It was when I was walking to my office, trailed by three young people whose ages ranged from 16 to 25, flowing down the corridor behind me like the tail of a kite, that I thought of it for the first time.
This could be because I am not actually a mother. Until recently, I was not a "real" stepmother either. But I have been living with the man who is now my husband, Bernardo for 10 years and in those 10 years, not only have his younger daughters spent every other weekend and half of their school holiday with us but also his son has lived with us full-time. In fact, when Bernardo asked me to move in, he asked his son for permission first.
Being a step mum is hard enough but being a sort-of-step-mother is about the most awkward position a mature woman can find herself in. With my sort-of-steppies, I have occupied a place of influence, power and sometimes extreme anger by turns. I have stepped on a delicate path between being a grown-up friend, a bridge of influence with their father, the woman of the house, and a figure of authority – but not too much.
Love the kids or hate them, you must always remember that no matter how much you cook, clean, hug, comfort and discipline, you will never actually count.
To survive, I trained myself to love the stepkids as hard as I could, but not to care. It's a handy piece of good mental health trickery I recommend to anyone in my position. I can help with homework, yes, but not bother about the results of that homework. I can teach them good manners, but not care about the bad habits they learn at home. Semi-detached is the position.
