Being Mommy

I smiled as I watched small trickles of sticky red juice run down Micha’s arm. He was making an absolute mess of his popsicle, but that’s what wipes were for, right? Besides, the heat was sweltering and if the worst part of our day was keeping cool under the shade of a big tree eating melting treats I don’t figure we’re doing that bad.

Summers in Louisiana are hot with a humidity in the air that hangs oppressively to try and force the residents of the state indoors. I am not one to stay inside when there was so much sunshine, so I’d taken Micha out to the park for the day. I’d packed an ice chest with sandwiches, chips, and other treats that I know he loves. We both wore our swimsuits under light clothing and had slathered ourselves in sunscreen before we left the house.

Micha abandoned his popsicle on the table, squealing, “Tag, you’re it!” as he raced into the splash pad.

“Oh, you’re on!” I grinned. I chased a delighted little boy through the sprinklers, his blonde hair sticking to his head as the water rained down on them. Days like today made it all worth it, and I am able to forget for a while that Micha had had such a hard life.

He was a well-adjusted five year old with good manners and the imagination of a true artist. His bright blue eyes sparkled when I’d read him stories and when we painted together. Things hadn’t always been like this, easy and carefree; and they wouldn’t stay this way forever. Sooner or later his incubator would come around and with her came a category five tropical storm. If you’ve never seen the damage a hurricane can leave behind, just know that it tears through the area and leaves devastation in its wake. I’m sure you’ve heard of the infamous “Hurricane Katrina” that ravaged New Orleans, this woman has a lot in common with that storm.

You see, dear reader, Micha isn’t my child. Not biologically anyway. If you ask Micha who his mom is, though, he’ll get very upset if you mention Katrina’s name. That’s actually a great surname for her, Katrina. She came into our lives like a hurricane and continues to batter our home just like the storm battered all the homes in New Orleans.

Katrina is Micha’s biological mother. Micha lives with me and my husband because Katrina is a drug addict, and I’m not sure if that’s why she’s such a bad mother or if she really doesn’t give a damn about him. Either way, I don’t care. I’m a biological mother myself, I have other children and can’t imagine going a single day without seeing them let alone going multiple days without even speaking to them. It’s not like we don’t make him available to her, she can video chat and call him, she can even see him in person, as long as she’s not strung out on whatever poisons she’s chosen to put in her body at that time.

Micha was three when Katrina went to prison, not jail, prison. Her mother found her at an old run-down trailer with a score of other addicts, all men, prostituting herself for her next hit. Oh, and I forgot to mention that Micha and his sibling were there too, sitting in this shit hole sharing a can of cold Spaghetti O’s. She’s very good at dodging the cops, using her feminine wiles to make men do what she wants. I’m sorry to say that she’s not hideous, in fact, she was beautiful when I first met her. I mean, physically, because she was screaming at me at the top of her lungs with wild eyes. She was screeching at me about how I’d never be anything to her son and how it was a disgrace that he’d started to call me “Mom” and her by her name.

She has a slew of issues, enough to write an entire encyclopedia of psychosocial illnesses and mental instabilities, and a nasty attitude to go with them. I feel lucky that we were able to get Micha away from her, his sibling went to her mother so yes, she’s safe. Micha had anger issues when he first came to live with us full time. I have rules at my home, no yelling, no hitting, no back talking, and you have a bed time. I know, I’m so mean.

This little boy’s diet consisted of Spaghetti O’s from a can, frozen meals, cereal, and junk food. I worked with him to get him to eat vegetables and healthier foods, and let me tell you it was more like trying to convince a wildcat to let you take the splinter from its paw. Even though it’s good for them, they don’t want to listen and fight you tooth and nail. After a few months of Katrina being “away”, Micha had a routine down. He woke up at six in the morning to eat breakfast before school, then came home and had a snack, did his activity for homework, ate dinner, took a bath, and finally curled up on the couch with the family for story time before bed.

Things are still rough sometimes, but life with Micha is good. We do lessons for school together, we go grocery shopping and I turn it into a safari hunting trip where we’re looking for all the ingredients and foraging for food, we take regular trips to the park for him to play with the little ones and get the wiggles out, and now we’ve started playing video games together. His favorites include Animal Crossing and Minecraft, and we visit each other in-game daily. It’s hard to imagine such a well-behaved boy has had such a rough start to life.

After the splash pad, we go to the store to buy groceries and he helps me choose what we’re having for dinner. We enjoy the evening with him telling me all about the new additions to his house in Minecraft and his island on Animal Crossing. I am an avid video gamer and feel privileged he wants to share things with me, especially since at one time he was closed off and didn’t want to open up to me, or anyone really, because Katrina told him I was mean and I didn’t love him. Psychological warfare is one of her favorite ways to try and torture us, but thankfully once she did get out of prison she hasn’t been around much.

Whenever Katrina gets a wild hair and remembers she has offspring she likes to chastise Micha for calling me his mom, but what else is he supposed to call me? What is a mother? A mother isn’t just someone who got pregnant and gave birth to a child, if that’s her definition she must think adopted children should call their new parents by their names too. I mean, I do everything that a mother is supposed to do. I take care of Micha, feed him, help him get dressed, teach him everything from academics to life skills, and provide a structure and routine for him so he feels safe and secure. I’m around, I’m present.

Stepmothers catch hell no matter what we do, it doesn’t matter if we’re saints and never make a mistake. Ha! Let’s all take a second and pretend like parents aren’t sleep-deprived and some days we’re just trying to survive the day until bed time so we can breathe. Like me. I am an author. I spend my down time writing, playing video games, and creating art. I’ve caught a lot of flack for the way I treat Micha, when I discipline him around family I’m either too hard or too soft, when I treat the kids (all of the kids) to something special I’m always giving my biological children something better, the list goes on and on. I’m not perfect. I know I have flaws, I have faults. Don’t we all? I’m impatient, I might yell too much, I get annoyed, I lose my patience, I am forgiving and too lax with punishments and sticking to them, and I still want to feel like I’m an individual person and not just a mom.

But when we wake up and head to the library for a puppet show, I’m on top of the world. The little ones are squealing excitedly as Micha dances with them and helps them with their crafts and I’m so proud to have raised this wonderful little gentleman I could burst. Yes, the three of them can try my patience until I’m ready to pull my hair out and lose every bit of stuffing I have in my being; but when they come cuddle up to me while I’m writing and hug me saying, “I love you, Mommy” like my other little one just did, just this second, my heart melts and I forget why I was aggravated.

In today’s world we forget to let kids be kids, they’re little people trying to navigate a big world and that’s scary for them. I try to let my kids be kids, so trips to the zoo are wondrous and we have so much fun we forget we’re learning about animals and we’re making the noises they make and the world is moving so fast and they’re growing up. My little chubby-cheeked boys are growing up, and it’s scary.

Yesterday it was the splash pad, wet hair and sticky popsicles. Today it’s the library, silly songs and sticky glue for crafts. Tomorrow, who knows what we’ll get into? Are you noticing the pattern of things being sticky? And I’m so glad I don’t have daughters, all the glitter in the house…if you’re a parent to a little girl I feel for you. I’ve babysat my friends’ daughters and whew!

I’m trying to soak up every second I have with my kids, yes I said my kids because all three of these sticky-fingered little kids are mine. I don’t care what anyone says, because I wouldn’t trade anything in the world and miss a single day of adventure with these tiny humans.