An Accidental Mother (13 page)

Two days later we loaded everything and everyone into the motor home and picked up Elizabeth at her mother's house on our way out of town. Elizabeth had already patted Max on the head and peeked under the sheet covering the rat cage to say
hello to George and Jasmine. Now the children were tucked into their places with headphones and a DVD in play.

“I bet she won't even notice,” I whispered to Jim. “After all, she was only around the rats for a day and a half before she had to return to her mother's house.”

“It probably won't even come up,” he said.

Four hours later we reached our destination and pulled into our camping spot. Jim stepped outside to set up the motor home while I removed the sheet from the rat cage and began to stock water and Gatorade in the refrigerator. Michael and Elizabeth were now peering into the cage, talking to the rats, and my heart stopped as they began to discuss Jasmine.

“Jasmine's face turned black!” Elizabeth said.

“I noticed that, too,” replied Michael.

“That's weird. Did you see it happen?”

“No, it was that way one day when I got home from school.”

I was frozen in place, trying to remain quietly in the background while still being able to eavesdrop on
their conversation. It was all I could do to contain my laughter as I heard Michael continue, “You know, Oreo, the hamster in my classroom, she changed colors, too. She stayed in her little house for about three days, and when she finally came out, her back was gray, and she was fatter. And uglier, too.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

And then they stood and walked out of the motor home. I was laughing out loud. I was also feeling relieved to know that Michael's teacher was also guilty of the “switcheroo.” I followed the children outside and immediately sought out Jim, who was visiting with our campmates. I told him about Elizabeth and Michael's conversation, and he, too, began to laugh. As our friends heard the story, through their laughter they shared a knowing glance with one another.

“Not you, too?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” they told us. “Goldfish—and parakeets. But luckily for us, no one ever noticed the differences.”

Michael and Elizabeth didn't speak about Jasmine's color change for the rest of the weekend. In fact, they didn't bring it up again for a long while. And then one evening, months later, Jim came into our bedroom after a phone conversation with Elizabeth. He told me Elizabeth had asked him if Jasmine had changed colors lately. He'd told her no and, hoping the discussion would end quickly, attempted to change the subject. “What would you like to do this weekend?” he asked.

He was laughing so hard he could barely get the words out.

“Can we go back to the pet store?” she replied. “I want to watch the baby rats change colors.”

Michael is eight and in the second grade. I've watched him enter and depart many stages of development since he first came into my life. But lately things have been a little challenging, and I feel as though I have become the clichéd broken record: “Tie your shoes.” “Turn off your lights.” “Close your drawers.” I have been saying these things to him since he entered school, yet he still fails to remember these simple tasks.

In first grade, even though I had to ask for the same things repeatedly, he would do what he was told to do.
Now, when queried, he provides a justification as to why it isn't done or an excuse why he cannot.

Tie your shoes.

I forgot.
I did, but they keep coming undone.
I need new laces, these are too hard to tie.
I don't like these shoes; I need a new pair.
I need to brush my teeth.
Will you do it for me?

Turn off your bedroom lights.

I forgot.
I didn't know they were still on.
It was dark, and I needed to see.
I didn't have a chance to do it.
I need to rinse out my cereal bowl.
Will you do it for me?

Close your dresser drawers.

I forgot.
There are too many clothes in them.
I didn't know they were open.
I was putting my laundry in the basket.
Will you do it for me?

Put your dirty clothes in the basket.

I forgot.
I didn't know they were on the floor.
The basket is full.
I was closing my drawers.
Will you do it for me?

Rinse out your cereal bowl.

I forgot.
I didn't know it was still on the counter.
I was putting away the cereal box.
Will you do it for me?

I can report with absolute certainty that repeating the words “I've told you a thousand times; why can't you remember?” serves absolutely no purpose.

