Okay, Michael, you've travelled around the sun eighteen times now. Eighteen! It's a milestone because it means you're legally an adult. I must confess to having felt a bit sooky and wondering can I still call you my little boy. What a journey you've had en route to your adulthood. This journey has been akin to a roller coaster ride (in more ways than one for you), and it's a ride in which we have all been sitting in that carriage, waving our arms in the air as we screamed with both terror and hilarity, as we go hurtling down the slope. Like a rollercoaster ride, your life has had its ups and downs - but they're mainly ups. Let's talk about it. . .
I had an inkling you were in the wings, so I bought a home pregnancy test and I was thrilled to see a blue line appear. I wrapped the test like a present and presented it to your dad when he came home for lunch. You should have seen his face; he looked like he entrance to Luna Park! He made a joyful 'Oh!' sound and he had tears in his eyes.
I had a textbook pregnancy and birth. You arrived quite quickly after I went into labour and your delighted dad cried out, 'Another little mate!' We agreed that if you were a boy, you'd be Michael Barry. Michael was the only name we could agree on and Barry was your wonderful Poppy (Dad's father) whom we lost the year before you were born. The midwives brought me toast with Vegemite, and like with your brother Aaron three years beforehand, I spilled crumbs on your head. We were so happy when you joined us; our family felt complete.
What a cheerful baby you were, always smiling at everybody. You developed into a cheerful toddler. Remember when a stray dog howled at our front door and adopted us? We named him Brock and he was so protective of you, and he didn't mind when you would steady yourself by hanging onto his lip as you negotiated the back steps or when you would just sprawl against him.
You always such an unassuming and well-behaved child, with the exception of your brother Aaron's first Holy Communion, when you thought he was getting a treat and you were missing out, whereupon you threw a tantrum of such ferocity your father took you outside. When the service was over, you were still protesting the unfairness of it all, so much so, I asked the priest did he feel you might need an exorcism. Hey, I have a ratbag sense of humour at times, and over the years, it's become wonderfully apparent that you do, too.
I first noticed your innate theatricality in the preschool end of year concert. The second half comprised a nativity play and I saw you ready to take the stage, with a camp pair of fake donkey ears attached to your head. Many would not rate too highly being cast in the role of the ass in the stable, but you made it your moment to shine. You took your position next to the manger, and when the shepherds and Magi made their arrival, you made grand ta-da! gestures at the Little Prince of Peace.
Your sense of humour and personality ensured you had no trouble making friends at school. You also enjoyed listening to music and dancing. How you loved an audience and an impromptu performance. Our shopping trip to Coles, when you were seven, illustrates this. You saw your image on the CCTV camera and performed a moonwalk. Then you dropped your pants and mooned the camera. That ignominious episode aside, we encouraged you to develop your flair for dancing, and you enjoyed hip-hop and musical theatre classes for several years after that. You received an encouragement award from the dance school when you were twelve, and you strutted to the stage as though to the manor born. You received your award with aplomb, and said, 'I'd just like to thank my mum and dad...'. The school's teachers were shrieking laughter. Here you are from your last year at the school. You rock those jazz shoes.
Your dancing earned you some income when you did some busking in the playground and you had a group of women copying your moves at a Queen tribute show we attended when you were thirteen. You are quite the Mr Bojangles.
You're old enough to know life throws curveballs at times. It threw you one that manifested when you were seven. We thought you were daydreaming because what kid isn't imaginative at times? It was a different rollercoaster this time, and no fun at all. You ran around, crying you were on a rollercoaster (the seizures produced a similar sensation to you). As parents, it was so scary to watch. Your teachers were frightened, too. We got you into a pediatrician who observed and filmed you. As luck would have it, the man who became your treating pediatric neurologist happened to be in the building that day. He checked you over and asked questions. Your dad's voice sounded like piano wire when he said, 'It's scaring the hell out of us.' He reassured us and prescribed you medication. You also had to undergo a series of tests that were no fun at all. We were so proud of how stoic you were when you were in the huge MRI cylinder or putting up with wires stuck to your head during the EEGs you've suffered through over the years. Dad signed a waiver to allow the footage taken of you to be used for training pediatric neurologists. We wanted to help and we know you'd want to help other families affected by epilepsy.
Sure, you've made us worry, but more than that, you've made us laugh. Your timing and wit are impeccable. I will never forget the time our house flooded in a freak storm in 2014. You would have been nine. Anyway, we were standing with our mouths hanging, water halfway up to our knees, just gazing around in abject shock. In imitation of a contemporary television ad that featured a similar situation, you deadpanned, 'Mum, you're gonna need a bigger boat.' Oh, how your dad and I laughed. You broke the tension beautifully and gave us the belly laugh we badly needed.
You have developed broad and eclectic tastes in music. Sometimes we will hear you playing Motley Crue, and other times, Frank Sinatra. You deliver zingers and one-liners in the manner of a latter day Dorothy Parker. Your maternal grandmother (my mother) was funny and a music lover, and it is a sorrow to me that she never knew you.
You've proven to be a great concert companion and I love how we share similar interests and tastes. Now that you're eighteen, you can accompany me to some of the pub gigs that were hitherto unavailable to you. I know you will be sartorial. You've developed your own style and taken up drums in lieu of dance:
It might be incumbent upon you to now act like an adult, but please, NEVER stop acting like the amazing, funny, witty raconteur you are and always have been.
Happy birthday, Michael, from your family, who love you to the moon and back.
