A Self-Sufficient Young Man

Throughout the hubbub of completely dismantling and rebuilding a life, it is easy to overlook the simple day-to-day events, even more so to undervalue a holiday.

My son celebrated his birthday this week. Now living in two households with at least one distracted parent, it was a birthday that stretched over the entire week. I saw it coming, had my eye on the day like a field mouse seeing a shiny object while keeping an eye out for a swooping hawk: it lured my interest, but I remained focused on the necessities of survival.

We talked about what he wanted and which nights he would be where. A few suggestions around cake and guests were bantered about, but nothing really took hold, and this was all the same time his sister was leaving for her first year at college. Most of his ideas and wishes required much less attention.

He did offer that instead of an awesome new road bike, he would be pleased if we could refurbish my ancient Peugeot. Undeterred by my hems and haws, a week early, he took it to the shop for an estimate and called me to come and see. He knew I would not make him walk it back home.

Towards the weekend, he said it looked like a bunch of friends would take me up on my summer long offer to let him host a campfire (we live on an acre of woods between 2 “cities”). I suggested a birthday cake celebration, but he wanted no presents or a party, just a campfire and friends. So Friday afternoon, I grabbed pretzels, root beer and lots of burgers for hungry teens. The chainsaw roared through the woods making logs out of a half-century of debris. He and the first arrivals dug a pit and circled up stones until mosquitoes chased us inside.

A small apartment with no place for me to hide, they kindly tolerated my presence and filled our home with laughter. After dark, and surrounded by citronella candles, s’mores performed their usual magic and a few guitars had been brought. Although I discreetly tried to stay out of the way, he invited me to bring out mine and join them, singing songs he loved as a little one.

The fire peacefully settled the night into promises of many more such this Fall, and in the summers to come.

On Monday, the actual date of his birth, we planned to meet after the soccer team dinner and go for cake, just the two of us. On my way to pick him up, however, I learned he was off to watch movies with friends. Hardly seeing him since the campfire, the disappointment sobered my evening like a punch, and my apartment felt terribly lonely.

Our next time together was Wednesday, and he confessed to a need for cake, a chain-store bought sugar-loaded monstrosity with toxic colors. Too late and spontaneous to get his name on it, we settled for the smallest—which still could feed a party of kids—picked a candle, and came home to a movie. At a crucial scene, I realized he was in the kitchen lighting the candle. If I had not jumped to it, I am sure he would have sung to himself as well.

My eyes teared to remember all the birthdays celebrated when his parents were together, the happy times he had known as a family of four and more. No matter tensions and struggles beyond his ken, his birthdays had all been holidays, his holidays celebrations of family, food and fireworks.

So much has changed for the boy. He has become a Man to his mother, a Pal to his Dad, playing adult roles in costumes that fit him so well, I forget his tender age. He works hard to balance his time between us, adapts to the shift with fortitude and good cheer. Only once has he expressed feeling “like a toy fought over by children.”

More often, I see the young man who stood at the precipice of our new life the first time to our apartment under construction with a gaping hole to the basement where a bathroom should be, saying, “Yeah, Dad, we can make this work.”

To my son, with all my love, and best wishes for many happy birthdays to come.

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