I had a weird day. A day I had been dreading in my head for nearly twelve years, although it turned out to be no biggie and, frankly, anti-climactic. We as adults definitely do not give kids enough credit for what they can and cannot handle. Since having kids, I have sort of always been waiting for the day when they realized that something about mom simply didn’t add up. It hadn’t been much of an issue before. They knew I didn’t have parents, but my husband’s parents are divorced and re-married, so there have always been two sets of grandparents. They are wonderful. The kids have missed out on nothing as far as grandparents are concerned.
It started out innocently enough. Saturday morning coffee while my kids mentally washed away the previous week of school and sports and played video games, looking up from my phone on occasion when I heard a “mom, look at this!” I have never been into video games, even as a child, preferring to stick my nose in a book, so I mentioned how my older brothers used to like a certain game. My oldest, a homing pigeon with new information, immediately snapped his head around to look at me. And ask me 400 questions. Oh shit. I had slipped. And he caught it. I had said brothers. Plural. Of course, all they knew was that I had one brother, their cooler-than-mom uncle who teaches them guitar and basketball. What’s a mom to do? Brush it off, of course. Change the subject. Fuck, that kid is too smart for his own good sometimes.
I sat on it for the rest of the day. I could water down the story. Make it no big deal. Does that help them at all? Do I want them to remain innocent as long as possible or prepare them for the cruel world? At the end of the day, I decided to have a conversation with my oldest only. I’m certainly not ready for my little guy to know. Baby steps. In the evening, I grabbed an old photo album that I had lifted from my grandfather’s house after he died and asked my big guy to sit with me.
I explained, choosing my words carefully. Your mom and uncle went to live with their aunt and uncle after their mother died. That aunt and uncle had a child, technically a cousin. After years of living under one roof, we came to think of that cousin as a brother. I explained mental illness and how important it is to tell someone if you didn’t feel right inside. How sometimes people never make it out and don’t come back from it without the proper care from mental health professionals. My tough, almost-as-tall-as-me, goalie kid put his head on my shoulder and said, “I’m so sorry, mom.” All I’ve ever wanted was to raise good humans. Anyone can have a baby. But how do we make sure those babies grow into adults with empathy? People who realize that, just because it hasn’t happened to them, doesn’t mean it doesn’t to others? People who can put themselves into someone else’s shoes. Maybe having the hard conversations is part of it. I hope so. I hope I explained it right. He doesn’t seem traumatized, anyway.
We looked at photos and I told my son how talented my oldest brother was, with his killer rock-and-roll voice. He could play guitar and keyboard too. They had a band, and eighties music is the sound of my childhood coming from the basement. I told my child that, because of all these things, I was extra grateful for our crazy, normal life. I cherish my two normal kids and amazing husband possibly just a little more than most women because of the things I’ve seen in life. We have very little drama, and I’m here for it. Knock on wood.
How did it all end? The kid looked me dead in the face and said, “I love our life too. Do you know when my new goalie shirt is coming?”
Let's Be Dramatic 