Matthew’s birthday celebrations
April 14, 2007

For three years, I have been conspicuously absent from Matthew’s birthday celebrations, twice due to my Italy and Spain tours, and once due to a Hawaii broadcast. 

Now Matthew- my lastborn, my baby- is celebrating 22 years of rabble rousing.  It occurs to me that I have missed a window of opportunity for “family birthdays.” 

I was never the cake-decorating kind of mom, but I was the “pick your favorite place” kind.  I liked to come home from the restaurant for a cake and ice cream climax, complete with dogs in party hats and trick candles. We sang.  I harmonized.   There were usually gifts galore- often clothes selected by me that were spurned by the birthday boy. As they grew older, electronics trumped clothes.  Dad was the shopper.  I was still the singer.

This year, Matthew is having a celebration orchestrated by the family cruise director, Mike.  The e-vites were sent, directing a clot of testosterone to haul some estrogen to the scene of a 3-hour bar frenzy. Not unexpectedly, we are not on the short or long list.  We do not want to be in that zip code. The evening will, of course, morph into an extended bacchanal.  I hope that the boys will watch each other’s backs. 

In my mom’s imagination, it will end late and sloppy, and the real birthday, on Sunday, will require too much rejuvenation to encourage the trek home.  I will beg and apply guilt, and dangle the gift Dad selected as a bribe.  The hung-over boys will finally arrive-splay upon the couch, recovering and watching their watches and whatever baseball can distract them from their misery.  This shift- from my Norman Rockwell dreams into the boys’ Animal House reality- is compelling evidence that Moms need to let go.  Doing so requires me to do a little looking back, and even a little grieving.

My family is my life’s work.  All of my boys are men now, and my work is largely done.  Soon I will be formally replaced, as they find women to report to.  It is as it should be, and I am proud of my sons’ accomplishments.  They own all that they are today- I was just the person who set up the bumpers that kept them directed. Their dad reinforced them, and we both chased them back when they went determined to go over.  Now the bumpers are gone, and our role is to bestow cosmic advice, with theexpectation that it will be ignored in a 90:10 ratio.  I compensate by giving more unsolicited advice than anyone could ever take, just so I can still claim a 10% influence.  They call almost every day, and I know they roll their eyes repeatedly when I nudge them to be good men, and do good things.  Their lives show me that they listen.

Matthew is my gentle soul.  His ease with words on the radio belies a very introverted nature- he is like his Dad.  He has always lived alone, and it suits him.  He logs a hundred hours of random TV every week- Discovery sunrises and sunsets, History Channel, Animal Planet, Price is Right, cartoons, movies, talk shows meant for every demographic on the earth.  He reads the paper.  He thinks about the order and disorder present in our world, and he becomes overwhelmed.  He is not the sunniest of Dahls, and he struggles to keep his face toward the sun.  He worries- broods, really.  Then he gets on his bike/skateboard/snowboard/skis/ or jumps in his (my) silly Beedahl and shakes it off in daredevil style.  He loves to shock me, or worry me.  He bought a guinea pig to revolt against my “no pets in college” mantra, and was flummoxed when his rejection of the Dude led to my adoption of him.  He ridiculed my foo-foo dog, yet I find him cuddling and talking dog talk to Milly every time I turn around.  He tries to be a man of mystery, and he is annoyed when I have the answer key to his personality profile. I have been a sturdy wall to flail against, and he is almost ready to give up the fight.  He is too busy to devote much time to challenging me.  On the other hand, I have an abundance of time to support him with.  He will lose the battle of wills.  Mother Love abides, my birthday dude.  You get it.

So happy days, Matthew J.  I have loved you from your binky and lovey to microphone and college diploma.  You have tested me, worried me, and best of all amazed me.  You have loved me even when I was a raggedy crab. Though you still work at the mystery man motif- I can now listen to your show to track your adventures.  Gotcha!

I am proud of you and your gritty determination.  I have been a radio sidecar for 30 years, and I am aware of the pitfalls you have dared to challenge.  Just remember- you always have a cushion on the couch to occupy, a dog to wrap yourself in, and my heart to share.  You can come home for comfort.  Feel free to do so on your birthday, Sunday April 15.  Ironically, I’ll be in town.