He's Leaving Home

Guilt-tripped Max into buying Ben Season 5 of The Sopranos for Father's Day. He didn't want to do it. I pulled out the stops.

This was the night before he left home forever. I might have felt a little guilty myself that I wasn't making more of occasion out of it except honest to God, the past two weeks have been one long celebration of Max in all his maximum Max-ititude – the kid easily scored $2000 in graduation graft – plus that afternoon he'd come close to becoming a finalist for the Darwin Award: the van overheated and Max took off the radiator cap while the van was still hot.

He walked in the door looking as though he'd just climbed out of the space shuttle from Venus, his face all raw and red.

"What happened to you?" I asked.

"The fucking van started overheating so I wanted to add more coolant –"

"Language!" I said primly. "There's this little writing on the radiator cap? It says, 'Do not open while vehicle is in operation –'"

"I couldn't read it, Mom," he snapped. "There was too much steam!"

"Max, Max, Max. They tell me you're so smart! Lay down –"

"Mom, I'm fine –"

"Lay down. You need to ice that face. And that's easiest to do from a supine position. And what happened to your wrist?"

"It got hit by a geyser of boiling coolant!"

Three hours, 1500 mgs of Vicodin and one visit to the local doc in the box later, he was lying on the couch watching ESPN, eating Doritos and moaning about how he'd had so much to do and now he was too wasted to do any of it.

"Well, there's one thing you can do," I said. "I'll drive."

I was really determined to have Max make a big deal out of Father's Day. Max and Ben have had a problematic relationship these past five years. Part of that is my fault – I do the Sons and Lovers thing, I confide in Max when I really should keep my mouth shut. Yes, it is frustrating to march lockstep next to a guy who can't or won't keep up his end financially. I am really, really tired of being the wage earner. Plus I don't do a particularly good job at it. Bitter? You bet. On the other hand, living with me is no walk in the park on a sunny afternoon. Ben puts up with me. Still, for me, it's a little like having three children – one of whom I have sex with.

And I play favorites among my three children: Max is clearly my golden boy. Max is on the receiving end of the maternal sacrifices.

"I want to go to an English boarding school," Robin announced the other day.

"You can't go to an English boarding school," I said.

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, an English boarding school costs $25,000 a year."

"You sent Max to Stevenson," Robin pointed out. "That cost $25,000 a year."

"If the International School had been open, I would have sent Max there!" I said. "It's a much better school. You're lucky to be able to go there."

But I'm not sure that's strictly true. It's odd – I feel much closer in many ways to Robin, our personalities are a lot more similar. There are times when Max feels like a total stranger to me. But from the moment he was born, my Prime Directive has always been: Max is the most important person on the planet; make sure he gets what he needs. Very odd – like some Grimm's fairytale, as though I'm some hideous, toothless woodcutter fostering the king's son. Maybe that's the psychology behind primogenitor.

At the video store, I led Max to the new release rack and thrust The Sopranos into his hand.


"You really think he wants this?"

"No! What he really wants is the new Bride of Chucky DVD and a Buffy magazine! Yes, of course I think he wants this."

"Well the thing is," said Max, frowning, "it costs 90 bucks. And that's more than I'd spend on my own dad."

"That's something you can take up with your therapist when you finally get one," I said. "In the meantime, you can buy this for Ben."