An Accidental Mother (2 page)

And therein lies the beauty of it—the tie that had never bound me before. The fact that Michael's mother is not present leaves me in a position where I cannot just break up, blame all the problems on the other person, and bail whenever I feel like it. That's no option
when there is a little person in the other room waiting for me to tuck him in and read
Hop on Pop
. Furthermore, the sound of my voice as I rattle off a long list of complaints begins to sound a little ridiculous when I realize that the pile of dirty clothes on the floor is not nearly as scary as a monster hiding in a little boy's room three nights in a row.

Okay, so maybe I was supposed to learn something new about commitment. But I can't help but wonder if someone has made a mistake and why God, or the universe, or whoever is in charge, would allow me to become so involved in the development of this young boy. I am confident that I can screw up another relationship, but there are days when I am overwhelmed by the grave responsibility of the impact my words and actions have on this malleable little creature.

Before I met Jim and Michael, my job and my dog were my only priorities, with my social life coming in a close third. Managing the business interests of an
entrepreneur consumed most of my time and energy, and knowing I could bring Annie to work made it easy for me to stay late into the evening and come to the office on the weekends. Although much of my job centered on accounting and management, the frequent event planning became an expression of my artistic talents. I relished the number of compliments handed out by important visitors and guests, not to mention my employer. Few would ever know how well I handled everything else, but a successfully executed extravaganza of a party for a hundred or more guests would be remembered for a long time. I happily accepted whatever credit was due, even though my role in planning a party was far less critical to my employer than how well I handled the bills and the banking.

I can't help but concede that the raising of a child can easily be compared to my job duties. No one will ever see all the effort a woman puts into making sure a child is “balanced,” but everyone will notice how adorable the child looks if dressed up in designer clothes. And the part no one notices is much harder work.

There are days when I imagine simply running away, returning to a life in which my job, my boss, and my dog are my entire reason for being. Weeknights would mean dinner or a movie with friends, and my weekends would consist of at least one girl's night out. My excess cash would be spent on manicures and pedicures and the rare splurge on a pair of Jimmy Choos. But I have come to realize that as fond as I am of those days, I never fail to welcome the sight of the child standing before me, a miniature person with arms outstretched, begging me to hug him. So I have become an accidental mother to Michael. When he has a bad dream, he calls for me. When he can't get his pajama top off, I'm the one he comes to for help. When he is in need of snuggle time, mine is the first name from his lips.

During the first year of our relationship and after a change in his job schedule, Jim asked if I would help him get the kids to day care a few days a week.
Carrying my purse, my car keys, and a diaper bag, I would attempt to get Michael, Elizabeth, and Annie out the front door. Of course I carried my coffee cup, too, because I wouldn't be able to accomplish any of this without the help of a little caffeine. By the time I got everything and everybody out the front door, Annie had wandered into the farthest corner of the front yard to sniff around, Michael was distracted by whatever toy he had chosen to take to day care, and Elizabeth was looking at me, waiting for direction. I told them to come with me to the car as I opened all the doors, asking Michael to climb into his car seat while I picked up Elizabeth to hoist her into the back. After buckling Elizabeth in and walking around the car to secure Michael, I would spend half a minute coaxing Annie into the car. Continuing to sniff at first, pretending she couldn't hear me, she would suddenly lift her head and ears as though in surprise, dig in her back feet, and run past me to bolt up into the driver's seat. Once in the car, she would jump into the back-seat and turn around. I'd try to keep my coffee cup
level with my left hand and throw my purse and the diaper bag into the front passenger seat with my right while Elizabeth and Michael complained about Annie's tail wagging in their faces. Yes, my beautiful sports car, the Jaguar I had proudly valet parked on so many Friday nights, was now overflowing with two kids in car seats and my dog squished in between them. Sliding into the front seat with a peek in the rearview mirror (and still trying not to spill my coffee), I'd swear my dog was smiling.

Helping them out of the car was easier, more so knowing they would soon be in more patient hands than mine. As I hugged Elizabeth good-bye, her little two-year-old body would squeeze me with a strength I could barely fathom; I bent down to kiss Michael, and he begged to know if I had lipstick on—already worried about a smudge on his cheek. I stood and shrugged in reply, but when I turned to walk away I found him wrapped around my legs within seconds. My heart filled in a way that was indescribable.

Another morning's routine was a similar struggle, minus Elizabeth because she was with her mother that week. Annie refused to get into the car, and Michael dropped his toys on the sidewalk because—surprise!—he wasn't paying attention.

