An Accidental Mother (8 page)

One evening Michael asked me if we could read together in “the reading chair.”

“Which chair is that?” I asked
.

“The one in your bedroom.”

It's my birthday, and as we walk to the bus stop, Michael asks, “Kate, how old are you?”

“Twenty-nine,” I say
.

“But you can't be twenty-nine; you were twenty-nine last year!”

“No, I'm really forty-six,” I confess
.

“That's
old!”
he replies. After a few seconds of pondering, he asks, “How old is Daddy?”

“He's forty-two.”

“That can't be right!” he insists. “He's supposed to be older than you!”

It's Christmas morning, and Jim goes up to get the children to come down and open their gifts. Michael races down the stairs, around the Christmas tree, and right past the shiny new four-wheeled, kid-sized all-terrain vehicle parked beside it. He stops five feet past both and looks at the plate and glass that he left on the ledge in the living room the night before. He turns to us, points to the empty plate, and says, “Santa was here! The cookies are gone!”

Michael is reminding me of something I had forgotten from my childhood: rituals are important. As far as traditional rituals are concerned, I have always been a Scrooge of the worst kind. I hate Christmas shopping, haven't a clue how to cook a turkey, and refuse to acknowledge “Hallmark” holidays (those special days created by greeting-card companies to generate sales in between real holidays). But with Michael now a part of my life, Santa is back in action; Halloween costumes are an absolute necessity; and “Easter, the bunny,” as Michael used to call him, has me boiling
and coloring eggs and hiding them. What I am learning is that the big rituals are only a small part of what makes a childhood happy, secure, and special. Oftentimes those on a smaller scale seem to have the greatest impact. Unknowingly, I have created numerous rituals for Michael, completely unaware of the value he would place on them.

During dinner I always put ketchup on his plate in the shape of a giant smiley face.

After dinner, when he is settled into his bed, he asks, “Kate, what should I dream about?” Not answering the question is unacceptable; no matter how late it is or how far off the bedtime schedule we are, he will not go to sleep happily without an answer. He prefers the ones that are the most creative, and I always provide them with a very dramatic delivery.

“When you wake up in the morning … you look out your window … and find a roller coaster right outside the front door that will take you all the way to school!”

“When you get home from school tomorrow …
you find a mountain in the backyard made of ice cream and chocolate syrup … with two giant spoons for you and Elizabeth!”

“When we come home from vacation … you find out that all of your stuffed animals have come to life!”

“When you walk into the backyard to throw the ball for Max … you see that the entire backyard has turned into a zoo … and there are elephants and giraffes and tigers and hippos all wandering around!”

In the morning there is a different routine: I step quietly into his room, walk over to the window to open the curtains, and then call out, “Good morning, sunshine!”

Michael has just started playing baseball, and I believe sports to be the best place to find rituals. He steps up to hit and taps his bat hard on home plate. In fact, I notice most of the boys doing it. Why are they tapping their bats on the plate? Surely they are mimicking older players; as far as I can see, there is no way a six-year-old could come up with a reason to tap the plate. As Michael gets up to bat, his team chants, “Let's
go, Michael,
let's go
!” And once the game has ended? “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate?
Cubs
!” Week after week, it is the same.

Interestingly, Michael has created many rituals himself. At six years old, he is still interested in stuffed animals, and I tend to come home from the mall with them sticking out of a purse or a pocket in order to surprise him. Years ago Michael slept with only his blue teddy bear, but as his collection has increased, things have become a little more complicated. As I watch him move the little creatures around the bed before I tuck him in, I wonder if his staging has a methodology or if the practice is simply meant to delay bedtime and prevent me from leaving the room. He still sleeps with Blue Bear, who goes on his right; the oversized stuffed dog that looks like a German shepherd is placed on his left. The majority of the toys are very small, and he lines them up alongside his pillow, some nights switching them from side to side. The last time I counted, he was keeping twenty-five stuffed animals in his bed, and each time he adds one to the
mix it takes him longer to reorganize them before going to sleep. So is he just stalling, or is this a ritual that brings him comfort and consistency? Perhaps it is both.

