Step by Step Parenting

I’m not their real mom,

But I could make a list of

All their clothes at my house

From memory,

A detailed inventory of

Hand-me-downs and favorites and

The clothes my mother bought.

I’m not their real mom

But I know that the daughter needs

New pajamas because she

Sprung like a weed this summer and

Her brother could use some

More shorts, size 5T, and another pair

Of light-up Spider-Man shoes.

I’m not their real mom

But I wipe all the tears anyways,

Kiss all the boo boos, administer

The Paw Patrol bandaids.

When they wake up in the night,

I am there, scooping them into a hug,

Rocking them back to sleep.

I’m not their real mom

But when they’re sad, I’m sad,

And their joy brings me joy.

I worry about them when they’re gone

And when they’re home and

Every second in between, just praying,

Always praying, that they’ll be ok.

I’m not their real mom, it’s true,

But between the years of all the

Invisible parenting and emotional labor,

Real love grew.

And I can only hope that one day,

If asked if their stepmom loved them,

They can say they always knew.

I used to write poems like my life depended on it, but in recent years, I have slowly drifted away from the habit. However, I made it a goal at the beginning of the year to write more of everything, from blog posts to short stories to recipes to yes, poems. For a long time, I think I psyched myself out of writing anymore poetry because I didn’t want to write anything that wasn’t perfect the first try. But that’s not how writing works, so I’m making an effort to write more poems from the heart, without worrying about whether or not they are “perfect.”

This poem reflects worries that weigh on me constantly these days; it is very much a poem from the heart. It is not perfect or sophisticated, but it is heartfelt. And that has to be enough.