Mothers

I am what society often considers a woman of childbearing age. I am not, however, a mother. I never felt the draw to motherhood, the desire to have a tiny human of my own to care for. I appreciate the lovely things about babies: their soft skin, their huge eyes, their grasping fingers, the new milksmell of their still-forming heads.

But to me, that temporary state is an illusion, one that makes the painful baby screams and diaper changing bearable and bonds you to a human being who will love you, yes, but also frustrate you, hurt you, sap away time and money and energy from your life.

I have great respect for women who choose to be mothers. They are taking on a challenge to both their minds and their bodies that will last the rest of their lives. As mundane and commonplace as motherhood is—has to be for our species to continue—it’s also extremely difficult. It’s just not a journey I’ve ever strived for.

But I am a woman of childbearing age. On Sunday, my partner and I, along with his two children, went to Frankford to celebrate Mother’s Day with his family. When we went out for brunch, I got a free meal, as a mother. So did the kids’ real mother, who also attended.

have found myself in a strange situation. A situation that’s also fairly common, especially in this world of divorce and blended families. But it is a difficult one to reconcile.

These two children are not my own. I never knew them as babies. The youngest was six when we met. The eldest is already becoming a teenager. A young woman. They have a mother, one who is present and loving in their lives. And for all that I can provide them in love and support; we will never be a truly blended family. Not one with step- or half-siblings to bring into the fold. I am just me, a stranger who now lives in their part-time home and is willing to love them because I love their dad.

I spend time with them, celebrate with them. When we’re all together, the four of us lie on a bed and read a book together, then cuddle for a moment before they head off to their own beds. It’s a lovely routine, and one I never imagined myself taking part in.

The other night, arriving home late after a long day, I learned the three of them had read ahead in a novel we’re all reading together, a few pages at a time. They did it so I could return the book to the library sooner. Strangely, I felt slighted. Where do I belong, in this little family?

I guess I got my answer on Sunday. I’m not their mother. I never will be. I don’t want to be. Not their step mother, either. But I’m also not just a stranger who lives in their part-time home and loves their dad. I am, somehow, family.

So happy belated mother’s day to all those brave women who chose to have kids. But also to those brave women who have accepted the love and frustration and hurt that comes with kids who are not your own.

mihal@mihalzada.com