As we got older and parenting became less strenuous physically but more complicated emotionally, Bonus Moms became ever more vital. I once hoped to be the repository of every precious secret, every social apprehension, every burning question my children harbored. But as real life took prominence, much like it did for all of us, I realized teenagers need other trusted adults to help them navigate the pitfalls of adolescence, because some conversations are easier broached with someone Not Mom.
This season introduced a whole new crop of Bonus Moms, some who were not even mothers in the traditional sense of the word. AJ, Shea, Angie, Kelly, Kim, Sam, Faitth: these women became safe havens spiritually, emotionally. A few of them have not yet reached thirty, but they’ve invested deeply in my children and, consequently, became their confidants, advisors, mentors I trust and love. They connect with my kids at Bible studies and coffee shops, over movies and hiking, Snapchatting and texting. One time, Faitth, twenty-five, asked to spend the day with Sydney, fifteen, and an hour later I received this text: “Can we drive to Fort Worth and get popsicles at Steel City Pops?” This was a three-hour drive from Austin. One way. So my sophomore and this vibrant young adult drove six hours round trip for four popsicles.
If I once imagined this threatening, now I am only profoundly grateful my kids have a stable of trusted advisors at the ready. Mamas, we need not become territorial over our children’s every thought and concern. What a gift to surround them with a team of Bonus Moms (and Bonus Dads), trustworthy adults who love our kids and stand available to lead, counsel, basically reinforce everything we’ve ever said but somehow come off more credible. We want this for them, a safe runway to complicated discussions, a place to warm up, to slowly accelerate, to try out ideas before takeoff, if not with us then with other adults we trust.
I rarely hear anyone talk about this, but sometimes a mom simply has a different personality than a kid or two. This obviously isn’t about love, affection, or devotion; those are completely intact. It might just be a matter of an extrovert raising an introvert, a shy mom raising a rabble-rouser, an academic raising a cowboy, a party planner raising a mathlete. Sometimes, our DNA combines in interesting ways, or we grow our families outside of biology, and we end up parenting a child with a completely different operating system from how we are wired.
For example, our family is incredibly fluent in sarcasm. Satire is our religion, and we are its disciples. If it is snarky, ironic, hilarious, or slightly inappropriate, we are down. Gavin’s sixteenth birthday present was live tickets to Jim Gaffigan’s comedy show. We share hilarious memes, snarky group texts, stand-up comedy podcasts, and vintage comics.
Except for one little precious family member who came to us at age five. She is a purist, a literal, a tender heart who doesn’t understand a solitary word of sarcasm and is regularly horrified, terrified, confused, shocked by our conversations. Upon discovering the complete consumption of a twelve-pack of Coke in one night, my husband said at the breakfast table the next morning: “Guys, I think we’ve been robbed. A band of thieves must have broken in and stolen all the Cokes.”
SONS: Weird. You would think they’d take the TV. We should report it.
REMY: What??!! We were robbed????
It is a hard life for her, this trying to discern sarcasm. While the rest of us bantered in affectionate satire, that poor soul went to school having barely escaped the fresh knowledge that our house was violated by cola bandits. Add to this her love for structure, schedules, and a detailed agenda to the minute, and sometimes it is difficult to understand a sarcastic, loosey-goosey mama who struggles with sensory overload.
No one is right or wrong in the slightest. Just different.
So my friend Michelle is the absolute dearest Bonus Mom for my little one. She provides a secondary environment where all her wonderful traits are understood and celebrated. On Remy’s ninth birthday, aware that waiting until 5:00 p.m. for her party would exacerbate her particular anxieties about details and expectations, Michelle drove to my house at 9:00 a.m. and swooped her away for the day as a blessed distraction, delivering her back with five minutes to spare. I didn’t even ask for this. She just knew. Because she is an attentive, loving, intuitive Bonus Mom. (Plus, Michelle’s husband is Brazilian, which accounts for Remy’s obsession with Shakira and her insistence that at Mrs. Barreto’s house, they are “international.” My little Ethiopian also doesn’t understand irony.)
Bonus Moms can lend fresh, enthusiastic ears to our children who operate in their personality spheres. My friends readily pass off their budding writers to my counsel, and my girlfriend Tonya takes Ben to Six Flags with her boys every summer (crowded theme parks in July are where all my dreams go to die). Sharing the parenting load with other trusted adults increases our capacity and sustainability. What a gift for our children to know they are deeply loved at another home or two besides their own, that a Bonus Mom or Dad is proud of them and in their corner too. We cannot overlove our children with too many doting adults; there is no such thing as too much adult affection lavished on any kid. Childhood and adolescence comes with such deep insecurity, so many questions and worries about the world and their place in it, providing additional layers of bedrock through Bonus Parents is a buttress, a safety net, a balm.
When my girlfriend Jenny and her family moved to Austin from Corpus Christi to plant our church with us, her children moved from the only home they’d ever known. Her oldest son, easily the nicest, most gentle kid in Texas, was immediately bullied by a pubescent psychopath (I’m still bitter). Like, daily taunting, punch-in-the-face bullied. It was devastating and disorienting, and having already sacrificed so much for us and the church, Jenny and I were undone that her son was now suffering even more.
On the face-punch day, Jenny and I went upstairs to his room, crawled on either side of him in his bed, and the three of us cried our eyes out. Just a mom, a Bonus Mom, and an enormous eighth-grade boy bigger than both of us. There was no avoiding us; we were family and I’d once given this big kid more baths than I could count. He was going to suffer our broken hearts. (Especially since our husbands downstairs gave him this exact advice: “Find a corner where no teacher is looking, and take him out. It will only take one time.” I’m just saying he received a variety of parental responses.)