Steven's son Triston--the delightful hero of the batting glove story--has apparently promoted me. He's six years old, and he's trying to work out the nuances of family relationships. He understands the "traditional" varieties: Mom, Dad, Sister, Aunt, Uncle, Cousin, Grandma, Grandpa. But he can't quite figure me out.

For a few weeks now, he's been asking whether I'm his aunt, his stepmother, his backup mother (in case his own mother died--he happens to be working out both death and relationships simultaneously)... anything he can think of. Although Steven and I aren't married, we've been together for five years so I've been in Triston's life for as long as he can remember. To Triston, I'm FAMILY, and he's figured out that family relationships all have names. But he doesn't know what this one is.

We've tried to explain to him that there's no word in English for "unmarried life partner of my father." I am definitely family, but I don't have a category. But in the logic of six year olds everywhere, this response is entirely unacceptable and therefore must be wrong. (Triston is also starting to work out the times when people can be expected to LIE, and it's making him suspicious of our vague responses. Six is a big year.)

Apparently he's finally given up on getting a straight answer from anyone, so he's simply promoted me to my very own category. The kids have always called me by my middle name (long story), so now when Triston talks about his family he describes his mother, his father, his sister, and his michelle, as in: "My dad is a firefighter, and my michelle is a writer."

I'm not just Michelle anymore. I'm a michelle. More specifically, I'm Triston's michelle. I've never been more proud.