I often feel like a pretender in my own life. There have been countless times I’ve spun tales for my five-year-old, weaving a web of fabrications that might rival a conspiracy. These little lies are part of the toolkit of any single parent trying to navigate the chaotic waters of childhood—like claiming the toy store is closed or insisting that if she doesn’t hurry, I might just leave without her. I’ve even perpetuated the charming myth of a jolly man in red who delivers gifts to all good children around the world. But I’ve stumbled before, like the time I mentioned how lucky she was to receive presents, only to be met with her innocent question: “Why doesn’t Santa visit poor kids?” In that moment, I realized I was walking a tightrope, balancing the truth against the comforting fantasy. “Um, nevermind,” I said, quickly diverting her attention to something shiny.
As a parent, I often lie for the sake of normalcy, building narratives around fairies and princesses, but there’s one particular story I’ve crafted that is unlike any other. Unlike many parents, my child is not biologically mine. I didn’t give birth to her, nor have I legally adopted her. She is a five-year-old ward of the state, and while I look into her sparkling blue eyes, it’s challenging to see her as anything less than a beautiful little girl.
When my niece, Hannah, came to live with me at 33, my life shifted in unexpected ways. Instead of pursuing the traditional path of motherhood, I found myself in a role reminiscent of Diane Keaton in Baby Boom, but without the million-dollar baby food idea. The first time Hannah’s daycare caregiver suggested she call me “mommy,” I hesitated. I hadn’t thought about what title I would take on. But I wanted her to feel included, to have that sense of belonging. Now, when I hear her call me mommy—or sometimes “poophead”—it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
As of February 24th, Hannah will have been living with me for four years, and I’ve tackled this journey mostly on my own. I’ve learned the ins and outs of parenting, from diaper changes to bedtime routines. I’ve reshaped my life around her needs, even trading bar nights for playdates and buying a house based solely on school district ratings. In this time, I’ve discovered my limits—how long I can stand the Barney theme song on repeat or how many times I can be pounced on at dawn before I reach my breaking point. But I’ve also learned about the depth of love I can give, a love so profound it sometimes feels overwhelming.
You know how they say perceptions can vary—like whether you see the same shade of purple as someone else? When Hannah was three, she’d often say, “I can’t know” instead of “I don’t know,” and it struck me how true that was. I sometimes wondered if my feelings for her were the same as a biological mother’s. I no longer compare, as I’ve realized my love is unique and just as real, if not more so.
The love I feel for Hannah is the reason I maintain the intricate illusion of our relationship. I nurture her, comfort her, and provide a home filled with love. But inevitably, the day will come when she asks about being in my tummy, and I’ll have to face the truth. I can’t keep deflecting with stickers or distractions. I find myself postponing this conversation, perhaps out of a selfish desire to protect her innocence just a little longer. But that day is approaching, and I will need to explain to her that while labels may differ, our bond remains unchanged. It will be a moment of revelation as I “come out” to her. I’ve had my share of coming out experiences, and I expect I’ll shed tears during this one too. As for her reaction—well, that remains a mystery. Hopefully, she’ll just call me “poophead” a bit more often, instead of just “mom.”
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In summary, my journey as a single parent to Hannah is filled with love, challenges, and the occasional white lie. The complexities of our relationship are unique, but the essence of our bond remains strong. There will come a time when the truth must be revealed, but until then, I cherish each moment we share.
Keyphrase: parenting a child not biologically mine
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