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Chapter Eleven- Emma
“Matteo, honey, I know you want to put your shoes on yourself, but we have to get going.” I glance at the clock on the wall, though I know it’s only going to make me feel worse. We’re late, which isn’t anything new because we’re always late. I’m trying to make a good impression at the internship I’ve gotten, but I don’t think they want to hear about my struggles as a single mom when I roll into the office late.
My strong, independent child has his shirt on backward and is trying to figure out how to put his right shoe on his left foot. Every time I attempt to correct him or, God forbid, help him, he swats my hands away. About five feet to my left is the cabinet, and I look at it more than once, weighing the pros and cons of bribing him with cookies to let me put his shoes on for him and turn his shirt around.
Pro- might get out of the house before noon.
Con- cookies are not a nutritious breakfast.
Eventually, I give in, going and sliding out his favorite brand of cookies. The wrinkling of the package grabs his attention immediately, the shoe abandoned on the ground as he walks toward me.
“Mommy puts on your shoes, and you get a cookie,” I tell him, watching for agreement. He pauses to think about it, and I can almost see him making a pro and con list in his head like I had moments before. It’s one of my favorite things about watching him grow up. His brain has always worked in such interesting ways. After weighing his decision, he gives me a single, decisive head nod.
When Matteo was younger, I was always worried about his speech. I worried about a lot of things. His pediatrician said it was normal for a first-time mom, but his lack of speech took her by surprise. He said his first word at 11 months and decided to barely say anything else until days shy of his third birthday.
He doesn’t have any cognitive delays, just a man of few words.
I make quick work of putting his shoes on his feet while he happily munches on his cookie. I swiftly strap him into his car seat. He doesn’t fight me today as I tighten the straps on him, which is a miracle. And he signs I love you to me. His extended pinky, pointed finger, and thumb make it look a little like he’s rocking out at a concert. Sign language is something his speech therapist recommended. Though he knows how to speak, he still prefers to use signs most of the time.
This semester, I have all online classes. It’s close to a miracle I managed to avoid having to go onto campus for the entire semester. The online classes always fill up quickly. It’s difficult being a single mom, and the flexibility of online classes saves me a lot of hassle. Matteo attends preschool now, and one of his friend’s moms will watch him while I’m at my internship, but childcare options are limited when I don’t have any family around. Luckily, I haven’t had to work to support Matteo and myself. It’s a luxury I know most moms don’t have. Perks of having a father that works for the mafia, I guess.
I don’t think my father ever intended on telling me who he works for, or what his job entails. And if it wasn’t for me falling pregnant with Enzo’s child, I don’t think he ever would have.
He'd done everything he could to shield me from his business associates, which is why he had so many rules at the wedding. Rules I had promptly broken. And those decisions left me carrying who the Lombardi family will believe to be the heir to their crime empire if they ever find out. So, he hid me away from the world. He did everything as carefully as he could, sending me to live with my aunt in Colorado and hiring private nurse-midwives who provided all my care in my aunt’s home. I gave birth in a tub in her living room so that my name wouldn’t pop up in any major EMRs. Then I moved away to go to university, taking my small child with me. Kansas State University was a far cry from Brown University, but my life has strayed so far from the path I thought it was going to go down.
I don’t regret a single second of it.
Thinking about it always inevitably ends up with me thinking about Enzo, though I try not to. My heart cries out some days because Matteo looks so much like him. And though I have no way of knowing if he would have wanted Matteo and me around, my head always conjures up these images of the three of us as a family.
I wipe the thought from my head as soon as it enters. There may only ever be two stockings hanging above the fireplace on Christmas, but I don’t need anything more.
We pull up to the preschool Matteo will be attending. It’s attached to the elementary school and is only a two-minute drive and a ten-minute walk. If I ever get my life together enough to not be running around like a headless chicken, I think it would be nice to walk him to preschool in the mornings.
Of course, a ten-minute walk with a 4-year-old easily becomes a 30-minute walk. Matteo is curious about everything. He’s quiet and observant. Walks means he has more time to observe things. The cracks in the sidewalks, the flowers in someone’s yard, or the argument happening between our neighbors. It all fascinates him.
And a four-year-old also lacks the decorum to not stop and watch our neighbors fighting. He will openly stare and stubbornly refuse to move until I pick him up to move him myself.
Maybe we’ll keep driving, I think to myself as I pull up to the line of parents letting their kids out. My saving grace is that the car line is so long, winding out of the elementary school that the teachers probably expect kids will be a little late getting dropped off.
“I love you,” I tell him as I take him out of his car seat. He kisses me before running on the grass towards where his teacher is lining up with the rest of his classmates. It’s one of those moments where I’m shocked at how big he’s grown. I wish I can stay a little longer, but cars are honking their horns behind me and I still need to get to the hospital where I’m doing my internship.
After leaving Colorado, I didn't have much of a plan. I'd decided not to go to Brown, but I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. Matteo ended up in the hospital with a viral infection, and the emergency room doctor was so concerned with my crying that he called the hospital social worker to check on me.
It was the social worker who helped me get my life back on track.
Telling my father I was switching my major from pre-law to social work had added another nail to the coffin of the relationship we once had. When I told him, he didn’t answer my phone call for days afterward. When he finally did answer, he went for the throat. There was no money in social work, and I was going to live off him until I died if I went into the field. I didn't call him for another month after that.
The hospital internship is in their case management department, and it’s demanding. In the three weeks since I started, I’ve dealt with everything from violent traumas to custody issues in the NICU to talks about organ donations with families. After everything was said and done, I had to relive it through my charting. In the beginning, it made me question if I was in the right field and if I was cut out for this kind of work.
Then I had a mother tell me in her darkest hour, after losing her daughter, my kindness had kept her going. It reminded me of why I wanted to go into the field. Humans deserve kindness.
Each morning, we have a huddle meeting that helps us to understand what is happening in the hospital. There are two other interns from my program who got accepted, so I slip in next to them. Thankfully, no one questions the fact I’ve come in five past the hour.
“What took you so long?” Derek asks as the meeting ends. He’s one of the students from my program, and he’s always been kind to me.
“I had to drop Matteo off at preschool and got stuck in the line,” I tell him the half-truth, not adding in the part that I rolled out of bed late and then argued with my child for a half hour while trying to get him ready. I don’t question myself as much as I used to when I was a new parent, but sometimes I still struggle to admit any difficulties I have out loud.
Being a young mom means people always assume the worst of me. Every decision I make is questioned. My parenting style is open to public scrutiny. If I try to let off some steam, there is always someone around to bash me. I don’t get the benefit of the doubt, not the way older, married parents do.
