Amy MenzelContributing writer

It took rough seas for me to feel like a parent. Literally. My husband, my stepson, and I were on a ferry taking us from the Port of Cozumel to the Mexican mainland enroute to our tour of Tulum and the Mayan Ruins. Had my husband and I read the “know before you go” notes more carefully, we would have known that the ferry can cause motion sickness and probably would’ve taken some motion sickness medication. We hadn’t, we didn’t, and we were only 10 minutes into our 45-minute transfer when we realized we’d be paying for our lack of proper preparation. The boat was rocking and rolling and, I thought, maybe spinning, although it seems unlikely looking back. That was probably just my head. My stepson’s as well.

He was nine at the time and not used to motion sickness. I, on the other hand, was 34 and very used to the uneasy feeling. I get sick just watching him and his dad on the Tilt-a-Whirl and that crazy carnival machine that spins you around until it sucks you to the wall and then tilts and spins you some more. They step off those creaky contraptions with smiles on their faces, my stepson eager to tell me about what it was like (awesome!) and how it felt (so weird!) while I sip a Coke to settle my stomach which is queasy just hearing about it.

So he was caught completely off guard by the nausea. And if there’s anything worse than feeling nauseous, it’s being surprised by feeling nauseous.

“I don’t feel good,” he said, panic tickling his voice.

“I know, bud,” I said, putting an arm around him.

He curled up in my lap.

“Just focus on your breathing,” I told him, “Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

I talked him through the strategies that I was using. Physiologically I’m not sure it was working, since I still felt like I was going to vomit, but psychologically it helped take my mind off my the waves of nausea rising up from my stomach and crashing into the side of my head. I hoped it might work for him, too. I also rubbed his back softly, using the anti-nausea technique my grandmother successfully used with three kids and seven grandkids.

“I don’t like this,” my stepson said, barely holding back tears.

“I know, bud,” I repeated, “I know.”

“I don’t want to go back on this boat.”

“I know, bud. I know.”

Instinctively, my eyes darted around looking for motion sickness bags, then quickly stopped, the frantic movement having only added to the sick feelings sloshing around my entire being. My husband offered to take over parenting duties, but I waved (ugh, waved) him off. I had it. My stepson and I had settled in the best we could. I kept reminding him to think about his breath and continued to rub his back. He continued to try his best.

It wasn’t the first time I had comforted him. We had bonded in the two and a half years since we’d met, even more so since we had officially become stepmom and stepson a year and a half prior. Per my stepson’s request, my husband and I each got equal amounts of snuggle time with him. And when tough situations arose, we talked through them together as a family. To this point, however, there hadn’t been a situation like this — one that required immediate physical and emotional comfort. The was new.

The nausea didn’t go away, but my concern for my own well being did.

The boat continued to bounce about the waves and the horizon continued to bob in and out of view. The time continued to pass, slowly. The nausea didn’t go away, but my concern for my own well being did. I felt awful, but it didn’t matter because my stepson needed me. Every part of my body indicated that I may very well be physically sick at any moment — every part except my heart. Despite feeling awful, all I thought about was my stepson and how to comfort him. Basically, I couldn’t be sick. It wasn’t an option, not when he was counting on me.

This was the first moment I really felt like a parent. Or, perhaps, it was the moment I felt that I had proven myself as a parent. I didn’t think about it that way at the time, though. And that too, I think, is very parent-like. I wasn’t thinking about what I thought or what I felt; I was just focused on caring for my stepson. In that moment, a moment when it was just us and a boat and the waves of the ocean and the waves of nausea, I simply and naturally focused on him.

I’ve always known the human body is capable of great things; that day I realized the human spirit is capable of more.

Those moments, as rough and as challenging as they were, were also full of comfort and reassurance, I think — I hope — for us both. A year and a half before that day, I consciously accepted the stepparenting role, knowing that I could do it, that I wanted to do it. And I was certain that I was ready to take on all the uncertainty of what was to come. That’s what parenting really is, right? It’s being ready and willing to care for and comfort your children through life’s ups and downs, even though you’re uncertain when, where, and how you might be needed most. Like, say, on a bobbing boat or rocky seas in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico.

About the author

Amy Menzel is a wife, stepmom, teacher, and writer happily living life in Wisconsin. She appreciates the opportunity to learn through writing. Her writing has appeared in the Wisconsin English Journal, at the Three Teachers Talk blog, and in Stepparent Magazine.

Amy MenzelContributing writer

My answer was always the same every time he asked.

“Does it make you nervous that I have a son?”

“Yes,” I said. Every time. He asked a lot.

