An Accidental Mother (4 page)

We have just dropped off Michael's sister, returning her to her mother after a long weekend. Michael tells us he has a stomachache. I know Michael is not really sick. He's upset and probably doesn't even realize it.

When I was his age my father had a job in which he had to travel from time to time. Whenever he left home, I would go to my mother with an upset stomach. Sometimes I would ask for medicine, but my mother seemed to know that my pain was psychosomatic.
Instead she would come home from the store with a book of paper dolls, and they would always distract me from thinking about my father's absence.

Now I look at Michael, and I'm certain his pain is emotional rather than physical. Perhaps he's upset that Elizabeth is leaving again. Perhaps he's upset because he senses that his father is upset.

Jim's ex-wife is attempting to gain full custody of Elizabeth. As far as I can see, Jim has done nothing to warrant losing his position as father. He is present, he is attentive, he is playful, he teaches his children the difference between right and wrong, he tells them he loves them. Of course I only know Jim's side of the story, but from what I can understand of the behavior I have witnessed, his ex-wife is not so much concerned about his parenting skills as just plain pissed off. The majority of her court filings reveal her belief that Jim is disrespecting her along with her concern that Jim will keep Elizabeth from her if he obtains custody—even though she's the one interfering with access.
She believes he should retain no parental rights and seems focused on achieving that goal at any cost.

Having enjoyed a lengthy career in law enforcement, she is just a few years away from retiring, and to get caught committing perjury could threaten her certification. Although I am not with Jim during every interaction, I have been present during the majority of their exchanges and am privy to most of their correspondence. Therefore, I have firsthand knowledge that she has filed court documents containing lies, made false statements in order to obtain a protective injunction, and perjured herself in the courtroom. She has also called Jim's employer to file complaints against him and has reported to the city that our swimming pool has no fence.

Jim hires an attorney, and court documents are filed refuting her complaints. He fights the injunction in court, and it is overturned. His employer rejects her complaints as the unfounded attacks of a bitter ex-wife. The city inspector comes and sees that we
have a motorized pool cover in compliance with city codes.

The injunction, although eventually dismissed, interferes with several weeks of Jim's parenting time, but Elizabeth's mother finds an abundance of other excuses to justify her failure to make the child available to her father. After moving forty miles away from Jim, she demands that he continue to pick up the child at day care in accordance with the court-ordered parenting plan—even though she has violated it herself by moving without prior notification and the required plan modification. Jim's work schedule and the long drive now make it impossible to pick up Elizabeth before day care closes.

Jim files pleadings to modify the parenting plan, and by the time the court date arrives he has missed several more weeks of parenting time. Elizabeth's mother suffers no consequences for violating the court orders, which is akin to dumping fuel on an open flame. Little do we know these are just the first in a long series of attacks.

These battles take their toll—on Jim, on me, on our relationship, and surely on the children. We don't discuss the court case or demean his ex-wife in front of either child, but no matter how much we try to mask our stress, the children sense it.

On this night we drop Elizabeth off, and I know Jim feels the strain of wondering whether his daughter will be delivered at the next scheduled time or whether his ex-wife will come up with a new method of interference. Although I am unsure whether Michael is upset because his sister has left again or because he senses his father's angst, what I do know is that I desperately want to stop Michael's pain.

On our way home we pull into a shopping plaza to pick up pool supplies, and I tell Jim I want to take Michael to the nearby department store. Michael holds my hand during the walk, and I ask if his stomach is feeling any better. He says it is not. I pretend I am there to shop for clothing, but I take him to the back
of the store, where there is a very small toy department. I am hoping a new toy will distract him, as the paper dolls did me.

“Why don't you look around, pick something out?”

I am drawn to a row of stuffed animals—all soft, fluffy, adorable, and cuddly. Just looking at them makes
me
feel better. Michael is still young enough that he adores the stuffed animals he has at home. But I peer around the corner and see him holding a miniature treasure chest.

“Can I have this?” he asks.

I look at the tiny trunk and think that he will become bored with it quickly; once he hides something inside it, it will be cast aside.

“That's cool,” I reply. I look around at the shelves near him and search for something I think will hold his interest for more than a few minutes. But the toy section is so small that there is little to choose from. I turn back to the stuffed animals. I grab a small but soft and floppy cat. I hold its head between my thumb and
forefinger and its paws with my other hand. I step into the aisle, stretch it out toward Michael, and turn its head in his direction. It looks eerily real.

“Michael, I think this cat wants to come home with you.” I turn the head further and wave at him with one of the cat's paws.

Michael smiles.

