As I was reflecting back on the last six weeks, it reminded me of my life ten years ago. It was a lot of fun, very little responsibility and all about me. The way the schedules went this summer, it seemed like we rarely had the kids. They went away for two weeks with their mom, were in some day camps and otherwise, not a part of my normal daily routine.

I’ve realized that now, after what might be six weeks of adult fun, I am exhausted. I also, surprisingly, miss the kids. More so, I miss what the kids bring to my life, which other than a lot of silly and wonderful kid-humor, they ground me.  And that is what I have been missing this summer. I do not feel  grounded.

I didn’t have to be home for dinner every night. I didn’t have to go grocery shopping every day. I didn’t have to hang out at an ice rink all weekend. I didn’t have to tuck any one in at night, read to anyone or snuggle anyone. And I miss it.

The truth is, I was single for a long time (longer than most let’s just say) and I had more than my fair share of good “beer-commercial” times. What my life has now that it didn’t have then, was a richness and a depth that responsibility brings. I not only have twin boys to take care of but I have a husband, a dog and two cats. I have a big garden and a lot of household chores. Usually I complain about how overwhelmed I am by all of these demands, but at this moment I see that they are gifts and they keep me grounded. They remind me of what is important, and that is family.

While they were gone I found myself obsessing about the pounds I needed to shed to get bikini ready (an unlikely expectation at 47 years old) or new outfits to wear to big parties, or new hair styles to try out. I wasted a lot of time on facebook and read a lot of trashy magazines. 

Now, all that is fun and I obviously needed a mindless break, but it doesn’t compare to watching their reaction when the cat brings a mouse into the house, or the dog rolls in something stinky or just watching TV with them or jumping in the lake with them. They make all the otherwise mundane  things like walking the dog or grocery shopping fun. They have guaranteed interesting conversation and perspectives on life. 

I find this interesting, because every so often (usually on a dreary  Winter night) when I am fiendishly mushing ground round into hamburger patties after work, I catch myself yearning for my old life. And that occurs to me now as such a waste of an opportunity. I do not want my old life back, I want to embrace this life, appreciate these gifts and accept that it is the best life for me. Being needed to make dinner is better than being wanted at a big party.

I have had a great summer, foot loose and fancy free as they say, and now I am ready to go back to my real life. Back to my routines, back to my chores, back to feeding my family and creating a warm, happy home, back to snuggling them and tucking them in.

I guess you could say this is one of the benefits of being an Urban Stepmom, you can choose who you want to play with,  your adult friends, or your little friends. How many full time moms wouldn’t want six weeks of boating, beer and barbecues?  We are lucky that we have it all in a sense. As Stepmoms in general we spend so much time complaining about our lives, if only we could accept it and appreciate how lucky we are that our world is so diverse and interesting.

Recently, I had to let go of control of the kids. It was our week to have the boys and one of them had to go have an operation on his ear and adenoids. It wasn’t a big deal their father told me, just an “in and out” surgery. But the fact of the matter was he was put under general anesthetic and it was quite a production for the child. Both mother and father were there at the hospital and I was not. 

It is not my intention to have a pity party or make the focus to be about me, but merely to point out the importance of letting go…or maybe detachment, or maybe both. It is one of the biggest challenges I find, to be there for all the day to day routines like feeding them, picking them up from daycare, going to their hockey games, getting up in the night to care for them when they have nightmares, leaving work when they are sick, but not for example, being at the hospital when something big happens.

If I’m feeling down at the time, it feels like a kick in the  gut. If I am feeling more grounded, it is merely a gentle reminder that they are not my kids. There are boundaries that need to be accepted. Boundaries where both the mother and the father make it clear that they are their kids and not my kids. That the faces the kids should see when they are coming out of an anesthetic are theirs and not mine. That the people that make the major decisions about education, health and discipline in their lives are them, not me.

My husband is the type of man who always tries to include his otherwise childless wife in decisions with the kids, but even he has veto power. And after him, she has veto power.

This is one of the reasons why it is so hard being married to a man with kids and not having kids of your own. It is easy to intellectually understand that they are not my kids, and I know I am not the mom. I have a demanding career and a busy life and by all accounts and my world does not revolve around the kids, but none the less, I have a vested interest. I have time in the saddle. Reading to them, biking with them, feeding them, taking care of them all leads to attachment. And when the hospital door (in this case) is slammed shut in front of you, it is confusing on strictly and emotional level.

I’ve heard the advice to back off but I’m not sure how one lives under the same roof as small children on a very regular basis and doesn’t feel the call to take care of them with everything they have, even though they aren’t their own? But I admit, at times it is odd to have responsibility yet not authority.

