Fathers and Sons

The Big Guy and Thing1 have been working to replace the radiator in Thing1’s Volvo wagon, a car that’s seen more winters than he has, gifted to him by my parents when they bought a new one two years ago.

The Big Guy went to a car show with a friend earlier in the day.  Interested more in exotic cars, our boys Stayed home while I worked. I’m working Sunday, Fathers Day, so the holiday atmosphere is a bit muted.

We’re closing out the afternoon as the Big Guy and Thing1 closed out the repair job. Thing one was so engrossed in the project he forgot to try to dodge the camera.

It’s a quiet, gorgeous afternoon, but it’s not the shared love of cars and fixing things that makes the afternoon glow. It’s watching them bond and the Big Guy’s pride as he remembers he had a big hand in raising the capable, affable mechanic next to him.

I can’t help feel like that’s the most best way to honor a relationship between father and son.

Negotiations


Since he could crawl, Thing2 has been chasing after Thing1.

Thing1 played in Little League. Thing2 cheered for four seasons straight, mangling his brother’s name at top decibel. Thing1 started playing golf, Thing 2 held the flags. Thing1 wanted to be alone, Thing2 had to be next to him and even on him.

Thing1 was about four when he began begging us for a baby brother. He didn’t want more playdates, and he definitely didn’t want a baby sister. He even accepted that, eleven years ago, Thing2 was the big present that Christmas.

He was very serious about his responsibilities as his big-brother. He read to Thing2 and held his hand on the jungle gyms. He made sure that I didn’t pick any outfits or Halloween costumes that violated the boy code of ‘not-too-cute’.

Seventeen years later, Thing2 is still chasing after, but for the last few years Thing1 has been wanting ‘space’. Often their relationship is like watching a match chasing a long fuse, and the match has been burning hotter as he realizes his big brother is about to put some serious geographic space between them.

This afternoon, after a morning of working together with the Big Guy in the yard, Thing1 grabbed his keys and golf clubs to go to the free course at the park.  Thing2 watched him and retreated to the couch to work on a script. Thing1 noticed his brother sitting in a dark corner on a sunny day, knowing I had to work and that Dad needed to rest his bum knee.

“Get up off the couch,” he ordered. Thing2 started to object, but years of hero worship, like any cult, is hard to fight.

“Why?” he asked instead.

“You’re coming with me,” Thing1 announced. “It’s too nice a day to sit inside.”

The Big Guy and I looked at each other. Thing1 is very serious about his golf time, especially since his hair-trigger colon has kept him off the fairway all spring. The last time the two tried playing together, three-year-old Thing2 had rearranged all the flags on the practice putting green so they ‘lined up’ and Thing1 had sworn he wouldn’t have him as a partner. 

But, as we get the house ready for graduation, Thing2 pitches in with as much vigor as his taller but somehow not-as-much-older older brother before they head out for a fun afternoon together and without parental supervision.  They both seem to understand that something was being renegotiated for the better.

Summer Breaks


It’s the week before graduation. Thing1 and the Big Guy are working together to disassemble a third-hand swing set that has become too tired and worn to allow even the cats to play on. The swing set arrived at the house when we did, when Thing1 was in first grade and Thing2 was on the way. This weekend, both boys are too big to use it, and watching the Big Guy and Thing1 work together as equals to take it apart and clean up the rest of the yard for next weekend is making my eyes sweaty.

Thing1’s on weekly Humira now. The levels still aren’t high enough to make a difference, and he’s using cannabis oil to handle the inflammation. I get to make the odd joke about being mom of the year for getting my kid to use pot (it’s not, it’s hemp), but it is working to a degree. He’s weaning off of Prednisone which isn’t working, still taking Lialda, which isn’t working and waiting for the next blood test to see if we’ll stick with Humira or move on to the next trial-and-error.

And he’s waiting for his life to begin.

Except a funny thing has happened in the last few weeks. In between the phone calls and the daily inquiries into his bowel movements, he’s managed to get to alumni dinners for this year’s grads. He’s helped plan and pull off a senior prank centered around screwing up a parking lot for a day. He’s scheduled a new student orientation day for college.

We don’t know if he’ll be going to college in the fall. We don’t know what his future holds. The reality is, however, even if he weren’t sick, we wouldn’t know that.

Next week his grandparents and aunt will come to see him graduate. We’ll have a small party at home with a burger bar, music and a slide show of the most embarrassing moments of his first 1.78 decades.

