The Step-Mom Chronicles. Preview.

    When I was a little girl, I was always chosen for children's church play leading roles and solos. It was a given that every year I would be the one singing the bigger pieces. Why? My mother, Lord bless her, made me sing a Sunday night special every month from ages four to twelve. My curly fro would be pulled tightly back with a bow to perfectly match my fake satin dress. It was 1995. You know what shiny, God-awful fabric I'm remembering. The church's carpet was the color of an old bicycle rusted by rain water and I hated pressing the colored foam microphone to my lips because my pastor's excitement didn't always remain on his own. 

    I had the most singing experience along with weekly singing lessons, so I was always the obvious choice to stand in the spotlight with sweaty palms and paper lyrics stuffed down into my lace socks. My mother's small, sweet face that I now see in my own bathroom mirror was always on the front row; her lips largely mouthing every word to my grand solo. 

   One year, that all changed. They decided to give another kid a chance to shine and I was handed a small song mid-play. My seven year old self couldn't believe it. The boy they gave my solo to liked to pick his nose and couldn't sing a lick. Now that I look back on it, I know that the talent in a kid's play is of least importance.  Also, I vaguely remember hearing a parental fit was thrown to get the nose picker a small spot of fame. 

  I don't remember much about the play, except one of my best friends wore a giant North Star suit and the fact that booger boy totally butchered the main solo. Faces contorted with each off-pitched pre-puberty squeal. I smirked behind my costume head covering and that was it. I was quite the little ass about it on the inside, but patted his back and lied to him about how great he did before skipping off stage to get my happy meal my mother promised me. 

    Moral of the story? I rocked and should have been the lead. Every. Single. Year. Forever. 

The end. 

Thanks for reading my book. 

Just kidding. 

The moral is that I was a typical ornery kid, just like you were and I didn't want to share the spotlight. In fact, I felt entitled to it. 

Nobody wants to be the secondary. 

The "stage hand."

We want to be seen. To be heard. We feel we won't matter if we're in the back prepping costumes instead of singing in the spotlight. 

I want to get real here with you, momma. Sometimes the life of the silent stage-hand sings louder than the leading roles. Your presence as the stage-hand is absolutely necessary for the show to happen successfully. 

Sometimes the most influential person is often the one unseen. Think of major films. Who do we see? The actors, actresses, stunts and special effects. 

But who directed it? Who was the writer, up all hours of the night drinking stale coffee with messy hair and furrowed brow?

We don't know. 

We don't see them.

They don't need our applause or our recognition. 

They sit in the back during the premiere screening and simply smile, content to just have been a part of something great. 

This is who we are. 

You are the writer, just happy that you are helping create. 

Children? They are in the spotlight. 

Mom? In the spotlight. 

Dad? In the spotlight. 

You? 

You set the lights. Play the music. Prep the costumes. Feed the lines. You write. You erase and then you write again. Without you, the show just wouldn't be the same. 

You're going to be the stage-hand often and that's okay. 

No play would ever make it to opening night without you. 

Being a step-mom requires a lot of patience, grace and humility. These are all such beautiful qualities to possess. They don't come easy, but they come. 

This is a journey. 

Sometimes long, sometimes hard, but always beautiful. 

Now, let's get this show on the road momma. 

Together.