Welcome to frustration; Population: Me

I’ve been stewing for the last few days, letting my anger simmer. I know this is a bad thing for me to do, because all it does is hurt me and my teeth (as I gnash them together). But even with steady mantras, such as “I am filled with the love and light of the Universe” and “People are not as stupid as they appear,” I can’t seem to get over the brunt of my hurt.

Case in point: Last week my stepson had an asthma attack at school. We had discovered that he was out of Albuterol just the day before, but upon attempting refill, was told we needed to wait two more days before they would refill the prescription. (He had gone through his last puffer too quickly. I’m thinking he lost it, but whatever.) So, there I am, the very next day, picking up my sweet little gasping fish from school, and come face to face with a school nurse who is amazingly patient and helpful.

…Until she finds out I am the stepmom.

Screeeeeching halt.

Nevermind that I am the primary female parent in all my kids’ lives—bio, step, and guardian, included. Nevermind that I am the one there, in the office, petting his head and ready to shuttle him home. Apparently, neither having my name and contact information loudly and proudly displayed in bold print on the emergency card, nor the fact that I have three forms of identification in my purse to prove who I am, are even pertinent.

The very fact that I identified myself as stepmom knocked me out of the running for filling out a new, or amending the old, emergency card.

The exact words were (in a patronizing, preschool-teacheresque voice): “We need dad to do this. It’s not that stepmoms aren’t important. (insert helpful nod.) I’m sure Stepmoms do lots of things.”

I could actually taste the bile in my throat.

Yes, I can do lots of things. Though I’ve never tried removing someone’s head with my bare hands, my mind flits over the possibility. I then restrain myself from screaming all the things I can do, and always do; like feed my non-biological children. (I do that many times daily) And love them. (Constantly.) And clothe them (check) and care for them (check) and make doctor’s appointments for them (yep) and hold them when they cry (yessir) and laugh at their jokes (of course) and even pick them up from school when they are sick (HELLO??) and frankly, I’m generally competent in every parenting function possible…

…except, apparently, changing information on an emergency card. Even one that already has my name on it, listing me as legal guardian.

Thank you, evil stepmother myth, for following me around like a cloud of stinkbugs. Thank you for casting aspersions on my character the moment I identify myself as such, and for minimizing the public’s view of any role I have in my children’s lives.

You are, dear myth, a constant, nagging reminder from society, one that belittles who I am and my capabilities and intentions; and are based on some outmoded and ridiculous stereotype. Because of you, I—and my brethren—are thus able to help rejuvenate the American economy by bolstering the psychotherapy and antidepressant pharmaceutical industry.

Thank you, indeed.