Happy Accidents
My son celebrated his 15th birthday recently. A few weeks ago his older siblings were teasing him.
“You know you’re an accident,” they taunted. “Why in the world would mom want another kid at her age?”
I cringed inside, knowing what was coming next. There was no way I could avoid this conversation.
“Mom, was I an accident?” my youngest asked when we were alone.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I love you any less,” I answered, knowing if I lied he’d see right through me. “You know, I was an accident too,” I added. “And I know my parents loved me just as much as my sisters who were planned.” I figured that would be enough to shut down this line of questioning once and for all.
I was wrong.
“Was Olivia an accident?” he asked, wondering about his oldest sibling.
What could I say? If I said she was planned, he would think I valued her more. If I said she wasn’t planned, he would think I was irresponsible. This was a no-win situation for me, but I decided transparency was the best option.
“Yes, she was planned, but that doesn’t mean we ever loved or valued her any more than we love or appreciate you,” I answered, mentally patting my own back for my exceptional parenting skills and my ability to dodge bullets as well as Keanu Reeves.