We were a larger than average family back in the 80s and transporting us, all together, for any purpose, must have been a colossal pain in the ass--and monumentally expensive. For our crowd, even a trip to Burger King required a vehicle no smaller than a mini-van, and the cost of our fast-food feast probably devoured a good chunk of somebody's 401K. My dad was granted weekly clearance to perform a surgical strike on the local grocery store, strictly extracting generic brands only and nothing "not on the list". Only one of his lucky children was selected to accompany him each week—mostly because he needed someone to push the second cart (that’s right, it took 2 carts). The only destinations worthy of jamming us all into the car were church, once a week, and the beach, once a year. So when we were all invited to run the random errand of buying...paint? We knew something was up. Someone has cancer. Someone’s moving to China. One of the cats got run over again. Very fortunately for us all, none of that was the case. Instead, my parents proudly announced, right there in the Sherwin Williams parking lot, that Mama was pregnant with our one and only brother--the last but not least of 5 children, and the piece-de-resistance to a motley collection of girls.
While the infancy and toddler-hood of all the other siblings was lost in the jumble of my own youth, I vividly remember Mikey’s progression from baby to toddler to kid. The little red raisin he looked like in the velour toy-soldier outfit for his first Christmas, his first bites of solid food that were meticulously documented by a gargantuan VHS recorder, his “electric hair” that stood on end like a treasure troll with his finger in a light socket, and his Michelin Man legs that were almost too chubby for us to ever imagine him walking on them. Were there bones inside those chub-logs? Or would they deflate like a series of miniature inner-tubes stacked on top of each other if he tried to make them bear his weight? Not long after he could walk, the sisters got together and gave him a “make-over”—which consisted of caking his face with green eye shadow, copious amounts of blush, and whatever amount of lipstick we could adhere to his tiny little lips. We put a long string of plastic pearls around his neck and laughed at him while he waddled around in his onesie, none the wiser.
Not long after that, he started learning to drive, plowing across the property in what had to have been the first generation of battery-operated ride-in vehicles for kids. Again, hours of VHS tape were dedicated to galvanizing in our minds the image of him, driving in circles in that little red car, doing the slowest version of “donuts” the human eye could tolerate attending to. And as soon as he could talk? By God, did he TALK. Even for a predominantly female household, there was always a mind-blowing amount of words coming from his direction. He was an old soul, chatting you up at Sunday dinner like a little old man in his khakis, sweater, and clip-on tie (with a demeanor Ray would compare, years later, to Alex P. Keaton upon meeting Mikey for the first time). We all recognized that he was mature beyond his years from a young age—but somehow, we still had a hard time now and then reconciling the toddler we all remembered with the natural progression of time. Like when my sisters and I heard Mikey read out loud for the first time, we all exchanged looks of shock and awe at our precocious little master of the written word. “You can read?!?” we gasped, to which he rolled his eyes and responded, “Of course. Guys. I’m 10”.
About 5 years before I’d ever met Ray, Mikey was still living at home with my parents and 2 remaining non-college-aged sisters. I was home from State for whatever reason during my freshman year, getting ready to meet up with friends somewhere. Michael was at the age we’d all known well—where you’re independent enough to have friends and interests outside of the home, but you’re totally dependent on the people around you to facilitate. Our parents were either still at work or recently home from work and did not want to venture out again. His other sisters were still 6 months or more shy of being his ticket around town—so in the meantime, he was resigned to the battle it was to go anywhere when your parents were unwilling. I can’t remember where he wanted to go or why my parents had declined, but when he asked me to take him, I said ‘yes’, not thinking much of it as I continued to apply my mascara. In a rare moment of wordlessness, Mikey had stood there watching me quietly, before he simply said, “I love you”, then hustled away to go find his shoes. He was so sincere, so genuine in that moment that it took my breath away, melted my heart, and brought tears to my eyes—like it still does every time I think of it almost 20 years later.
