“Steps!”

Being on the receiving end of inheriting 13 step-mothers and step-fathers, I can tell you a thing or two about being a “step.”

I know. I know. I know. You are trying to rationalize why my parents married umpteen times.

Me, too!

In many instances, my siblings and I could have saved our parents the futility of some of those marriages. All they had to do was ask. Our innate antenna was able to decipher, upon sight, those who we considered a rat’s ass, deadbeats, undesirables, or carcasses emanating from the bottom of a swamp or a cess pool. Beats me why they did not consult our “sixth sense.” Also, could not comprehend why they felt the necessity to repeatedly select from a barrel of monkeys!

My life as a “step” was a carbon copy of how the piteous urchins were depicted in a Charles Dickens’ novel. Like Oliver Twist, the “biological” children of my parents always ended up with the “short end of the stick.” Hard-pressed to cite many “exceptions to that rule.”

For starters, let’s examine the marital introductions. Never invited to any of their nuptials. Never given advanced warnings about their impending marriages. Never had a chance to give our “blessings” prior to these events. And, never was forewarned about their marital dooms (aka divorces).

Exclusion from the “pre” activities was a tell-tale sign that we were going to be precluded from the “post” activities.

Boy was I right!

During the course of these marriages, never got the same “equitable” treatment as our step-brothers and step-sisters. One of the “bones of contention” was the health and welfare of my dad’s “bio” children. While dad was gainfully employed as a government employee, child support payments or anything resembling child maintenance or subsistence never made it to our mouths, hands, backs, or feet. Poverty became our playmate. Hunger became our bedmate.

Meanwhile, his wives’ kids never missed a beat!

Mom’s preamble was for her “bio” kids to always serve as the “sacrificial lambs” on behalf of her newest husband and his brood which meant that we were regulated to getting the scraps or the freaking last of anything. The “Queen of Mean” never allowed objections or questions. We were admonished to “take it on the chin” or “she would put in on our shin” (translation: beat our naked black asses).

The accumulative effect from these multiple marriages, inequitable treatments, deprivation of love, and parental abandonments resulted in us internalizing deep-seated emotional scars. From our perspective, can you imagine how crushingly devastating it was for our “tender hearts” to accept this brand of motherly and fatherly love and nurturing?

Worst, we had to live with the realizations that to our “parents” and to majority of our “step-parents” we felt the equivalent of a douche bag or a damn pile of fecal matter. No wonder the unanimous consensus from each of the “bio” children was that aborting us or performing some sort of infanticide would have been much more humane and preferable!

For years, my sisters and I suspected that our tormented upbringing, abuse, and deprivations were the root cause to our decision to forego motherhood. Recall during many teary-eyed conversations when we sat as if we were in a séance each commanding and programming our ovaries to malfunction or somehow implode causing sterility. Our cerebellum must have successfully telegraphed those innumerable requests to our uterus. How else could you explain why three healthy and attractive women never gave birth?

In spite of our disdain and aversion to motherhood, we still very much loved and adored children and they loved and adored us, too. Professionally, we each pursued professions that catered to children. In fact, one of my sisters eventually opened a day care center. However, personally, we tried our darnest to avoid relationships with “ready-made” families. We were adamant—–no more “steps” for us!

After so many trials and tribulations, I think God wanted to reward me with someone who would melt my hurts away. As intelligent as I am, my “tongue is tied” when I try to explain the depths of my love for and thankfulness to my husband, Nicholas. However, regardless of how I felt, that did not negate the burning question—–how many “steps” would I be inheriting? Learned that there was only “one” and he was nearing high school graduation—-yeah!

History often repeats itself; however, I was damn determined not to have my husband’s handsome child endure the toxic attitudes, seething hatred, demeaning treatment, and nasty reception that I had received from my “steps.” Envisioned lots of mother-to-son talks, church activities, driving lessons, pool parties, bonding sessions, vacations, movies, dinners, picnics, college selections, and other fun stuff that I had sorely missed during my childhood and adolescence. Boy was I anxious to “roll out the red carpet” and smother him with the reservoir of motherly love, hugs, and kindness that I had buried deep inside and deservedly should have received myself!

They say that the “devil is in the details” so this newly-minted “step-mother” wanted to ensure that all of her bases were covered. By all indications, my initial meeting and visit with my “step-son” went amazingly well. Good chemistry. Good camaraderie. Good conversation.

Good, job, Andrea!

Or, so I thought. Unbeknownst to me and my husband, the “bastard” had taken our “kindness for weakness” and beginning with the “introductory” night——the very same freaking night that I had showered him with warmth, hospitality, and then gave him a sampling of the love that was yet to come AND the very same freaking night when I thought I had inherited the son of my dreams, my “step” had pilfered our residence, lives, and subsequently left a trail of deceit, thievery, lies, dishonor, destruction, and criminal behavior! More importantly, he had shattered three hearts into a million damn pieces!

“Stepped” on, again!

Since that gut-wrenching, episodic, train-wreck visit, life has been rewarding, busy, and sometimes challenging as Nicholas and I now have a teenage daughter. As a loving, attentive, and devoted mom, I earnestly strive not to replay the hurt, the pain, the anger, and the scorn that was ingrained in and shown to me. My husband, my friends, and my dad marvel at and always compliment me on my mothering skills, abilities, and the incredible relationship that I have with my daughter AND on how she has grown to be such a beautiful, smart, poised, confident, wholesome, and well-adjusted little lady.

God ordered my “steps.”