Paul, the kids and I spent 4th of July at a friend’s house. They called the day before, a kind of last minute, spontaneous thing, to invite us for a barbecue and to set off illegal fireworks in their back yard. (Good thing this blog is written under a pseudonym.) I was so thrilled to be invited I almost jumped out of my skin because as a large brood of seven, no one ever invites us anywhere. Think about it. Would you? Anyhow. We had a great time. The hosts of the party are a blended family of sorts. Both are widowed, but only the husband had kids. Two girls. They were very young when their mother got sick and since their father’s remarriage, they have really bonded with their stepmother. If you did not know them or their family history, you would never guess that their stepmom is not their natural mother.

I, on the other hand, came onto my step kid’s scene well into their formative adolescent years. They call me by my first name, although when strangers refer to me as their mother, they do not bother to correct them and I don’t either. I especially don’t correct strangers when they ask me: “Are they all yours?” I always reply, “Yep.” Knowing they are sizing me up and thinking, “Wow. She looks really good for having five kids.” But there is another reason I don’t let on that “I am not my step kids real mother” and that is because I do not want them to feel singled out as different, or not real. I remember reading an interview with Marie Osmond who has several adopted children mixed in with her birth children. When asked which kids were hers and which were adopted she replied, “I can’t remember.” While we were at this party we were asked, “Which ones are yours?” Paul  looked at me and asked, “Honey, which kids are yours and which are mine? I forget.” When the party guest who asked the question persisted, Paul finally told the woman that Eva was my daughter and Cheryl was his.  She replied, “Wow. I never would have guessed. I thought the opposite. It is hard to tell whose child is whose.” Go figure. I don’t know why people feel the need to ask, but they do. And from now on I am going to hold firm with my response: “I can’t remember.”