But that is the call to action here. To love them, care for them, raise them, parent them without attachment. So what could I do? I asked my husband to call me after the surgery and let me know how it went. I bought a stuffed animal because even though he is ten, I knew he would like something soft to sooth him in recovery. He went to his mother’s house that night so she could take care of him. I thought about dropping by and giving him the “stuffie”, but I knew it wasn’t my place. He was with us the next day, and I gave it to him. I wondered if he was upset I wasn’t at the hospital, or if he  knew too, there were places for parents and places for step parents. 

All I can do is let it go. I can be grateful he has such loving parents who are there for him. And I can be proud of being there for him when he is with us, or when he should ever need me. 

It should be enough.

Let me know if you are a childless stepmom and ever feel this way. And if so, how do you handle it?

A what? 

“A Fractured Fairy Tale”, he said, “is loosely based on the Fairy Tale but there is a lot of humor, some new characters, different perspectives and there are unexpected surprises.” He said they are calling it, “Cinderella Outgrows Her Glass Slipper.” I couldn’t wait to see it!

I wrongly assumed that this grade four class had made up the term “Fractured Fairy Tale.”  It turns out, there are books and scripts galore out there, they are part of the school curriculum now and the best thing is children are encouraged to write their own.

My husband and I settled into our (very little) seats as three full classes came pouring into my stepson’s classroom and sat at our feet. Everyone was full of anticipation to see the play.

The basic play was the same, but Cinderella life’s dream was to become a Veterinarian, not to marry the Prince, despite the intentions of the Magic Fairies and the Prince himself. There also seemed to be some foreshadowing for her to become a major Shoe Mogul if she chose that path. (a story line I was quite interested in).

I loved Cinderella. She was in charge of her destiny. She didn’t mind the grunt work she had to do for her evil step sisters because she had a dream. In her spare time she made shoes to make money to pursue her passion of becoming a Veterinarian. Turns out she had lots of talent and ambition.

I couldn’t help but thinking, isn’t this just the most modern, exciting creative, realistic way of going into life?  Write your own script for your life, pursue your dreams even if others have different plans for you, work hard, be resourceful, be grateful and be determined. Don’t let go of your dream. Cinderella knew that the expectation of the Fairy Godmothers was for her was to marry the Prince. And the expectation of her step sisters was for her to dote on them for the rest of time. But Cinderella was focused on what she knew to be true for herself.

I love this because there are so many expectations for kids and for women in general. I believe there is still the expectation that women will get married and have kids and if she doesn’t in reasonable time, there is something wrong with her. Well, by the time Cinderella gets married, if she does, she will be very successful, and who knows the Prince may have left his first wife and have a couple of kids in tow and may now look appealing to Cinderella.

Life is indeed very fractured most of the time. Rarely is it whole, and tidy and predictable. But it is up to us to be whole as an individual, to know ourselves, to know our dreams and to pursue them, even if they don’t fit into what society or other people expect of us. It isn’t to say that pursuing our dreams will be easy and without obstacles, but there is so much satisfaction and joy in a life when you know you are true to yourself.

I was grateful, there was no evil step mother in the script, and the evil step sisters were actually quite adorable albeit spoilt.

I was extremely proud of Jacob’s teacher for choosing this play with such a strong message. I applaud her!

Afterwards, the kids took questions from the audience and one mom behind me asked, “Does Cinderella ever marry, or does she just become a career woman?” The kids were stumped and the question was met with several seconds of silence. “Uh, she may marry in the future, but right now she is focusing on her career,” said one child, at which point I wanted to jump out of my seat and clap and yell, “Bravo!! Bravo!!” The kids got the message. Too bad for the mom behind me…

I can look at my relationship with my husband, his kids, his ex, and my self, and with each person, it started rocky and scary and after six years, a calm has set in.

With my husband for example, we used to fight a lot. I was scared, my ego was freaking out, and we were both thrown into (by our own choice) a situation we had no experience with. As for the kids, they used to be small aliens to me. I did not want to touch them or interact with them, not knowing what they might do. And adjusting to having my man’s ex in my life every day was enough to send me crawling to the cookie jar on a regular basis. As for myself, I now have a renewed sense of trust and strength in myself that I did not have before and did not know I possessed.

Granted, things didn’t start to get significantly better until five years in, and I’ve heard the experts say, things really calm down after seven years, but it is worth the wait if you can be open to what is in store. A lot of cookies, chocolate and wine are consumed in those five years so make sure you find  an exercise program and strap in!

I always had a sense of hope that things would get better but there have been a lot of significant events that I never could have dreamed.

