I moved my oldest son Max out of my house and into his first “I’m paying the rent” apartment a couple of weeks ago. While it is cause for some celebration (lower food bills, more room in a tiny house, reduction in reality shows viewed), my overall feeling was one of sadness. I’m going to miss the big guy.
I think I can give you insight into Max with a trifecta of tales from his youth:
Library school for all of my children has been at the same facility in Dearborn. The children are expected to enter the classroom in a line with the other kids, marching and clapping to an appropriately upbeat tune. How my kids entered the room is a window into their personalities. Rachel marched tentatively in line, shyly clapping, reluctant but willing to give it a go. Jackson wildly clapped his hands, never glanced back, ready and able for whatever the world of library school offered. Max would not go. Period. When my Mom called me at work to let me know how things went (she was watching the kids while wife and I worked), it only took a second of her stammering for me to figure that things did not go swimmingly. She said that Max did not really object to leaving her and heading into the class, but he felt that the forced excitement and clapping was not something he wanted to be a part of. It took a week of explaining and my cutting out of work to attend the next session to convince the reluctant one to give it a try. He went, but always passed on the clapping and marching. It’s a theme in the kid’s life. What others do, peer pressure, never meant shit to this guy. In fact, I believe he goes purposely in the other direction whenever the situation arises. Some could see this as thorny. I see it as independence of thought.
Max was an indifferent ball player. All right, he was crap. One day, my Mom accompanied Andrea and I to the diamond to watch the kid play right field and walk or strikeout three times. It was a toasty day and about four innings in, my Mom had had enough of the excitement that a twelve year old baseball game provides, and decided to leave. Max was patrolling right field, probably counting dandelions, when he looked over and saw my Mom walking toward her car in the nearby parking lot. He shouted “Grandma” and tore from the field without looking back. While the coaches, players and fans looked on in bewilderment, Max ran up to my Mom and gave her a big hug and kiss. His trip back to his post in right field was not performed with nearly the same amount of hurry or passion. This guy has a big heart and loves his family and friends.
One night, when Max was still in middle school, I had a very disturbing dream. Not scary, disturbing. It was about my own mortality and left me crying in bed at three o’clock in the morning. When I tried to get some comfort from my partner in bed Andrea, she shook me off by wiggling her shoulders the way you would if an insect landed on your back (probably thought I had other intentions). I walked the house, still shaken and crying. I needed some human contact. Rachel and Max slept in separate rooms upstairs and I made my way toward their rooms. I sat on the edge of Ray’s bed and sobbed, hoping she would wake up and acknowledge my plight. She did and groaned in an annoyed way, “Daddy”, stretching out the word to let me know that what she really meant was “Daddy, what in the hell are you doing here and why are you a psycho?” Max was my last chance. I sat on the edge of his bed and he woke up, leaning on his elbow, looking at me with curiosity. “What’s wrong?” As I told him about my dream, he put his arm around my back and looked at me intently. He just listened. I told him a bout the dream, but more importantly I unloaded about how much I loved my family and how frightening I found my own mortality to be. I’m not sure he understood (it’s pretty heavy stuff for a teenager and it was pretty late at night), but he comforted me with a hug and allowed me to put my head on his shoulder and finish pouring out my heart. Your Dad appearing out of nowhere and crying on the edge of your bed should be pretty freaky, but not to the big guy. His compassion and listening belied his age and is a moment that I will never forget.
Finally, something happened to me a few years back that involves Max and gives me a lump in my throat every time I think of it. I drove to Mt. Pleasant after work one day to drop some things off to Max while he was a student at CMU. For a while, his emails and phone conversations made me think that he was going through a rough stretch living off campus and dealing with the pressures of college and being away from home. The items I was dropping off could have probably waited, but heading up seemed like a good idea. We met at his apartment, I dropped off my goodies and we headed out to dinner. We always dined at Qdobas, it was our thing. Max got the chicken nachos and I got the fajita. I moved the topics of conversation around a lot, hoping that whatever I felt might be bugging the big fella would come up. Finally, after not getting what I wanted, I went direct and asked what might be bugging him. He told me nothing specific was troubling him and I believed him. He was going through some tough times he explained, being broke and working while going to school was a grind, but he was all right. That shitty Qdoba grub never tasted better. I was satisfied that Max was telling the truth, that he was tough in spirit and that he had the moxie to get through whatever CMU could throw his way. I took him back to his apartment, gave him some love and whatever money I could muster and kissed him good bye. I drove out of the parking lot in front of his apartment and headed for the main drag. About fifty yards from his doorway, I looked back. Max was still standing in his doorway looking at me and waving good bye. But a strange thing happened. I did not see Max, the twenty year old college student. I saw Max, my ten year old son, my constant traveling companion, one of the loves of my life waving his hand at me. I cried all the way to Alma.
Cheers! Jim
PS Max stopped by to eat dinner and do some laundry last week. When he was done, he picked up his things and said he was heading home. I had to stop him and remind him that, no matter where he goes and who he goes with, this little yellow house in Allen Park will always be his home. After he left, I cried again. What the fuck is wrong with me?
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