The trouble is, there’s a new generation of stepmothers who want to compete for pole position[9], instead of accepting that they have something unique to offer. It’s the philosophy of the “me” generation taken to its logical conclusion—because I’m worth it and I do the work of a mother (even if it’s every other weekend), I deserve to be called a mother. Ladies, really, this is madness. There are so many advantages to being a stepmother as opposed to a real mother.
For a start, if you make any sort of effort, you are regarded as a heroic, selfless figure, whereas real mothers are simply expected to get on with it. Stepmothers can forget the sports kit, turn up late for the parents’ meeting, shrink the blazer,[10] burn the birthday cake, and the world thinks she’s doing a fantastic job (“They’re not even hers”). Strangers are always congratulating me for what I have “taken on[11]” (particularly when they hear I don’t have children of my own). Divorced dads offer their condolences and mutter guiltily that being a stepmother is “the most thankless task in the world”.[12] What is more, we stepmothers can moan, and ask for help, and admit we’re not sure we’re getting it right without seeming unnatural or disloyal. It’s a win-win situation and it works both ways.
Because I am not their real mother, my stepchildren can pick and mix[13]. On days when I manage to stay the right side of cool (if I’ve bumped into Lily Allen in a shop, or bought them an item of clothing that is not, for once, “gay”), then I am their stepmother, loud and proud.[14] On days when I am a total embarrassment (conferring with shop assistants, dancing in the kitchen, ogling footballers and getting their names wrong),[15] they are free to say, or just to think, “She’s not my mother.” How liberating[16] is that?
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