You Have My Permission: An open Letter to Step-Moms Everywhere

A Letter to the Other Mother of my daughters.


Dear D------,

Your blood, guts, face.  I testified daily so many years ago that those things I hated.  More dangerous  than any poison, I was a sullen, bitter and hardened woman, desperate to lay blame.  I hated you for a hundred different reasons, none of which now matter. I couldn't see beyond the pain that a mother knows who feels that she has lost her most important full time job. For too long I hated.  I wanted you to die, melt, become a puddle of whatever mush a body becomes when seething invisible-mama daggers gouge out eyes and teeth and all soft spots then watch them liquefy as volcanoes erupt into the hell fire I would send.  

I used to think:
How could you be anything like me?  I am their mother. The one that gave them life?  The one that carried them and birthed them through screams and terror of my own near death?  How could you replace me? How could you read them bed time stories, know their favorites to put into their lunches, teach them to measure when baking cookies, play Chutes and Ladders?  How dare you rub their cheeks and back when they were sick, color, make play-dough animals, sing at the top of your voice and play dance party?  

Too many holidays I sat alone, lonely, watching leaves fall or snowflakes whirl while my girls sat on your lap eating apple pie or unwrapping gifts.  You heard their sweet tot voices as they squealed with delights I desired to witness.  I cried into empty pillows and cradled bottles of wine, instead of my darling girls.

But now:
I thank God every day that nearly five years ago I became a step-mom, myself.  For one, I have three beautiful children to love.  But that's not the only why. 

When I became a step-mom, I began to understand how blame can be erased.  How mistakes can be forgiven, and how deep wounds can heal.

As I lay at night, singing, "I'll give you a daisy a day, dear" to my darling step-daughter, and then tell her "Good-night" with a kiss to the forehead, I think of you.  When she begs me back for one more song, or one more story, I think of you.  When we hold hands in the grocery store, or she falls and I bandage a not so terrible boo-boo, I think of you.  When she cuddles into my lap and tells me that I'm not going anywhere because we are "cuddlin'" I think of you.  When I go to her Halloween parades, thanksgiving celebrations, shop for her Christmas gifts.... When I braid her hair, curl it, let her put make-up on me.... When she asks me to put love into the cookies before she mixes them... I think of you.

I think of all the times you have been there for my daughters.  All the tears you've soothed, all the whispered, "I love yous."  I think of the worries, fears, joys, sadness, pride you have for my girls.  I think of how lucky they are to have you in their lives.  Someone that holds them to a standard as high as I do, wants their happiness and success as much as I do.  

And, so today,  I want you to know, you have my permission.  You have my permission to be their mother just as much as I am their mother.  You didn't give birth to them, but that doesn't make your love for them or your hopes for them less than my own.  

You have my permission to have an opinion about whether or not they should get that shot, should attend the event, college, or buy that certain car.  You have my permission to stand beside me someday when they go to prom, get married, have their own children.  You have my permission to continue loving them with the depths of the love a mother has for a child, because since I became a step-mom, I know that you do.

This Thanksgiving I want you to know I am thankful for you.  Because without you, my girls would not be who they are. And for that, I am so very thankful.