I got a baby’s brain and an old man’s heart took eighteen years to get this far
I’m in the middle without any plans
I’m a boy and I’m a man
I’m eighteen and I don’t know what I want
I’m Eighteen – Alice Cooper
Eighteen years ago, on a Friday the 13th, my wife and I were in the hospital for the birth of our second child.
This whole pregnancy had felt different from the first one almost from the get-go. I remember my wife telling me that, with the first pregnancy, she’d never felt healthier. This time around, she’d been sicker. She’d also had placenta previa, a condition where the placenta actually covers the cervix where the child needs to go through to be born.
It was a condition that left my wife on her back or sitting for a good portion of the pregnancy. And every day that condition went on, the chances became smaller and smaller that she would give birth naturally.
And then, there we were, on Friday the 13th.
When our son was born–after about 13 hours of labour, weighing 8 pounds, 13 ounces…seeing a trend yet? –he decided to come out the natural way. He’d defied the odds. He hadn’t done it the easy way, but he’d made it.
The Boy is vexed
Over the first few years of his life, he gained a couple of nicknames. The first, of course, was “Demon Boy” because of his birthdate, but also because, unlike our relatively placid daughter, this kid was hell on rollerskates. Louder, more rambunctious, lighter sleeper…
Then, as the years passed, he got the name “Bam Bam” after The Flintstones’ neighbour’s kid. Because Hunter was strong. I think a couple of examples are in order here.
The first comes when he was likely no more than a year old. I was letting him and his sister play in the living room while I got their lunch together. My daughter came in and told me Hunter was trying to hit her with a stick. I told her she shouldn’t be lying–because I knew for a fact there was absolutely nothing stick-like in our living room–and sent her back out to play. Not five minutes later, she came back in, this time crying and, even more disconcerting, with a distinct mark–a sticklike mark–reddening her cheek. When I entered the living room to investigate, there was our son with a stick in his hand. It was actually a piece of trim from our wall unit. He’d pried it off with his bare, one-year-old fingers.
The second example was from around the same time frame. Hunter was still in the crib, but quickly outgrowing it. This was evidenced by the fact that he managed to squeeze his little diapered ass out between the crib slats…because he’d torn a couple of them right out of their moorings.
Hunter’s a natural kinesthetic. He’s always enjoyed tearing things apart, just to see how they work. And whenever there was something that needed to be assembled, he was your guy. He rarely needs directions, he just sees it and goes for it.
Hi-YOOOO!
He’s also a smart bugger. Yes, yes, I know…every parent thinks they’ve birthed a genius. But in this case, I do think that tag might actually be warranted. Perhaps another story is in order.
There was a point where Hunter seemed to be struggling with school. We wanted to ensure that we knew exactly what was going on with this, so we consented to having his various skills and abilities tested.
The interesting part came when we went in to hear the results. The person that administered the tests actually sat wide-eyed and occasionally speechless as she described her own experience with Hunter. During the math portion, she provided him with pencil and paper. She would then read him a multi-part math problem. He was to use the paper to do his figuring, then provide her with the answer verbally. As she described this, this was where her eyes went wide. She said she would deliver the question, Hunter would pause, then ultimately provide the answer. She marveled at the fact that he actually got answer correct that she’d never seen answered correctly before. But the part that blew her mind was when, at the end of the math portion, Hunter slid back the paper. It was still blank. He’d run them all in his head.
“So why isn’t he doing well in math?” we asked.
She described it this way: Imagine you’ve gone to a car dealership and bought a Ferrari off the lot. Now, you’re excited to get it out on the open road and see what it’ll do. Instead, you’re faced with nothing but speed bumps that slow you to a crawl.
“That’s the frustration Hunter feels when he’s asked to do a complex math problem and show all his work.” Essentially, his mind was the Ferrari and the school system was the speed bumps.
So, he’s got the brains.
But what about the other aspects of my now-adult son? Well, he’s an absolute slob when it comes to picking up after himself. And he also has some weird idiosyncrasies. If you walked into his bedroom at five in the morning, you’d likely find him asleep. Under the covers, fully clothed, lights still on. Strange and uncomfortable, but that’s my kid.
And he rarely learns something the easy way. Hunter’s method is to put every rule to the test, to push it and prod it and stretch it to its limits and only then, if it survives his tests, will he accept it. This means he’s never really taken the easy road.
He’s fiercely loyal to his friends, putting himself in the path of an adult’s anger to defend a friend or to point out something that’s not right.
He’s very confident of himself, often overconfident, which has led to him doing some things that someone else would look at and think stupid. He’d rather risk the fall if there’s a chance he’ll fly.
He’s a typical boy and, at times, a highly atypical one. He’s had his share of fractures and sprains and cuts. But there’s also likely not too many kids that can say they were sprayed directly in the face with bear mace. He can.
I’ve also documented on many occasions how funny he is. Everyone else in the family is convinced he should try out comedy or acting. He’s a natural. I’ve seen him, with just a few words, shut down a room full of people. Just a few words, and they’re laughing so hard they’re crying and snorting and gasping for breath. He’s funny enough that his sister’s created a Twitter account, Willie’s Wise Words to document some of these occasions, but really none of them truly do him justice.
Me, Madison, Hunter
And for all of this, for all his tongue-in-cheek bragging about how he’s a “silverback” and how awesome he is, in reality, he’s quite humble. He’d be the first one to tell you he’s not that special.
He’s the one that can light me up more than almost anyone else on this planet. He can push every button I have, he can frustrate the shit out of me, he can enrage me, but he can also break my heart with his concern for others, and his dedication to those he loves. He can do this to me simply because he’s my son and love him dearly.
We mean this in the nicest possible way…
Through the past eighteen years, I’ve seen this boy, this teen, this man, take the hardest routes, make the biggest mistakes, be the most stubborn, and be his own worst enemy. But I’ve also seen him rise above, to shock me with his wit, his dedication, his candor and his love.
He’s always defied the odds. He’s never really done anything the easy way, right from the moment he came out, and his path, I don’t think, will ever be the truly easy one, but I do know that, whichever path he does choose, he’ll make it. He’ll forge his own path, and it’ll be the right one for him.
For my son.
I love you, dude. More than you’ll ever know.
Happy birthday.
My Dysfunctional Life 