An Accidental Mother (9 page)

At the end of the show I sent Michael upstairs to finish getting ready for bed. A few minutes later I stepped into his room to watch his organization of the stuffed animals into the hierarchy only he understands.

Pulling the blankets up to his chin, he asked, “Kate, what should I dream about?”

I thought for a moment and then began in my usual dramatic way, eyes wide open, speaking with long, drawn-out pauses.

“It's tomorrow night … we get home from your baseball game … we turn on the television … and we hear … the announcer … say,
‘Elliott! You're through to the next round!'
”

“Kate! That's not a dream!”

“But it is! It's a good dream! Besides, we have to
root for Elliott so someday we can listen to his CD, just like we used to listen to Kelly Clarkson's! Did you know she was the first American Idol?”

Michael nodded regarding Kelly but had more questions about Elliott. “But Kate, why can't we just get his CD now?”

“Because he doesn't have one yet. And he'll only get to make one if he wins. So we have to keep rooting for him if we want him to be the next American Idol.”

Michael stopped to think about this for a moment.

“Kate!” he suddenly exclaimed. “I have a better idea!”

“What is it, honey?” I asked; he had my full attention.

Michael began to mimic my dramatic storytelling style, with long pauses and intense eye contact. “Tomorrow night … we'll go outside.” He raised his little balled-up hand into the air and out popped one finger, pointing upward. “And then … we'll look … for … a wishing star!” He smiled grandly, obviously proud of his idea.

I am certain that at that particular moment, no real mom anywhere on the planet had a heart swelling with as much love as mine; no other mother loved her child as much as I loved this precious boy. This adorable creature—sweet, gentle, smart, thoughtful, and still smiling up at me, had become as much a son to me as any son could be. I tried to reply in the most cheerful tone, not wanting the tears welling in my eyes to be misunderstood. “Michael, that's the best idea ever!”

I tucked him in, leaving him surrounded by his stuffed animals, then slipped quietly downstairs to get myself ready for bed. Teeth brushed and my own “jammies” on, I made a detour on my way to the bed and grabbed the telephone. I confess, I voted for Elliott ten times.

I cast my votes for Elliott, but only some of them were for his singing. Most of them were simply cast in hope that a special ritual between a boy and his accidental mother could last for just a few more weeks.

Both of us ready earlier than we need to be to get to the bus stop, I decide to fold some laundry at the kitchen table. Michael asks if he can play his Game-boy. I say yes, and he sits down at the table. I look at this cute little person sitting across from me and surprise myself with the words I hear coming from my lips: “I want more kids.”

“You do?”

Not really, I think. Not the responsibility of it, not the worry of it, not the scariness of it. But the beauty of it, the bliss of it, being surrounded by adorable miniature
persons who enrich your life on a daily basis. Little miracles, amazing creatures. And so I say, “Yeah, I want to have more.”

“But you have Elizabeth, too.”

“That's true.”

“But we don't get to see her all the time,” he says, his words echoing my thoughts.

“I know,” I respond, certain we are both thinking that we wish she lived with us.

He continues, “Would you want a boy or a girl?”

“A boy!” I reply. “Then you'll have someone to play with!”

He thinks about this for a moment and then exclaims, “I know where we can get one!”

“You do?” I ask.

“Yeah! At the homeless place!”

Once I gather my wits, I tell him this is a great idea, and although I want to burst at the seams with laughter, I hold back my amusement. I tell him it's time to put on his jacket and get his backpack, filing our
conversation into the “I must remember to tell his grandma” folder in my head.

I know that a while back his school class collected items to donate to a homeless shelter, yet it's unexpected that months later he would think of it, remain cognizant of the fact that some children are lacking in, or looking for, a home.

But I am even more surprised that Michael is not jealous or worried that another child might cause him to lose out on love, affection, or attention. I'm fairly certain his limited time with Elizabeth has helped him to realize that giving up anything you might be required to share is worth the gift that we call “family,” the joy in being a part of something greater than ourselves.

And perhaps he is learning the same lesson that I have learned from becoming a part of this family: that sometimes more really is merrier.

I'm back on the couch. I could have stayed in bed, tried to silence Jim's snores with a pillow over my ears, but a handful of times each year his allergies become severe enough that it's impossible to quiet them even with goose down. The other reason I've left the bedroom is that, as usual, I've awakened to the point that my mind has begun to race and I am not the slightest bit sleepy, which means I must get up and read. I know that even if this were the quietest of nights, I would be unable to return to my dreams. Is it my age that makes getting a good night's sleep nearly impossible
anymore, or is it the amount of responsibility I face? I'm in bed by 9:00 to watch the news, asleep by 10:00. But I awake sometime around 2:00
A.M
. to toss and turn until an hour before the alarm is set to go off. I wonder whether, if I started going to bed at midnight, I could perhaps sleep until morning, but I know there's no way I could stay awake that late. The workday is only mildly tiring; it's my other vocation that has me worn out.

