Oedipus Max

I suppose I should consult one of those child-rearing books, but I think I burned all of them a few years back. It was a lovely bonfire - begged for marshmallows. Now, of course, I rue the day.

I really don't know what to do about this. My eight-year-old son, you see, has taken to hanging on me like some demented orangutan baby. He hugs me and kisses me and wants to be in physical contact at all times.

This is not a starvation-of-affection issue. It's not like I don't give him twice the US-RDA of hugs, kisses, and miscellaneous hair-messing episodes. Plus, I'm proud to report that I've educated him in all of the traditional masculine affection-conveying mechanisms, such as the "what did you spill on your shirt" gag, noogies, wedgies, and just-a-little-too-hard arm punching. I am a responsible mother, after all.

There is hope. He won't let me kiss him when I drop him off at school. Once, I planted a nice peck on his cheek when he wasn't looking, and caught him "wiping it off" as he walked around the corner.

"Hey! Are you wiping off my kiss?!?!?!" I hollered after him. I was so proud!

But lately it's gotten a bit oppressive. No matter where I'm sitting, he wants to be in my lap. And he weighs more than half of what I do - so it's not the most comfortable proposition for either one of us.

I'm afraid to rebuff him, on account of the possible cost of psychotherapy such rejection might ultimately cause. He's only eight, I tell myself. He'll grow out of it. And it's entirely likely I'll get the feeling back in my legs before dinnertime.

My husband breezes through the room, with a gruff, "Max, get off of your mother." This is about the thousandth time he's repeated this rescue, and I escape the crushing weight of love.

Later, I'll find poor Oedipus Max sulking off in a corner. When I ask what's wrong, he moodily shoots "How come people can't marry their moms?" Sigh. I just don't feel like going into all the eye gouging details.

It's a tough age, I guess. He's becoming aware of the inevitable progression toward independence. He's painfully aware that his years living at home are numbered, and that there is this scary, looming destiny called "Sleep Away College" that he will someday be expected to attend. And some strange girl he'll be expected to marry, because he wasn't quick enough to snatch Mom up before Dad got to her (darn the luck!) This must be very scary for an eight-year-old.

Sounds plausible, doesn't it?

Actually, I'm rather hoping this is a common problem, and not the pivotal symptom of a multiple personality disorder.

I suspect that he will soon grow out of this behavior. In fact, he will probably deny that any of this occurred, possibly with the aid of legal counsel. Definitely supplemented with bodily contortions and facial expressions to suggest that I have the skin of a diseased newt and certainly the brain to match, if I could suggest such a thing. Pictures can be doctored, you know.

He will become convinced that I have dropped in IQ and deity points by a conservative margin of 75%  (maybe rightly so - due to lack of oxygen from being SAT on more or less constantly for months on end.) And he will leave his poor crippled mother in the dust to pick up the pieces.

Well let me tell you right now, even when they have to amputate my legs, and re-set, for the 70^th time, my poor nose (broken by a wayward skull), and sew up my lip again (he must have 12 elbows) - the rejection isn't going to come from this end.

I will bear up to the rending of my heart as stalwartly as I'm bearing up to injuries resulting from this overage of Oedipal affection. With quiet dignity and grace.

"Hey! Are you wiping off my kiss again?!?!?!"