I Am So Popular: Big Bad Baby Boy

Today. Today my son is twenty years old. Twenty? How in the hell did that happen? When I was twenty I was an aspiring punk rocker living in Tampa, Florida, six years into what would turn out to be a twenty-year drinking binge. I was a study in contrasts—holding down a job, studying for my classes, getting mostly good grades and, on the other hand, floundering emotionally, lacking self-esteem, hell-bent on getting fucked up regularly, chasing boys I had no business chasing. I was more of a mess than not. And I was just seven years away from becoming a mother.

The crowd did not roar its approval upon learning I was pregnant. Consensus held that I was crazy and stupid. Too young, too broke, too wild. I resented the hell out of all that disapproval but then again, I always did spit in the face of being told I couldn’t do something, strived against such predictions to prove that I could. So perhaps, in that sense, the condemnation planted a seed in my mind: I’ll show you—I’ll raise a fine child. Now, I like to think that really, I would’ve raised a fine child even without spite factoring in. Still, there was motivation in the voice of the doomsayers.

Twenty. Two decades. Goodbye teenagerhood. And what do I see when I look at this young man who towers over me-- Mr. Skinny Jeans and Wild Hair? I see the efforts of a whole village poured into one spectacular human who possesses such wonderful traits that I’d love to take all the credit though even I’m not foolish enough to do that. He has my eyes, which pleases me. He, too, is a study in contrasts—a wicked dry sarcasm wrapped in a thick layer of kindness and compassion.

How did this happen? Luck, perhaps, played a role. And determination. When he was born, to say I didn’t know what I was doing would be a more than an understatement. But I had ideas, and a big one was this: I would not raise my child to be a needy, emotional mess. Okay, the sexist truth is, I had a slogan: I will not raise another man who does not know how to wipe his own ass.

Because I had spent a lot of time with various men who struck me, in hindsight, as being rather helpless in the face of challenges, unmotivated, mumbling and fumbling through. Which is not to say that I believe all men are like this. Hardly. But in my youth (and, sadly, far beyond) I held within me a snivel-magnet. My first boyfriend, for example, was such a whiny mama’s boy that he could not think a single independent thought without either consulting her or revising his ideas based on her commentary.

Sexism aside, I saw my own glaring insecurities, and how they had held me back. Outwardly perhaps I appeared independent—holding jobs from the age of fourteen, leaving home at eighteen. Inwardly things were different. I was a mess. And if I could help it, I was not going to pass this messiness along.

I look at this young man, my son, and I see I have accomplished the goal. Sometimes, I think I did it a little too well. He seized the reins of independence early. He, too, got a job at fourteen, a job he holds to this day, proof of a sense of commitment that is at his core. He stopped living with me when he was sixteen, which broke my heart in about ninety thousand pieces, but what could I do? Beat him into submission? Cuff him, drag him home, lock him in his room? He was employed, paying his bills, living his life. His choice to strike out on his own hinged on a choice I had made to enter a horrible marriage that changed the course of our lives terribly. It was the second time I’d done that to him and he’d had enough.

Be careful what you wish for, right? Well, yes and no. I’d heard a rumor about parenting. And while I blocked most unsolicited wisdom hurled at me—believing that some dire predictions like “the terrible twos” are, in fact, more about self-fulfilling prophecy than reality—I liked this particular bit. Because it suggested that, in time, my son would return to me. Warren puts it like this: Oh, he’ll live with you again—he’ll move in when he’s thirty.

I don’t actually imagine Henry will move back in. But he does live down the street now, and I see him fairly regularly which, yes, means he doesn’t have a washing machine and I do. There’s more to it than that though. Times he and is friends fill the house and stay for supper are my most glorious moments.

I mentioned that the cake fell. It did not do what it was supposed to. Still, it’s going to taste just fine, and where it fails in aesthetics, it succeeds in intent. It might be lumpy and ugly, but it’s sweet, too. (Look, I didn’t say the metaphor wasn’t going to be cheesy, I just said it was a metaphor.)

The past twenty years, I threw a lot of ingredients in a big bowl called Henry. These were not all ingredients planned in advance. The twenty or so friends who stepped up to the plate to help me raise him, who showed up with time, laughter, insight, support, food and, often enough, much-needed cash—they all went into the bowl. Wild, unbidden opportunity awaited us around corner after corner. I might not always have the resources to fill the pantry or keep the late payment notices at bay, but oddly things like airplane tickets to Japan and free cars fell into my lap. All these got mixed up into that bowl and now, ding, there goes the timer, here’s my no-longer-a-child child and let’s see how he turned out.

Utterly delicious. I could go on about the things I love about my kid but if I had to boil it down to one favorite characteristic, I’d have to say I’m most grateful for this: a stunning capacity for forgiveness, one I sorely lacked in my own life. Me: grudge-holder. Him: diplomat. Me: outburst queen. Him: chill.

Talking the other night, I asked him what he thought about me having had him at a relatively young age (compared to my peers). He said he thought it was pretty cool, pointing out that it led to an awful lot of crazy, shoestring budget road trips and other zaniness. I don’t doubt he has some residual anxiety from watching me fret over spotty finances, but I like his positive spin. To me, that’s forgiveness of the highest order: Sure you were nuts, mom, but it was fun.

And, apparently, inspirational. The boy travels like mad. The other night he called to say he was thinking about going to NYC. I asked when. “Tomorrow.” And so he went, flying on standby, returning a couple of days later. I picked him up and inquired about the trip, wishing he’d left out the part about walking through Harlem alone at 3 a.m. I did like the part where he explained how, by accident, he went to the wrong airport to catch his flight home. I wondered if he’d panicked, as I would have at his age, as I might still. No, he said. Because what could he do about it?

Not only that, but as it turned out, the standby flight at the correct airport was full. They found a flight for him at the wrong airport. It worked out just fine. He wasn’t cocky in this observation, there was no hint of entitlement-fulfilled. Just an understanding that if you wait a little while and breathe, a lot of things take care of themselves. The cake might be a little lumpy, yes. But tasty nonetheless.

Happy birthday, Wolfie. Thanks for being born.

Spike Gillespie blogs for KnitBuzz and herself at spikeg.com. She hopes you’ll sign up for her Kids’ Holiday Craft Workshops or her Adult Writing Workshops, which are coming right up.