Despite My Lack of Physical Custody: I Am Mom
But for years, because I my son didn’t live with me, I didn’t feel like it to the world.
I am a Mom.
I Think Like A Mom. I checking the temperature and nagging my son to wear long sleeves when it’s going to be icy cold. I follow up on homework assignments.
I Dress Like A Mom. Nothing that requires dry cleaning. I have a stack of tank tops with built in bras to go under my pajama tops. My non-work socks are all holiday themed.
I Accessorize Like A Mom. One True Hobbit Lego Ring adorns my Pandora bracelet.
I Worry Like A Mom. Somewhere, at the back of my mind, 24/7/365 I am aware of my son’s general whereabouts and my mind is poised, ready for action in the event of a phone call.
I Talk Like A Mom.
Children are the common ground of adults. Parents commiserate about their kids’ grades, silliness, the antics that drive us batty, teachers, and developmental stages.
I do the same thing. When I meet other adults, I talk about my son. I talk about Leading Man #1’s progress in school, the latest school project, his highs and lows, the teacher homework website it took three adults (myself, TheEx and Stepmom) to decipher. I’m pretty good at covering my tracks, but at some point in every conversation, the question comes up. The evil innocent trick question that causes me to stammer and justify:
“Where is he?”
There is also the evil innocent trick question’s diabolical twist sister question:
“Where does he go to school?”
The designers on Project Runway complain about Heidi Klum’s little “twists.” Let them design an answer to these two.
The parent who asks doesn’t know these questions are evil innocent or diabolical twists. Said parent assumes the answer is a) off at some event or with the non-residential custodial father. and b) some local private or public school in sunny – ice cold right now – central Massachusetts.
As a non-custodial Mom, I’d rather have Tim Gunn breathing down my neck and a naked model about to be subjected to Michael Kors’s scrutiny on the runway. I’m always afraid when the often happily married custodial parent I’m speaking to finds out I’m NCM, they are going to assume I’m more than a caffeine addict and workaholic: they’re going to assume I’m some psycho and I had custody ripped away from me.
I don’t want that. Hence the stammer stammer justify.
The stammer stammer justify goes something like this:
Stammer, mumble, stammer some more, and in between mumbling and stammering, an inaudible justification of why my child lives with someone else. The conversation usually goes like this:
“He’s autistic spectrum so he goes to school in X, and lives with his dad, but the school is great and I’m really involved in…”
Yes, I know I do this. I’m not being fake. I’m not lying. I just know that while 99% of the parents who ask the question will accept my answer and move on, one in 100 will either be appalled that I didn’t fight harder, or their face will tear up as they try, and fail, to picture being without their kids for more than a couple days. It’s that parent I stammer to avoid.
There’s no way to escape that one parent. They’re going to ask. You’re going to answer. They’re reaction is going to stick with you for a long time. I do have three tactics for minimizing it, both with the one parent in 100 and just to reassure myself. If you’re a NCM stuck facing down parent one in 100, feel free to blatantly steal them.
I Focus on Connection, Not Custody.
I tell people I’m non-residential custodian and then I continue talking about my son like he’s a part of my everyday life, because, well, he is. He gets annoyed with me on a regular basis for making him set down his video games to answer the phone. He’s on video chat. I have to nag him about wearing warm clothes and the science project he completed that I got a picture of but my ex did not. The custody issue fades to the background and I become just your boring, every day parent again. J. also has his own album in my smartphone. When I talk about him to other people, I pull out photos to show them.
The Necklace.
I always wear a necklace with a heart my son gave me for Christmas around my neck. If the subject of kids comes up, I capitalize on the fact that my being non-residential custodian allows me to work long hours. I don’t have to take off for snow day, early dismissals and late openings. I keep pictures of my son on my desk. 3, to be exact: 1 of which is a picture of the 2 of us.
Incidentally, I take photos of just the pictures on my desk and occasionally Skype them to my son so he has tangible proof of how he is always on my mind.
Staying True To Myself.
I always acknowledge the situation sucks, and I hate it. I admit to hating to have to explain it, too. I tell people why I hate having to explain it. Autism was my enemy and I made a hard choice that has had me sleeping curled around a ratty stuffed frog for seven years.
Could we steer the conversation to how devastated I was when I realized Tim Gunn wasn’t straight?
At least we’ll always have Hugh Jackman…
—CMR
Spring 2015
