Jenny Chamberlain married her high school sweetheart after making him wait until she was darn good and ready. She mothers, quilts, writes and photographs for fun. She bottles peaches and applesauce when coerced.  She blogs about whatever flips her skirt at rowenasrantings.blogspot.com.

My shock from the divorce wore off several months into my father’s second marriage. I was nine. I curled up in fetal position in my room and finally cried for the loss of my mother. I missed her cooking in the kitchen in that awful blue muumuu with the tiny red paisleys. I missed the glass candy she coated with powdered sugar during the holidays. I cried because she knew when I lied about watching Fraggle Rock without permission.

While I cried, my stepmother came in my room, uncurled me, and held me. I wailed, “I want my mommy,” as she stroked my hair and held me. I let my emotional ache evaporate like water from a damp towel in the warmth of her arms. She mothered me, while I cried for a woman who was unfaithful and unapologetic.

My stepmother cooked lima beans and made me eat them. She brought a black and white border collie. She had served a mission in Paraguay. She taught me to fold origami cranes, and gather leaves and classify them in notebooks. I forgave her the lima beans and gradually fell in love. Her strength helped her wait a long time to get married, but it also enabled her to survive the trauma of being blessed with a husband and four divorce-shaken children at the same time.

I think my crying scarred my stepmother deeply. She loved us more and more as she mothered us, and I think her love had an angry twin who always wanted to lash out at the perceived cause of so many of our problems. I think my stepmother felt a righteous indignation and resentment toward my mother for her mistakes. That indignation has been like a contracted muscle that is seldom if ever able to ease.

My stepmom refused baby gifts from my mother, and never allowed her in the house. I learned from my stepmother’s experience that sometimes we have to forgive against our will. In those instances we can continually strive for peace from the Lord, but the peace may never mean a jovial friendship with someone who injured us and those we love.

My birth mother still suffers for all she lost. She hates Mothers Day at church. And I learned from her that some choices carry consequences that will never go away. We will have to eat them like water on our cold cereal every morning for the rest of our lives.

When I got married, my mothers both had to be in the same room at multiple points during the day. I carefully arranged the banquet table and receiving line to avoid putting my mothers together. Our joyous day was filled with mother unease. But in one way, my mothers are always together.

I inherited my stepmother’s practicality, her sense of humor, and her love of travel. But I cook candy in the kitchen during the holidays, in my blue muumuu with the loud Hawaiian flowers. I have my mother’s cheekbones, and I can tell with ease when my three-year-old lies to me about washing her hands. In one place—in me—these two women are always together.

What have you learned from your mother? Do you have more than one mother (in the traditional or non-traditional sense)? Has a stepmother made a positive difference for anyone else but me?

Related posts:

1. Finding the Ease
2. UP CLOSE: Living Single– Titanic Tears and Ministering Angels – Just Another Day Really
3. Hello, brain? Are you up there?