Ledger

Issue date: 10/5/06 Section: News

Michelle give Max a time-out

Michelle has a talk with her youngest child, Max, while her other daughter, Megan, looks on.

The car barrels down the road, the world outside its windows a mishmash of new strip malls painted in that faux-Mexican adobe style so welcomed in American suburbs.
The road narrows - four lanes down to two. The car, a red 2002 Ford Focus, surges a little faster: marked 35 - clocking 50. The world inside the car is as chaotic as the driving. In the front seat, a giant bag sits on the floor at my feet. Inside: four kinds of fruit snacks, diapers, vanilla wafers, cups, a purse, baby wipes. In the backseat, a car seat, clothes, a pair of shoes, assorted junk food wrappers, the remains of a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie, and a jumble of toys do their best to obscure the gray carpeting.
"I have to smoke before I pick Max up from the babysitter," Michelle says, a cigarette hanging lazily from her mouth, her eyes barely on the road, her right hand searching through the bag at my feet. "I don't smoke with the kids in the car."
She's driving.
Her hand quickly pulls back from the bag, her eyes lock on the road in front of her. She takes a deep breath, crushing the nearly microscopic cigarette butt between her fingers, disposing of it in an empty bottle of Lipton ice tea. She lights another. "I'd better get as many as I can before I get the heathens," she says, a slight smile inching across her face, her eyes hidden behind a pair of large sunglasses, her brown hair frazzled and pulled back from her forehead. "It's the calm before the storm."
That calm - and the subsequent storm - is repeated everyday by millions of women across the country. Michelle is part of a strong, influential and increasingly powerful group in America - single mothers. Juggling between jobs or school, a social life, and children, it's a lifestyle full of emotional highs and lows, frustration, stretches of loneliness, glorious moments of salvation, awe, laughter and tears. According to the latest U.S. Census numbers, there are roughly 10 million single mothers in America.
The car pulls up in front of a large white house in University Place. An early spring day, the yard is spotted with crimson and white flowers. A long row of steps lead steeply up to the front door. "Just wait here," Michelle says, exhaling deeply, putting out her cigarette - her fourth in twenty minutes - "I'll go get him."
She exhales again, this time slower, and exits. She walks around the front of the car, her shoes hammering down on the concrete, her face stern. She ascends the steps, removing her sunglasses as she reaches the door, turns the knob, enters, and disappears inside.
Suddenly, a screech of joy, muffled voices, laughing. A little brown haired, three-year-old boy bounds through the front door, a chaotic ball of energy in cargo shorts and tennis shoes. Immediately, he makes for the steps. Michelle, now visible in the doorway, barks out one of many orders she'll utter to him in the next four hours. "Max! Wait for mommy!"
Max, for his part, either doesn't listen or pretends not to hear her. He continues down the steps making it to a landing in the center of the staircase. Once there, he freezes and picks up a small bug on the ground. Michelle calls out a "goodbye" to someone in the house, makes her way down to the landing, and grasps his hand. Slowly, they make their way down the steps, finally arriving at the car.
The first challenge: The car seat. Max squirms, wiggles, protests, screams, laughs, and asks hundreds of questions while Michelle attempts to strap him in. Eventually, he lets his guard down slightly - she pounces - and the job is done. A few minutes later, the car leaves the cul-de-sac, then University Place, before crossing the Narrows Bridge towards Purdy.
The late spring sun hangs low in the sky as the car tears down Highway 16. Max describes his day to Michelle, who listens patiently as he talks in a language all his own. "I have no idea what he's talking about, but I'm sure it's a good story," she says, her eyes on the car she's been tailgating for the last fifteen minutes.
A few minutes later, we arrive at Megan's school. In one perfectly planned and rehearsed motion, Michelle exits the car, opens Max's door, unbuckles him, and lifts him out onto the sidewalk. Once free, he disappears in a flash through a set of automatic doors, screaming for his sister the entire way.
