By the time he’s my age, I probably won’t be in G’s life. The unfortunate reality of being an older parent. I try not to think about it, but my mind goes there sometimes when I’m preparing bottles or wiping baby poop off the dog’s tail.
Seems like it’s on other people’s minds too. Friends check in on me. They panic when I don’t return a call. They’re worried about Baby G suddenly stranded. They say to me, How will we know if something happens to you?
Before Baby G, nobody really asked me that. Of course, it is something I’ve pondered. I once googled “decomposing flesh odor” to determine how many days it might take my neighbor, Gigi, to notice a smell through the door and call the authorities. Now I imagine she takes a quick sniff each time she walks by.
Truth is, I look like shit. Huge bags under my eyes, thinning hair, my skin the color of exhaustion. Each week, another friend or family member asks whether I have my papers together, and life insurance. A few have voiced interest in the legal guardian gig. I know I need to choose one, but there are so many factors to consider. My cousin, Susan, has a degree in early childhood education and makes great apple bread, but she lives in the 3rd ranked murder capital of the country. And my mountain bike buddy, Evan, a shrink. He’s about the most kindhearted, even-keeled guy I know, but I’ve never met a therapist’s kid who wasn’t at least a little screwed up.
My brother and sister, obvious front runners, are much older than me and just last year emptied their nests. This is my sister’s chance to finally get on the road and follow Phil Collins. My brother has dusted off his backpack with the Mondale/Ferraro patch on it. Who am I to saddle either of them with a young kid? What about the African safari? Mountain climbing? Building houses in Ecuador? (Although that may have just been an article someone mentioned.) They’re going to have a hard enough time getting Baby G packed up and off to music class.
Oh, sure, I’d give them opportunity to say no, absolutely, I would–I’d say, No pressure at all–but really, they wouldn’t have a choice. It’s not like they could answer: No, thank you, J, I’m rather set on taking long trips to Kauai and developing a vape habit. I hear grass is stronger these days. They’d say “yes” and resent me for G’s entire childhood. And when G finally leaves the house and they are too old and infirm to get to the mall unassisted, let alone Kilimanjaro, they’ll resent me then, too.
So sure, they’ll say yes, but here’s what they’ll be thinking: Will you be legal guardian of my dead dreams?
I make an appointment with an estate lawyer to focus on this and what I hope will be some of the drier, more manageable decisions. What is estate tax?–when do my mutual funds become an estate? And do I need to move my IRA to the Bahamas??
“You need sleep,” the lawyer says, studying me, “maybe exercise,” and hands me a bottle of water. There’s a photo on her desk of her bicycling with a man and two kids.
She sits down and floods me with questions: When will G receive his inheritance? Do you want to create a trust? Who is to manage it?
I’m struck with an image of G at 18, still tortured by my death, resentful that I’d ever lived in the first place—the nerve I’d had to create him, motherless, in a lab. Which would naturally lead him to mourn his own existence—and all of this mourning, meanwhile, done with too much money in his account. I think: Hookers and designer drugs. 63-year-old cognac.
[Click here for article about rich kids whose lives were ruined by excess.]
“…Money manager,” the lawyer is saying, “…living will… durable power of attorney.”
Who will make my healthcare decisions if I’m incapacitated? If it’s the same person as the guardian, isn’t that a conflict of interest? A temptation, actually? Let’s face it: one single do not resuscitate decision lands Baby G, trust and all, right into their hands!
“…And, don’t forget, you’ll need a backup legal guardian, in case the first one dies.”
I nod. I’m still holding the bottle of water, unopened. I’m suddenly too tired to twist the top. I stare at the photo of the lawyer bicycling with her family. I wonder if the lawyer is any good with homework and tantrums.
For the time being, I assure those who ask that I’m determined to amortize the cost of creating this kid over a significant number of years.
Also, I’ve started drinking apple cider vinegar every night.
Adina Z says
Very funny and thought provoking. Again, you did a wonderful job of discussing a very tricky issue that many of us can relate to, with a lot of heart. Really enjoy reading these posts.
Cele says
You’re really pretty funny