Carl and I married Christmas Day, the children standing next to us while we exchanged vows. They quickly began telling anyone who would listen, "We got married." I suppose "we" did. Then shortly after the wedding, James and I cleared the mommy issue up once and for all.
It was his fourth birthday, and I had taken the children to the grocery store to get a few things for the party. James, excited about his birthday, was talking a mile a minute. Exactly what he was talking about, I doubt I'll ever remember, because James had said one word that had immediately caught my attention, and I didn't hear anything else he had to say. When James realized what he had said he looked up at me. "I called you Mommy," he giggled.
"Yes, I know." I was trying to behave as if nothing out the ordinary had just happened.
"I'm sorry." James twisted his mouth a bit.
"You don't have to be sorry," I explained. "I don't mind if you call me Mommy."
"Are you my mommy, too?" Why couldn't he just once ask an easy question?
"I'm like a mommy, but you have your mother, and she is your mommy. As I told you before, I am whatever you want me to be."
"Okay, Mommy," James said, smiling at me. He was telling me what he wanted.
Recently, James came home from school with a drawing he'd done. "Look what I made for you, Mommy. It's our family. This one is you."
As I looked at the paper he handed me, I felt the tears begin to form in my eyes. He had drawn four red stick figures, holding hands and smiling. James was telling me in his own wonderful way that I am not raising someone else's children - I am raising my children.
It was his fourth birthday, and I had taken the children to the grocery store to get a few things for the party. James, excited about his birthday, was talking a mile a minute. Exactly what he was talking about, I doubt I'll ever remember, because James had said one word that had immediately caught my attention, and I didn't hear anything else he had to say. When James realized what he had said he looked up at me. "I called you Mommy," he giggled.
"Yes, I know." I was trying to behave as if nothing out the ordinary had just happened.
"I'm sorry." James twisted his mouth a bit.
"You don't have to be sorry," I explained. "I don't mind if you call me Mommy."
"Are you my mommy, too?" Why couldn't he just once ask an easy question?
"I'm like a mommy, but you have your mother, and she is your mommy. As I told you before, I am whatever you want me to be."
"Okay, Mommy," James said, smiling at me. He was telling me what he wanted.
Recently, James came home from school with a drawing he'd done. "Look what I made for you, Mommy. It's our family. This one is you."
As I looked at the paper he handed me, I felt the tears begin to form in my eyes. He had drawn four red stick figures, holding hands and smiling. James was telling me in his own wonderful way that I am not raising someone else's children - I am raising my children.
