My son, Nathan, celebrated his eighteenth birthday on Saturday. It was a big deal. In retrospect, it seemed like it was more of a big deal for me than for him.
Just like how Iz wanted to make her birthday into a month-long celebration, I wanted to at least make Nathan’s birthday into a week-long celebration if only for myself; it appeared Nathan could have cared less in the being-18-years-old scheme of things. Anyway, I did this by using a different picture of him every day for my Facebook profile. Of course, it was interesting to note that someone who had previously deleted me as his friend for perusing and questioning his Facebook posts now had an issue with mine.
It only took Nathan a day to notice that he had become a prominent figure on my Facebook profile. He commented, “I don't appreciate all the pictures of me. That's copyright infringement or something.” I responded with “It's the Week of Nathan leading up to THE EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY. Let me celebrate you for just a few days. I promise that I'll go back to pretending that I'm not your mother on February 13th.”
He didn’t protest after that. I thought he might delete me as his Facebook friend again, but I didn’t really care. He would not always be 18, but I would always be his mother.
Friday night and four Facebook profile picture changes later, he exercised his teenaged right to spend more time out of the house not sleeping than in it sleeping. Shortly after I arrived home from work, he asked me if he could sleep over Matt’s house. Knowing that I’d have the whole weekend to see him, or so I thought, I told him to go; I had to love the fact that he was almost 18 yet still asked me to go places and then always told me, even when he wasn’t home, where he was going.
To be honest, no birthday I celebrated ever made me feel old; however, in the last few years, certain events in Nathan’s life had made me suddenly feel old. When Nathan entered his freshman year of high school, I had to consume a few chill pills. When he went to the prom, I reassured myself thinking that I’d be the hippest and coolest grandmother wearing my Chuck Taylor All Star sneakers while pushing someone in a swing. When the realization sunk in that Nathan was going to be 18, I felt older than old, because it felt like I had only been 18 yesterday when it really had been 30 years ago.
On Saturday morning, I woke up and texted Nathan. I said, “Happy birthday, old man. You can vote and join the army now. Woooo-hooo!” Within five minutes, he texted me back saying, “And sleep!” Hey, it wasn’t my problem that he didn’t turn his cell phone off before he went to sleep; besides, someone needed to be excited at 8am on Nathan’s birthday if it wasn’t going to be Nathan!
Iz, who was probably just as excited as I was, couldn’t wait for Nathan to arrive home, so she could give him with his birthday card and presents. I had shopped for her. Knowing that food was to Nathan what shoes were to me, I got him gift cards to Subway, McDonald’s, and Dunkin Donuts.
When I went into Subway on Friday, I stood in line behind a woman who ordered a ham, bacon, and mayo sub, which was a combination that baffled me. The young man preparing the sub asked if she wanted anything else on it. She said, “No, just ham, bacon, and mayo.”
When her sub was finished, the young man asked her, “This is for your son, right?” She laughed and said that it was. Obviously, this sub was not a popular request and her son must have eaten at Subway quite a bit to be known for such a concoction.
I was mystified as to why Nathan treated Subway like it was a five star restaurant; however, it was reassuring to see that it came with the teenaged territory. I then said to her, “I’m glad I’m not the only one with a son addicted to Subway.” She then said, “I’m just glad he didn’t think that I was going to eat that.”
On Saturday at 9am, Nathan rolled in the door with his blanket and pillow in hand looking like he had been up playing X-box most of the night. He walked by me, said something inaudible, and went upstairs. I thought it was to sleep for a few hours, but when I went upstairs after him, he was sitting at his desk opening a birthday card.
I called to Iz downstairs, who had been waiting patiently since 7am to give him his card. She ran upstairs clutching her white envelope which now had smudges of chocolate muffin on it. I said, “You can give him his card now.”
She looked up at me and gave me a goofy smile as if she was now suddenly shy. I said, “Go ahead!” She didn’t say anything, but her eyes pleaded quite unnecessarily, “Will you please come with me, because Gabe told me that there was no Santa and that brothers start biting when they are 18!”