Inside, a group of children waiting for pickup sit at a few tables working on projects. Teachers sit with them, answering questions, monitoring progress, bantering between each other. Seven-year-old Megan sits patiently, a hint of shy introspection giving way to huge smile. Megan is book smart, cautious and creative, Michelle says. "She's funny and dramatic," she adds. "Her favorite color is black, because black is made up of all the colors." About a month ago, she decided to start speaking with an Australian-British accent.
Max is Megan's polar opposite. "He's very much his own person," Michelle says. "He loves life. He doesn't walk anywhere. He always runs." True to form, Max engages in a fifteen minute running/destruction session immediately after entering the waiting area. When the family leaves, there is the slightest hint of happiness from the teachers, but even more so from Michelle, who spent the last ten minutes cleaning up his mess.
Back in the car: Speed, more tailgating. Both children vie for Michelle's attention. Megan announces statements concerning her day with her highly-dubious British accent, while Max screams and screeches for no other reason than to be heard. Michelle seems to tune them out at times, before slamming back to the moment. "You're both killing mommy!"
The kids laugh, and eventually so does their mother. Unlike her kids, Michelle's laughter is fleeing. Just two years since she divorced her husband of ten years, Jim, she went from living in a spacious, expensive house in Gig Harbor, to struggling to make monthly payments on a small starter home in Purdy. The average woman involved in a divorce can expect a 45 percent drop in her standard of living, according to census numbers.
The car turns into Michelle's neighborhood, a small, rustic slice of American rural life. "Mom, what does C-K-Y-Z-2-L-Y-D spell?" Megan asks, calling out the letters and numbers from a toy she's holding. Michelle turns her head, her mouth agape. "Uh, that would be nothing," then - turning to me - "god help me."
The car rolls to a stop - the kids bolt - Max towards the yard, Megan the front door. Her voice lost in a convergence of yelling and screeching, Michelle calls out from the car. "No, that's okay, I'll get everything. You kids just take it easy."
Michelle exits the car - opens the front door to the house and enters, all the while dropping down backpacks, diaper bags, trash. Once inside, the real work begins. "First I unpack, make dinner, help Megan with homework, and give the kids a bath - it really never ends," she says.
She flips on the TV and the kids' eyes glaze, breathing slows, talk disappears - they're zombies: quiet and open to suggestion. In her small kitchen, Michelle prepares dinner - fish sticks for Max, peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off for Megan. Taking up almost half the floor space of the tiny home, the kitchen is packed with stacks of bills, the cabinets full of Easter and Halloween candy. "They never eat candy," Michelle says. "It just sits there until I throw it out. Kids that don't eat candy…I know, I have very weird kids."
For the next three hours, Michelle feeds, cleans and reads to the kids before sending them to bed. At one point, Megan runs from the bathroom screaming "I'm on fire, mommy!" at the top of her lungs, laughing. Michelle, quick on her heels, grabs her before she can reach the kitchen. "You're giving me gray hair," Michelle shouts, shuffling her into a back bedroom.
10 p.m.: children - in bed, Michelle - dead on her feet, leftover pizza - warming in the oven. Her work done, she collapses on the couch next to me. "This is my life."
A few days later, I meet with Michelle's parents. When Michelle and I arrive at their home, her mother Elaine answers the door - brown curly hair and a warm smile. Don, Michelle's father, emerges from the backyard and greets me with a warm handshake. A lay minister, he wears a wooden cross around his neck, the dark brown of the wood contrasting with the gray mop of hair on his head. Talk quickly turns to Michelle.
"Overall, I think Michelle is a great parent," Don says. "But it's really hard to be consistent when the kids have two parents with such differing styles." Michelle and her ex-husband have joint custody of the children, so the kids are at a different house - and subject to a different set of rules - every week. "She doesn't have a lot of patience, especially with Max."
"Megan is Jim's favorite," Elaine says, "He actually questioned whether Max was even his son." Jim is somewhat emotionally distant toward Max, they contend.