In the early months, when I was only “Daddy's girlfriend,” it was easy to help when I wanted to and stand back when I didn't (or didn't know how). As our relationship grew into a serious, long-term commitment, I became a party to every aspect of parenting. I have learned that if one wishes to excel at it, there is not one detail that does not require the utmost in patience, discipline, consistency, and judgment. And I feel as though each day I fail in at least one of those areas, if not all of them.

To make matters more challenging, there is never a day off. Duty begins when I open the bedroom door
and call out, “Good-morning, sunshine!” and pauses only once Michael is tucked into the middle of his bed and surrounded by his mountain of stuffed animals. Even when he's sound asleep, with snorts and snores that could compete with his father's in decibels, I know I am still on call.

He's older now and no longer has nighttime accidents. Nor does he get sick as often as he did when his immune system was constantly being tested in pre-school. I can't recall the last time he had a nightmare, and it's been months since he sleepwalked. But the awareness that there is a young child sleeping in the room above mine who may require my care at any moment never ceases. The primary job of a parent seems to be worry.

I worry when he's asleep, I worry when he's at school, I worry when he's alone in his room. If he sleeps in on a Saturday, my first thought is that he's stopped breathing in the middle of the night. If he says his stomach is upset or he spends too much time in the bathroom, I worry that his digestive system might
be malfunctioning. When I hug him good-bye and he feels hot, I wonder if he might be getting another ear infection. And I then try to recall where I heard that a low-grade fever is symptomatic of childhood leukemia. Frustrated because he won't look both ways when crossing the street on the way to the bus stop, I tell him about my girlfriend in the third grade who got hit by a car in the crosswalk, went flying through the air, and had her leg severely broken. When he replies, “She was flying? Cool!” I decide I will not allow him to cross a street without me until he's sixteen. Is he skinny because he's a typical growing grade schooler who hates vegetables, or are we guilty of poor parenting because his breakfast consists of Froot Loops instead of fruit?

And his physical safety is only a very small part of my obsession because far worse than the thought that he may get sick or hurt on my watch is the fact that his father and I are inevitably going to screw up his psyche.

Jim and I have weathered many challenges in our relationship, but it is hard to hide tension and upset from a child. As the years have rolled along and Elizabeth's custody fight has progressed, it seems the time and energy we might have used to work on our own issues has been given to Jim's ex-wife. I have come to realize that that relationship has remained more primary than the one he shares with me. So now I worry that we're not showing Michael the best example of what a good, healthy, committed relationship should look like.

I want to work on our issues, and I don't want the custody war to define our life together. Jim has agreed to see the family counselor, but for me, new hurdles have arisen. The accusatory court filings and psychiatric custody evaluations have raised questions about Jim's role in his previous relationships and of course caused anxiety for me over our future together. A fight is never one-sided, and as much as Jim appears to be the victim, I know there must be more that I do not
know. Why is his ex-wife so vengeful? Why does she want to hurt him so? Why is she fearful that he would keep Elizabeth from her?

And then there is Michael's mother. After receiving the final custody evaluation, Jim learned that his ex-wife had Michael's mother interviewed by phone for the evaluation—without Jim's knowledge or participation, as is required by the rules. Although the written report claims that Michael's mother expressed no issues with Jim's parenting abilities, she told the evaluator that Jim had known about her pregnancy. Jim swore to me that Michael's mother said she was pregnant the same day he told her he wanted out of the relationship; he was convinced she was lying in a ploy to prevent him from breaking up with her. His explanations only leave me more confused.

With her contact information now in hand, Jim telephoned Michael's mother. After a lengthy phone call discussing the best way to reopen dialogue between mother and son, she promised to call back at a scheduled time to talk to Michael. Sadly, she did not
call at the scheduled time, or ever again. At least not to my knowledge.

Because we struggle with our finances, I asked Jim why he couldn't seek child support from Michael's mother. He replied that he would never do that because he didn't want to encourage her to have contact with Michael. He claimed he had no way to know the status of her drug addiction. Further, he stated that her failure to contact Michael in the years since her overdose and her obvious lack of dependability would only cause more confusion for the boy. But I worry that his complete lack of a relationship with his real mother will cause Michael other problems.

Jim has told Michael only that his mother is sick and cannot take care of him, but as Michael gets older that explanation will require more details and surely bring about more questions. It's true, she lives far away and at best could achieve only limited contact. But as Jim insists that his ex-wife has no right to interfere in his relationship with Elizabeth, he justifies his own control over Michael's relationship with his mother. I
also wonder if it is that desire for control that has caused Jim to put off filing the court documents—as he had agreed to do—to allow me to adopt Michael.

But what if Michael's mother is no longer on drugs? What if she is remorseful? As much as I may fill the role of mother for Michael, should he not somehow have a chance to know his real one—for good or bad?

It is these bigger issues that cause my greatest worries.