I sighed and followed her to Nathan’s door. I scanned his room quickly noting the three empty root beer cans, the four piles of clothes, and the slew of belongings that littered his floor. Obviously, being 18 didn’t make you any neater than you were when you were at 17.
Iz handed Nathan her card. He began to open it, and she looked up at me silently saying, “Mom, he didn’t bite me!” I silently said, “Please don’t listen to anything Gabe says ever again!”
Within 10 minutes of receiving his gift cards, he asked, “Mom, can I take the car to go get a McFlurry?” I said, “Sure. I can’t think of anything better to have for breakfast on your eighteenth birthday.” I could, but I wasn’t going to tell him; after all, he was 18.
After he left, I thought that 18 was a funny age. You were an adult, but were you really? A few weeks ago, Nathan and I had a heated debate (well, as heated as we ever got) about whether an 18-year-old could survive without any parental aid; Nathan painted this rosie picture of living with friends, getting a job, getting apartment, and then going to school part-time.
I was sure that there were 18-year-olds who did that. I just couldn’t see most of the 18-year-olds that I knew doing that; however, Nathan was vehement that any 18-year-old could do it. Nathan and I then discussed one friend in a similar situation, and Nathan said, “He's 18. He knows what he's doing.”
I was startled out of that conversation 20 minutes later when Nathan opened the front door and came upstairs. He asked, “Can I take the car for a while? I’m going out with Connor. And, can I take it tonight, because I’m going to my Dad’s for dinner?” I was then trying to do the “cake math.” When would we ever have a cake and sing “Happy Birthday?”
I said, “Sure, but what about a cake?” He shrugged his shoulders; I frowned. He said, “Don’t worry about it.” If Iz was the birthday girl, Nathan was the “It’s just another birthday, so no big deal,” guy.
I said, “But….” He glared at me. I then said, fearing the “Don’t’ act like my mother” look on his face, “Err, um, okay.”
Some battles with Nathan had been worth it, like the “Thou shalt wear deodorant and shower every day” one. Others, like the “You must have a cake even if you don’t want one,” were not. I said, “Have a good afternoon. Be safe.”
At about 4pm, Nathan arrived home to leave some things off and pick some things up. Nathan was like a plane that touched down on the runaway briefly and then immediately took off. Refueling took place in the air as he grabbed a root beer and some potato chips from the kitchen.
At about 10pm, he texted me asking if I had seen his ATM card and could I look in his room for it. I was thinking that I could barely see the floor in his room; surely the ATM card would be a needle in a stack of balled-up socks and t-shirts that were inside out. I went in and glanced around; it was hard to see anything beyond the mess.
I texted him back and asked, “When did you last have it?” He said, “When I went to the ATM machine.” I asked, “Do you remember taking it with you? The machine will suck it up if you leave it.”
He didn’t remember, so I told him to call the bank and report it missing. He said he would, but he didn’t seem too concerned. At 48, I would have been freaking out if I lost my ATM card; I realized then that being 18 didn’t make you any more responsible or careful about certain things, and in many ways, you were still a kid.
The part of me that was feeling old because Nathan seemed so old now laughed. I think the college applications and the 18th birthday had given me food for thought, though never a ham, bacon, and mayo sub. Nathan was going to continue to get older; I wasn’t going to like it, but I would learn to accept it, yes, I would.
On Sunday, I paid for him to take 7 of his friends out to dinner at a local restaurant. At 7:00pm, he grabbed the car keys and left without even saying good-bye. I said to myself, “Well, I guess he’s off for his big night with his friends.” I reminded myself that he was 18, and in some ways, his birthday was about him and his friends this year and for many more birthdays to come.
At 10:30, I saw the car pull in the driveway, heard the front door open, and I got up to see how Nathan’s evening was. Before I could ask, he said excitedly, “That was so good, Mom. Everyone had a great time. Thank you so much!!!” Suddenly, I was looking at my 8-year-old son again after his first Chuckie Cheese birthday party. In that moment, I was reassured knowing that Nathan was always going to need and love me and that even when he was 28, 38, 48, and 58, he would still always be 8 to me. ♥
1 comment:
OK..make me cry once again
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