Mother’s Day

My baby brother, Alex, was a terror growing up. As his assigned babysitter when my parents stepped out for the evening, I endured his worst. Eight years younger than I, he understood enough to know of my responsibility to him, yet he was also fiendishly clever enough, even at such a tender age, to comprehend the power he possessed as a witness to any improprieties I was involved in while temporarily master of the house.

As high school stoners, my friends and I took a parentless domicile for only one thing: an opportunity to perform the ritual of pot smoking indoors, with creature comforts instead of the damp elements of the woods we were usually relegated to. Moreover, afterwards a full refrigerator beckoned to satisfy the craven munchies bong hits always induced.

My moral code for babysitting held that corrupting my little brother with my vice was not acceptable. What he didn’t see wouldn’t hurt him. When my friends came over we retreated to my room, where the festivities could take place behind locked door, Alex’s innocence preserved. Only one problem… he was having none of it. He wanted to see what was going on, not only to satisfy his curiosity, but to provide himself ammunition to extort concessions from me, lest he rat me out to my parents. He knew without details he wasn’t credible, so obtaining them became his mission; he was going to do whatever necessary to lay eyes on what we were doing.

Jimmying the door lock, searching my room for evidence, hiding from me when I came out to check on him and then rushing in to see what he could see, there was no avenue he wouldn’t try. After all, he had the entire evening. Once, as Hendrix wailed and I held in a monster hit, we suddenly heard “oh Billy, I see you…” My friends looked at the window and started laughing hysterically. Alex had climbed out of the bathroom and shimmied across the perilously angled second story roof. I remember thinking then and there that this wasn’t normal, my brother was crazy. Turns out, he kind of was.

Back in the mid-70s Montgomery County Public Schools had little patience and few options for problem children. You fit in, were eligible for special education or were told to go somewhere else. ADHD or Aspergers, these conditions were yet to be recognized and received little patience or empathy from administrators intent on keeping their particular engine purring. And so it was that my mother was summoned and told in a very abrupt way by officials of Seven Locks Elementary that my little brother was persona non grata; they had had it. He needed to go, yesterday.

That was the beginning of a years-long odyssey for my mother that came out of the blue. Alex was whip smart and lacked nothing socially. A natural ham, he was the star of any family gathering. Learning disabilities were little understood or indulged back then and he spent the rest of elementary and all of junior high in an “alternative school”, lumped together with kids who, while each dealing with a unique set of issues, were thrown together for one shared reason: public schools weren’t interested in teaching them anymore.

The most enduring image I have from that period is my mother, who determined she would not let her son slip through the cracks, waging a nightly battle with Alex as she fought to keep him focused while helping him with his homework. She had a saint’s patience, small potatoes for Alex, who made mom’s life hard because an inability to pay attention to tasks and concepts was a big chunk of his deficits.

Once, early in the process, as my mother sat at the dining room table near tears, it occurred to me how much she had on her plate. I spent near four months in the hospital, the result of being hit head-on by a car, and she was still overseeing my rehab. My other brother, John, two years my junior, was now starting to find his own trouble. Meanwhile, my father was taking the worst of career stress and a relationship with the bottle. Standing next to her, I lamely promised everything would be alright, Alex would “outgrow this.” She looked up at me and smiled. “You just take care of Billy. Leave Alex to me.” As always, I felt better, even though I thought she was the one needing a pep talk. That was my mom in a nutshell.

Fortunately, Alex did outgrow it. He attended a public high school, which offered what was the advent of Individual Education Programs (IEPs). He was no valedictorian but thrived socially, enjoying a popularity with girls I could only have dreamed of. He went to college and became an elite salesman. At his wedding reception my mom and I shared a nice moment as Alex danced with his wife. I said we all owed whatever happiness adulthood bestowed to her, that Alex would have foundered if not for her extra attention when he needed it most. Of course she deferred credit and simply declared how proud she was of him. I joked about their homework battles and wondered how she survived it. She laughed and conceded “those almost did me in.”

My son Luke turned 20 in March. Last night, like every night for the last 15 years, and for the next 15 years God willing, my wife Susan spent time with him reading and working on various math or comprehension exercises. Just another evening struggling to keep him focused. Piano lessons, scrabble, crossword puzzles, you name it, Susan has him covered.

Luke can’t really attend to relationships. If you want to spend time with him it’s going to take effort. He loves Best Buddies and has life-long friends, but is not capable of reaching out on his own. Lucky for him he has a mother who has decided she will be his best friend. Every day pre- Coronavirus it was tennis and a swim at the pool, without fail. Now, sheltering in place up in Maine, Susan gets up and figures out things for them to do. Really the only time she isn’t devoting herself to Luke is when she’s devoting herself to his sister, Iz, a new adult dealing with a world in crisis. It’s not really even a conscious effort anymore, though it’s certainly work. Luke makes Alex seem a rank amateur in the exhausting patience department. Motherhood is Sue’s essence, her energy force. A life of service to her children.

My wife lives out loud and doesn’t apologize. She is often strident and allows chips to fall where they may. Marriages with a disabled child are challenging, at least seven in ten fail. Ours is no exception and can be contentious. Her patience limit often does not extend to me whining about my frailties. Why should it? Yet and still, I am blessed as I can be. After all, the only mother as wonderful as the one who raised me is the one who raised my kids. Very good fortune indeed. Happy Mother’s Day. BC