"Max doesn't even want to be potty trained," Don says. "So his father will change his diaper… and pay attention to him."
The effect on Max is apparent. One night, while Michelle and Megan brushed their teeth for bed, Max emerged from his room. Under his breath, almost as an unconscious afterthought he muttered to me, "Don't leave me anymore. Be here when I get back. Don't leave me again." Michelle explains that Max clings to almost every man he meets. "Dating is very hard," she says. "A lot of men can't handle the way Max acts."
Looking at Max now - a convergence of energy, happiness and curiosity - it's hard to believe that he entered the world near death. Born with meconium aspiration - literally the inhalation of feces in the womb before or during delivery - Max, unconscious and not breathing, immediately went to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). "I remember seeing him in the NICU covered with tubes and bandages," Michelle says, tears streaming down her face. "They taped cotton over his eyes so the light wouldn't hurt him. I couldn't touch him for weeks - I couldn't hold my son."
Once, a woman from a support group for grieving mothers confronted Michelle about the possibility of Max's death. "I remember just screaming at her," she says. "I told her to get the hell out of my room. If Max wasn't giving up, I wouldn't either." Within days, Max turned a corner, and Michelle held her son for the first time, nearly three weeks after his birth. "I remember just staring into his face," she says. "He was so beautiful."
When Michelle finally brought Max home, Megan immediately took her brother under her wing. "The second she saw him, she curled up next to him and said, 'well, hello brotha," Michelle says.
Pizza in hand, relaxing on the couch, she smiles. "You know, as hard as my life is - the pickups, the homework, the driving, the fighting, the cooking… everything - I'd do it all over again rather than face a night without being able to kiss my kids or hold them."
The next morning - 5:30 a.m. Michelle - on four hours of sleep - stands in the kitchen over a coffee pot. She pours a cup, adds a huge amount of sugar, and lumbers toward the backdoor. "This is the only time I get to relax," she says, an unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth.
The next two hours are a blur of shouting, running, eating - Max attempts to brush the cat's teeth - Megan dances around singing in her British accent - Michelle negotiates with Max to eat his cocoa puffs - meanwhile, backpacks and diaper bags get loaded into the car. Finally, the kids are strapped in, Michelle is property caffeinated, and the family sets off.
Megan is dropped off at school, and the car barrels toward Tacoma. Familiar sights speed by - the Narrows Bridge, University Place, the cul-de-sac. Finally, the car rolls up on the large white house. Max screeches, kicking the back of my seat. Once unleashed from his car seat, he begins climbing the stairs. "Wait for mommy," Michelle says, closing the car door.
Max stops - turns - a smile, deep and wide, flows across his face. Michelle grasps his hand, and he begins leading her up the steps. As they walk, the two chat to each other, Michelle soaking in the last few seconds she'll have with him. Entering the doorway, she hesitates slightly. Max pulls away from her grip. She calls for him, disappearing inside.
A few seconds later, Michelle exits, the door closing lightly behind her. She walks down the steps, her expression blank - her step heavier. She gets into the car - reverses quickly, juts into the street - then forward. She reaches for a pack of cigarettes. "I hate leaving them," she says, her eyes hidden behind her glasses. "I miss them already."

little brown haired, three-year-old boy bounds through the front door, a chaotic ball of energy in cargo shorts and tennis shoes. Immediately, he makes for the steps. Michelle, now visible in the doorway, barks out one of many orders she'll utter to him in the next four hours. "Max! Wait for mommy!"
Max, for his part, either doesn't listen or pretends not to hear her. He continues down the steps making it to a landing in the center of the staircase. Once there, he freezes and picks up a small bug on the ground. Michelle calls out a "goodbye" to someone in the house, makes her way down to the landing, and grasps his hand. Slowly, they make their way down the steps, finally arriving at the car.