I make a little mewling sound and turn the head again. “I think he's talking to you.”

Michael puts the treasure chest back on the shelf and reaches for the cat. He takes it out of my hands and pulls it close. “Can I have him?”

I nod in reply.

We go to the checkout, pay for the stuffed animal, and walk outside to meet Jim at the car. We all climb inside and buckle up.

“What'd you get?” Jim asks Michael.

“Show him,” Michael says and hands me the cat.

I take the cat, holding its head and paws, and again turn the cat's head so that it is now looking toward Jim.
“It's Michael's new cat,” I say, and then I wave at him with a paw. I'm surprised at how alive the little toy appears to be. I turn the head back toward Michael, and he reaches for it with tiny outstretched hands.

He holds the cat the entire way home.

Once back at the house, I get Michael ready for bed, helping him to brush his teeth and put on his pajamas. He climbs into bed holding the cat. “I want to sleep with him,” he says. “Will you make it look real again?”

“Sure, honey.” I tuck him in and then reach for the cat, turning the head to the side as though it is peering at Michael; then I bring it closer to kiss him on the cheek. He giggles and grabs the cat, pulling it under the covers with the head sticking out.

I lean in and kiss his forehead. “How's your stomach?” I ask.

“It's good.”

“I'm glad it's feeling better. I love you, sweetie.”

“I love you, too.”

I get up and walk toward the door, reach for the light switch. “Good-night, Michael.”

“Good-night, Kate.”

“Good-night, Cat,” I add.

Michael is suddenly pulling the cat out from under the covers. And then I see the tiny stuffed cat paw waving at me in reply.

I'm curled up in our bedroom chair reading a book when Jim enters the room. He says Michael has something important to tell me. Michael steps into the room with a grin, holding his hand out in front of him. In the center of his palm is a tiny tooth.

“You lost your first tooth! How exciting!” I'm out of the chair and walking over to hug him. “We have to call Grandma!”

“And Kiki, too!” he says, referring to my sister. “I'm going to put it under my pillow,” he tells me, “and the tooth fairy is going to leave some money.”

“How much do you think she'll leave?”

“A quarter … maybe a dollar.” He pauses. “Maybe one hundred dollars!”

“Silly!” I say. “The tooth fairy doesn't leave
that
much money! Smile for me!”

He smiles, showing his teeth, and on the bottom row in the very front is a space so small I can hardly tell anything is missing.

“You look adorable! Let's go call Grandma!”

Michael's not a rough-and-tumble kind of boy, so I'm thrilled that losing his first tooth did not turn out to be traumatic. In fact, I'm surprised he's so calm about the whole thing.

As he makes his phone calls, I watch and listen. Although he is only in kindergarten, on the telephone he sounds as though he is completely grown up as he shares his story. Soon after the phone calls he is ready for bed and supervising Jim's placement of the tooth under his pillow.

The next morning Michael is already eating breakfast when I make my way to the kitchen.

“Did she come? Did she come
?” I ask.

He smiles and nods.

“How much did she leave you?”

“A dollar!”

“A dollar? Oh, my gosh, that is so exciting! A dollar for your first tooth! Did you hear her?”

“No.”

“I didn't hear anything either,” I tell him.

“Neither did Daddy,” he informs me. “But,” and he pauses for effect, “I think I saw something sparkly!”

When Michael first came into my life, he was almost three and a half and already potty trained. It wasn't until he started kindergarten that he began to get rather careless about wiping himself. It was only after gathering the laundry that I would realize the problem, yet repeated discussions were not making it go away. One afternoon as I was throwing laundry into the washing machine, I came across the most horrific display of failing to wipe I had seen yet. It was so bad that I put the underpants straight into a plastic bag and took them out to the Dumpster. I
called Michael into the room, explained what I had found, and told him I was disgusted.

“You are more than old enough to remember to wipe yourself. If you are unable to do so, we may need to consider putting you into pull-ups.”

“No!” he cried out, the thought as mortifying to him as what I had just witnessed in the laundry bin was to me.

I took him into the bathroom, closed the toilet lid, and asked him to sit down on top of it. “Now, I want you to tear off one tiny sheet of toilet paper and say out loud, ‘When I poop, I wipe.'”

Michael wasn't happy but realized this was a lesser consequence than pull-ups. He tore off one square and said, “When I poop, I wipe.”

“Good,” I replied. “Now do it twenty-five times.”

He opened his mouth to begin an argument, but I turned and walked away before he could say anything. Suddenly I worried that my response had been inappropriate. I listened from around the corner as he repeated the phrase over and over.