As we drove to day care, Michael began to complain.

“Annie's paw is in my wap.”

“Lap
,” I said. “La la la la.”

“La la la
lap
!”

“Try the word ‘laughter.'”

“La la la
laughter
!” Then I heard a clatter in the backseat.

“I dropped my wed car!”

“Red, honey, it's
red
.”

“Wed.”

“No,
rrred
. Growl like a tiger … grrrrrrr!”

“Grrrrrrr!”

“Rrrrrrrrred!”

“Rrrrrrrred
!” he yelled out.

I laughed at his exaggeration, but it didn't escape
me that I might have found a way to ensure that he didn't enter kindergarten with a speech impediment. For this, I was proud.

With my divorce came a resolute opposition to the traditional confines of marriage, yet I was hopeful that I would love again, was smart enough to never say never. Now the concept of marital ties pales in comparison with the responsibilities faced in becoming enmeshed in the lives of these children. The love for my man was just a small portion of the glue that bound me to what is beyond couple, to what begins to feel like family.

So I contemplated my history to date—boyfriends left behind, a failed cohabitation, two broken marriages, and my abandoned ovaries making certain I would never be required to have permanent ties to anyone. Unlike a birth mother, I would not be obligated by bloodlines and wouldn't have to worry about
an abandoned child showing up on my doorstep demanding justification for my actions. Unlike a divorced mother, I would never be bound by legal documents or court orders that solidified an unbreakable connection to a man I no longer loved. I had the freedom to leave anytime.

Those days seem like a distant memory, and today Michael is a completely different child; no longer a toddler, he is now a
boy
and just starting first grade.

I am a different person as well. I no longer correct or attempt to explain when teachers or other mothers refer to me as “Michael's mom.” Michael and I often look at each other and smile when this occurs, acknowledging what we feel for each other and sharing our little secret.

Now that we all live in the same house, the logistics of sharing in the responsibilities of the children's care are much easier. It is also a gift to start and end every
single day with a kiss and a hug from a child I have come to love as though he were my own.

Although we have made the step to live together, Jim and I are both twice divorced and do not discuss marriage or the commingling of funds. Our bank accounts and other assets remain separate. But I do worry, with our bad track records, about what would happen to my relationship with Michael if mine with Jim were to falter. Jim's first divorce resulted in a severing of his relationship with a five-year-old stepdaughter, and a decade later I have seen him shed tears for that loss. Perhaps because of that heartbreak, he has promised that he will never keep Michael from me. In fact, I have asked Jim if I can adopt Michael, and he has agreed. But Jim is still in the middle of a drawn-out court battle with his ex-wife over custody of Elizabeth. Perhaps because the adoption requires more legal fees and another trip to court, he has not yet filed the required documentation. I know he's overwhelmed with the custody case, so I do not push. I have time, I
think—it doesn't have to be done today. But I look forward to the legal affirmation of what I already feel.

It's been a short journey since those early months, when I worried about the extent of my role in Michael's life, wondered if I should hug him less or hug him more, asked myself if it was okay that he sometimes called me “Mom.” Now I can hardly remember life without Michael, and entrusting his care to anyone else is unimaginable. His well-being is now my primary concern, and my entire life is planned around his school and activity schedule. My money is spent on his haircuts and school clothes; my evening priorities are homework and bath time. I am now privy to a host of previously undiscovered joys: the curiosity I often see in his big blue eyes; the beauty of his tiny freckles; the feel of his little hand snaking its way into mine; the preciousness of his tired body leaning against me.

Oftentimes I am in awe of the miracle of this boy, tearful at the privilege of being a part of his life. I cannot fathom how the one who gave birth to him could
abandon him so completely, with nary a call or a letter in four years.

He did not come from my belly, and we have no genetic link, but he has become my sun, my moon, my stars. And I have become his mother.

Michael is standing next to Jim's horse, Cody, watching him roll the bit in his mouth. He turns to us and says, “Cody is getting old; his teeth are yellow and dirty. They look like Grandma's
.”

We are getting ready to run errands on a Saturday morning, and I ask Elizabeth if she will dress herself for me. She says no, but after a minute of thinking about it changes her mind and tells me yes. After what seems like a long time, I go upstairs to check on her. Elizabeth has on shorts and socks and is putting on her shoes—but she is wearing no shirt
.

After I give Annie a bath and then dry her fur with the blow dryer, Michael says, “Kate! She looks brand-new
!”