We were both fine with the answer. The thought of maybe, someday being a stepmom was relatively new–I’m not sure anyone thinks, I want to be a stepmom when I grow up. And I didn’t say ‘yes’ to a first date because he had a son. I said yes because he didn’t seem creepy and I could see by his Match.com profile picture that he was bald. (My standards were unflinchingly high.)

But, yes, I always knew he had a son. And, yes, it made me nervous.

I assumed this was a natural feeling, but I had no real frame of reference. I had zero friends in my situation.

I’m not sure anyone thinks, I want to be a stepmom when I grow up.

So began my journey towards stepparenthood. A journey full of rocky and winding roads, a trek without a map that ventured into territory inaccessible by GPS. An adventure, so to speak. And it all officially started when I met his son.

Despite our plan to keep our first meeting brief (2 hours max, as recommended by the books my boyfriend had read) and light (mini-golf followed by ice cream), I was nervous. Like, changed-my-outfit-multiple-times and almost-got-into-a-car-accident-on-the-way-there-because-of-my-nerves nervous. Who knew meeting a 7-year-old could be so intimidating? Meeting the parents is nothing. Meeting the child who could soon be your child is something. Something just this side of terrifying.

If I thought actually meeting him would provide any relief (I didn’t), I would have been wrong. I basically questioned my every move for the next couple hours, and for hours after that. Did I shake his hand too strongly? Did I seem too eager? Did my questions convey my interest or seem like interrogation? Could he tell I was nervous?

Who knew meeting a 7-year-old could be so intimidating?

I did have fun despite my nerves. In many ways, it was sort of like a first date — it was awkward and intriguing and we got to know each other little by little. I learned that he liked sports (he was wearing a USA soccer t-shirt) and the color blue (he chose a blue golf ball for mini-golf). Like many kids his age, he liked to climb things he shouldn’t and asked if he could top his ice cream with three different kinds of candy.

I relaxed a bit when I realized (duh) that it wasn’t so much that he was intimidating, but that the situation was intimidating. I’ve always been told that feeling nervous means you care. And that all makes much more sense now. Caring is essential to building a happy family. Turns out, we were off to a great start.

My then-boyfriend (now-husband) never made me feel as though meeting his son was a test, but … it kind of was. Maybe one of those tests you can retake a bunch of times before you pass, but a test nonetheless. I don’t think I failed that first go-around, but probably because my now-stepson didn’t seem to expect much. “I really thought you’d have short hair,” he’s explained when we reminisce.

I told him I’m writing about when we first met.

“Were you nervous?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said, always one to play it cool.

“I was so nervous,” I admitted, never one to play it cool.

“And look at you now!” he said, smiling, “You’re like a mom. Well, you are a mom!”

And I smiled too.

About the author

Amy Menzel is a wife, stepmom, teacher, and writer happily living life in Wisconsin. She appreciates the opportunity to learn through writing. Her writing has appeared in the Wisconsin English Journal, at the Three Teachers Talk blog, and in Stepparent Magazine.

Amy Menzel Contributing writer

I’m not much of a car person, nor am I especially prone to putting a lot of sentimental value on objects, but my car and I have been through a lot together. I bought it when I realized I needed it, when I was tired of waiting until the faculty parking lot was empty to avoid the potential embarrassment of being the poor new teacher whose car barely, but hopefully, started. It’s served me well over the years. 

Despite a dashboard electrical issue and the radio having a mind of its own, it’s gotten me from place to place, job to job, from one crazy adventure to the next. And that was the plan. My 2005 Honda Accord was my first major adult purchase and I took the task seriously. I took my time, I did my research, and I determined the most practical vehicle for my needs (which were getting to and from work safely, without embarrassment).

It was a larger car than I figured I needed, what with me being a single working woman and all, but the extra space came in handy for the occasional colleague carpool and when I decided to up and move myself a thousand miles away. For a decade, it was basically just me belting out pop song lyrics on the open road. 

Then, suddenly, one day, I turned to check my blindspot and caught a glimpse of a car seat in the back. I knew it was there — I had put it there — but my heart still started racing. It was symbolic of a major life change, a change that had developed rather naturally up to that point, but in this moment it seemed so sudden.

I was about to become a stepmom. Officially. Like, I had a car seat in my car. It was happening.

And I was taken aback by my reaction. I mean, how could I be shocked even in the slightest? 

But that’s exactly how I felt. Maybe that’s how some biological moms feel when they sense that first kick. I don’t know. And that’s the thing — I really don’t know. I’ve never read What to Expect When You’re Expecting, because I’ve never been expecting. In fact, at the age of 32, I had been certain that parenthood wasn’t in my future. And I was okay with that. 

