After a week of telephone calls and a lunch date, I learned that we had a litany of common interests and an immediate attraction; we were soon inseparable. He seemed to be honest and ethical, was a committed father, and had a wit and sarcasm that challenged my own. To my surprise I was falling in love, even though this was a package deal. I was blissfully naive as to what that really meant.
As our relationship continued to develop, I tried to be as sensitive as possible to any long-term effects my presence might have on the children. Having given up on traditional commitment, I hadn’t analyzed the consequences of this relationship lasting more than a few months. I was unprepared for how my role in Michael’s life would become a primary one.
And then there was Elizabeth. I was careful to give her space and time to get to know me—she already had a mother. Yet every time she saw me she squealed with joy and wrapped her arms around my neck as I bent down to greet her. “Who’s my chica?” I would ask. She always smiled and yelled out, “Me!”
I cautiously embraced these developing bonds, but before I recognized the potential demands, I became aware that my extracurricular interests required modifications. Dating a man with children meant that some nights there were no babysitters—no dining out, no dancing, no overnight Vegas turnarounds. Some nights the date consisted of macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, and a bedtime story after a bath. To some this might be cause to turn and run. But to my surprise, for me it became a toehold in a secret world, an exclusive club called “parenting,” a world into which I had thought I would never be granted a pass. At the time, I didn’t realize that it is also something like a cult—easier to get into than out of.
And therein lies the beauty of it—the tie that had never bound me before. The fact that Michael’s mother is not present leaves me in a position where I cannot just break up, blame all the problems on the other person, and bail whenever I feel like it. That’s no option when there is a little person in the other room waiting for me to tuck him in and read Hop on Pop. Furthermore, the sound of my voice as I rattle off a long list of complaints begins to sound a little ridiculous when I realize that the pile of dirty clothes on the floor is not nearly as scary as a monster hiding in a little boy’s room three nights in a row.
Okay, so maybe I was supposed to learn something new about commitment. But I can’t help but wonder if someone has made a mistake and why God, or the universe, or whoever is in charge, would allow me to become so involved in the development of this young boy. I am confident that I can screw up another relationship, but there are days when I am overwhelmed by the grave responsibility of the impact my words and actions have on this malleable little creature.
Before I met Jim and Michael, my job and my dog were my only priorities, with my social life coming in a close third. Managing the business interests of an entrepreneur consumed most of my time and energy, and knowing I could bring Annie to work made it easy for me to stay late into the evening and come to the office on the weekends. Although much of my job centered on accounting and management, the frequent event planning became an expression of my artistic talents. I relished the number of compliments handed out by important visitors and guests, not to mention my employer. Few would ever know how well I handled everything else, but a successfully executed extravaganza of a party for a hundred or more guests would be remembered for a long time. I happily accepted whatever credit was due, even though my role in planning a party was far less critical to my employer than how well I handled the bills and the banking.
I can’t help but concede that the raising of a child can easily be compared to my job duties. No one will ever see all the effort a woman puts into making sure a child is “balanced,” but everyone will notice how adorable the child looks if dressed up in designer clothes. And the part no one notices is much harder work.
There are days when I imagine simply running away, returning to a life in which my job, my boss, and my dog are my entire reason for being. Weeknights would mean dinner or a movie with friends, and my weekends would consist of at least one girl’s night out. My excess cash would be spent on manicures and pedicures and the rare splurge on a pair of Jimmy Choos. But I have come to realize that as fond as I am of those days, I never fail to welcome the sight of the child standing before me, a miniature person with arms outstretched, begging me to hug him. So I have become an accidental mother to Michael. When he has a bad dream, he calls for me. When he can’t get his pajama top off, I’m the one he comes to for help. When he is in need of snuggle time, mine is the first name from his lips.
During the first year of our relationship and after a change in his job schedule, Jim asked if I would help him get the kids to day care a few days a week. Carrying my purse, my car keys, and a diaper bag, I would attempt to get Michael, Elizabeth, and Annie out the front door. Of course I carried my coffee cup, too, because I wouldn’t be able to accomplish any of this without the help of a little caffeine. By the time I got everything and everybody out the front door, Annie had wandered into the farthest corner of the front yard to sniff around, Michael was distracted by whatever toy he had chosen to take to day care, and Elizabeth was looking at me, waiting for direction. I told them to come with me to the car as I opened all the doors, asking Michael to climb into his car seat while I picked up Elizabeth to hoist her into the back. After buckling Elizabeth in and walking around the car to secure Michael, I would spend half a minute coaxing Annie into the car. Continuing to sniff at first, pretending she couldn’t hear me, she would suddenly lift her head and ears as though in surprise, dig in her back feet, and run past me to bolt up into the driver’s seat. Once in the car, she would jump into the back-seat and turn around. I’d try to keep my coffee cup level with my left hand and throw my purse and the diaper bag into the front passenger seat with my right while Elizabeth and Michael complained about Annie’s tail wagging in their faces. Yes, my beautiful sports car, the Jaguar I had proudly valet parked on so many Friday nights, was now overflowing with two kids in car seats and my dog squished in between them. Sliding into the front seat with a peek in the rearview mirror (and still trying not to spill my coffee), I’d swear my dog was smiling.
Helping them out of the car was easier, more so knowing they would soon be in more patient hands than mine. As I hugged Elizabeth good-bye, her little two-year-old body would squeeze me with a strength I could barely fathom; I bent down to kiss Michael, and he begged to know if I had lipstick on—already worried about a smudge on his cheek. I stood and shrugged in reply, but when I turned to walk away I found him wrapped around 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!”