Max had a difficult birth, so instead of bonding skin to skin they whipped him away immediately to do medical stuff to keep him alive. I could be excused for idly wondering on occasion whether he was switched at birth.
I realized Max was truly my kid when I watched him eating popcorn. See, I eat popcorn by taking as big a handful as possible and then shoving it into my mouth all at once. This results in a messy movie experience, not to mention kernels in my bra. I was fully an adult before I realized that some weird people eat popcorn a piece or two at a time.
Max and I shared a bowl of popcorn one day while watching Cars and I looked over to see Max shoving a handful of popcorn in his mouth. The couch and floor littered with kernels. Yes, this is in fact my child.
The love of chocolate is apparently genetic. Shopping, too.
“Why can’t Max put his shirts in the dresser one by one instead of shoving them in all at once,” I think as I stuff pants into overloaded drawers.
Max has no idea how loud he is, and I’m constantly telling him to turn his volume down. And then I went to breakfast and proceeded to vociferously tell a story that had Nick making calm-down motions.
“Looks like Max has been into these pretzels.” The bag looks as if it was mauled open by a bear. Attempts had been made to clip it shut. “Why would you pack undies in a plastic bag,” as I rip the bag straight down the middle like Hulk Hogan ripping off his tank top.
I mean, we are practically the same person.
Except for the key areas where we’re complete opposites, and I wish I could have more Max energy.
Like, one time we were in McDonald’s (we are usually in McDonald’s), and a very nice worker wanted to have a conversation with us. I didn’t really want to, because one thing I really hate is making small talk. But he was nice and I felt bad, so there we were. Max, meanwhile was playing on the phone, and after the third attempt by this guy to engage him in conversation Max said “I don’t know, don’t talk to me!”
The poor guy was shook. No one wants to sweep floors at McDonald’s AND have to deal with some asshole kid. That’s a lot for a Saturday. But trying to make Max understand social norms was going to take more energy (and social stories) than I had that day, so I cringed and said, “Sor-eee, he’s not a talker,” while the dude literally hung his head and swept his way toward the front of the restaurant.
This was uncomfortable, but I really admire Max’s “No” energy. If only I had that energy during my bar days. I could have saved so much time. And there are so many meetings I’ve sat through where “stop talking” could have been used so efficaciously.
Max makes me realize that I’ve spent far too much time feeling uncomfortable no one else will feel bad.
You’ll always know where you stand with Max. He won’t tolerate things that make him feel bad, whether those things are socks or pizza that’s “too Italian” or questions he doesn’t want to answer. He doesn’t lie about his needs or feelings because he’s concerned about hurting feelings or getting rejected. He speaks his truth.
I’ve noticed that I’m rarely clear and honest, to keep the peace and avoid conflict
Max wears his emotions and opinions on the outside while I hide mine under tears and heartburn. I might be socially palatable, but Max is living his best Oprah truth.
I have a lot to learn.
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