My son is characteristically animated as he arrives back on Sunday night from his Father’s house, his blonde hair askew in rumpled shark fins and the legs of his well-worn jeans adorned with dirt and grass shrapnels. He runs up the walkway and tosses his jacket on the floor of the front entrance.  He smells like snapping Autumn air and little boy hands.

“Can I watch a movie?” he asks in his lilting little boy voice,”And maybe…maybe do you have popcorn?”

“Mayyybe,”I say, smiling.  He is growing up so fast, with his serious face and long arms and curious questions.”Did you have a good day today?”

“Yes,”he answers, smiling,”Woosy took me to Eat Fresh!  And we danced in Daddy’s living room.”

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On the small cul-de sac where I live, there are five houses.  I own the one at the bottom of the hill, with my brother.  It’s the most dilapidated home in a nice neighbourhood: a seventies two-story with valiant concrete beams and a slightly off kilter garden.

When I moved in, I was slightly self-conscious.  What would the neighbors think of our odd arrangement?  There was this guy in his late twenties, with an embarrassingly loud yellow truck, living in the basement.   There was a woman in her early thirties with a young son, living upstairs.  She was at home all day, hunched over her computer with a wool cap and dirty yoga pants. She stayed there all day, even though she dropped off her son each morning at daycare. 

I was certain the neighbours would think we were conducting an illicit marijuana operation.  This was such a nice, quiet suburban neighborhood.  Full of such normal families.

***

I quickly learned two things:

1) No one cares about my living circumstance.

2) None of my neighbors have normal situations.

My 14-year old babysitter is the product of the marriage of her Mom and Dad.  Her Mom was married twice previous and she has several half siblings.  There is a quiet gay couple two doors down with an adopted daughter.  There are old people across the street and their daughter visits frequently: I am not sure whether they are married, divorced, or three-toed and I really don’t care.

I’ve explained a few times that I was never married to the Father of my son, that we were only briefly engaged after a long relationship.  But it happens rarely, and when we are out in public now, many assume that my boyfriend, Corey, is the Father of my son.  There have been a few stilted conversations and muttered corrections, but for the most part, that’s fine with me.  What I’m struggling with, and what I’ll be writing about here:

-The feeling of continued 100% responsibility for the care of my son, even though I’m coupled and we’re now a “family” of sorts

-Household responsibilities in a non-biological family

-Second children, different parents.

-Relationship strains and triumphs with the ex parent now that I’m coupled with someone new.

-Fiscal issues.

Is there anything else you’d like to explore?  I can’t wait to embark on this new journey with you.

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