Blame it on the fairy tales. They got it wrong again.
When you think of the word "stepmother," what's the first adjective that springs to mind? Is it "wicked?" It might very well be, and thanks to Cinderella and her lot, we have images of wicked women filling the role of the second woman Dad marries.
However, on this Mother's Day, I want to tip my hat to all of the stepmothers out there. There may be some wicked ones to be sure, but I, for one, was blessed beyond measure when my stepmom entered my life:
Who let me cover her face in blue eyeshadow, pink lipstick and bright red blush when I was 4 and wanted us both to be fashion models?
Who sewed me clothes out of fabric I hand-picked when I was a finicky pre-teen? Who later made the window treatments for my first home? Who sewed the costume for my son's play last summer?
Who was an extra on the set of the TV show, "Dallas," and took me to Southfork Ranch to meet her famous friends?
Who came to the hospital when I was 16 and very ill and brushed my hair for hours?
Who took me to London, Paris, and Berlin when I graduated high school? Whose family in Germany embraced me as their own even though I hardly spoke a word of German? Whose family still keeps in touch with me and my kids?
Who drove to Austin College for my college plays and, years later, drove to Birmingham for her grandson's first stage performance?
Who, when I called her completely out of the blue one morning in 1995 at 6:30 a.m., used her maternal intuition to answer the phone with these words, "Oh my gosh. You're getting married!"
Who marshaled the troops of her friends for that wedding, arranging all of the reception flowers, making my veil, and hosting the day-after brunch?
Who was the one who sat up with me the night before, speaking the words that a mother speaks to her daughter?
Who has rocked both of my children to sleep countless times though she never had babies of her own?
Who has instilled in me and in them a love of animals that comes from years of taking in strays and treating my pets as her own?
Who has spent countless hours on the phone with me from Texas to Alabama, laughing, crying, or just passing the time as the miles stretch between us?
She married my father because she loved him. She had no children, but he had three kids when they wed. She had to spend time with us when we were with him, but she did not have to love us. She did not have to treat us as her own. She did not have to mother us.
But she did. She always has.
There is something extraordinary in that kind of mother-love. It is, for lack of a better way to put it, a "step" above and beyond.
Ich liebe dich, Helga.
