As a toddler, Max earned the nickname Barnacle Boy. I called him that because he was literally attached to me nearly every waking moment. As an infant, I wore him in a sling as I went about my daily routine. When he began walking at 9 months, he’d follow me through the house so closely that when I stopped moving, he’d run into the backs of my legs and fall over from the impact. If we watched a movie together, he was in my lap. We shared a family bed, too, so when I rolled over in the night, Max was right there, snuggled against me. It is not an exaggeration to say I was never without that boy.
Tomorrow, Max turns 13. That’s a milestone birthday, more for a boy, I think, than for a girl (for girls, it’s the Sweet Sixteen). No longer a child, but not yet a man, 13-year-old males are in an amazing stage of life. One minute a lippy teen who cannot follow the logic in being made to clean up after himself, the next a giant version of the loving toddler he once was, Max is an animated history book.
I watch him when he doesn’t know it. And as I watch, I’m flipping through the mental images of him that catalog our years together. As he sits in front of the computer, working on a PowerPoint presentation for class, I recognize the same intense focus he had even as a young boy. Outside noises and voices don’t distract him; he’s had the attention span of a Buddhist monk from birth.
When friends are at the house, I watch how Max interacts with them. He’s always been picky about who he gives his time to. His best friend, a boy I adore, shares Max’s laid-back attitude. He’s kind, whereas Max can sometimes be casually indifferent. He’s quiet, whereas Max…isn’t. He’s slow to judge, whereas Max has an opinion about everything known (and some unknown) to humankind. He’ll let things pass, a concept Max simply isn’t hard-wired to embrace. They are an ideal match as far as friends go, and they bring out the best in each other.
What I notice most, though, is how Max acts with me. I know I’m fortunate to share a close bond with my firstborn. That hasn’t occurred by accident. It’s a constant dance, a carefully choreographed coming together and stepping apart. It requires unceasing attention and effort, but oh, the payoff has been worth it.
Max leaves me every weekday to go to school, and every weekend to go to his dad’s. But when he returns, we instantly reconnect. There’s no embarrassment over hugging and kissing. He tells me —sometimes in front of his buddies — that he loves me.
We talk. About school and the sorry state of our country. We mourn the lack of true leadership in the White House; we laugh, desperately, at the obvious lack of integrity and ethics our current administration upholds and embodies. We share our concern.
But then the next minute, this man-boy is snuggled up to me, looking at a picture book from his childhood. He is wanting to be regaled with stories from years gone by. He wants to know if we’ll live in this house even after he goes to college and begins life on his own. He still wants me to tuck him in at night and spend a few moments of silence in the dark together.
I am aware that I have become Max’s lighthouse. He swims off shore, testing the unknown waters. Sometimes, he gets a little lost and needs direction. So he searches for that beacon to guide him home. And he returns, maybe a little worse for the wear, but only temporarily so. He seeks comfort and reassurance that I am — that we, together — are still here. And I am so grateful that he does. In a sense, I am still never without this child.
Happy Birthday, Barnacle Boy.