As a native suburbanite, I always imagined city living—apart from the “bubble” or outskirts from where I grew up—in a realm of boundless potential. During childhood, I was energized by the smells of fresh pavement, the always-changing skyline, and the exhilarating flow of traffic in an ever-growing Atlanta. Funny enough, years after I became an official ATLien, these energies morphed into triggers of anxiety and startling sources of contempt for me. Living in the city while young, single, and bursting with expectation, I began to realize that what I was searching for could not be found in the environments I surrounded myself with. I drank too much and slept too little, so—thanks to an anxiety-induced meltdown—my world came crashing down. With tail tucked, I recoiled to the ‘burbs with my mom (unacceptably late into my twenties) and began re-centering myself. I met my now husband late into this phase of my life- once I had my fill of the city and was looking elsewhere for a new residence. Besides spending many childhood summers at my dad’s house, rural communities were foreign to me. Until my (now) husband, living in the country never crossed my mind as an option; it simply did not appeal to my tastes.
So I thought.
Before We Knew It
I remember that scorching Georgia summer, with many evenings spent visiting my new boyfriend. All there was to do was sit in those lumbered high-backs on the porch, watch the hummingbirds swarm their scarlet-tinted feeders (that enabled sketchy sugar habits), sip a mason jar of ice-cold sweet tea, and reflect as the sun sunk below the western tree line. A sequence I never seemed to mind. I had already met his sweet and beautiful children from his previous marriage. They primarily remained in the distance at their mom’s during the week while on the weekends (when they stayed with him), I worked in the city. This situation kept the bond between us at surface-level, in the beginning, as my (now) husband and I cultivated a foundation of our own. However, to remedy distance issues, we quickly moved in together and settled into a life outside the confines of the city, far beyond the borders of the 285 loop. Before we knew it, we were expecting a child of our own and subsequently, JJ and Madison (my now stepchildren), came to live with us full time.
(That’s a story for another time. Click here to see why.)
This Isn’t Normal
My husband grew up in the small city in Newborn, Georgia. Pronounced by locals as Newbern, this one-caution-light town (population: 724) is merely a blip on the Georgia map, straddling the lines that connect rural Newton and Jasper Counties. Middle brother of a rowdy trio of boys, and son of a very young duo, my husband was practically raised by his grandparents and great-grandparents. In the beginning, I always relished in listening to his stories about his childhood—the freshly baked pecan pies that his Granny made especially for him, his soul-searching adventures deep off in the thick Georgia pines lasting until the streetlights flickered on, and the life lessons patiently taught to him by his Pawpaw—which seemed such like a utopian upbringing that I often overlooked glaring evidence of, seemingly, his very own parental abandonment.
Due to the awful effects of my pregnancy, I scaled down my work schedule and was thrust into the world of being a stay-at-home mom. Simply, it was an add water and presto—“I’m a mama”—situation. This happened because JJ and Madison’s mother was (and still is) a drug addict. She could not care for them anymore and begged us to take them fulltime; this was at the same time an easy, yet difficult, decision being that my husband traveled for work throughout the week. Now, I see this was part of a cyclical family routine, as before my stepchildren’s mother, was her mother that lost custody of her own children in the same manner. If you are anything like I was, you may have the same thought: This isn’t normal. Yet, connecting my husband’s and my stepchildren’s lives to an oracle of what was to come, the message was right in front of my face: Around here, it is.
During my first holiday as a “mom,” a flash of surprise rang through me while attending school Christmas parties for my bonus babies; I observed that I was a sore thumb at these events as one of the only “parents” in attendance. I found my first-trimester-self, clutching a tiny cup of ginger ale in a room saturated by grandparents. What was going on here? Am I at the wrong party? My husband always jokes that I speed-read everything and (usually) miss the most significant words in all that I read. Maybe he is right. Damn you, skimming! I AM at the wrong party. I secretly pulled the brightly colored slip of invitation out of my purse to read over and over again- desperately searching for the word, “grandparent,” as to ease my anxiety on what must have been my mistake. No clarity. Yet, as I inquiringly floated the room, I realized through conversation that we were all in the right place: there to toast sherbet-laced “Grinch Punch” in honor of Jesus’ Birth and in support of our children. The common thread we all boasted: none of us had given birth our children. We were all others, replacements for previously failed parents.
In my stepdaughter, Madison’s class, there was Gigi and her two sisters, of which their hobbling grandparents took the place of their drug-addicted parents. There was Sara with her grandmother pinning the tail on Rudolph. There was Colton with his grandfather, enjoying my mother’s famous Christmas cookies that I had supplied. There was Elijah, who sat and cut out snowflakes with his grandparents. Most sadly, there was Savanah, a girl also raised by her grandmother- an elderly woman unable to make it to the party due to health conditions. She stuck to the teacher’s hip the entire party, desperately seeking the motherly attention all children thirst for and deserve. JJ’s room maintained the all-too-common trope of “others,” there in endorsement of the children they had taken on. In this case, it was many aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends. I was even surprised to find several people that looked young enough to be parents themselves, but quickly realized them to be grandparents upon their introductions- something I would imagine my in-laws to look like at a party like this. Between two classrooms—roughly FORTY children—there was about THIRTY youngsters with “others” standing-in as their parents. No, there were THIRTY-TWO; I, also, was an “other.” To be honest, I remained one for a few years following that party. I held that title until JJ and Madison decided to replace their own mom with me, gloriously ranking me up from “other” to “mother.” It took time, but is was time well worth the wait.
Yes, They Cried
We All Did (June, 2015)
Sometime after the party, only a couple of years ago, JJ and Madison got a letter in the mail from their real mother. She was in jail and asked that they write her, we encouraged them to do whatever they felt comfortable with. So, after not hearing from her for more than three birthdays, they each made the choice to reject her communication efforts. That day, they both began calling me “Mama”- a title I will cling to forever. I am not sure what sparked this shift, but it surely has changed my life. Hearing that word uttered from their mouths for the first time was like Heaven to me; it made the feeling of being the “other” drop into the past and dissipate without notice. Now, I cannot even remember the sound of them calling me “Kimmy,” and I love that I’ve lost that memory more than anything. We are fast approaching a decade as a family. The McDonalds. I have officially known and cared for JJ and Madison longer than their own mother has- to say that “she is missing out on knowing some amazing human beings” is the understatement of a lifetime. I write this with equal parts sadness and pride.
Recently, my daughter rehearsed a project she will present at school; the subject is “Something That Changed My Life.” While listening, tears streamed down my face as I realized the topic was about me, “the other.” Correction: “her mother.” On the day their dad and I married, I told them that although I did not give birth to them, I love them as my own. I meant that, more than they will ever know. In searching for the right location, I found where I needed to be- Newborn, Georgia. The crazy thing is, in looking at my future I never would have placed myself here. However, I know this is exactly where I am intended to be and where I belong: in the country, with my family, as their Mama.
November, 2019
Fused Together, Creating a Triad of Insight 