The first challenge: The car seat. Max squirms, wiggles, protests, screams, laughs, and asks hundreds of questions while Michelle attempts to strap him in. Eventually, he lets his guard down slightly - she pounces - and the job is done. A few minutes later, the car leaves the cul-de-sac, then University Place, before crossing the Narrows Bridge towards Purdy.
The late spring sun hangs low in the sky as the car tears down Highway 16. Max describes his day to Michelle, who listens patiently as he talks in a language all his own. "I have no idea what he's talking about, but I'm sure it's a good story," she says, her eyes on the car she's been tailgating for the last fifteen minutes.
A few minutes later, we arrive at Megan's school. In one perfectly planned and rehearsed motion, Michelle exits the car, opens Max's door, unbuckles him, and lifts him out onto the sidewalk. Once free, he disappears in a flash through a set of automatic doors, screaming for his sister the entire way.
Inside, a group of children waiting for pickup sit at a few tables working on projects. Teachers sit with them, answering questions, monitoring progress, bantering between each other. Seven-year-old Megan sits patiently, a hint of shy introspection giving way to huge smile. Megan is book smart, cautious and creative, Michelle says. "She's funny and dramatic," she adds. "Her favorite color is black, because black is made up of all the colors." About a month ago, she decided to start speaking with an Australian-British accent.
Max is Megan's polar opposite. "He's very much his own person," Michelle says. "He loves life. He doesn't walk anywhere. He always runs." True to form, Max engages in a fifteen minute running/destruction session immediately after entering the waiting area. When the family leaves, there is the slightest hint of happiness from the teachers, but even more so from Michelle, who spent the last ten minutes cleaning up his mess.
Back in the car: Speed, more tailgating. Both children vie for Michelle's attention. Megan announces statements concerning her day with her highly-dubious British accent, while Max screams and screeches for no other reason than to be heard. Michelle seems to tune them out at times, before slamming back to the moment. "You're both killing mommy!"
The kids laugh, and eventually so does their mother. Unlike her kids, Michelle's laughter is fleeing. Just two years since she divorced her husband of ten years, Jim, she went from living in a spacious, expensive house in Gig Harbor, to struggling to make monthly payments on a small starter home in Purdy. The average woman involved in a divorce can expect a 45 percent drop in her standard of living, according to census numbers.
The car turns into Michelle's neighborhood, a small, rustic slice of American rural life. "Mom, what does C-K-Y-Z-2-L-Y-D spell?" Megan asks, calling out the letters and numbers from a toy she's holding. Michelle turns her head, her mouth agape. "Uh, that would be nothing," then - turning to me - "god help me."
The car rolls to a stop - the kids bolt - Max towards the yard, Megan the front door. Her voice lost in a convergence of yelling and screeching, Michelle calls out from the car. "No, that's okay, I'll get everything. You kids just take it easy."
Michelle exits the car - opens the front door to the house and enters, all the while dropping down backpacks, diaper bags, trash. Once inside, the real work begins. "First I unpack, make dinner, help Megan with homework, and give the kids a bath - it really never ends," she says.
She flips on the TV and the kids' eyes glaze, breathing slows, talk disappears - they're zombies: quiet and open to suggestion. In her small kitchen, Michelle prepares dinner - fish sticks for Max, peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off for Megan. Taking up almost half the floor space of the tiny home, the kitchen is packed with stacks of bills, the cabinets full of Easter and Halloween candy. "They never eat candy," Michelle says. "It just sits there until I throw it out. Kids that don't eat candy…I know, I have very weird kids."
For the next three hours, Michelle feeds, cleans and reads to the kids before sending them to bed. At one point, Megan runs from the bathroom screaming "I'm on fire, mommy!" at the top of her lungs, laughing. Michelle, quick on her heels, grabs her before she can reach the kitchen. "You're giving me gray hair," Michelle shouts, shuffling her into a back bedroom.
10 p.m.: children - in bed, Michelle - dead on her feet, leftover pizza - warming in the oven. Her work done, she collapses on the couch next to me. "This is my life."
