Stepmom Sunglasses

A personal essay by Jessica Settergren about adjusting to her role in a new family, with love, grace, and humor

In 2020, breast cancer stole my ability to carry biological children.

I was lucky and kept most of my parts, but my post-chemo mitigation of the risk of another go-around depends on the permanent reduction of my estrogen and progesterone levels, both of which surge during pregnancy. (Incidentally, the hormone-blocking medication I would take after active treatment also provides a literal hot mess of pre-menopausal side effects… because cancer eats every scrap of a person’s dignity, even after it’s been poisoned and cut and lasered to death.)

So, there I was: forty-two, divorced, going through chemotherapy and radiation in the middle of a pandemic, and completely flummoxed by the grief that came with the doctors’ unequivocal “no” to any future pregnancy. Grief seemed odd, since all my life I’d made the choice not to have kids. 

There were many reasons I was a forty-two-year-old without children. I hated babysitting when I was a pre-teen. I harbored a deep-seated fear I’d be terrible at “momming” because my patience is, even at my fullest caffeinated-and-not-hangry best, thin. I also need significant alone time to function at some level of normal.

My ex-husband spent many hours during our marriage reinforcing that fear. He’d never wanted children and worried I’d change my mind. At one point between our separation and eventual divorce, my ex-husband told me how lucky we were not to have kids, since I was far too depressed and selfish to be a decent mother. He didn’t appreciate me pointing out we’d never had any because I made sure we didn’t; apparently, he was under the mistaken impression for fourteen years that family planning had been his decision, despite relegating all birth control to me. The truth is, even when our relationship was good, I was certain in my bones that I’d have to take care of him right along with children instead of parenting together in partnership. I didn’t want to be a married single mom, so I chose a child-free path. Cancer just locked a door I’d closed ages ago, but then the lack of choice felt unexpectedly devastating. 

I was long divorced and just months post-radiation when I joined an online dating site at the insistence of my therapist. She called it an experiment to 1) prove that not every man out there was like my ex-husband, and 2) to show me that being a cancer survivor wouldn’t stop men from dating me. I figured a proven track record of my body betraying me with breast cancer would make me a bad romantic bet, which compounded the anger and grief over my hot flashes and closed uterus. She firmly requested I try. I was skeptical, so I waited until my hair was growing back (of course it came back in a weird curly, white, pixie-mullet for the first few months) and made my cancer survivorship status the first line in my profile. I was certain this would be a massive waste of time, and I’d be fine alone. Maybe cancer was the universe telling me I shouldn’t be a mom. After all, wasn’t I mostly happy with my two dogs and my occasionally homicidal cat? 

Instead, a few months into the minefield of online dating with a few game-to-hookups, more than a few ghostings, and one impressively horrifying proposition (in all caps, who never did respond to my question about whether that approach has ever worked for him), I met an excellent man who made me laugh, who didn’t give two hoots about my health status beyond asking me how he could be most supportive. He treated me like a decent human being and compared me to Galadriel from Lord of the Rings. He asked if it’s possible for two introverts to successfully date. I ultimately fell for that man; I’m no fool.

In a surprise twist of fate, he came with four (FOUR!) children: two boys, one in eighth grade and one in fourth, bracketing twin girls in sixth grade. 

Four. 

Children. 

While I have always been happy to claim the role of fabulous aunt and babysitter to my niece and nephews, and second or third “mom” for friends’ kids, the responsibility of helping to raise anyone to adulthood still terrified me. I had little idea how to parent in any primary adult role, much less how to be a stepmom, and the more time I spent with them the less I felt like I could keep an easy “fun adult who will leave parenting to the parents” distance.

I’ve always been the sort who prepares for the worst so the worst hurts less, even before cancer. I was the student who assumed I’d fail a test so I could be pleasantly surprised with a decent grade. I’m not sure if it’s pessimism or a tool to mitigate my multi-faceted anxiety by solutioning before problems happen, but instead of glass-half-full or half-empty, I’m a “how many ways can this glass shatter” person. When we first dated, I worried I wouldn’t like his kids, or I wouldn’t find a way to connect with them, or they’d hate me, or the kids and my pets wouldn’t get along. I worried his ex-wife would hate me and want them completely separated from me. I’m a champion worrier. 

I convinced myself that if any of that worry became reality, I’d let the whole relationship go. They’re a package deal, after all, and early on I had a long list of reasons the whole relationship was a terrible idea. Luckily, my partner (who finds this essay somewhat lacking in praise for his brilliance and sheer animal magnetism) was right: we all got along immediately, like it was fate, divine intervention, or the combination of pizza dinner, dogs, and the fantasy art in my house. The oldest found out I knew something about Dungeons and Dragons and said “Dad, marry her NOW.” Stamp of approval. 

