An Accidental Mother (7 page)

“Now what?”

I'm running out of ideas, and I have to think this over for a minute. “What about the president?”

“Oh! Good idea!” He starts to draw and then stops. Apparently drawing a president is harder than drawing a rocket or a hot dog. “I don't know how to draw
his body.” He pauses as he stops to think about it. “I know! I'll just draw his head—you know, like Annie's dog toy!”

Michael has been acting like a real pill lately, and after a couple of days of very un-Michael-like behavior, I sit down with him for a talk.

“What's going on with you?”

“I don't know.”

“Are you feeling left out? Are you feeling sick? Are you tired?”

“I'm feeling left out.”

Jim has warned me that children are near experts at acting like phony psychics—you have to be careful
not to feed them answers. So I ask more questions. “Do you know what that means?”

He thinks about it for a very long time. “Well, it means you're not part of the family.”

“That's crazy!” I say. I explain that he is the most important part of the family and that we love him more than anything. But it's true, I continue, that sometimes we forget to tell him because we get so busy with household chores, going to the grocery store, now Christmas shopping, and work. And we have to work so we can have money to buy food and clothes—and Christmas presents.

“Why can't just Daddy work?” he asks.

“Well, because if we both work, we can put all of our money together to buy the things we need as a family. And besides, part of my job is to take care of Gordon. And it's important to me to take care of Gordon, too.”

He's quiet but seems somewhat satisfied with the conversation. After a long pause I begin to tickle him.
Then I read him a book, we snuggle, and I hug and kiss him.

He's been an angel ever since.

It's Friday morning, and Jim has been out of town for the week, helping his father with the arrangements in preparation for his stepmother's memorial service. All of us, including the dogs, are out of sorts because of his absence.

One night Max wakes me at 11:30, jumping on the bed and sticking his nose in my face, something he never does. From that point on I am wide awake. Unable to go back to sleep, I turn the light on and read for an hour, then put the book down and try to doze off again.

At around 2:00 a.m. I hear Michael's footsteps clunking down the stairs, and he trudges into the bed-room, sniffling. “Kate, I had a bad dream!”

“What did you dream?”

“I dreamt that there was a talking mole!”

“A
what
?”

“A talking mole!”

I say nothing, trying to recall what a mole actually looks like.

“Will you please tuck me back into bed?”

We head upstairs, both dogs close at our heels. I send him to the bathroom, then try to remain patient while he reorganizes all the stuffed animals he sleeps with. Then I tuck him in, turn off the light, and return downstairs.

Now I am wide awake again. I decide to turn on the television. After about an hour I start to feel sleepy so I turn it off and finally drift back to sleep. The alarm rings way too early; I would give anything to stay in bed for another hour.

After a total of only five hours of sleep, most of it
interrupted, I'm a little cranky. I head upstairs to wake Michael, who is usually up by now. He is snoring loudly.

“Good morning, sunshine!” I call out.

The snoring stops, the eyes open, and he turns to look at me. I smile, then go into the closet to pick out his clothes for the day. “Get dressed for me, okay?”

“Kate, I'm
tired
,” he tells me.

“So am I.”

“Why can't I sleep in?”

“Because you have school, silly. You can sleep in tomorrow.”

We're running late today, and as usual I hear myself asking Michael to do the same things I ask him to do every morning. I can't fathom how, five months into the school year, he still can't remember what he is required to do each morning without instruction. But everyone assures me this is normal for a six-year-old.

“Go upstairs and brush your teeth.”

“Don't forget to put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket.”

“Did you turn your bedroom lights off?”

“Please put your shoes on.”

Now he's in the bathroom with me as I finish my hair and makeup. We're arguing over the fact that he has failed to put on his sneakers, and after a long week alone and a night with no sleep, I'm becoming frustrated.

“Michael, why can't you remember? I tell you the same things every single solitary morning!”

He mumbles something under his breath, and I quickly assume he is about to sass me. I turn to him with the
you're in big trouble
look on my face.

“What did you just say?” I ask.

“Kate!” he exclaims. “I don't know what ‘solitary' means!”

We're vacationing at Lake Powell, and Elizabeth is hiding behind the wall of our hotel-room patio, waiting for Jim to return from an errand so she can scare him. She turns to me and asks, “Should I say ‘raaar' or ‘boo'?”

We're getting ready to leave the house and trying to get the kids out to the garage and into the car. Jim tells Elizabeth to hurry
.

Her reply? “I'll run like the weather!”

Although Michael usually eats his lunch in the school cafeteria, the fall camp requires that we pack a lunch for him. On this morning I drive all the way to school, and as we pull into the driveway to drop him off he announces that he has forgotten his lunch at home. I turn the car around and scold him, telling him that he needs to pay more attention; he's going to be late for camp and I'm going to be late for work. I believe my complaints are falling on deaf ears, but Michael suddenly interjects, “When Carson forgot
his
lunch, his mother didn't get mad at
him.”

Elizabeth is playing with her miniature Disney dolls and asks me to play, too. I pick up one of the tiny dolls and begin to talk in a silly voice, speaking for the little princess I'm holding. “‘Hi! My name is Belle! My prince is named Jim, and he has two wonderful children named Michael and Elizabeth.'”

Elizabeth stops what she is doing, looks at me sternly, and says, “Kate! You have to pretend! It can't be real!”

I have an oversized chair in my bedroom, and I like to sit in it and read, my legs curled up beneath me, a blanket over my lap. The children know they can often find me in the chair on a Sunday afternoon and will often seek me out there, asking if I will come and get them a snack or put in a movie for them
.

Michael's homework requires that he reads for a minimum of fifteen minutes each night. I find that if I read with him, he will be more inclined to do his assignment without complaining. Sometimes we read at the kitchen counter, sometimes at the kitchen table, and sometimes on the sofa
.