I Was a Stepchild

My mom remarried when I was about four. I do not remember my parents being together. I remember one picture of them together. It wasn’t one with them cuddled on the couch, or posed next to a tree. They just happened to be in the same room. It was the only picture I had. I believe it burned, along with my home, in the Northridge Earthquake.

So I was about four. My brother, 10. It was much harder for him. I didn’t know any better. My stepfather’s name was Tom. I say “was” Tom because he died in my late teens. It was either Cirrhosis of the liver, or just a straight out heart attack. I never knew. It didn’t matter.

He was an alcoholic. A very functional, binge on the weekend, couldn’t invite your friends over, kind of alcoholic. I‘m not going to talk about the trials and tribulations of my childhood and what life was like as the daughter of an alcoholic. The key word being “daughter.”

I was never anything other than his daughter. I never felt like a stepchild. He never introduced me as such. His family, all alcoholics themselves, took me in as their own. His parents were really the only grandparents I knew growing up, and I loved them dearly. I never knew my father’s parents, my paternal grandfather died many years before I was born and I had only met my paternal grandmother a few times as a young child. I knew my mother’s parents. They lived in the Philippines and we would visit once a year. My stepfather’s parents were Grandma and Grandpa. I went to their house for the weekends and the holidays. They were the real deal growing up.

Fast forward to adulthood. I fell in love with a man who had a little boy. This was the man I would marry. This would be the little boy I would call my first son. I never wanted him to feel any different either. He WAS and IS my first son. If you were to hang out with our family, you would never know. He looks like his Dad. The other three boys that came out of my body, look like me. The girls (who are adopted) look strangely like the boys that were ripped out of my uterus. So when you see the pictures of the kids, you know they only “sort of” look alike, but questions are never asked. My goal as his step parent was to love, kiss, lick, tickle, accept, and discipline him as if he was from my body. I wanted him to never know anything different.

A few months ago, we were lying in bed discussing the new sister that will be coming home soon. I was explaining to him about love and acceptance. I told him my story of him coming into my life. I said to him, “even though you did not come out of my body like your brothers did, you were my first son, and I love you.” He knew that already.

I’d love to say there’s no difference, but there is one difference - I loved him first. He was the first son, and I loved him first.

Muthahood Ain’t For Sissies | Motherhood Ain’t For Sissies

Comments

[Julie Ferenzi]

Somehow I knew you'd have something more to say about HendrixAndMama's post... geeze, I know you so well it's scary!

Big Bro J, is just as much a part of the bunch as any. I've seen it with my own two eyes.

If only the rest of the "step" population was as lucky as "J"...

You guys are doing a great job. :)