But then I met Ben. And Ben had a son. And, well, a year and a half later, I had a car seat in my car and was writing wedding vows that included promises to my soon-to-be stepson. The whole thing was kind of crazy.

But then I met Ben. And Ben had a son.

I’ve heard a lot of parents talk about how you’re never really ready for parenthood even when you’ve planned on it and had nine months to prepare. But you don’t hear a lot about diving into stepparenthood. I think people figure that there are a lot fewer unknowns when you choose to become a stepparent. I know I thought so. I mean, I got to meet my stepson. He was a walking, talking, running, jumping, laughing, goofy guy. We got along, things were good, so what’s the worry? Why the sudden shock? I don’t pretend to know, but I don’t pretend it doesn’t exist either.

Truth be told, the same feelings washed over me again two years later. Again, I was on the road. Again, I checked my blindspot. This time, I saw my stepson, asleep in the backseat. The sudden shock didn’t shock me then, if that makes any sense. I just thought, plainly, “This is crazy.”

And maybe that’s what parenting is. Just living life, cruising along, punctuated by sudden thoughts of, “This is crazy,” and just continuing on down the open road, never really sure of what’s next.

About the author

Amy Menzel is a wife, stepmom, teacher, and writer happily living life in Wisconsin. She appreciates the opportunity to learn through writing. Her writing has appeared in the Wisconsin English Journal, at the Three Teachers Talk blog, and in Stepparent Magazine.

Amy Menzel Contributing writer

“Congratulations! You’re a stepmom!” said no one ever.

And I don’t blame them. I mean, I like being a stepmom, but it’s not something anyone really aspires to the way people aspire to become parents otherwise. And the term “stepmom” doesn’t have the same warm, fuzzy connotation as “mom” does. In fact, outside of the stepparenting community, it drags around a fairly negative connotation for various (many of them fairytale, all of them unfortunate) reasons. To be honest, I didn’t know the etymology of the word until I recently Googled it, and I definitely don’t suggest you do that, because reading about the real origins of the term kinda got things off to a rather sad start. (Again, imagine all those unfortunate fairytale beginnings.) Save yourself going down that rabbit hole, and instead, consider the origins I developed in my naivety …

My first thought was that the “step” indicated a step off the original family tree. It made sense to me, plus it gave me a visual in my head, even if I wasn’t quite sure what, exactly, that visual looked like. Maybe a green shoot, a tiny bud — some lovely new growth, something extra. It was a theory, and it was wrong. 

My second theory was developed when I started to experience some of the real work of stepparenting. For various reasons, I started to think that the “step” meant “step aside” or “step back,” as if it was more directive than descriptive. A very real part of stepparenting — an intricate dance I had to learn. It was another theory, and it was also wrong.

Then came the birthday card my stepson made me last year. He wrote, “Thank you for steping into my life and always being there for me,” and I thought, “The kid’s a genius!” (Aside from the spelling.) “That must be where the term stepmom comes from!” Then a couple weeks ago, he asked, “Where does the word stepmom even come from?” and I was like, “I thought you knew. Like how you wrote in that card last year about ‘stepping” in?” and he was like, “Oh, no. I have no idea. What did I write?” And I realized neither of us had any real clue.

But it’s all just the same, isn’t it? I mean, I wracked my brain to come up with a different term for my new role before I officially took it on, but I came up with nothing. And it really wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because anything I might have come up with would require an explanation, and it would all just end up coming back to defining myself as a stepmom.

Stepmom isn’t the worst term, even if it isn’t the best. My stepson never uses the word with disdain (at least, not in my presence — he is a genius after all). And it is a defining term. I’m not just my stepson’s dad’s wife, I’m my stepson’s stepmom. There’s a familial feeling to that. 

But I’ve also heard the term “bonus mom” thrown around, and I really like that. A fellow bonus mom calls me that, and I smile every time. There’s no negative connotation in that! I can only hope this catches on because (as an English teacher and just an all-around nerd), I think words matter. 

“Congratulations! You’re a stepmom!” said no one ever.

I won’t go so far as to request being called this myself by my family; I just can’t get over thinking it would be a little like Amy Poehler in Mean Girls – “I’m not a stepmom, I’m a bonus mom.” But maybe my guys will come around to this realization on their own? (Hint, hint. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.) 

And the word is spreading. Last spring I did see Mother’s Day cards addressed “to my bonus mom.” Granted, they were strewn across the floor in the clearance aisle, but still, there’s hope.

About the author

Amy Menzel is a wife, stepmom, teacher, and writer happily living life in Wisconsin. She appreciates the opportunity to learn through writing. Her writing has appeared in the Wisconsin English Journal, at the Three Teachers Talk blog, and in Stepparent Magazine.