I stared, slack-jawed, at the artwork of my eight year-old son, Norman. A magazine rendering of Norman Rockwell’s The Babysitter had been crookedly cut and pasted onto white construction paper. The young woman depicted in the famous print sits holding a squalling baby on her lap while she consults a guide for babysitters. The squalling infant has a fistful of her hair, and the scowl on the babysitter’s face says she wished she were somewhere else. Beneath the slightly askew picture, my son had penned: “My mom hates kids.”
Norman fidgeted at my side, watching his classmates tug their parents around the classroom, as I continued to simply gawk at his artwork. My son’s picture stood apart from the more cheerful offerings of his peers. Colorful drawings of families, complete with pets and flowers blooming in the yard, all surrounded The Babysitter. Captions announced everything from, “My mom’s a good cooker,” to “My dad takes me camping.”
Mrs. Brown, Norman’s third grade teacher, paused next to me, smiling at her students’ art exhibit. “I thought Norman really captured the theme of the assignment,” she said.
“Assignment?” My gaze was still locked on the words “hates kids.”
“Yes. I asked the children to create a picture that represents their family. Norman managed to find a woman struggling with a baby.”
“I don’t have a baby. Norman’s eight and Derrick’s seven.”
“Yes, but as I understand it, Derrick’s disabled and I believe Norman sees him as needing the same attention as a baby.”
I turned toward Mrs. Brown, a tidy fortyish woman who’d undoubtedly witnessed the challenges of many parents.
“You’re a single mother with a child who requires special care,” she continued, “while Norman sees himself as fairly self-reliant.”
“But I don’t hate kids,” my voice faltered as I blinked back tears.
“Of course you don’t, but I’m guessing there are times when you hate the struggle of being a single parent of a child with special needs.”
I stared at Mrs. Brown as if she’d morphed into a mirror reflecting my life. Being single, not to mention the mother of a child with a disability, hadn’t been part of my fantasy growing up. As a little girl, I’d dreamed of marrying the love of my life, having two kids, a boy and a girl, and living in a house with a dog, a cat, and a white picket fence. I had hoped to be one of the families in the drawings on the classroom wall.
After Derrick’s birth, a different reality set in. At nine months, Derrick’s doctors determined he suffered from myriad afflictions, including cerebral palsy and mental retardation. Derrick’s autism diagnosis would come a few years later, but my marriage did not survive that first difficult year of adjusting to the demands of a child with special needs. The family of my childhood dreams had been replaced by a new family—one that required me to juggle many roles. I was the doting caregiver and the strict disciplinarian; a nursemaid and a cleaning lady; a working mom who lived on determination and creative financing.
The cacophony of excited chatter brought me back to Norman’s classroom, and I noticed he had found his way across the class room to talk to a couple of buddies. As I watched him, mischief danced in his dark brown eyes as he shared something funny with his friends. I thought of Norman as a shy boy. At home, he didn’t seek out the neighborhood kids; instead, he acted more like the man of the house. Clearly, though, I realized, he had no trouble relating to other children.
I shifted my attention from Norman back to The Babysitter, concentrating on the young woman’s scowl. Did I present that same frustrated face to my boys? Had I become a harried mother who didn’t take time to show how much she loved her sons? A realization jolted me like someone had thrown cold water in my face. I needed to make a change . . . and I needed to make it now.
Managing a one-parent household and caring for two sons, especially when one is disabled, left little time for the softer things in life. Our nights were filled with quick, inexpensive dinners, Norman’s homework, two hurried baths, and simple dessert, before we all fell into bed. Day after day, we followed the same rushed routine. There never seemed to be time to sit and read my boys a bedtime story or to watch a favorite program on television. Weekends were less hectic, but still, laundry needed to be done, groceries bought, and bills paid. I seemed to never have the time or the money for a matinee or a trip to the zoo. I barely even managed a free day
at the park.
At the time Norman made the “hates kids” collage, I’d been single for five years. While I couldn’t go back in time to correct my parenting mistakes, I certainly could change my actions in the future. I could be a better mom for now on!
Over the next two years, I focused on activities that Norman enjoyed: baseball, basketball, soccer. If I didn’t serve as team mom, I sometimes helped coach and I never missed a game. When I removed Norman’s responsibility for watching Derrick as they played outside, he had the opportunity to play with the other kids in our apartment complex. I became a better planner and structured my days to allow for a story before bed. More efficient weekends afforded us family time at the park or the luxury of an occasional movie. Of course, it meant that I had more demands on my time than hours in the day. So, although my house might not have been the cleanest or the most organized, both of my sons seemed to flourish in the chaos.
Norman’s third grade year progressed through autumn and winter, and he seemed to change with the passing seasons. One warm spring night, Norman came in for dinner and launched into a story about Quan, a boy from our apartment complex, and his family, occasionally throwing in a strange word.
“What nationality is Quan?” I asked.
“Um . . .” I could see the wheels turning in his head. “He’s one of those -eses. You know Chinese, Japanese. I don’t remember which one.”
It turned out the family had moved to Oregon from Vietnam. Norman and Quan became fast friends, spending every afternoon after school together and weekends and then the summer plotting to overtake the designated battlefield in our small backyard.
The following Thanksgiving, Norman came to me with a special request. “Mom, do you think you could teach Quan’s mom how to cook a turkey?”
“Probably. Why?”
“His family wants to eat a real Thanksgiving dinner. I told her you’d help her cook it.”
Norman and I met with Quan’s mom, a petite woman who didn’t speak a word of English.
With Quan translating, I helped his mom make a grocery list and we set a time to meet Thanksgiving morning to put the turkey in the oven. Quan’s mom thanked me for my help and invited us to Thanksgiving dinner. We had been planning to eat at my aunt’s, but I could see how important it was to Norman that we accept her invitation. In keeping with our family’s tradition, I volunteered to make the pumpkin pies.
Thanksgiving Day, after we put Quan’s family’s bird in the oven, I returned to my apartment and set to the task of baking pies. A sleepy-eyed Norman wandered into the kitchen as I placed the necessary ingredients on the counter.
“Can I lick the bowl?” he asked the age-old question of baking parents everywhere.
“Only if you help make the pies.” I smiled at him.
Since I made pumpkin pies every year, one would think I’d have the recipe memorized. But that was not the case with my version of the family favorite. The original basic recipe had been taken from the back of a Libby’s pumpkin pie-filling can, and over the years, several changes had been made. The amount of some ingredients had been increased or decreased; some ingredients were eliminated and some were replaced with new items.
“Mom, why do you need all these spices when you use pumpkin pie spice? Isn’t that enough?”
Norman asked, as the measuring spoonful of nutmeg in his hand hovered over the bowl.
“I guess because I like to spice things up.”
I mimed dumping the contents of the measuring spoon. He obliged, dumping them it into the mixture, and I handed him the bottle of crushed cloves.
Like the pumpkin pie recipe, Norman, Derrick and I had also gone through a transformation. While Libby’s original formula made a delicious pie, our version incorporated ingredients that added a touch more spice and created its own unique flavor. Similarly, our once “traditional” family had experienced a few changes along the way—some rewarding, some challenging, but all adding a little spice to our lives and combining to make our own version of family.
An hour later, Norman stood holding the cooled pumpkin pie while I snapped a picture. His proud smile clearly said he’d enjoyed the pie-baking experience, and I now had a photo of our creation to accompany The Babysitter artwork in my box of memorabilia.
Excerpt from:
"Peril in Paradise"
is on the Contacts Page