Mikey’s been walking, talking, reading, and driving for a long time now, and he was advanced enough to take himself clear across the country when he moved west with his wife this past summer. He’s gradually catching up in actual years to his middle-aged soul, but those images of his youngest self are still seared into my memory—to the point that I’ve called my 4-year-old son “Mikey” more than once, because so many things my son does (mainly the talking, talking, and more talking) remind me of his uncle. He’s grown in to a guy I can laugh with, a man my husband can relate to, and a person others can depend on--to do a good job, the right thing, and the best he can by those he loves. He’s hard-wired to be a hard-ass with all the confidence of a kid, whose every action in life has been adored by his mother, his father, and every one of his four sisters like the shiny little treasure we all love too much. But he also has a kind and loving heart that, like our time-hardened images of him as an eternal toddler, has not changed from that little boy who said he loved me for the simplest reason and meant it.
To think we might have always had to wonder what we’d look like as a boy if Mikey’d never come along. For this—and for a life-time of other reasons—we’re so thankful he did.
Happy birthday to Mikey. The one and only.
Not long after that, he started learning to drive, plowing across the property in what had to have been the first generation of battery-operated ride-in vehicles for kids. Again, hours of VHS tape were dedicated to galvanizing in our minds the image of him, driving in circles in that little red car, doing the slowest version of “donuts” the human eye could tolerate attending to. And as soon as he could talk? By God, did he TALK. Even for a predominantly female household, there was always a mind-blowing amount of words coming from his direction. He was an old soul, chatting you up at Sunday dinner like a little old man in his khakis, sweater, and clip-on tie (with a demeanor Ray would compare, years later, to Alex P. Keaton upon meeting Mikey for the first time). We all recognized that he was mature beyond his years from a young age—but somehow, we still had a hard time now and then reconciling the toddler we all remembered with the natural progression of time. Like when my sisters and I heard Mikey read out loud for the first time, we all exchanged looks of shock and awe at our precocious little master of the written word. “You can read?!?” we gasped, to which he rolled his eyes and responded, “Of course. Guys. I’m 10”.
About 5 years before I’d ever met Ray, Mikey was still living at home with my parents and 2 remaining non-college-aged sisters. I was home from State for whatever reason during my freshman year, getting ready to meet up with friends somewhere. Michael was at the age we’d all known well—where you’re independent enough to have friends and interests outside of the home, but you’re totally dependent on the people around you to facilitate. Our parents were either still at work or recently home from work and did not want to venture out again. His other sisters were still 6 months or more shy of being his ticket around town—so in the meantime, he was resigned to the battle it was to go anywhere when your parents were unwilling. I can’t remember where he wanted to go or why my parents had declined, but when he asked me to take him, I said ‘yes’, not thinking much of it as I continued to apply my mascara. In a rare moment of wordlessness, Mikey had stood there watching me quietly, before he simply said, “I love you”, then hustled away to go find his shoes. He was so sincere, so genuine in that moment that it took my breath away, melted my heart, and brought tears to my eyes—like it still does every time I think of it almost 20 years later.
Mikey’s been walking, talking, reading, and driving for a long time now, and he was advanced enough to take himself clear across the country when he moved west with his wife this past summer. He’s gradually catching up in actual years to his middle-aged soul, but those images of his youngest self are still seared into my memory—to the point that I’ve called my 4-year-old son “Mikey” more than once, because so many things my son does (mainly the talking, talking, and more talking) remind me of his uncle. He’s grown in to a guy I can laugh with, a man my husband can relate to, and a person others can depend on--to do a good job, the right thing, and the best he can by those he loves. He’s hard-wired to be a hard-ass with all the confidence of a kid, whose every action in life has been adored by his mother, his father, and every one of his four sisters like the shiny little treasure we all love too much. But he also has a kind and loving heart that, like our time-hardened images of him as an eternal toddler, has not changed from that little boy who said he loved me for the simplest reason and meant it.
To think we might have always had to wonder what we’d look like as a boy if Mikey’d never come along. For this—and for a life-time of other reasons—we’re so thankful he did.
Happy birthday to Mikey. The one and only.
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