A few days later, I meet with Michelle's parents. When Michelle and I arrive at their home, her mother Elaine answers the door - brown curly hair and a warm smile. Don, Michelle's father, emerges from the backyard and greets me with a warm handshake. A lay minister, he wears a wooden cross around his neck, the dark brown of the wood contrasting with the gray mop of hair on his head. Talk quickly turns to Michelle.
"Overall, I think Michelle is a great parent," Don says. "But it's really hard to be consistent when the kids have two parents with such differing styles." Michelle and her ex-husband have joint custody of the children, so the kids are at a different house - and subject to a different set of rules - every week. "She doesn't have a lot of patience, especially with Max."
"Megan is Jim's favorite," Elaine says, "He actually questioned whether Max was even his son." Jim is somewhat emotionally distant toward Max, they contend.
"Max doesn't even want to be potty trained," Don says. "So his father will change his diaper… and pay attention to him."
The effect on Max is apparent. One night, while Michelle and Megan brushed their teeth for bed, Max emerged from his room. Under his breath, almost as an unconscious afterthought he muttered to me, "Don't leave me anymore. Be here when I get back. Don't leave me again." Michelle explains that Max clings to almost every man he meets. "Dating is very hard," she says. "A lot of men can't handle the way Max acts."
Looking at Max now - a convergence of energy, happiness and curiosity - it's hard to believe that he entered the world near death. Born with meconium aspiration - literally the inhalation of feces in the womb before or during delivery - Max, unconscious and not breathing, immediately went to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). "I remember seeing him in the NICU covered with tubes and bandages," Michelle says, tears streaming down her face. "They taped cotton over his eyes so the light wouldn't hurt him. I couldn't touch him for weeks - I couldn't hold my son."
Once, a woman from a support group for grieving mothers confronted Michelle about the possibility of Max's death. "I remember just screaming at her," she says. "I told her to get the hell out of my room. If Max wasn't giving up, I wouldn't either." Within days, Max turned a corner, and Michelle held her son for the first time, nearly three weeks after his birth. "I remember just staring into his face," she says. "He was so beautiful."
When Michelle finally brought Max home, Megan immediately took her brother under her wing. "The second she saw him, she curled up next to him and said, 'well, hello brotha," Michelle says.
Pizza in hand, relaxing on the couch, she smiles. "You know, as hard as my life is - the pickups, the homework, the driving, the fighting, the cooking… everything - I'd do it all over again rather than face a night without being able to kiss my kids or hold them."
The next morning - 5:30 a.m. Michelle - on four hours of sleep - stands in the kitchen over a coffee pot. She pours a cup, adds a huge amount of sugar, and lumbers toward the backdoor. "This is the only time I get to relax," she says, an unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth.
The next two hours are a blur of shouting, running, eating - Max attempts to brush the cat's teeth - Megan dances around singing in her British accent - Michelle negotiates with Max to eat his cocoa puffs - meanwhile, backpacks and diaper bags get loaded into the car. Finally, the kids are strapped in, Michelle is property caffeinated, and the family sets off.
Megan is dropped off at school, and the car barrels toward Tacoma. Familiar sights speed by - the Narrows Bridge, University Place, the cul-de-sac. Finally, the car rolls up on the large white house. Max screeches, kicking the back of my seat. Once unleashed from his car seat, he begins climbing the stairs. "Wait for mommy," Michelle says, closing the car door.
Max stops - turns - a smile, deep and wide, flows across his face. Michelle grasps his hand, and he begins leading her up the steps. As they walk, the two chat to each other, Michelle soaking in the last few seconds she'll have with him. Entering the doorway, she hesitates slightly. Max pulls away from her grip. She calls for him, disappearing inside.
A few seconds later, Michelle exits, the door closing lightly behind her. She gets into the car - reverses quickly, juts into the street - then forward. She reaches for a pack of cigarettes. "I hate leaving them," she says, her eyes hidden behind her glasses. "I miss them already."

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