An Accidental Mother (10 page)

Still, I struggle with the day-to-day ordinary ways in which I fear I will screw up the child. When I hear him telling his sister that he can't play a certain game with her because he's “too busy,” I realize that I have been telling him the same thing all weekend long while cleaning house and doing laundry. When he un-characteristically punches the sofa when he isn't getting his way, I question whether it is because he's cranky and tired from staying up too late the night before or whether we have inadvertently turned him
toward a life of violence because he received a spanking when he was four. I wonder what he will remember most as an adult—the red ketchup smiley faces I drew on his plate or the red time-out chair?

From time to time I voice these concerns with the other moms at the bus stop, who, although younger, are more experienced than I because they all have multiple children, most of whom are older than Michael.

“It takes him forever to get ready in the morning,” I say. “He can't remember the simplest of tasks.”

“Boys are always getting distracted; it's normal that they are unable to remember what you just told them to do,” one mother tells me. “Starting a chore chart on a chalkboard might help. If they do their chores, they get an allowance. Then you divide the allowance into one of three jars: one for spending, one for saving, and one for charity.”

When Michael was four we had a chore chart with smiley-face stickers. It had such grave responsibilities as putting away his toys and taking his dinner plate to the counter. He got an allowance for it, but none of us
(including Michael) remembered to follow it on a daily basis, and somehow it fell by the wayside. I want him to learn about money and responsibilities, give him a start at learning good fiscal habits at a young age, and I want to help him understand the importance of saving before spending. But I didn't know I was supposed to have
jars
. And now I have dropped the ball in teaching him about not only money but the importance of charity.

To add to my guilt, I am the only mother at the bus stop who is required to work, meaning Michael is the only child who has to go to after-school care. The other moms spend their days taking yoga and spin classes before going to volunteer at the school; they pick their kids up when class is over and cart their multiple children around to swim meets and sporting events. I signed Michael up for keyboard classes and golf partly because they meet on the school grounds after classes let out—no carting around required. In the summers these same mothers take their children to the beach for a month-long vacation while Michael
is stuck in day care three, sometimes four days a week. What on earth do these neighborhood fathers do for a living to be able to afford two and three children, a stay-at-home wife, grade school sports, and a summer rental? I make a generous salary with beyond-normal benefits, yet combined with Jim's wage as a police officer, we shop for our clothes on sale racks and have yet to start a college fund.

When I get home from work at 5:00, we figure out what we're eating, throw in a load of laundry, and then feed the dogs while Michael pulls his homework folder out of his backpack. Michael is tired and distracted, but his schoolwork requires that we become teachers from 5:00 to 6:00. His homework can't be completed without help, and he is required to read and play his keyboard every day. So his homework becomes our homework. One night I decide to cheat and read the word for him because he can't make it out; his father, in the kitchen with us beginning dinner preparations, interjects in a whisper that I need to let him figure it out on his own.

“But the word is
sorcerer
,” I explain. “We'll be here all night.”

And now I fail the job of teacher.

Michael's real teacher sends a note that he needs to bring apples to school the next day. They must be different colors, and we must tell him what kind they are. So either prior to eating dinner or after it, one of us must drive to the market so that Michael can do “his” homework. By the time Michael is in bed (after having been reminded to brush his teeth and go potty and close his drawers and turn off his lights and pick up his dirty clothes and put away his toys), we are all worn-out.

Sometime after 8:30, I get to begin “my time.” Time to write, time to quilt, time to do crafts, time to journal, time to read. (Relationship time is out of the question, as Jim is checking his e-mail and washing his uniforms, planning on going to bed early so that he may be well rested for his ten-hour workday.) I should write, I should sew, I should draw, yet all I want to do is sleep. I brush my teeth, wash my face, put on my
pajamas, and turn on the television. By 9:00 I can hardly keep my eyes open and inevitably drift off in the middle of the nightly news.

