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- I always planned on remaining child-free, and then I started dating someone with a child.
- It has helped me realize there are so many unique ways to be a family.
- Overcoming other people's inability to understand our dynamic has been a challenge.
I don't remember officially deciding that I didn't want children. It wasn't so much a decision as a universal truth hidden somewhere deep in my gut. Somewhere along the way, it moved from preference to certainty, from decision to fact.
There were signs. When I was young, I didn't have dolls and babysat only once. I didn't play house. I loved my younger siblings fiercely — maternally, even — but it was specific to them and non-transferable.
So many people describe motherhood as their calling that we sometimes forget it's not that way for everyone; it's actually a very personal choice. It's one of many possible paths — a 'maybe,' not an inevitability, and I always knew it was a 'no' for me.
Then, I fell for someone who already had a son from a previous marriage. At the beginning of our relationship, the fact he had a child ended up on the 'con' side of my list, but we decided to go slow and wait a year before making the introduction to his son, who he had half of the time. We wanted to be cautious and avoid any potential heartache and confusion for all parties.
After giving it a year, we decided we'd introduce me to his son and integrate each other more into each other's daily routines over time. We also realized what works for our relationship might differ from what works for the people, and we opted not to get married or combine households. I expected spending so much time in a family unit I didn't create would be hard. After all, I've never really been a kid person. And it was, but in a different way than I expected.
I quickly formed a bond with my partner's son
His son and I fell into a surprisingly easy groove. Sure, there were learning curves and adjustments and a need to overcome my aversion to animated movies and sticky surfaces. But I really loved our dynamic. Now, he's a teenager, and I've known him for over half his life. We have holiday traditions and movie nights. We both like the beach, dogs, and cooking together.
I never wanted one and still don't, but what I do want is exactly what we have. It's not parenting necessarily, but it's something. It's caring. Am I called "Mom"? No. Did I physically have a child or legally adopt one? No. There's no legal document connecting me to him.
I do things like help with homework and talk to him about school, but I'm not at parent-teacher conferences. I worry about his well-being, safety, and happiness, and I know I'm one of three adults he'd turn to if he needed support. And that counts for a lot.
However, people sometimes minimize our relationship
What I didn't expect was how much I would enjoy this role despite its unconventionality. When people ask if I have kids, I say no. It's technically honest but not entirely true because it lacks the nuance that gives the full picture of my life — and the role I play in my partner's son's life.
Sometimes, it feels like I'm reminded about the limitations of that role at every turn. At his sports games, for example, I'm frequently told by the "real" mothers how nice it is for me to go, to spend my time. They say this as if I'm doing something extra, something not required, and it's hard not to feel like a minimization of my role. Would this fanfare exist if I had the label stepmother? It's not said with malice; they're saying it in recognition that I'm not technically on the required attendance list. But I don't feel like what I do for and with him counts as extra.
It's difficult loving something so completely that isn't fully mine to love. So much of our society is still predicated on definitions, names, and legalities. Traditions and well-worn paths. I'm not his parent as a noun despite the moments I parent as a verb. And though everything I do for him is done willingly rather than out of obligation, I'm a part of his life, and I still feel I owe him the support, the same way I would support a friend.
I think about how my best friend and I have always been long-distance. We only see each other in person every couple of years. Yet she remains my constant, my first call, both my gut and my backbone. She is family to me. I realized my self-judgment was about the well-worn hierarchy of relationships, and that is something we can define for ourselves. It's a similar relationship with my partner's son; I'm as important to him as he feels I am.
It's been a surprise as someone who never wanted kids of my own to get to enjoy a version of the experience. It's been a helpful reminder that it feels so much like a family because it is one. It looks different, but that doesn't make it less real.