Talk about a warm up you want to give a wide berth to…

First, I love my mother, and thankfully, my mother loves me. I wouldn’t go as far to claim favorite child status, but I’d say I’m in the top 3. I read an article once about birth order and how that influences your family relationships. The article explained how, as a middle child, I never had my parents’ attention all to myself and thus became a master of manipulation in order to get it. This doesn’t mean all middle children are evil masterminds or complete brats. It just means in order to get a moment of undivided attention, middle children watch and listen and learn how to best orchestrate a situation in order to grab a little limelight. Read your dad’s favorite comic strip and laugh together over the joke. Play the sport your mom lettered in in high school and listen to her glory day stories while she celebrates yours. Never pick up your laundry/shoes/books/plates/cups/utensils and shove everything under your bed on cleaning day. That last one is a tried and true way to get individualized attention. Trust me.

Never being the one with all the focus means you grow up a little less dependent on your parents than your older and younger siblings. That doesn’t mean I’m any more independent or that I love my parents less, but it does mean I don’t call home as often as I should. Sorry.

But does any of this mean I’m more or less like my mother? Good question. Looking back, I spent the first 20 years of my life taking my mom for granted more than I should have. (Did I seriously look at my mom and say, “Why should I have to do all these jobs? You’re home all day! You don’t work!” Oh yes, yes I did – because obviously raising me was a piece of cake…*headdesk*) The next 10 years, AKA my 20’s, I tried everything to prove I was nothing like my mother, my 30’s realizing I was everything like my mother, and now, half way through my 40’s , hoping my mother knows I appreciate her as much as I do.

You see, I’m one of the lucky ones. I know that now. But just this year, it hit home in a big way. This story starts 25 years ago at Purdue University. I transferred schools in-between my freshman and sophomore years, and instead of being four hours north I was now a short hour and 15 minute drive from home. It was half way through the year and my parents thought it would be a good idea for me to go through sorority rush. Purdue is a big place and having a smaller world to call my own they felt would be a good way for me to settle in. Rushing as a sophomore though is hard. A pledge class has 15 or so spots and only 1 or 2 go to second year students. But I made it through to the final round only to not be invited to join a house. In the beginning, rushing was something my parents had wanted, but after all the events and all the small talk, I did, too. Not getting in hurt more than I expected, especially since my freshman roommate didn’t come home that night, having received an invitation to join.

I don’t remember how I made it back to my dorm. I don’t remember the phone call home. I’m pretty sure tears were involved. What I do know, is that less than two hours later, my mom was on the doorstep of my dorm room. She came to hug me, to spend the night, to tell me she loved me. She drove through the night to sleep on the top bunk of one of the most uncomfortable bunk beds ever constructed to make sure I would be okay. And in the end, I was. I did join a sorority, one that did things a little differently, made wonderful friends, had a fantastic three years at Purdue and didn’t think back on my mom’s midnight drive until this past winter.

My son is a 6’5” sophomore, skinny as a rail, freakishly long arms and huge hands. His stature screams, “BASKETBALL!!!!” however he didn’t start playing until seventh grade. Not the most aggressive guy on the court, his coach-ability earned him a spot on the Jr. High JV team in 8^th grade and a spot on the high school’s C Team in 9^th grade. At the end of the season, his C Team coach declared Nate his favorite at the basketball banquet, on a microphone, in front of all the parents and players. “What? I can have favorites!” he declared.

With a review like that, Nate felt pretty confident going into tryouts his sophomore year. On the second day of tryouts, however, Nate suffered a concussion. He sat out the third and final day, came home, and went to bed. Unlike my son, I wasn’t going to bed not knowing. Nate had planned his year around making the basketball team. He didn’t join early morning jazz band. He wasn’t playing guitar anymore. He was a basketball player.

And then he wasn’t.

The list of players went up on the website shortly after 10pm. All height had been cut from the teams. A leaner roster geared toward a new offense designed to take the team to its first ever State Tournament, an offense that needed aggressive speed, was posted. Nate wasn’t on the list.

I saw every half hour on my clock for the rest of the night. My heart was broken for my son. He wanted this. Wearing the sweatshirt to school declaring him a basketball player gave him a swagger he didn’t have before. It gave him an identity. A place. I cried for the disappointment and pain he would wake up to. I wanted to go into his room and hug him like my mother had driven through the night to do for me.

And finally, 20 years down the road, I understood. My mother didn’t drive through the night just for me. She made that trek for herself, too, to help mend her broken heart, to help relieve her worry, to assure herself I really would be okay, because when you love a child, your heart isn’t your own anymore. It walks around outside your body laughing, learning, failing and, if you’ve done your job right, growing up so it can come back to you and say thank you. For everything.

Am I like my mother? Yes, yes I am. Maybe not in the ways she wishes I was (I will never iron my pillow cases, Mom. Ever.) but I like to think I am in the most important ways. I have a good example to follow, after all. One of the best.

I did not hug my son that night, but I did go into his room and whisper in his ear that I loved him before I leaned down and did something I hadn’t done in too long a time. I kissed the top of his head.

Because come on – when your kid’s 6’5” kissing the top of his head is a bit difficult.