Married, with Other People’s Children
All my adult life I have had a passion for what I call OPC: other people’s children. I love introducing my nieces and nephews and kid friends to my favorite books, jump rope tricks, and rhymes. I try to have my own relationship with the children in my life. I write them letters, call them for playdates, go to recitals and plays. And as I’ve gotten into my thirties, I’ve upped the ante. It took me six months, for example, to find a Hawaiian tiki hut/lemonade stand (and a pair of matching grass skirts) to ship to my nieces in Philadelphia for Christmas. The year before, I had given my nephews a laptop. I’ve opened 529 savings funds for their college educations, which turned out to be easy—with a minimum of a twenty-five-dollar monthly contribution, I could set up an automatic withdrawal from my bank account, and after a while, that fifty dollars or seventy-five dollars didn’t hurt at all.
One year I sent my nephew Frederick to football camp at the University of Pennsylvania. He comes from a rough neighborhood, and at the time he was thirteen and already getting in trouble with gangs. He’s a talented football player, hence the camp, but more than anything I wanted him to get a glimpse of college life. I loved driving him up to the Penn dorms and seeing him fall in love with campus life. The summer after that, I sent Frederick’s brother, Jesse, to mountain-biking camp in New Hampshire. I was looking for a place where Jesse wouldn’t feel like a Fresh Air Fund kid but would still get a glimpse of a different life. Jesse spent two weeks biking down ski trails, riding through mud. He also learned how to pitch a tent and surf, and I became the coolest aunt ever.
This past summer, Jesse came to stay with us for seven weeks. For years we’d been finding programs for our nephews, writing checks. But having Jesse live with us for almost two months took things to a new level. He had schoolwork to do and book reports to write on his break. We had to learn how to be disciplinarians. We also had to organize his social schedule. The first day I had two twelve-year-old boys running through my house, I thought I was going to lose my mind. Then came the day when I had four twelve-year-old boys running through the house, and I realized I had no mind left to lose. And that was more than okay. I loved it.
There were hard moments: times when Jesse let us know that we were not his parents and we could rot in hell for all he cared. There were doors slammed, and there were tears. Both my husband and I were trying to feel for the boundaries. In the end, we decided we could only do what real parents actually do: wing it and pray that when we got it wrong, we weren’t doing irreparable damage. And I’m guessing we didn’t, because the last night Jesse was with us, he was invited to a party where all the cool kids he’d met over the summer were going to be hanging out—and he chose to stay home and hang out with us instead.
After Jesse left, Jason and I had the conversation we’ve had a zillion times. We would like to have a family, and we would really like to adopt. But our nieces and nephews are getting older. Each year these kids become more independent and interesting. I have fantasies of taking my nieces to Paris and my nephews to Tokyo, of showing them all the places I’ve been and loved. Some days Jason and I think, Why should we bother reaching into the ether for children we do not know, when there are already these half-dozen children who’ve staked their claim in our world? Again and again, we get stuck there. We love our friends’ kids. We love our nieces and nephews. We love being the relief-pitcher parents. But the problem with other people’s children is that you have to give them back.
Then again, a week after my nephew went home, I walked into his room, which had reverted to our guest room, and for the first time all summer, it did not smell like eau de twelve-year-old boy. I put on a pair of stilettos and a sexy blouse, and my husband took me to dinner, alone, for the first time all summer. The waiter arrived with a lovely bottle of sauvignon blanc and we raised our glasses to toast the best part of OPC: freedom.