Unknowingly, I am about to create a new ritual for us. It's the spring of 2006, and a new season of the hit television show
American Idol
is about to begin. The panel of judges (two record producers and a former pop-music star) have hit the road for the fifth year, visiting stadiums and concert halls across the country to give thousands of pop-star wannabes a one-song audition and the opportunity to compete for the title of the next “American Idol.” Although the three judges select the group that will “go to Hollywood” (meaning the first major round of the competition), it is the American public who will ultimately select the next idol by phoning in votes for their favorites.

I saw only the end of the first season and missed those that followed. But the first-year winner, Kelly
Clarkson, had steady success, and eventually her second CD found its way into my car. I used to play it on the way to day care. Michael would tell me which songs were his favorites and ask me to play them over and over again. Kelly Clarkson walked away with a Grammy for that CD, and her renewed popularity reignited my interest in
Idol
. So when the fifth season was announced I decided to tune in.

One night after the first performer sang, Michael looked over to me and stuck his thumb sideways in the air. “Up or down?” he asked me.

Laughing aloud and certain he had learned this from someone at school, I immediately stuck my thumb up, confirming my approval of the performance. From then on, after every performance Michael would hold up his thumb and turn to me in question. When a contestant had an especially rough night, Michael and I would look at each other quickly, and I would watch the grin spread across his face as he followed my lead by giving the thumbs-down.

Every Tuesday after homework and dinner Michael
and I would settle down into the sofa while Jim walked past it, rolled his eyes, shook his head, and sneaked upstairs to hide out on his computer. Once Jim was out of the room Michael would smile at me and snuggle closer as we settled in to watch the evening unfold. Whether he really cared about any of these performers remains a mystery, but he seemed to treasure this shared time, having my full attention and engaging me in constant conversation, thrilled that I wanted his opinion about how someone sang or looked or whether they were going to get voted off.

As the weeks went by we were soon down to the last twenty contestants and found ourselves rooting for Elliott Yamin. He was small of stature, in need of orthodontics, and didn't have much stage presence, but his beautiful voice could send gooseflesh up and down my arms. To further justify our devotion, it was revealed that Elliott was not only struggling to manage diabetes but had a 90 percent hearing loss in one ear. The fact that he could carry a tune at all was extraordinary, let alone the fact that he was one of the best vocalists. Michael
and I would always clap and cheer for Elliott, and from time to time, when his performance wasn't the best, we'd say, “Hang in there, Elliott!”

Soon the contenders were performing in a full concert hall with a much larger audience and a whole new set of pressures. We progressed from thumbs-up or-down to high-fiving, cheering, and whooping after each of Elliott's performances. Although I had instigated this game more for Michael's entertainment than my own, I had become attached to the idea of Elliott as the next American Idol. The first week his vote tally put him in the bottom, my heart sank. Later that night, alone in my bedroom and for the first time ever, I dialed the toll-free number to cast my vote for an
Idol
contestant. Initially my plan was never to admit it to anyone, not even on my deathbed. Any person who would sit around and watch a silly television show and then actually phone in votes must not have much of a life, I thought. But days later I sheepishly confessed to a friend that I had actually called in and placed a vote for Elliott. “Isn't that silly?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? Last week I voted for Chris, Catherine, and Elliott!” she told me.

That week the front page of the local newspaper reported that the show was averaging thirty-three million viewers each week and that on the previous night forty-five million votes had been cast. What was the population of the United States? I wondered. What percentage of our population was watching
American Idol
? And if there were 27 percent more votes than watchers, how many times were these people calling in? I didn't know if the thought that I was not alone in the mania comforted me or made me feel like I was just one of several million suckers.

We were into the final weeks, with only four players left and Elliott one of them. Michael and I clapped and cheered at Elliott's stellar performance. This close to the finale, the challengers were allowed two performances. As expected, everyone did well, but Elliott, the underdog, with nowhere to go but up, came alive. When his song was finished, the audience was on its feet. While I started clapping and cheering, Michael
began to jump up and down on the sofa in joy. I turned to him and yelled, “Way to go, Elliott!” and lifted my hands to him for a high-ten. He slapped mine in return and kept jumping on the sofa (something that would not normally be allowed) as I jumped up and down on the floor.