For example, I never would have expected that the boys, now ten, would insist on snuggles by me at bedtime. Nor would I have expected them to tell me they love me. 

If you told me that I would look forward to my “bench time” at the hockey rink or the soccer field with my husband’s ex, I would have laughed at you five years ago.

And if you said you will laugh yourself silly with him and he’ll be your best friend, about my husband, I never would have believed that either. (There is not a lot of laughing in those early years).

Nor would I have believed that I could have found the strength to be open to learning and growing in this situation. But I did that too.

It takes trust, and a serious commitment to letting go. If you can let go of what you think you want, and what you think you know, and are open to what might be, and what is, it is guaranteed to  get better. Imagine knowing that life gets better and better and better. More love, more laughter, more joy, more depth of understanding, more compassion, more connection.

If you trust that things will get better if you hang in there, they will. Simply hanging in, is sometimes all you have to do. And some days, it is all you can do.

Let me know if this has been your experience too.

It made matters worse as I waited for the boys to get ready for their first game on Friday night that I could hear the glorious sounds of my neighbors welcoming friends, pouring wine and firing up their bbqs. I felt sick with envy.

Eventually, I was forced to grab my down coat, gloves and scarf and pile into the car to head to the rink. I experienced three more nights like this on this long weekend while my friends and neighbors entertained people and enjoyed the beauty of Spring but I also experienced some real pleasure and joy of my own.

I decided that rather than be miserable (and freezing) I would balance my weekend with my own needs, taking care of the family and enjoying the boys’ hockey games.

For starters, I took my book to the rink. There is always a period of 45 minutes to an hour to wait until each game, so I sat in the car, read my book in peace and quiet. It was lovely. How often do I get an uninterrupted hour to myself?

Second, I decided to not go to every game. More or less, I went to every second game which meant I could get my exercise in, my gardening and my meal preparation for when they came home hungry and tired. I went to yoga, rode my bike, took a golf lesson. I felt strong and calm when  they came home and happy to take care of them and feed them nourishing meals.

Third, I realized the games were very exciting, my stepsons were stars and I met and enjoyed some very interesting parents. I couldn’t help but feel I was part of something communal and fun with all these families. And there is something very bonding about being at the rink at 10 pm with a bunch of tired parents and spent kids. It didn’t hurt that we won the Cup and everyone felt like champions.

And last, I actually enjoyed the break from drinking wine and eating to excess on the weekend. Meals were on the fly, socializing was in the bleachers and  wine was not an option. I liked the break.

Here is the lesson: prioritize yourself. I used to feel I had to go to every game and had to prepare all the meals and manage all the clean up. That just led to resentment (and envying the neighbors). Then I’d feel guilty about not going to all the games and guilty about not making all the meals. This weekend, I did what I wanted. My priorities were exercise, gardening, cooking and watching the boys. Once I  got my exercise done and my planting, I felt great about cooking and watching the boys.

Once I got my exercise done and my gardening, it freed me up to enjoy cooking, feeding and being part of their sporting event. I’ve said it twice. Get it? Prioritize Yourself.

And now, it is all over. We won the Cup. I was there for the final game, I met some great people and had a great weekend. My husband is cooking the Victory dinner as we speak.  Life is good. 

I’m not sure why it has taken me so long to figure out this balance, but I am grateful that this weekend anyway, I was successful.

How do you figure out your balance?

For some reason, she didn’t get the card until a few days ago, so yesterday she wrote me an email. Last Thanksgiving she wrote me an email to thank me for being in the boys’ life which blew me away, but this email was even more remarkable.

In this email she told me a story about how one of her sons was telling a neighbor a story  and referred to me as his “mom”. The neighbor was perplexed while standing there with his mother and questioned him. He corrected himself and said, “My stepmom, I mean. I have two moms”. She also went on to say how the boys’ expressed to her how important it was to get me flowers on Mother’s Day and how they love to do things for me.

The gist of the email was how some mothers might find their children’s love for another woman threatening, for her, she feels joy and gratitude that there is so much love in their lives.

She also asked in the email how she could support having a “Lisa Day”, which she felt I deserved.

I mean, this woman should be giving seminars to other women in this situation. She could go on tour! Talk about evolved!

Later in the day, I walked up to the soccer field to watch the boys play, and I bumped into her. We talked non stop for the full game. In a very gentle manner, she suggested that I should “claim the boys’ love” for me because it is there and it is pure and unquestioning. I shared with her that it has been difficult for me to claim their love because I have tried very hard to respect everyone’s feelings in this scenario which led to me trying to protect myself from getting hurt.

