Having kids

Here’s a question I don’t love: Do you have kids, Melissa?

The reason I’m not a huge fan is because the answer is complicated. It shifts depending on whom I’m talking to, how much time we have, and the motivation for the question. Or my mood.

Please know that I have no illusions whatsoever about whether I have kids. I do. I have nine. I am not biologically connected to any of them, but these humans have brought me no end of joy, exasperation, worry, heartache, and hope. If that’s not the very definition of parenting, then I’m lost.

So back to the question. “How about you, Melissa? Do you have kids?”

If the asker wants small talk? “Yes, I have step-children. They’re great. I’m proud of them all. How about you?”

If the asker is sizing me up because I’m a new-comer, I have a harder time. I want to tell the truth because that’s always a good idea, but launching into the whole messy reality of my family situation can feel like standing in a windstorm. It’s hard to know where all the sand and leaves are coming from. I want to avoid sentimentality and exaggeration, too, but the truth is all so overwhelmingly bizarre that my listener inevitably wonders whether I am polishing up the rough edges.

I try not to. Here it is:

My first marriage was to Jon, a man nine years older than I who had two children from his first marriage. Those kiddos, Chris and Robyn, were nine and eleven years old when I married their dad. They were twenty-four and twenty-six when their dad died.

They’re still my kids.

At this point in the story, my listener will ever so slightly raise her eyebrows and ask for a detail or two, like whether the kids lived with us (on and off for many years), if their mom is alive and in the picture (very much so), or if I stayed involved in their lives after their dad died (extremely).

Next up, kid number three. In a super weird confluence of events, I met an eighteen-year old boy named Juan in Barcelona. Long story.

I won’t share a lot of details of Juan’s life because those details are not mine to share. Here’s what I will say: when I got home from Barcelona, I discovered some things about Juan that crushed me, things about his mom, about his situation, about his struggles, both past and present. I felt a knowing that he and I belonged to each other.

I was right. He’s my third kid. We’ve been through some super tough stuff together and will be together until the end. I’m sure.

I did a lot of odd things when I became a widow. One was to book a flight to Africa. I went to a country I’d barely heard of with a group of women I’d never met. One afternoon, the child sponsorship coordinator from the organization I was traveling with made a calculated play on my emotions when he introduced me to a skinny little kid named Happy. He and his sister Adija were found living under a table in a nearby market. No one was sure how long they’d been on their own.

Would I sponsor Happy? I could team up with two other sponsors to give him a place to live, a school uniform, and three (mostly) square meals a day. So I did.

Happy is my fourth child. I have since visited him twice and will return to Malawi next spring with Matt so we can attend his secondary school graduation. He and I write each other often, and now he knows and loves Uncle Matt, too. Happy is ours.

Kids number four and five came with Matt. True story: I specifically did not want to marry a man who had kids, and I specifically prayed to meet a good guy who was not a dad. I’d poured out a lot of myself with Chris and Robyn, and although I loved (and love) being their step-mom, I wasn’t eager for more emotional upheaval.

But I fell in love with Matt, so his teenagers were part of the deal.

Honestly, I have not connected easily with these lovebugs. They have always been exceedingly kind to me, but their relationship with Matt is complex. My role as a parent has been largely relegated to meal planning and gift-giving. Wait. Scratch that. My role as a parent has been to help Matt navigate the often difficult waters of parenting traumatized kids, to set aside personal affronts and fears for the future. To keep the checkbook out and the calendar open. To worry less about shifting plans and more about listening for the words behind the words.

And lo and behold, somewhere along the way, Benjamin and Joanna have become mine, too.

Okay, so where are we? Ah, got it. Three more to go.

Last year, Happy’s little sister Adija lost her sponsor. So we said yes to adding her to our family. We recently met another Malawian young man named Gracious who can’t afford university without assistance. And two-year old Makiyoni, whose mama can’t possibly care for him and his twin on her own, is now part of our clan, too.

So here I am with nine children.

Do you see why I hesitate to start talking when I’m asked if I have kids?

Once a co-worker asked me the question. I was brand new to the office, and her desk was positioned across from mine. I wanted to connect with her and fit in, which my answer would not likely help. I was tempted to say, “Yep, step-kids and sponsor kids and I’m proud of them all. How about you?”  I also knew I’d be spending a lot of work hours with her, hours that would likely be more meaningful if we had a relationship based on honesty. Maybe even a smidge of vulnerability. So I said something like, “It’s kind of long and complicated. The quick answer is yes, but the specifics are involved.” Undeterred, she took out a sheet of printer paper and a bright green marker. “I’ll just make a family tree while you talk!” she happily announced.

In the end, her sketch looked more like a divining rod or a wishbone. And she looked doubtful.

Wishing for a more traditional route to parenthood won’t make it so. I can’t tell people what they want to hear just because it will make me fit more neatly into conventional roles. I tried a time or two to answer the question in a way that would minimize my reality, so that I might more easily fit the stereotype of step-parenting or informal adoption relationships, but two things happened. One: I felt like I’d betrayed my kids. And two: the folks who asked me assured me, oh yes, step-parents are parents, too. Oh, yeah? Then why does my story so often result in dubious looks and uncomfortable silences?

Many many years ago, when I first started teaching, I had a get-to-know you meeting with my mentor teacher, Sue. Because life is weird, it turned out she was an old friend of my mother’s. We sat in her classroom during pre-planning creating my scope and sequence for the year. At one point, she asked me if I had kids (oh, jeez), and I gave her the quick reply. Her response? “Step-parenting is the hardest job in the world, even harder than parenting.”

She then winked at me and said, “Other than teaching, of course.”

Something in me unclenched in that moment. Sue saw something that few others do. I’ve never forgotten her words. They propelled me to keep telling the truth, to keep answering honestly, even though my response is feels risky.

I may always struggle with this question. Maybe because I don’t often feel validated by my listeners, or maybe because I don’t have stories of induced labor or lost baby teeth, or maybe because these kids all call me Melissa or Auntie Melissa but never Mom (other than that one time at Juan’s wedding when he and his bride introduced me around as his mother, and I nearly exploded in happiness). 

Most days, I’m okay with all of this. And on the ones where I squirm about with my ill-defined duties, shaky in the not-quite-fullness of it all? I mutter the serenity prayer and keep plodding on. Because frankly? I adore my kids, every single one of them.

They are my one shot at this parenting gig.

And I can’t imagine my life without them.