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 Age Five, Elizabeth Age Three
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!”
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
