Stepmotheritis

How can I describe the exquisite torture an angst-ridden 12-year-old can inflict upon an unsuspecting stepmother? Tiny knives to the heart? A sucker punch to the gut? A bitch slap?

12 is going through a rough spot. And I am totally unprepared to handle it.

She’s navigating the dark waters of adolescence in her own unique way, spending more time alone, brooding, finding a little more fault with her sister, her beloved father and with me.

Overnight, it seems, I’m getting mysterious glares and pointed, defiant comments, comments that literally make me gasp and shake not because they’re all that bad, but because they’re coming from my sweet little pixie and they’re clearly meant to hurt.

In these moments, I respond like the cheap imitation of a parent that I am, sputtering nonsense like, “Don’t you dare backtalk me!” and “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re not the boss around here!”

A part of me stands back, watching my lame attempt at authority, thinking, ‘Oh God, you sound so stupid. She’s gonna see right through that.’

But most of me is both wounded and furious, dumbfounded and deeply sad.

And the rest of my day is pretty much shot.

I imagine that if I were her mother and not just an imitation of one, I’d know what to do, what to say and how to say it. I get pissed as hell sometimes that her mother abandoned her at this crucial moment, leaving her a little broken and raw and looking for someone to blame.

And who better than me? Hell, isn’t that what stepmothers are for?

I’ve spent much of my life collecting awards and achievements, certain that they’d help me make my way in life. Yet not one of those things is of any help to me now.

I am just a stepmother blindly feeling my way along a path that really wasn’t meant for me to follow alone.

And sometimes, it really sucks.