It was back-to-school night for our ninth-grade son and daughter. As my husband and I sat in the classroom with the other parents, a mom, whom I knew a little, asked us loudly, “Remind me, whose are whose? I know you don’t do that, but—”
To which I responded, “I think you just answered your own question.”
Our son and our daughter, born six weeks apart, are part of our large, blended family. Most of the world effectively sees them as twins, and they have two older sisters. We are a family.
Some people, such as that nosy woman at school, feel that it’s important to police the boundaries between children and their stepparents. In 2021, J. D. Vance said, “It is just a basic fact that if you look at Kamala Harris, Pete Buttigieg, AOC, the entire future of the Democratic Party is controlled by people without children.” He recently defended that comment, calling it “sarcastic.” Even if it was, the comment didn’t reflect the fact that Harris has children—she is a stepmother to Doug Emhoff’s two kids, who are now in their 20s. (And Buttigieg has since adopted twins with his husband.) In 2024, when we accept fluidity in so many domains, such a closed-minded view of the family feels like an odd holdover.
Sometimes people compare our family to The Brady Bunch. I take that as a compliment, though I am quick to point out that we have no housekeeper like Alice to help us. As Carol said, in Season 1, to Bobby, who wonders whether Carol loves him even though he’s “only a step”: “Listen, the only steps in this house are … the ones that lead up to your bedroom.” The point of the show, which premiered in 1969, was not to make some moral judgment. I imagine the creators just knew it would be entertaining to have lots of kids of approximately the same age.
And that’s how my husband and I have treated and raised our kids. We have packed camp trunks, gone to doctor appointments, dealt with bad grades or the sting of a breakup. Our kids are our kids—at least, that’s how we have viewed it.
We took concrete steps to promote the Brady Bunch blending. Our kids lived together, went to school together, went back-to-school shopping together; it was always fun to have all four of them in dressing rooms at once, trying on jeans and button-downs. They also went to sleepaway summer camp together, which they loved. That experience was important to them because it was the four of them together, without us. When the camp recognized the family with the most siblings, the honor went to our kids.
Sometimes I feel like I’m being dishonest. When people ask me how many kids I have and I say four, the response is always “Wow!” And rightly so. Making dinner most nights, going over homework, going to games, going through the college-application process—it was indeed a lot.
But it is true that I didn’t give birth to all four. Delivering a baby is a thing unto itself. Yet that’s one day in a life and, if all goes well, just a few hours. Why women talk about labor more than they do breastfeeding, for example, which can be far more difficult and lasts much longer, has never made sense to me.
It is also true that we became a family when the kids could eat regular food. Still, we faced all the routine struggles of having young children: Whether they’re biologically yours or not, kids think brussels sprouts taste bad. And what kid doesn’t prefer dessert over dinner? The same was true of the challenges we faced as they grew older. If we found a vape in a kid’s backpack, it wasn’t more or less a problem if we shared the same DNA. If we had to set a curfew, no one was asking for blood type. The birds-and-bees conversation was just as necessary—and just as awkward.
In other words, if you’re a parent, you’re a parent.
Our kids feel that way too, and so, it seems, do Cole and Ella Emhoff. They call Kamala “Momala.” Our kids call my husband “Abba,” the Hebrew word for “father.” Ima, the Hebrew word for “mother,” did not catch on, but it doesn’t matter. When they introduce us, we are their parents. That’s how their friends see us and, more important, how they see us.
Our children are a fierce foursome. They laugh; they love; they fight; they share clothes; they steal clothes; they confide in one another. They move through the world together. And they share the fact of having other parents. That can be a gift, and it can also be a challenge, such as during holidays, when it’s hard to be in two places at once.
Harris officiated Cole’s wedding. She described herself and Kerstin Emhoff, Doug’s ex-wife, as “a duo of cheerleaders in the bleachers at Ella’s swim meets and basketball games.” I have great respect for that; it’s great if you can do it. And it speaks well of her and of the whole family.
What matters is what you think. If you think you are a parent, and the kids think so too, then you are one. Families come in all shapes and sizes. So do marriages. And that’s good. The more love, the better. We should celebrate Momala and her blended family as a model of love, responsibility, and care.
