All With Different Dads

I was talking with someone the other day and to explain to me why someone else was obviously trouble, she said, “Well, she has two kids. Each with different dads.”

Oh, like mine you mean?

Well, no, that’s not what she meant and it was a moment for us to both look at each other in thoughtful silence. She was probably thinking what a smart mouth I have.

I was thinking how often have I used a phrase to cast judgement, blithely unaware of the glass house I was living in? Or that the judgement I was making had nothing to do with the phrase.

I don’t think I’m any less of a person, responsible citizen or fabulous martini connoisseur because I have children with different fathers.

It is possible I am slightly MORE fabulous martini connoisseur because of the two fathers involved (and other assorted heartbreaks), but in no way do I think my kids having different dads make me (or anyone else), well, less. Less competent. Less valuable. Less of a mom. Less.

I didn’t get the love story I wanted. The story I worked hard for. The story I prayed hard for.

And my love story in terms of mother’s love is also different. Is it what I imagined? No. But then I didn’t imagine ANY kids for quite a few years. And there was a time when we were trying for Little Sir that I imagined twins. My biological children are 17 years apart. Three other children I love with a mother’s love are no longer in my life (my step son and two almost-adopted foster kids). It’s not what I imagined or planned.

I adore my children. I didn’t plan for Gorgeous Gal to love country music and to love her dog more than most people. I didn’t plan for Little Sir to have a perfect little freckle on the side of his neck or have the mind of a scientist.

It’s how it worked out. It’s how my story went. My children are loved and treasured.

Now, this not to say  I could be less of a person for many other reasons, but what fun is that list? And certainly NOT a list I’m going to write.