Max’s mom had a difficult upbringing that included physical and emotional abuse.  She vowed that when she became a mother she would not perpetuate the same mistakes—she wanted her son to experience none of the pain she’d endured.  Unfortunately, she failed to see the difference between debilitating suffering and the kind of day-to-day distress that gradually teaches children how to thrive in the real rough-and-tumble world.

            They lived in relative ease and privilege, but Max’s mom lived as though every object and idea in existence could (and would) harm him.  Her campaign to scrub his world of discomfort began when he was a newborn.  She would search the inside of his sleepers for an imperfect seam.  Anything with the hint of a rough spot was rejected and thrown away.

            She verbally horsewhipped neighborhood kids if they hurt his feelings.  She soon became known as the “crazy lady” up the street.  If he had a complaint about a class, she was there in a moment, telling the teacher how bad she was at her job.  She was the kind of mom educators love to see leave their school, the kind that makes good teachers leave the profession.

            She had in her mind an immature mantra:  Protect my son at all costs.  And sadly, at least for a while, she succeeded—she smothered him.  Her overprotective approach toward motherhood is reminiscent of Truman Capote’s epigraph in his last, unfinished work: “More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.”

            Her protection further isolated Max from the world of boys and men, who found him odd and his company distasteful.  He didn’t act like a man in the making.  Nor did he show much interest.  He hung out on the sidelines of life, rarely saying or doing anything of substance.  He dropped out of high school and sold drugs.