Daisy A Hill
After hearing that World Childless Week is observed and specifically the category of Childless Stepparents, I felt compelled to write a submission about my experience.
Sitting at our big oak dining room table, I have a view through to the garden. I’m feeling relaxed, as my mind observes the layers of plants, shrubs and trees in my view, that live among the shadows cast by my beige macre voile hanging vertically in the middle of the cheap, 90’s style, patio door windows of our rented house in the suburbs. The familiar, reassuring aroma of coffee interspersed with local farm air is equally calming and reassuring. My favourite radio station is on, playing Echo Beach by Blondie as I write. I work from home, and distractions are all around me; a book sits next to me, perpetually unopened, screaming for attention, like many other things if I dare to let my eyes wander. New things lay unopened and neglected amongst the old and inconvenient. On the floor, I observe the inner stuffing of various toy animals that my 10-month-old puppy has dismembered as they lay scattered across the floor, quietly mirroring the soft fluffy clouds passing through the summer sky.
I’m living the dream, and I’ve achieved what I set out to do in life. I have a much-wanted puppy. He is beauty contest-winning with eyes like twinkly stars; a sand-coloured miniature dachshund with a penchant for destroying anything in his path. I have a life partner. I have a car, albeit a generic old Fiesta, in a boring shade of blue. Temporary solution. I live in Hove; in the top three happiest spots to live in the UK. The move followed a year-long battle to help sell my partner’s tiny flat in South London, with the promise of a better life. I have a dream job in digital communications in conservation– a job that entices the wow factor when I mention my career to new people.
And it is a better life. It is, especially from a year ago. Even set against a backdrop of world disorder, at the back end of a global pandemic, the fallout from Brexit, the war in Ukraine, and the climate crisis.
On the surface,things appear perfect. Everything I’ve ever wanted.
But I remain childless at 40 among one of the last and only ones in my peer group. Childless but not child-free. As my partner has two lovely pre-teen-aged children who live with us some of the time. Some may say that makes me a kind of mother, others won’t. And after four years, I remain confused about what role I play in their lives, and in society. This is what keeps me up at night and haunts my dreams.
Even after these four years in this role, it still feels like living in a vortex between worlds. Not without children, but not with children in the sense that I can pass them off as mine. My stepdaughter actively wants to call me her stepmother and seems proud of that fact. She is sweet and lovely, and at nearly 10, still loves a hug and her hair done in a plait or two. My stepson is intelligent and neurodiverse like me; we get each other. He makes me laugh. They both think I’m funny and fashionable and good for their dad.
I feel despite all these things, I’m not actually ‘living’ any of them. I’m in my dream location, but due to the space requirements, we’re in the child-friendly suburbs. I have children around, but I am not the one responsible for arranging any activities. I do get some of the fun ‘kid experience’ plus a side dish of numerous rounds of washing, cooking and organising in a ‘mum-like’ way. But definitely not a mum.
I’m also a friend but not close to anyone anymore. I’m a yogi who doesn’t do yoga. I have a dream job, but I can’t channel myself to do the work because I just can’t shake the feeling of otherness off.
After a successful 20s full of friends, fun, travel and laughter, I was full of bravery, confidence and trying new things. I met my now partner at the back end of my 30s after a long line of being rejected by unsuitable men. When we met, in early summer on Tinder, I didn’t feel his having children was an issue. I am the friend that everyone says is the fun aunt around their kids, and I do channel my inner child whenever the situation allows. My mum said, “If anyone can do it, you can!” A sentiment that many of my friends shared.
My ego and confidence soon took a hit when I realised what being a stepmother meant in real life.
I moved in on the day lockdown was announced, after 9 months of being with my partner, and after just 5 months of knowing the children. And it was during the UK lockdown that I experienced a level of loneliness that I hadn’t anticipated: living on the sidelines of society as a childless stepmother.
In those early days, we had so much fun in the 50 per cent of the time the children were with us. My partner found bedtimes challenging, so I helped with reading stories which I brought to life with my imagination. Afterwards, they’d often plead with me: “Sleep over in on floor in our room with us! Here’s a pillow.” I always made my excuses, of course, but we created a strong bond. There were regular fights about who would sit next to me for dinner that night. I was in awe of their innocence, and I threw myself into helping with homework projects, organising craft stations in the lounge, making cardboard houses, and organising cupcake lessons in the kitchen.
Cracks started to appear when my partner realised that his bond was weakening with the children. I stepped back and allowed him the space to parent how he saw fit. And after observing the very amicable co-parenting relationship my partner had with his ex, I started to see exactly who the boss was. She was very positive about my presence, which was a gift. But what was seemingly a good co-parenting relationship turned sour – with shouting and accusations to my partner became commonplace from the child’s mum. She and I are quite different but also share the same birthday. She left my partner for a mutual friend and was happily engaged and living her best life.
At around 18 months into our life together, my maternal urge was at a peak. I was about to turn 38, and having been around children in such close proximity, my womb ached empty. My partner had originally said he would like to have another child “with the right person” – he said that person was me. But when I asked at this time, he wanted to wait “a few years.” We eventually tried, but this ended in a miscarriage, and subsequently the starry-eyed puppy.
My partner and I are now finding ourselves drifting apart. Our parenting styles are different, and he struggles to make space for my efforts. I feel these efforts should be appreciated more. He feels I don’t do enough, but yet he can’t explain what he needs. I don’t know ultimately if this is my perfect life.
A few weeks ago, I took my stepdaughter shopping. We had so much fun and at the end of it she said to me: “You would be such a great mummy and I know you can’t have your own baby but I’m so lucky that you are my step-mummy.” Her comments gave me shivers and I felt the familiar feeling of tears appear – thankfully my contact lenses stopped any of that. I thanked her. She’ll probably never know how much that comment meant to me. I will cherish that moment forever, whatever is in store next.
