OTHER PEOPLE'S CHILDREN

It begins around 40.  That ticking sound that started at 35 gets louder.  Whoops!  Forgot to have children. 

Now, as a lesbian, having kids is a little trickier since accidental pregnancies tend to not happen. Besides, I’d have to be really drunk.  Like that one time college.  Hey, we all experiment. 

Anyway, around 40, for those of us who expected to have kids by now and find ourselves without any, the ticking reaches a point of distraction.  So we consider the options:

1.     Anonymous donor/sperm bank which is kind of like a one night stand without the walk of shame.  But 50 thousand dollars? If I had that kind of dough, I sure as hell wouldn’t waste it on sperm, especially when there’s so much of it lying around. 

Which leads to the second option.

2.     Begin the mental inventory of male friends.  Who’s married?  Who’s single?  Old enough to remember “The Big Chill?”  Who’s Successful?  Artsy?  Who’s open minded enough to participate in this kind of life changing experience?  Should he be involved beyond donation?  So many questions.  Eventually leading this single girl to a drink and a cigarette – two things apparently frowned upon during pregnancy - puritans.

3.     Adopt one of them made in China models.

4.     Meet a woman who has already done the work.

It began innocently enough.  She was only 8.  Hmm…that doesn’t sound innocent at all, does it?  Let me rephrase, I met a woman who had an 8 year old daughter.  Let’s call her “Punky.”  Punky thought I started coming around the house to hang out with her while her mother cooked dinner.  It was fun.  We’d watch public television together, participate in learning crafts, and read.  Wrestling was frowned upon as promoting violence but we still managed a few body slams now and then. The next thing I knew, we started to become pals.  Until…Punky caught her mom and I stealing a smooch in the kitchen.  Not a big smooch, but a smooch nonetheless. 

And that’s how the war began.

Like most wars, this one was about territory.  And after a lifetime of absolute power, this princess wasn’t about to cede one iota of the kingdom. 

I never had a chance.  But that didn’t stop me. 

Reasoning with an 8 year old is an exercise in crazy, so explaining that adding me to the equation actually meant more love, not less, was interpreted as “I’m taking your mother and putting you on the next boat back to China!  bwahh hah ha…

I needed a new approach.  I resorted to bribes and trickery.

I happened to working for PBS on a kids show at the time, so needless to say, Punky was the Princess of Swag.  She was outfitted with hats, t-shirts, posters, pencils, stickers and anything else I could lift from the foundation.  Her response, “I love Ruff Ruffman.”  Then.  “But I still hate you!” 

When that blatant attempt failed, I began to feign interest in soccer.  Because really, what’s better than setting your alarm for 7am on a Saturday to watch a bunch of kids who barely understand the rules of Red Rover engage in a complex game of passing and goal scoring?  Week after week I saw a group of frustrated sweaty kids who for the love of God, should be home watching cartoons and eating Cap’n Crunch.  Plus there’s the added bonus of being an object of wonder.  Obviously, mom’s been coming to these games alone all year…they’re not sisters…ooh, lesbians.  How exotic.  Our politically correct exterior is compromised by our traditional upbringing.  Cognitive dissonance takes over so they say nothing, and stare.  And at least in the case of the fathers, and maybe one hot mom, imagine what we do in bed.

After about six months, Punky realized I was in it to win it.  I picked her up from soccer practice one day and we stopped at a local BBQ place for take out.  On the way over she complained that my car smelled like coffee, the radio was too loud and that I was not to speak to her.  After we ordered and were waiting for our food, there was one stool open by the window.  I offered it to her, but she refused, so I sat down.  As we waited, and she looked at everything but me, I could see how tired she was.  I sat there quietly, and the next thing I knew, Punky came over and rested on me.  For 15 seconds she was my kid.  This battle was mine.  But the war raged on. 

Even though she was not my girlfriend’s biological child, Punky learned a lot from her mother, especially when it came to trust. Every step closer - like that one - was met with tremendous recoil.  So every time Punky let me in, she’d push me back twice as hard – just like mom. 

Here’s a lesson for all you would be step-parents, pointing out this mirror pattern of behavior in answer to the question, “Do you think I’m a good mother?” is always a bad idea.

And so on it went.  Punky’s Sherman marching through my Atlanta.  I hate you, you’re not my mother, you can’t tell me what to do, you’ll never move in here, you’ll never marry my mom, I never loved you, I was lying, blah blah blah.  

I needed to retreat.  But there was nowhere to go. 

Mom defended Punky’s actions by suggesting I was assigning adult motives to a child.  I don’t know, she seemed pretty damn immature to me.  My suggesting she lend diplomatic relations to the turmoil turned into my making her choose between myself and Punky.  Speaking of childish motives!  Mom liked to point out that my “lack of compassion” stemmed from my not having children of my own.  Note to all of you single parents out there looking for love.  Saying, “You don’t understand; you don’t have children” is never going to make things better.

No, I may not have children, but I have been on the planet long enough to gain a little insight into the parent/child dynamic.  And whether they’re homemade or store bought, they’re still a reflection of you.  So the next time you’re wondering why Punky’s such a pain in the ass, and ruining your love life - look in the mirror. 

Cause I’m telling you – first hand – nobody can break your heart like a kid.