But recently, out of the mouths of babes and exs, I have been given the green light to walk through a door that I have been afraid to walk through in the past. The door takes me to a place where I am accepted and important; where it is okay to love unconditionally and; where I have a happy, albeit “not normal”  family. The boys have been showing their love for me which makes it impossible for me to deny that I am important in their lives and now I have been given the blessing of their mother to love them with all my heart and my spirit. What a gift.

As I re read this, I wonder, does this sound strange? Why did I think I wasn’t allowed to love the boys? Or at least why did I think I wasn’t allowed to show it? And why on some level didn’t I accept that they love me?

I think the fear of rejection is one of the fundamental challenges of being a stepmom. We are afraid the children might reject our love, or their mother might not be comfortable with us or them showing love for each other.

I would like to know if anyone else has felt afraid to show or feel their love to their step children out of fear of their rejection or out of respect for their mother.

You will remember I went to great (some might say extreme) lengths to make sure my mother’s Mother’s Day, the boys’ Mother’s Day and the boys’ mother’s Mother’s Day were great! Well, things don’t always go as planned.

The first thing I did was send Mother’s Day cards in the mail to my mother (the first in years I am ashamed to say) and the boys’ mother (a first). I heard from neither, but my mother has Alzheimer’s so she probably thought to thank me and forgot. As for the boys’ mother, she is the type to wait until she sees me  and will thank me in person.

Then assuming that we did not have the boys on Mother’s Day my sister and I planned an incredible experience for our mother which involved helicopter rides, high tea and a tour through a spectacular garden. 

Once I was told that we did in fact have the boys,  I went to great lengths to make sure they were with their mother on Mother’s Day.

There had been no discussion about my Mother’s Day, amongst my immediate family but I trusted my husband would make something happen at some point to make me feel honored. So all was perfectly planned.

By the time I got up in the morning, the boys and their dad had gone off to a hockey practice. I woke up to  face licking and purrs from my furry friends, got dressed and headed out to the helicopter pad to meet my mother. On my way, I stopped for a coffee and the owner of the coffee shop gave me a carnation and wished me a Happy Mother’s Day. Random Acts of Kindness are always the best.

I met my mother at the helicopter pad, we took lots of pictures, and piled on for a ride and a day that we would not forget. Well, at least my sister and my niece and I would not forget it, my mother may…(that was our running Alzheimer’s joke). The day was stunning, the ride in the helicopter was something out of the lives of the rich and famous, the gardens gorgeous, the tea was very sophisticated. We all had a glorious time together. 

I arrived home at dinner time to a huge bouquet of flowers, homemade cards, a gift of a golf lesson (much needed and appreciated) from my husband and homemade dinner. What more could a girl ask for? They even did the dishes.

 As I was tucking the boys in I was thinking it was the end of a perfect day. I had worked hard to make sure everyone had a great day and I had succeeded. I went downstairs to watch TV with my husband and we were  interrupted by the padding of little feet. “Lisa, I need to talk to you” said a soft, upset voice from the top of the stairs.

I immediately went upstairs and was greeted by one of the boys with tears in his eyes. “I miss my mom” he sputtered out.  We went to a quiet place in the house and we sat down to have a chat. Through his tears he explained to me that he found it very difficult to see his mom in the middle of a week  ”at this house”. He said that when he comes here, he doesn’t think about her, and when he goes there he doesn’t think about us, but when he’s here, and then spends time with his mom and comes back here “it is hard”.

I was choking back my own tears as this ten year old boy clearly articulated his feelings about such a complex situation. There was no blame, no anger, no frustration, just sadness and loss in all of its purity. He wasn’t asking to call her, or go see her. It had nothing to do with Mother’s Day. He just felt sad.

My immediate reaction was to blame myself for my stupidity in “over organizing” everyone and trying to force the “perfect Mothers Day” for all. But then I realized the true gift this child was giving me was trusting me enough to share his inner most thoughts and feelings.

When I tucked him back in and gave him one last snuggle, I became aware of the fact that I might not be their Mother, but I am a very special person to them, with a very special role.

In terms of being honored on Mother’s Day, I dare say, it doesn’t get much better than this!

So this year, my sister phoned me up and said, “I know you hate Mother’s Day, and you won’t have the boys so whatdya say we take Mom on a fun adventure?” Of course I was game! “I’m in!”, I said. I knew after years of experience that it is better to have the boys at their Mother’s house on Mother’s Day so I assumed this would be the case again this year. That freed me up to honor my mother on Mother’s Day and not be in-waiting for flowers, chocolates, cards and other gifts that may or may not arrive.