Jim and I agree that a child should learn to respect those in authority. This doesn't mean blind obedience, and we try to teach Michael the difference. But sometimes a child must do as he is told whether he wants to or not—pick up his toys, put away his dishes, brush his teeth—because there will be a time in his life when he has to do other, more important things that he doesn't feel like doing. It may be a school assignment or a job task or giving up fun to help a family member, but it is better to learn discipline when you are young than to have none and struggle as an
adult. Defying conformity is a personal choice, but it comes with consequences. If you don't do your dishes, you may not get your allowance, but as an adult, if you refuse to perform your job as required, you may get fired—a far worse consequence.

Somehow we have attempted to teach Michael these lessons in part by using the phrase “in charge.” When we were first dating and I offered to watch Michael when Jim worked late, Jim would tell Michael that while Daddy was gone, Kate was “in charge.” Michael has always been instructed that, whether it be a babysitter, Grandma, or my sister, that person is “in charge.” Those in charge are to make certain Michael goes to bed at the right time, finishes his dinner if he wants dessert, and changes the channel if
SpongeBob Square Pants
comes on.

Michael became six and then seven and at the age of eight he now knows who is in charge without being told. Like any child, he has found ways to apply this concept, circumvent it, and test how far it extends. For example, he has figured out that because Grandma is
Jim's mother, Grandma is “in charge” of Daddy. He has also learned that when Jim is gone and I am the one to stay with him, he can get more and get away with more. And if I say, “No, you know your dad wouldn't approve of that,” he'll say, “But Kate, you're in charge right now.” Sometimes when both Jim and I are home, Michael will pursue me alone with his demands, hoping to wear me down. And when I begin to lose my resolve, I say, “You'll have to ask Daddy; he's in charge right now.” Michael always sighs when I tell him Daddy is in charge because Daddy does not argue or negotiate or explain or justify; he simply says either “Yes” or “No.” There's not much fun in that, so Michael likes to find ways to make sure I'm the one in charge.

A few weeks ago, on Mother's Day, we planned to meet Grandma and Papa and spend the day at the zoo. Before we left the house Michael asked his usual question, directed of course, toward me: “Can I get a toy at the zoo?”

However, it was Jim who replied, “No.”

Michael looked disappointed for a moment, then turned to me and smiled. “But Kate, today is Mother's Day—you are in charge!”

This morning Michael asked if I would be able to come to his open house at school next week. It is an opportunity for parents to see the projects the children have been working on all year long. I can usually sneak away from work for an hour, but I never know when something may come up that will require my immediate attention. In previous visits to similar school events, I have seen children sobbing uncontrollably because their parents were not in attendance. I don't want Michael to be hurt or upset if I can't make it, so I try to manage his expectations.

“I am going to try to come to the open house, but it is taking place during my workday, and I may not be able to get there if something important comes up.”

Michael ponders this for a moment. “You mean something like work that you have to do for Gordon?”

“Yes.”

He thinks about this a little bit more. “Kate, is Gordon in charge of you?”

I can see where this is going. “Yes.”

“Well, then, why don't you just ask him?”

There's no arguing with that logic.

Elizabeth asks me to play charades with her from a children's version of the game. She selects a card and acts out a word, and I guess it. Then she pulls another card out of the box. This time she wraps her arms around herself and turns from side to side, as a person would do when cold. As I look at her, I notice that Elizabeth is mouthing something at the same time. Over and over, she mouths what looks like the word “warm.”

“Is the word ‘warm'?” I ask
.

She smiles and nods, as though I figured it out on my own
.

I tell the children that I am going to take them shopping for Father's Day gifts. I say I will tell Daddy that we're
going shopping for household things, just the three of us, and that they must keep it a secret that we are really shopping for his present. Michael says to me, “Okay, but Kate, don't act suspicious!”

Later the same day Jim goes off to run errands on his own, and I take the children and all the gifts up to Elizabeth's room so we can wrap them. Michael closes the bedroom door “in case Daddy comes home.” I realize I have left the tape downstairs, so I get up, go out the door, close it, then turn around and knock three times
.

“Come in!” they call out together
.

I poke my head in and say, “What if it was Daddy? You can't let anyone in! I'm going to make a secret knock so you'll know it's me!”

I make up a distinct knock and demonstrate it for them. Then I close the door and again, knock three times
.