An Accidental Mother (3 page)

I'm driving Michael to day care, and we're listening to a music CD that I've been playing each morning for the last week. There is one particular song we both like, so I fast-forward to it. I sing along with the lyrics, and as the song nears its end and the final crescendo begins, Michael tell me, “Kate, this is the scary part
!”

Jim decides to make the kids waffles for dinner. In one particular batch, he burns a few of the edges on one side. He transfers the waffles onto dinner plates, and I carry them to the table
.

Michael pokes at his for a moment and then asks, “What's this black stuff for
?”

I tell the children they need to take a nap, but they tell me they don't want to. Attempting to compromise, I say they can stay up for fifteen more minutes and then take their nap
.

Elizabeth thinks about this and then asks, “How about five minutes
?”

During a discussion with Michael over whether or not I should allow him to watch the television when he has such a poor attitude, he tells me, “I'd have a good attitude if I could watch cartoons
”.

It's the Saturday before Father's Day, and Jim is at work. Michael and I are rushing from store to store, running household errands and trying to gather gifts for his dad. By midafternoon we are both weary, and Michael is beginning to tune out everything I say. In addition, every time we pull into a parking space he asks me if he can bring his toys with us. Each time I repeat, “No, I've already
told you that your toys can't come into the store.” When I ask him to get out of the car, he stalls by organizing the toys I have just told him cannot come with us. I reach into the backseat, take the toys out of his hand and place them on the opposite seat, then take his arm and guide him out of the car. I am firm, and he is resisting. Once out of the car I let go of his arm and then reach down to hold his hand while we walk through the parking lot
.

Instead of taking my hand, Michael looks up at me and says, “You don't have to treat me like a bag
!”

I own a charm bracelet with charms on every link representing things I've done or places I've been. Michael is always telling me, “Kate! You should wear your bracelet today!” He loves to look through the charms. On this day, as we go through them together, he stops to examine a heart charm. The charm opens and has slots on each side for photos. I acquired it long before I knew Michael and had meant to insert a picture of Annie
.

“What is this charm for?” he queries
.

“It's a place to put pictures of the people I love,” I answer
.

He tells me, “Well, you need a heart with three spaces, then: one for me, one for Daddy, and one for Elizabeth
.”

It is summer, another Saturday, and I'm doing dishes. Michael comes into the kitchen and stands next to me, and I turn to look his way. He is wearing shorts but no shirt and has put a small, round sticker on each of his nipples to cover them up
.

Today Michael asks me when he's going to see Boomer again. Boomer was Jim's dog who passed away last summer. I look around the room for help, but Jim is nowhere in sight. I'm on my own. I've come a long way since my Lutheran upbringing, and although I still don't have it all figured out, I am certain I don't believe in a singular Christian God or a literal heaven and hell. But Jim's family is Catholic, and Michael sometimes attends services with his grandparents. I decide it is best to respond accordingly and save my own, more complicated theories for when he is older.

“Boomer is in heaven with God.”

“But I want to see Boomer now. How can I get to heaven?”

This is going to be a tough one. I think about the two baby ducks that died in our yard just weeks ago. A pair of adults landed in our backyard, hatched ten eggs, and swam around the pool with the babies for a week. By the end of the week most of the babies had disappeared, but we found two of them dead on the lawn. We were all in tears. I thought I recalled Jim telling the children that the babies had gone to heaven.

“We can't go to heaven until … we … die. Boomer died, so she's in heaven now, with the baby ducks.”

“But if I die, I'll miss you!”

“You're not going to die for a long time. Not until you're old.”

“How will I get to heaven?”

Even as an ex-Lutheran, these questions are way out of my league. But Michael, at five, just needs simple explanations.

“Your spirit will go to heaven, not your body.”

“What's my spirit?”

Michael patiently awaits my response as it takes me a while to formulate an answer. “Well, you know how you have toys that have to run on a battery, and if the battery is dead the toy won't run?”

“Yes.”

“Well, our spirit is sort of like the energy in a battery, and our body is the battery. The energy is what helps us walk and talk and love and laugh and cry and get mad and be ourselves. When our body gets old and run-down and worn-out, like an old battery, our spirit has to live somewhere else. So it goes to heaven to live with God. Heaven is a wonderful place. And when we go to heaven someday, we'll get to see Boomer again.”

Michael's questions stop. He seems content with my answers, and I'm relieved. Then Jim appears, and I figure I'd better bring him up to speed. I have always done my best to respect his religious upbringing, but he knows I don't share his traditional beliefs.

“Michael and I were talking about Boomer, our spirit, and how when we die we go to heaven to be with God.”

Jim begins to grin. “Oh, really? So you believe in God?”

Michael turns to me with his full attention. He is waiting.

“Well?” Jim asks.

I look down into the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. “Of course I believe in God!”

Michael walks away, content, all of his questions having been answered.

Jim is now laughing.

If there is a God, he must have a really good sense of humor.