It’s been hot the last few days. We all laugh as we realize the snow tires just came off a week or two ago. It’s springing into summer, and, just as quickly, Thing1 will be into his ‘real’ life. He’ll take his Ulcerative Colitis with him. We’ll help him fight for as much as we can for as long as we can, but, in the long run, the bulk of the battle will be his.

Hopefully he’s heading into a long summer, but the nature of his disease is that he will see winter again. Some winters are easy. Others throw a Nor-easter at you every week until you think you’ll throw in the shovel and let the winter bury you. This winter, he learned how to dig.

Because he also learned that, for the people who can and will dig, the winter does end. It always ends.

How to Raise a Parent


Thing2 is sitting across the couch from me right now tapping on an old laptop my parents bequeathed him when they upgraded theirs. He’s working on a project, talking through the lines as he taps and proving I know nothing about parenting.

I’ve worked in some sort of IT for the better part of the last 25 years. I’m the last person to tell a kid they shouldn’t play on a computer, but Thing1 got sucked into Minecraft in middle school, torpedoing his grades for over a year. It’s safe to say, the Big Guy and I are wary of Thing2 acquiring a tech addition.

Thing2 missed a fair amount of school this winter due to severe pain from inflamed lymph nodes. The pain intensified with each bout of flu or strep he contracted in the petrie dish of elementary school, and we were worried he would fall behind.

Most sick days he rested on the couch with an iPad or Harry Potter book while I worked on support tickets. I’d check during the day to make sure his latest YouTube obsession was PG-11, but for most of the day I let him take responsibility for his own amusement. They weren’t my finest parenting hours.

Thing1 got into video games about the same time, solely on the strength of his test scores, that he also got into a middle school accelerated program. He’d coasted through elementary school math, aptitude compensating for apathy. Except for mathy-science stuff, he needed serious prodding to stay on track.

When he started the more challenging program, I asked the program head how I could help him stay more organized. Her answer surprised me.

“I don’t want you to help him. He’ll learn to rise to expectations.”

So we took the hands-off approach. Bad report cards led to loss of privileges, but when he failed, he failed. When he did well, the success was his. That experience guided him like a river winnows out earth and rock to find the best route. It’s helped him learn to stand on his own two feet and, even if he stumbles, to keep trying.

I know telling the world that I let my kid spend two months playing on the iPad is inviting slings and arrows from parenting experts. Left to his own devices, however, Thing2 scurries from couch to boy-cave, moving laundry hampers and draping sheets over his top bunk to create a movie set between naps. The iPad was soon burgeoning with special effects app and ‘screen tests’. By the time he got back to school full time, he had written a script for a Star Wars fan video, complete with a mental cast list consisting of his classmates.

It’s almost Thing2’s turn to apply to that program, and, watching him create and rise to his own expectations, I’m pretty sure we’ll use the same approach. We’ll call it good parenting even though he’ll be doing most of the heavy lifting.

Strange Territory

The other Friday night, Thing2 had a school dance.  Thing1 went over to SuperGal’s house for a quiet pre-prom night hang out.  The Big Guy went to play music with his traditional music band at the Wayside Country Store. For a few minutes, work was finished, school was out and I was somehow alone.

Then at 6, Thing1 texted he was starting home early, so he and I went to a new food truck discovery in Cambridge, NY. We got back just before the Big Guy finished up his gig. Thing1 went to bed early as he has been these days with his hair-trigger colon still sapping his endurance.  The Big Guy and I suddenly had the giant sectional all to ourselves. I had to keep reminding myself that Thing2 was going a sleep over after the dance since, even with the TV turned up to 50, the silence blared, heralding a new era.

When I started this blog about 6 years ago, Thing1 was just starting to pull at the fraying edges of my apron strings.  This year, despite the needs created by an acute episode of his illness, he’s been shredding the one on his side. What I hadn’t expected — but should have — was that Thing2 would start chewing at his share of the strings at the same time.

I’m wearing my UMass Mom t-shirt as I write this. It’s my new apron. There are no strings on it. Like that apron, it’ll get a few tears on it over the next few years, and, hopefully it will have a companion when Thing2 flies the asylum in a few years.

The geography of our new lifestyle is similar to when we were double-income-no-kids (DINKS) even if the absence of money reminds us that no matter where our kids are, there it is. Still, penniless or not, it feels like we’re entering new territory.