The Accidental Garden of Delight

This post is an offering, an explanation, a rambling. A really backwards sort of birthday gift to a certain three year old child that has two crazy parents, a funny family and has had a wild little life so far. And now, a bit of an apology and a reworking of an original inquiry into the matter of my dearest little doppelganger. I recently was compelled by someone to explain, just how, I came to the place where I decided that Diego was the best possible accident that could have ever happened to me. So, prompted to review the past few years, the whole sodden thing, by a very special person who in no way will be roasted in this post...I want to once again reiterate the query that was posed to me one recent, lovely evening, over a shared dinner and a cozy night in my favorite place in PA. A wonderfully handsome, absolutely adorable person whom I would like to shower with all the flowers and poetry that he can withstand wanted to know something about me, wondered what, if anything, I was thinking when I made the choice that has changed my life irrevocably, beyond my naive comprehension.

Let's face it: this child was in no way planned. Nor was he born to two people who loved one another, had a history, or even were dating seriously. Everyone who knows me well knows exactly what our relationship was--a rebound gone wrong scenario with my ex-boyfriend's roommate. Here I was hooking up with a person who likes to scale walls and who (still) finds it exasperating that I am oblivious to hip hop culture. Someone with several aliases and at least nine tattoos. A guy who claims he hates recycling. For a hippie chick who loves mountains, farming, and whose common denominator with this dude was something combustible of the color green, this was not a match made in the stars. From the outset, things were stacked against us. I hung in there despite some pretty obvious signs that this was a leaky ass rowboat. And most people would wonder why I made the choices I did. To have a baby, in this situation, takes some kind of chutzpah (if that's what they're calling it these days although Tim would probably have some start rapping some Juvenile song about his baby mama drama). Raising a child on my own is not something I ever pictured and I didn't really want that. However, I am the type of person who throws herself into things wholeheartedly, and when life hands me a challenge I negotiate it--foolhardily and indefatigably. Of course, I also knew I wanted to be a mother. I wanted to incubate a baby inside of me and feel my body stretch and change, give birth, and raise a little bean. Selfish? Perhaps. Genetically programmed into most red-blooded women? Absolutely.

Folks, here it is: Would I do it again, knowing what I know about the fatality of my relationship with Tim? Or the hardships of being a single parent? The dramas and pitfalls of my life the past few months, moving back home to my parents house, to a place I have been running away from ever since I first breathed the dewy Iowa air and tasted my first bit of freedom post high school? If I could have seen into the future, seen my dreams collapse, prevented the heartbreak of trying to make my relationship with Tim work out despite some serious red flags and some very expensive therapy, if I could have walked away and made a decision that hundreds of women make every day not to have a baby, would I? If I could magically make Diego exist without having to be his mom, would I settle for that? In other words, would I do this all over again? I know this all sounds so very hardcore and serious. My life is now woven with Diego threads shot through. My garden has been planted with the flowers of his laughter, the rays of his smiles are my sun. His beauty is more alive and growing than the most tenacious of weeds, his eyes more buzzing with burning curiosity than the most industrious of bees. Whatever else life has to dish out for me, I have the supreme pleasure and challenge of being this child's mama. Honestly. And I don't really know the right answer...except yes.

Now, catch me in a moment, like today, when I asked said child to take his mud-caked shoes off before he traipsed up the white carpeted steps after my mom's house was shining, cleaning woman paid and sent home, and I might shout, "hell no!" See me in a fury, irate over fighting a two year old down for a nap for a week straight before I finally admit defeat, and I might grumble, "maybe not". Watch the first few months of my son's life, struggling to quell his incessant cries, his insatiable thirst for milk, and his demands on my time, body and spirit. I might have whispered, "god, no." Witness my struggle to make some sort of workable arrangement with his father, have to move back in with my parents after a wild career as an unstoppable gypsy, buckle down and get "a square job" as it's been called, and I might have sighed, "naw." I probably would've laughed at you if you said I would give up my apartment in Brooklyn, my job as a printer, my nomadic ways, my dreams of becoming a writer, an artist, a freakin live off the land hippie, whatever. I would have cried, simply rolled on the floor and asked you to stop bogarting the joint.


Now... see me riding my yellow bike with my son straddling his up-front bike seat, singing into the wind about wild animals, his little body swaying with his rhythm. A ridiculous, blissful grin stretched across my lips as tight and happy as a drum head. Gaze upon my little boy clambering onto my back for a ride, hugging his little body into the curve of my spine, resting his sweet head against my shoulder blades in a picture of trust and love. My whole body sings with the pleasure of this feeling, even summoned up as a memory. Recall the hours, days, months, okay-- years, that I nursed my child, held him in my arms, felt his little soft doe skin as pure as the day he first appeared in this world, even in my weariness at 3 am when I woke with him. Feel my pride bursting as I hear about one of his escapades at school, the teacher recounting his clever humor as he bolted from the room with a spoon held high, proclaiming "And the dish ran away with the spoon!" Imagine my heart lifting with gladness when he chirps, "Thank you!" to the checkout clerk, without prompting. My gut-deep laughter when he rushes to my morning yoga mat and does snake pose beneath my down-dog, even though he clocks me in the face with that hard little noggin. My awe when he looks at me, out of nowhere, and tells me exactly what I was just thinking-- though I was totally silent.

This little wonder is a part of me, and I cannot fathom my life now without seeing his face in my mind's eye. Yeah, it ain't easy. sometimes I miss the days that were simply mine, stretching out endlessly before me as open and blank as a new canvas. No one to fix a meal for, to bathe, to entertain. Sure, I sometimes long for the times when I'd just grab a book and sit quietly for hours on my porch. Or party all night without having to hire a babysitter, which I never do anyway. Or have a decent phone conversation without someone hurtling himself like a missile designed to blow up the phone. I miss the freedom of moving whenever and wherever the wind might blow me.

Who ever imagines that they'll be doing the bulk of parenting alone, with limited support and even less money. Sure, I wanted things to be different. I held onto slim hopes that I might cobble a funny little family together out of some dire circumstances. I bailed out a leaky boat for three years, the eternal optimist, bounding back from disappointment and heartbreak. Not in the line of getting depressed, my ebullient nature churns up rainbows from floods, flowers from muck, and dances along the precipice of fear and illusion with a silly song, a goofy grin, and a nervous giggle. So what if it looks kind of like crap for a while. Everyone knows that compost is gardener's gold. Maybe it's just steaming into the perfect soil to grow the best garden of my life--our lives.

The limitless possibilities have indeed narrowed, due in a large part to the fact that I've got someone else to worry about. Who knows-- could it be good luck or bad luck. In many ways my son has saved me. I'm a better person for his sake, and with his clear cat eyes upon me, I am conscious of my voice, my actions, and my intentions. Maybe it's best not to try and figure it out. It's true-- it's not always what I thought it would be. Nor what I pictured that I wanted. Before, it was easily cookies for dinner. Now, it's twenty questions 'til I get a clue about what might be acceptable for dinner. Yet, I bet if I asked Diego if he wanted cookies for dinner, he'd light up and shout, "Yes!"

After all, he is my son.