So here I am, three years later, married (not as quickly as the then-fourteen-year-old D&D fan suggested) and moved in with a horde of teenagers and pets, learning to be a family. Did I mention I’d been alone for over five years, and before that it was just my ex and I and our dogs for almost fifteen? I moved out of my parents’ house when I was nineteen, so been…well, we don’t need exact numbers do we? It’s been a long while since I lived in the middle of multi-sibling family chaos. 

It’s tricky, this business of partnering with someone again and adjusting to sharing a household. We are often surprised by triggers we carry from our divorces, and there is plenty of baggage to sift through. He enjoys baffling my negative expectations by consistently proving he doesn’t think of me as a maid, babysitter, or checkbook. Also, the man likes doing the dishes, a chore I hate with the fire of a thousand suns. He’s unflappable in the face of tween tantrums and happy to reassure me when I worry I’m screwing up. Our relationship provides a solid foundation for me to figure out where I fit in this family. For the first time in my life, I am confident that my partner is a real partner, and that makes all the difference.

Still, navigating parenthood, even part-time parenthood, for the first time in my forties is constant tiptoeing through a minefield. Where does my authority begin and end? When do I quietly make suggestions to my partner to make or change a rule? Why is someone randomly crying THIS time? When do I have a duty to disclose to my partner the things the horde tell me in private? How can there possibly be this much NOISE? When am I overstepping my place? I constantly second (and third and fourth) guess my decisions about them. 

On the hard days I remind myself that real love is a verb. I choose to love them all, every day, even in the difficult moments, even when they’re angry or acting out, because I’m the adult and we are learning to be a family. But I am still leery of calling my bonus kids “my kids” too much.

Recently a friend of mine broke down at dinner because her ex-husband’s new girlfriend is a “monster”. The monster takes the son shopping, inspires the ex-husband to clean his apartment, and encourages him to be a more present and better father. Therefore, my friend was convinced she’d been replaced and cried about how…horrible…stepmoms are (horrible is a concise substitute for the varied and inventive derogatory terms used). Ironically, she is a stepmom to her new fiancé’s children, but that didn’t change the anti-stepmom narrative. It didn’t matter that I knew the vitriol came from her own insecurities: I cried most of the way home that night. My participation as a fairy tale evil stepmother seemed inevitable and inescapable, and that’s just not who I want to be. 

For more than a year I deliberately held back from taking a full parental role, so I didn’t accidentally offend the horde’s biological mom. All my close friends who are in a stepmom role are either hated or dismissed as “not the mom” by their kids’ biological mothers, so I expected and prepared for the worst. Whether through sheer luck or mutual determination, she and I get along and meet regularly to go over kid-stuff together. I feel incredibly lucky that we’re friendly, and that she considers me another parental figure to help with the craziness. Last fall we did school supply coordination together, which involved reviewing the long list of middle schoolers’ required supplies (FORTY sharpened pencils on the first day? Really?) and digging through both households’ office/school supply bins to identify what we had already. If you need extra glue sticks, please call me. I got to shop for the missing items, which I not-so-secretly loved because I’m a weirdo who loves office and school supplies anyway: win-win. 

In the secret chambers of my heart, I carry some fear they’ll all change their minds, or their bio-mom will decide I’ve overstepped, or I’ll fall into one of a thousand other pitfalls I can’t anticipate or mitigate or worry until I have a solution. Still, in the last two years I’ve fielded unexpected questions and discussions about: sexuality, gender, first-crush-broken-hearts, nutrition, hygiene, chore lists, school schedules, karate testing, and of course the standard pre-teen and teenage-hormone-fluctuation arguments. It’s been exhausting. It’s been glorious. 

On the first Mother’s Day after I moved in the house, my kids got me a “Bonus Mom” card, with their mom’s blessing. We don’t usually refer to me as stepmom in our family because the horde doesn’t consider me a wicked one: I’m the bonus mom. We are all in a different place on titles anyway: the oldest told me he can’t call me Mom because he already has one. I told him that’s just fine. I’m not here to take her place, just to assist. He seems comfortable with that. Then, on our first family vacation last summer, the horde called my partner and me their parents, and to all our surprise I wept in a mix of overwhelming love and relief.

The other day I drove the twins somewhere and they argued over who got to wear my extra sunglasses, because one pair was acceptable to “borrow” but the other was a tragically un-cool example of “mom sunglasses.” Mom sunglasses, I discovered, are defined by both the shape and number of sparkles included in the frames. I’m not completely clear on the delineation there, but the twins are adamant that I wear them. I told them in my case the offending eyewear would be “stepmom sunglasses” and if that saves one pair from being stolen by my kids (or stops a developing argument) I’m happy to wear them. They immediately reminded me that I’m not a stepmom: I’m their Bonus Mom. With hideous sparkly sunglasses. 

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Jess Settergren has published book reviews and articles for Renaissance Magazine and The World History Encyclopedia. She lives in rural Minnesota with her husband, a horde of teenagers, two dogs, and the cat who rules them all. She is currently writing her first novel and revising her self-help book for witches and Pagans with breast cancer.