The godmother

            Yesterday, I felt like I should have been sitting behind a large oak desk in a dark room surrounded by guards, while one person at a time was admitted to ask me their questions, and I sat in contemplation scratching the bottom of my chin. It was my godson's second birthday and because I didn't want to miss his birthday for a second time, I drove up from New York to Massachusetts the moment I got out of work the night before. He's growing so fast these days and my busy lifestyle shouldn't be an excuse to miss out on the more important things in life, The Family. Technically, he's not blood family, but when you're a Portuguese godparent, you might as well be blood family. There's a certain kind of pedigree for our sort, the blood of another kind bonds us. Like the Italian's, we are considered an extension of the child's parents and grandparents. If something were to happen to any of them, it's the godparents who are supposed to step in, take their place and be their guides. Jayden is actually one of four of my godchildren. I'm beginning to think I might have been offered all of these positions as godmother out of pity. Seems as though everyone thinks I might miss the mother boat and they want to share their kids with me. Thanks guys. I have my child size cat though. We're happy. However, they are the best kind of kids to have, because I can have fun playing with them then give them back to their parents at the end of the day. Unless, God forbid, something was to happen to their parents. Then I'd have an apartment full of children to raise and my life would take on a whole different kind of busy. I'd become the God-help-me-mother.

            In the afternoon I spent a few hours celebrating one godson's birthday with my, unofficial, eleven year old godson, Noah, as my date to the party. We came baring our arms full of gifts to my best friend's house for the celebration, the same house that still harbors many memories from our pubescent days of high school. Fatima and I met freshman year, when we were assigned to sit in the front row of Mr. Coute's first period history class. We had seen each other in passing for years before we actually met. However, I was shy to a crippling degree then and between that and her assumption that my shyness was actually due to my not liking anyone, she was reluctant to disturb my quiet disposition for fear that it would lead to a sudden smack down. So, we were never able to meet halfway and start the friendship, until we were forced into each other's proximity, thanks due to the way our names fell into the order of the alphabet. We bonded over spurts of giggles at Mr. Coute's jokes that only we seemed to think were funny. Every time he threw one of his jests out to the class, his only two fans in the front row would start their giggle fests then look at each other when we realized we were the only idiots who found him humorous, causing us to then burst into further fits of laughter at ourselves. I can't imagine what could have been so hilarious about history now, but apparently, it was funny then. We were inseparable after that. It helped that our backgrounds were very similar. We both grew up very sheltered by our parents and bound by a culture, where girls were not often allowed to play outside with the boys and we spent our time after school cooking and cleaning like our mothers, preparing for a lifetime of doing that for our husbands and children someday. Fatima grew up as an only child so she was more excited about the idea of starting a family of her own someday. Where I had three brothers, who I was very willing to share or give to her if she wanted them, so I wasn't so keen on starting that family so soon. We adopted each other into one another's family and became the sisters we always wanted. I called her parents mother and father and she with mine. Every celebration brought our families together and we felt complete in each other's company. Years later I started college and moved away. Fatima found her husband and had her two children. They were the kind of lives we dreamed we would have as children. We had plenty of bumps and roadblocks in between, of course, but we certainly got what we wanted in the end. I always loved going to Fatima's house when we were growing up. I called her backyard "little Portugal" because of all of the grapevines and fruit trees that her father had planted and so painstakingly cared for through the years. It reminded me of my Grandfather's land in Portugal, with the same fruits growing in his little orchard next to the house and its sweet smells mixing in the wind around us as my brothers and I played under the trees. Even the inside of the house had the same familiar scent of spices still lingering in the air from the meals that her mother would prepare on previous nights. It felt like my home away from home.

            Time and distance do make some small riffs in any relationship, due more because you begin to experience different things and change into different people because of those experiences. There are things that I cannot completely understand, in terms of what it's like to be a mother, and Fatima, in the same way, cannot understand what it's like to be on her own in a big city, constantly moving in various directions and exploring different avenues for some sort of meaning to life. We are different people now, but like everything else in your by gone days, you are the person that looks back at you in the mirror because of your past. I like to be reminded of that time when I can, and remember where I came from. However, whenever I tend to come back to my roots, I'm bombarded with the same questions about the life I live now, when I try to leave the city where I left it. I usually don't see Fatima's extended family but for maybe once a year, when she throws a birthday party for the kids. Then it's a series of rapid fire questions like..."Are you dating anyone?" "Times ticking you know? When are you planning to have kids of your own?" "Are you still living in the city?" " Is it as crazy as everyone say's it is?" "How do like living there?" "Seen anyone famous?" "Do you have a boyfriend?" "When are YOU going to tie the knot with someone?" Sheesh, I wonder often, if this is anything like what the Spanish Inquisition might have been like. All I can do is smile awkwardly and throw out the usual responses..."No, I'm not." "Yes, I am still there." "Yes, it is crazy." "No. I don't think I'M crazy." "Sometimes." "Oh, you know if it happens it happens. If not, I'm okay with that too." Or, "I don't need a man in my life. They're more trouble than they're worth." Or, depending on my mood, "I don't want anything to do with men. I like being single." However, whenever I say that one, the more honest answer, everyone looks at me like I've just stripped down to my underwear and stuck an ice cream cone on my head. I can almost see their hands twitching with the urge to bless themselves with the sign of the cross to ward the devil away from his influence. God forbid I don't get married and have kids. Weirdo. I'm perfectly okay with living vicariously through my friends and brothers with the children they have produced and bonded me to. Maybe someday the idea may sound more tempting to me, but I'll be happy to just be able to take care of myself for the time being.

            Halfway through the afternoon, a heavy downpour struck the party and most of the guests took it as their cue to head home for the night. I came all this way and had a hard time pulling myself away so soon, so I stuck around a little longer. It was nice to sit under the swelling grapes, sheltering us from the rain, as we rambled about life and I received a few more of those delightful questions that some of her relatives didn't get the memo to earlier. After they were answered and out of the way, we sat and listened to the rain as the sky began to grow darker.  Once the wind cooled and we started to get wet, I bid my little godson farewell then tore the other one from the clutches of the Internet inside the house and we head back home for the night.

            This afternoon I sent my brother, Nick, a message and made him an offer he couldn't refuse. But he did anyway. I guess my Don Corleone impersonation wasn't intimidating enough for him. I'll have to work on that. I was hoping he could come by after work with my youngest godchild, Nevaeh, so I could spend time cooing at her like a demented clown. However, he had to work late and start early again in the morning, so I'll have to wait until my next visit to see her. He's lucky he's my brother, or else... Then I thought of my oldest goddaughter, Lisa, and decided to send her a little shout out via Facebook. She lives in a time zone difference of four hours ahead of ours and was probably tucked away in her bed by then, dreaming of ravishing young island boys two thousand miles away. She lives on a little patch of land called Santa Maria, part of an archipelago off of the coast of mainland Portugal. She'll read the message in the morning, with a smile I can picture on her face, and know that I have been thinking of her too. I can't play favorites you know. What kind of godmother would I be if I didn't show the same love to all my godchildren? Sarei un Madrina crappy, as the Italians might say. We can't have that, now can we?