It’s when Kate McCallister returns home and her son Kevin, who has been home alone for days, turns toward her – the scene packs a punch it never did before. I can’t help but see me and Max in the roles, a mother and son separated, a mother desperate to get to her little boy. What bliss when I think of opening my front door to find Max, turning toward me as he stands by our Christmas tree in his monogrammed pajamas. Though it hurts, I allow myself the fantasy every time I watch the movie. I’m sure I always will.
This year, my path led to many other mother-son duos experiencing intense challenges and, for some, devastating loss. There’s my new friend whose baby boy was diagnosed with the same syndrome Max had. A mom whose son was paralyzed in a car accident months ago, and another whose son was paralyzed after a surgical mishap in October. A mother who lost her adult son in a tragic accident, a mom who lost her 5-year-old son just last month. Then there’s a mom whose son with spina bifida had a huge surgery mere days before Christmas.
Am I looking for them, or is it just a coincidence? I can’t say, but I am drawn to these mothers. They’re the most familiar, precious strangers. I hear their story and, just like the movie, I see me and my own boy. I understand their helplessness and suffering and I’m sick over what they must endure. I’m as lost, if not more so, than them, so I can offer little to nothing. All I have is my presence (which is often a mess in more ways than one), and this foundation.
Thanks to an incredibly successful golf tournament this Fall, we were able to provide for many families this Christmas. We sent gift cards to some, contributed to a smattering of Go Fund Me accounts, and we went especially big for two families.
My kids’ pediatrician referred the first – the mother I referenced whose son was paralyzed during an October surgery. Claudia and I spoke on the phone, and she cried about mounting bills, countless hours in doctors’ offices, and the depression that now consumes her little boy. What I’d give to fix it all. I was incredibly grateful, at least, to give her a generous check from the Maximus Janton Foundation. I made sure she understood the money doesn’t just come from my family, but the hundreds of people who support our mission. Thanks to our donors, we were able to give Claudia and her son a bit of relief for Christmas.
Me and my new friend, Claudia
Stephanie, like me, is a mother of three sons. This time last year they were homeless. Now her family of five lives in a small apartment and her husband, a roofer, is gone from sunup till sundown. Her middle son, 8 years old, has spina bifida, and has had many complications recently. Money is extremely tight, often non-existent, and Christmas presents were not a possibility until we were introduced. What a gift to tell this exhausted, stressed-out mother that she needn’t worry, that her kids would be given an amazing, over-the-top Christmas. I asked her to send me their wish lists and we purchased everything, and then some, for her boys. She was grateful and surprised, and I felt so fortunate to play a role in the exchange. If not for the many who give, I told her, this would not be possible.
Stephanie’s middle son who has spina bifida
My boys with gifts for Stephanie’s family
I’m compelled to tell our beneficiaries about you, our supporters, just in case anyone has the misconception that my family funds the entire foundation. I need them to know I don’t, and couldn’t possibly, do it alone. They may see me, but there’s an army in the wings. We’re a small organization. I don’t aspire to be much bigger, as we currently have no overhead and it’s just enough that I can handle, but there are so many who make it all possible. Thank God we have generous people who propel us forward. More than that, those people, you, allow us to share Max’s name, and legacy of love and happiness. You give us opportunities to show, not just tell, our other sons how their big brother continues to change lives. You provide a positive way for a broken-hearted mama to channel her grief, especially during Christmastime. Thank you, sincerely.
Have I ever told you about Max’s first Christmas? It’s a story worth sharing if you have a moment.
He was five months old. We’d just learned he did not have cancer, a suspicion that enveloped us for weeks. Though he was nowhere near sitting up, I purchased Max a child sized armchair from Pottery Barn Kids, brown microsuede with Sherpa piping and his name embroidered in cream. It was a gift I’d purchased months prior, and I couldn’t wait to see him on it. Christmas morning came and we propped Max in his new chair. I began snapping pictures, chirping, and cooing as giddy gals do, while Dan, on all fours, harmonized with his deep, booming voice. Then, though it sounds trite…the sweetest gift. The corners of Max’s mouth quivered and curved upward to form a smile. His very first. Because of low muscle tone, his chubby cheeks didn’t have the strength to smile, not until that moment. There he was, in the chair I’d picked out special for his first Christmas, smiling at us -it felt like a dream. I was beside myself, laughing, crying, cheering. We’d waited and waited and there, as if he’d been holding out just for that day, was our baby, smiling next to the Christmas tree. It was a moment so precious; I knew I’d always remember it. I can’t help but cry at the memory. I also can’t help but smile.
Max’s first smile, Christmas Day 2011