Yes, I worry about everything, and perhaps it seems as though I am complaining, but I really don't mean it to be a complaint. The fact is—with all my heart—I love Michael, and I love his father, and I love the role of mother. I love how Michael grins when I say, “Good morning, sunshine!” I love how he hugs me good-bye, and I love to listen to him read to me. I am thrilled when he asks me questions about the world that I actually have the answers to, and I love that when we are all out together, it is my hand Michael prefers to hold.

I love, too, that I have been the primary woman in Michael's life and that I am witness to my influence. His grandmother tells me how much he mimics me when he is in her care. “Grandma, I'm
serious
!” he says, the “I'm serious” a phrase I use often in his presence.
“Grandma, we could always order
in
for dinner,” he tells her when she wonders what to cook. My lessons for him come back to me daily. “Get dressed, Michael.” I say, and he corrects me: “You mean
please
get dressed.”

Parenting is a hard job, but it is filled with the best of rewards. I give, and I get so much more in return. But I do worry that somehow I will fail Michael in every way possible.

Another night I awake at 2:00 in the morning. Tonight there is no snoring, but I am still wide awake, thinking about our day. I put chocolate chips in Michael's ice cream tonight, and you would have thought it was the best thing to ever happen to him. But we only read for ten minutes when we were supposed to read for fifteen, and I forgot to have him practice writing his letters. Will his ability to read and write be stunted? Will he blame me if he has trouble in junior high? I know it is likely there will come a time in his life when he will spend a portion of his
adulthood focusing on all we've done wrong. But I wonder, will he remember only that, or will he also recall the chocolate chips in his ice cream?

I travel to Aspen for a week to attend a writer's conference, and Michael and his father drop me off at the airport curb with kisses and hugs. Before I even make it to the check-in kiosk, my cell phone is ringing. My phone is too difficult to get to as I am checking my bag and getting my boarding pass, so when I'm finished I walk around a hidden corner to return the call.

The only thing I can hear on the other end of the line is the sound of a little boy sobbing. There are no words because he cannot get them out.

“It's okay, honey,” I say, “I'll be back in a few days, I promise.”

I turn into the wall, not wanting anyone to see the tears now streaming down my face. I choke on my words, try to hide that I'm upset, too.

“I love you very much, honey,” I whisper.

He still says nothing, his cries unabated.

“I promise, the time will go by so fast, I'll be back before you know it.”

He's still crying, but now not quite as hard.

“Are you going to be okay?”

He still doesn't answer.

I wait in silence, not sure what to say to comfort him.

“I love you,” I say again.

He gives the phone back to Daddy, who tells me the worst of it seems to have passed. We say our goodbyes, and I gather my belongings to make the trek to the gate, wiping the last tear from my cheek.

I realize that with all my worrying, I must be doing something right. What could be further proof than the tears of a boy over the absence of his mother?

Elizabeth has watched
American Idol
at her mother's house, and she knows Michael and I have been fans of Elliott Yamin. During the period in which Kelly Clarkson played in my car stereo on the way to day care, Elizabeth was often with us. Jim liked to tease us about watching
American Idol,
and the three of us always defended our favorites
.

On this particular Friday night I get home from work, and Michael and Elizabeth come running to greet me
.

“Where's Daddy?” I ask
.

“He's taking a nap,” Elizabeth says. “And Kate, Daddy called you Kate Schmate!”

Michael then tells me, “And he called Elliott, Elliott Schmelliott!”

Elizabeth adds, “He called Kelly Clarkson something, too!”

Michael is petting our dog Max, who has bad breath. “Today is the happiest day of my life,” he tells me
.

“Why?” I ask
.

“Because Max is getting his teeth cleaned.”

Elizabeth tells Jim, “I have a song that I keep hearing in my head over and over again, and I can't get it to stop!” Then she pauses. “Oh, wait—it stopped!” Then another pause. “Oh—it started again!”

I'm picking up Michael from a pool party on the afternoon of his last day of school, and he tells me, “Kate, I don't want second grade to be over.”