this Post

First and foremost, I want to express my heartfelt appreciation for everyone who took the time to read my blog. Your support means the world to me, and it’s because of you that I continue to share my stories and experiences. Today’s Throwback Thursday post is very recent. As I write this, the events are fresh, and the tears are not far away. But you reading this won’t see the tears, but you may feel them as I try to capture what I am feeling right now.

As a proud Leo, I adore celebrating my birthday. I believe that birthdays are monumental occasions, a chance to celebrate the unique alignment of stars that brought each of us into the world. However, my 43rd birthday was anything but joyous.

I started with high hopes on August 3, the day before my birthday. I visited two bookstores, which is one of my favorite things to do. First, I went to Carmichael’s Bookstore, a beloved independent bookstore that holds a special place in my heart as an independent author. You can check them out here. Next, I visited Butcher Cabin Books, a quaint bookstore with a fantastic horror collection. All in all, the day seemed promising, but things quickly took a turn.

My two stepchildren live with my husband and me. Unfortunately, my relationship with their mother is strained, and this tension has subtly influenced my relationship with the kids. It’s not overt hostility but rather a more insidious form of discord that seeps from the mother to the kids. Their mother’s dislike for me has been communicated to them, which I learned when my stepdaughter, in a moment of innocent candor, revealed it when my husband and I had gotten engaged. It was a funny but sad moment. It was funny because it reminded me of how I was a child (I couldn’t hold water) and sad because I realized this stepparenting thing would be more complicated than I thought.

When the tongue slip happened, I assured my stepdaughter I didn’t harbor the same feelings towards their mom. I learned that from my grandmother, who, while raising my sister and me, never told us a bad thing about either parent to us. Nevertheless, I understand my stepchildren’s mother’s stance that they shouldn’t call me “Mom” because they have only one mother. As a mom myself, I respect this. However, I can’t help but feel that her sentiments go beyond the title ‘mother’ and that these sentiments have seeped into the children’s perception of me. Adding to the challenge, I’m a disciplinarian parent—not physically, but I believe in life lesson talks and time-outs for behavior correction, and I am sure this side of me has also put me at odds with them.

But having done a lot of work on me: journaling, therapy, and even writing a book (Mrs. Franchy’s Evil Ring), I understood that the disciplinarian stance had to go. Even my therapist agreed that it would be hard to bond if I am seen as the ‘mean’ parent and that the biological parents who have more trust and bond with the children should be the ones to fulfill that role. So this time around, I stepped back from that. I told my husband I would no longer be the wicked witch to the kids. My decision disappointed him because he has difficulty enforcing rules during the short time he has the kids. After all, he doesn’t see them often, and when he does, he wants to be the chill, easy-going parent, but I explained to him how important this was to me—to bond with the kids—and this was an approach I wanted to take. But you know, plans never go as planned, and just like a tree doesn’t grow overnight, neither does love.

Fast forward to August 3, 2024, and we are walking between shops and bookstores. I reach to hold my youngest stepson’s hand to keep him from getting closer to the street, and he snatches it away from me. This hurt. It was like lightning erupted inside of me. My stomach squeezed. My eyes burned with shocking tears. My mind thought: despite everything, he hates me. And the worst part is he never used to do that. Between him and his sister, he was always the most loving and giving.

Mind you, through the work I’ve done on myself, I have found out that some of my reactions have to do with being rejected and left behind as a child. So when this happened, inside, I felt like a rejected child. The wound I harbored from long ago felt as if it had been opened and made to bleed again. But none of this was the children’s fault. None. So, I took it upon myself to do some internal work right there on the spot.

I gave myself a mental pep talk: Love yourself, I told myself. You love yourself, remember? I reminded myself. Love is enough, I told myself. No one else has to love you but you.

But the gnawing in my stomach got worse. It felt like my intestines were twisting on themselves. So I racked my brain for fun ideas. How can we laugh? How can I laugh? I asked myself.

We passed a play café while checking out the shops on the street, and I decided to go there. My youngest stepson seemed interested in the playroom, and that gave me hope. Maybe he will see that I love him because I brought him to a playroom, and he will smile at me, give me a hug, and say thank you, Ms. Johanny. But that’s not how it went down.

Fun Fact: I got the idea of having Isla call her stepmother, Mrs. Franchy as opposed to just Franchy or something else, because my stepkids couldn’t call me mom anything so I was like Johanny is fine. But my husband thought that was too informal and he added the Mrs. to it. But now, sometimes they call me, ‘Mama Joa,’ which is sweet.

His older sister (my stepdaughter) insisted he shouldn’t play in the playroom because “he’s not a baby anymore.” I suggested it’s okay to have fun; playing doesn’t mean we are babies, and that if he’s interested, we should let him enjoy himself, but when we entered, an attendant informed us that we had to pay and remove our shoes to use the room, something I was not tracking. I apologized to the attendant and led the kids out. That’s when the oldest pointed her finger at me and yelled, “Ha! You were wrong!” I calmly replied, “Yes, I was, and?”

While the rejection from the youngest was more painful than my stepdaughter’s outburst, it added to the layers of sadness that wrapped around me like a heavy winter coat. More importantly, I thought that the sweet girl I met when she was five and now twelve had grown into someone who values being right over being kind. After that, I couldn’t bounce back. I stayed quiet. My mood had soured, and despite my best efforts, I couldn’t shake it, and because of that, I knew that if I said anything, it would be coated with bitterness. So I wrote in my diary to process my feelings. But even through writing and analysis, I couldn’t shake it away. I had been rejected and demoralized by two people who I love dearly. No fault to them, but I still felt like crap.

I woke up on my birthday feeling weighed down by the emotions. I took a shower and even washed my hair, hoping to wash away the sadness. When that didn’t work, I poured my heart out to my husband. He held me, but it wasn’t much he could say. He didn’t do this to connect with my biological son, so he had nothing to go off of. We tried to have a relaxing day, watching TV and eating, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. My body responded by rejecting everything I ate, and I ended up throwing up.

Here I am, typing this blog post and reflecting on the birthday from hell as I am living it. No one prepares you for the complexities of being a stepparent—the delicate dance of relationships with children who aren’t biologically yours, the jealousy from other parents, and the rollercoaster of emotions. It’s a tough road filled with love, sadness, and rejection.

So, if you’re reading this, send good vibes my way. Hopefully, by the time you read this, it will all be behind me.

Before you leave, Thank you for being here and for letting me share this piece of my life with you.

With love,

Johanny