So my sister and I had planned a wonderful day with my mother which included helicopter rides, high tea and a walk through a gorgeous garden. My father was driving my mother to the airport, my husband was driving me and I’d be home in time for dinner. It sounded perfect.

Then, in a schedule update conversation with my husband he casually revealed that we have the boys on Mother’s Day. “How is this possible?” I say, “I thought we had an agreement that she always gets them on Mother’s Day and you always get them on Father’s Day?”, to which he just shrugged. This is not good, I thought, the boys will be at home without a Mother or a Stepmother on Mother’s Day.

Their mother had been out of town for a few weeks but finally a week before Mother’s Day I bumped into her at the hockey rink. “Hey”, I frantically breathed, “this Sunday is Mother’s Day and we have them and you have to have them so you should make a plan with them”.

“This Sunday is Mother’s Day?” she casually asked. I was shocked. Then she said, “You have them, you are their mother too, why don’t you do something?” What?? I was horrified at this thought, how can I do something when I am not going to be there and I am not the mother.

This was a disastor in my mind. My main focus, other than my own neurosis was the boys’ happiness being with their mother on Mother’s day and this was not coming together as planned.

“No,” I insisted, “you have to take the boys on Sunday, “it is best for everyone”. She shrugged and said, “okay, well, thanks for thinking of me”.

And that was it. My months of planning and preparation to do something nice for someone else (my mother) and not expect anything from my stepsons and free them up to be with their mother was met by her non challance.

I also made a very bold move  thanks again to Peggy at www.thestepmomstoolbox.com (for always challenging me) who challenged me to send the boys’ mother a Happy Mother’s Day card. I popped it in the mail today and I felt great about it. She is a wonderful mother, and those boys are sweet and caring and loving and beautiful human beings thanks to a big part to her. It was a joy to send her the card. And I hope it brings her joy.

But isn’t it ironic that for months I’ve been worried about Mother’s Day and she’s not even known that it is Mother’s Day?

So what might the message be here? Maybe I am over reacting and over thinking. Maybe next time I should just chill out, trust the universe and enjoy whatever happens.

What do you think?

Not having my own kids has always been what I can only describe as a great loss for me. Since I was nineteen I imagined having six boys, a happy marriage to a successful man and living in a big house. Throw in a white picket fence and you get the picture. It was an expectation of a non complex, simple life.

But life doesn’t always work out as planned.  I didn’t marry until I was 43 years old, which meant I worked all that time to support myself, and just by sheer application and time, I started to identify myself as a career woman. Over time, I became independent, capable and self sufficient out of survival and circumstance more than anything else.

I did wind up marrying a successful man and living in a big house, that part came true, and the house had a hedge not a fence, but it made me feel claustrophobic so we got rid of it. As for the rest of the fantasy, I never did have six, or even one child.

But if I daringly expand my definition of maternal beyond the biological birthing of eight pound creatures, there might be some room to at the very least own a small fraction of this identity. 

I did adopt a 6 week old puppy who was my family before I met my husband and his kids. I do have 10 year old twin part time roommates that have a need for food and comfort and nurturing. I adopted two kittens who seemed to need a good home. And my parents are aging and ironically adapting to their needs I think counts as mothering.

So it all got me thinking that maybe Maternal isn’t an adjective so much as a Verb. Maybe it is an action, or a series of actions that defines it. Maybe even the word Mother is a verb. You have to do it, take action and then you can justifiably say you are maternal or even a mother. I’ve decided if you cook for people, feed them, brush them, hug them, listen to them, take them to doctors (vets), tend to them in the middle of the night, give them treats, go for walks or bike rides, any bum wiping for sure counts, wash their dishes, their clothes, their blankets, speak in baby talk, bath them, watch them play, throw sticks or balls for them, buy them presents that these things all add up Mothering Verbs and justify the identity of Maternal. 

I also got to thinking that no one owes me a card or a bouquet of flowers just because I do these things;  it is a privilege to take care of beings that need taking care of. Somehow, I have found myself taking care of small twin boys, a dog, two cats, aging parents and  a husband (lets face it). It might not be the  naive fantasy of a nineteen year old girl, and it might not be a simple life, but it is my real life family and I am the Mother of it. Just because no one calls me mom, and society does not  recognize me as a mother, doesn’t mean I can’t claim the matriarchal status of this family.

And so as Mother’s Day is a few weeks away, I celebrate my Maternal side. I feel gratitude for the small bowls and big plates of food I produce every day, for the meows, the barks, the hugs, the stories, the sticks, the balls, the tears and giggles that all make up the fabric of my life. And no card or bouquet seems necessary.