How I Make Being a Mom-by-Marriage Work

Life as the third parent

When we come home from our trip, their father—newly my fiancé—announces, “I proposed to Isabel, and she said yes.” The oldest asks, “Are you going to change your name?” The middle one responds, “Yay! You’re our Stepmom!” And the youngest simply looks confused. “Do you know what that means?” I ask her, and she shakes her head no. “Your Dad and I are going to get married,” I say, and she gives me a big hug.

But when the girls visit their Mom, they find out that our engagement hurts her, and makes her feel sad. This confuses them about how they should feel, and I am sad that this exciting event in my life isn’t going to be purely happy. Over time, Mom gets used to the idea, and one day she gives me a hug and tells me congratulations in front of them. I tell her that she will always be their Mom, and I think everyone feels better.

They stand with their Dad at the wedding, our only bridal party. I commit to four people, not one. The three of them hug me and tell me they are happy that I am their stepmom, and I hug them and tell them I’m happy they’re my stepdaughters and I’m so glad they are a part of my life.

I’m Mom by marriage, Mom-in-law, the third parent. They live with their Dad and me six days a week. I take them to school, arrange doctor’s appointments, check the Thursday homework folder, and do their laundry. I explain menstruation and take them bra shopping for the first time. When one stepdaughter gives me a Mother’s Day card she made in school, she has no idea that there are tears in my eyes as I hold it and run my hand over the thick crayon texture. I swallow hard and blink quickly. Then I make a color copy of the card for myself, and we talk about how Mom would really like it, how happy I am with my copy, and how good she has made my heart feel.

“I’ll always be your Mom,” biological Mom tells them. “I’m an important adult in your life,” I tell them. But each of the girls wants to call me Mom at one time or another. This is painful for all of us. “My name is Isabel,” I say. “It’s okay, we all have big hearts and can let lots of people in. You don’t have to choose between Mom and me. You get us both.”

Being a stepmom forces me to stand in myself, even as I’m aware of my own insecurity. When the girls come back from a visit with Mom and say, “Mom says it’s not fair that you don’t let us have dessert every night,” or “Mom says you get all the time,” I don’t allow myself to respond with the frustration I feel. I can’t, because I am a parent. I wish Mom would be involved in doctor’s visits or would enforce bedtime rules; I wish she would supervise homework or do laundry. But because Mom isn’t capable of these actions, the girls live with us full-time. And I have chosen to marry Dad, which I knew meant marrying the whole family, including Mom.

“I’m sure a biological Mom would know what to do right now,” I find myself thinking, when at age three my stepdaughter draws on the wall in crayon, or at age eight bullies her older sister on the school bus, or at age twelve can’t sleep because of nightmares. “We’re going to talk with your Dad about this,” I say, and I don’t know if they know to translate that as, “I don’t know what to do right now.”

I worry about the impacts of all of this on them. My parents are still in their first marriage after over forty years. It wrenches my heart when my stepdaughters say, “Can’t I stay home for one whole weekend?” I imagine how confusing it must be to be allowed to watch all the TV they want at one house, and have strict rules about screen time at the other house. What values are they forming?

Mom and Dad are arguing over who gets Halloween this year; I am the girls’ advocate. “You are stressing them out,” I tell their parents. “This is what you chose when you divorced. Please do what is best for them. It’s not fair to ask the girls who they want to spend the holiday with.”

There is no thought that I might want to spend a holiday with them too.

“Some really hard things have happened in your life,” I tell the older ones as we introduce therapy. “Dad and I want you to have as many tools as possible to deal with the hard stuff.”

“You act more like a Mom than my Mom does,” one says, and I am filled with bittersweet feelings. I want to help them grow up to have fulfilling and satisfying lives. I want to encourage curiosity, confidence, and sense of self. I don’t want to cause more traumas. I want to be a part of healing. And, I admit, I hope that when I’m old and gray, they might take care of me. I’m not the biological parent, but I’m here, every day, watching out. We are in a limbo state, child and parent-but-not-parent. I didn’t pick them and they didn’t pick me, and in that way we are like other parents and children. Our lives are intertwined.

Featured Sponsored Content

Please read our comment policy before you comment.

The APW Store is Here

APW Wedding e-shop

go find all our favorites from around the internet, and our free planning tools

Shop Now
APW Wedding e-shop

Planning a wedding?

We have all the planning tools you need right now.

Budget spreadsheets, checklists, and more...

Get Your Free Planning Tools