Parents measure time in “school years”.  A school year spans from September 1st to May 31st, give or take a few days either way.  Summer consumes June, July and August.  Our lives switch gears at the end of each increment.  Winter clothes and school uniforms go into storage; shorts and soccer balls emerge.  As our children age, the accoutrements of each season change.  The t-balls give way to baseballs; the wiffle bats surrender to tennis rackets.    The calender pages turn as our children’s faces mature.

Though I only gave birth to one child despite some rather noble efforts, I’ve been stepmother to four others who forever reside in my heart.  Among these, my stepson Mac stands tall in both senses of the phrase. Handsome, six-feet two, good-natured and intense, Mac has won the hearts of many and mine is no exception.

Tuesday evenings with Mac:  He came from home, I from work.  We had a scant hour.  The regular date started with my concern over his nutrition.  How could he go to choir practice without a good supper?  But I could not get home in time to fix one, so we started to meet at the Mixx for salad, soup, and sandwiches.  Sometimes his father or one of his choir-mates joined us, but most Tuesdays, just the two of us dined and I could not have been happier.

He usually arrived first.  From my handicapped spot, I could see into the restaurant.  He leaned against a wall, holding one elbow with the opposite hand, regarding the customers in line with his bright, curious gaze.  I would sit for a minute or two, watching him, appreciating his kindness as he would reach to hold the door when someone entered or left.  Then I would climb the ramp to the patio and his smile would broaden.   One strong arm would hold the door for me, then; and as I entered, his other arm would briefly embrace me.  Hey, Corinne, he would say, as he flashed  a bright, even smile.  Then we would go up to the line and order.

Most of our conversations over dinner could only be described as ordinary.  How class had been; whether he had taken a test; what pieces they would be rehearsing in choir.  Occasionally, he would ask my advice and I would fall quiet, contemplating the situation which troubled him.  I dug deep for my best analysis and for a thoughtful way to express myself.  Mac listened to whatever I said and then he would thank me as though he truly appreciated my advice.  A look would flash across his face as he shelved my comments for later reflection.  I never doubted that Mac would make his own choice, but I felt equally sure that my suggestions would receive serious consideration.  He’s like that, is Mac:  He gathers ideas and shapes them around the solid values at the core of his being.

Mac graduated from high school in May of 2012 at the outdoor stage at Pembroke High School.  I sat with his father, my son, Mac’s sister Cara and her Ben, and two of the most wildly proud grandparents ever present at commencement, Jay and Joanna.  That fall, Mac started at Rhodes College in Memphis.  To no one’s surprise, he has excelled in every effort he has undertaken there.  He applies his insatiable curiosity and his stunning acumen to every effort.

Mac turns twenty-one today.  A few weeks ago, I reached out to find out just what gift he might want from me.  He gave me a choice of two, and I ordered both.  Bam, done.  I sent him the tracking number and received in quick return, an e-mail in which Mac, child of my heart, protested that I should only have bought one of the two suggested items.  Oh puh-lease, my dear.  As though it matters what I spend.  As though you are not worth an extra few dollars.

As though I can ever repay him for all those Tuesday evenings, when Mac and I met at the Mixx, and had our hour together, between the end of his school day and his evening of music.  That school year ended at its regular point in the calendar year, but its final days came too soon for me.

Happy birthday, Mac.  Though tradition calls you a “man” today, you will always be one of my shared children.  Thank you for letting me into your life.