All About You FRIDAY – Lean Hard

“You don’t raise heroes, you raise sons. And if you treat them like
sons, they’ll turn out to be heroes, even if it’s just in your own eyes.”
—Walter Schirra Sr.

This is a story of my number one son. He is called that because he was the first to join our family—he is actually my late husband’s half brother.

It was the Summer of 1992. I was 24-years old. He was 15. He showed up with an awkwardness that accompanies most adolescent boys. Tall, lanky and not too talkative. When he spoke, it was often in the form of one or two word mumblings and usually only in response to a question. Our conversations used to go something like this:
“Hey, how was school?”
“Good.”
“Do you have any homework?”
“No.”
“Do you need any help with anything?”
“No.”
End of conversation.
We got legal guardianship of him in August—and less than a week later, I found out I was 4 months pregnant. Our family went from two to three to four in less than a year.

We lived in a one-bedroom apartment at the time. His bedroom was a corner of our living room—and that depended on the time of day. He slept on a futon mattress, literally. Just the mattress. It would be rolled out onto the floor by night and be rolled up and out of the way by day. His bedroom also doubled as our dining room and my office. I never once heard him complain about it.

I don’t know how it happened, but somewhere along the way, I really began to love this boy. I took him shopping and he convinced me that pants were supposed to be big enough to fit a small family in them. I bought him his first mountain bike, and when that one got stolen,
I saved up some money and bought him another one, this time with a chain. We used to ride the trails until we were scarred, sweaty and dusty. I taught him that he needed to wear a helmet—and he showed me why.

He was the first model in my exercise videos. If he got a bad grade in school, I would ask him to do a whole bunch of exercises so I could have them on film to use in my classroom. He would jump, squat, skip and hop until it was documented to my satisfaction. He wasn’t exactly the best student. As a result, I got some good footage—and he got in shape.

He played on his high school basketball team, and I was on the booster club. I cheered for him from the stands, whether they won or lost. I was his biggest fan. His years in high school flew by. Parent/teacher conferences. Youth group mission trips. Driver’s education.
His first accident—in my car. Field days. Homecoming. Before I knew it, he was
getting ready to leave for college.

I can remember the day clearly. My husband and I planned on celebrating his departure. The house would seem bigger, the grocery bill smaller. But as I hugged and kissed him goodbye and he jumped in his car to go, I felt something in my heart shift. I sat next to my husband on the porch steps, head in my hands, as my number two son leaned on our backs with his arms around our necks. We were silent until his car disappeared—and then for a few minutes longer. It was anything but a celebration. All of a sudden, I felt old and a little lonely.

He was 19 and I was 29.

He came home several times a year after that. And when he did, his schedule was filled with visiting old friends and other social engagements. We mandated a Family Night, one non-negotiable night a week where would socialize with us, just so we could talk to the boy
that was now a man.

My number one son, who came wearing baggy jeans and black t-shirts, now sat at the table with khaki pants, shirt and tie and a copy of the Investors Business Daily. He reads literature—he is a big fan of Winston Churchill. He writes poetry that is heartfelt and beautiful. He is at once a sensitive, caring man and a fun-loving boy.

I would be lying if I made it sound like everything was always wonderful where he was concerned. There were some dark times—some times when I knew for sure I was failing him as a mother and times when I wish he could have perfected the script of the ideal son. There were times he would do things that I did not understand—times when I wanted to just send him home. And there were the darkest times in his life when all I wanted to do was hold him and make his hurt go away. In reality, all I had the power to do was sit and pray for him. There were all those kinds of times. But, when the smoke clears, and I look back on the years since he walked into my life, it’s the good stuff I really remember.

He moved back home after graduating from college and began to work for my husband’s company. He was responsible for managing the build-out of my second private practice—a job I wouldn’t have wished on my worst enemy.

The city building department delayed the project by months on three separate occasions. The management and rescheduling of subcontractors was a logistical nightmare. We ran out of money months before the project was completed and were faced with the daunting task of getting a clinic open on a wing and a prayer while keeping the creditors at bay until we could generate some cash flow. We worked long hours to complete many of the projects ourselves.

It was easily one of the darkest times in my life. After one particularly stressful meeting where our financial picture was discussed, I stood up from the table and said sarcastically, “Well, that was a great way to end the day.” And I walked out of the office.

Driving away with tears in my eyes, frustrated and angry at the situation I had gotten myself into, it was my number one son who called my cell phone moments later and left a message saying, “Don’t worry. We’ve made it this far. We are going to get through this. God hasn’t let us down yet. Just keep praying.” I felt humbled by his faith, stamina and willpower. My boy was now teaching me.

He was 27 and I was 37.

One day he told me he met a girl. “This one is going to be the end of me,” he said. I knew the moment he spoke of her that she would probably be the one. For years, I had been prying to find out what kind of girl he actually liked. I knew he had dated other girls before, but in all of the years he was with us, I never got to meet one. “They aren’t worthy enough to bring home,” he would explain. I guess I should have taken that as a compliment.

In a whirlwind romance that mirrored my own, he described his feelings for her. Feelings of extreme love and devotion—and inadequacy. “I want to be a better man for her,” he wrote to me. In a matter of weeks, the decision was made for her to move from Florida to Michigan.

“It’s do or die time,” he emailed me one day. “I would like to know what you think and what the best course of action is. Let me know if you think this is too hasty of a move. I don’t, but it’s a lot of responsibility on my shoulders. I know that we can do it together and I know she is committed to me and I to her.”

And then he added one of the most beautiful statements I think I’ve ever read: “I keep telling her to lean hard on me and I will lean hard on her and together we will stand.”

Leaning hard. That’s what it’s all about after all, isn’t it? A mutual act of depending on the ones you love. An act of equal dependence that makes it OK for even the strongest, most independent person to need someone—because if you don’t both lean hard enough, then the whole thing falls over.

This overachieving perfectionist needed to hear that. My boy was teaching me again.
He called me shortly after that one day while I was at work. “I just wanted to let you know that the wedding date is in a couple of months.” It was the day of our family night.
“Wow. Congratulations. Thanks for calling me. Aren’t you coming to dinner tonight?” I asked, wondering about the reason for his call.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I just wanted you to know before I told everyone else.”

He was 28 and I was 38.

He moved to Texas with his new wife and eventually they made their way to NYC and settled in New Jersey. I hardly get to see him now, as he is raising a family of his own. But this past December, my partner and I headed to NYC and I relished in an afternoon walking around the city with his family. As I watched him interact with his twins, playful but disciplining and I felt my heart shift again. I am so proud of the father he has become.

He is now 47 and I am 57.

The journey sometimes brings you lessons from the most unlikely sources. It behooves us to keep our eyes open and stay in the mix. Because sometimes it takes years to realize that the ones we need the most in our lives are the ones we thought only needed us—the kids that grow up to one day become our teachers.

Lean hard on the ones you love. When the winds of life howl— It is what will keep the strong standing.

Lean hard.

It’s been a long week. Don’t forget to celebrate.

Until next time…