I've Been "Homeschooling"

If you're wondering what happened to a previous post that mysteriously disappeared from this blog, I have deleted it. I received some sage advice from a couple of readers (you know who you are), and when I took a moment to think about the unintended consequences that might result from what I posted, I pulled it down. Thank you for the advice you have given me. I hope what I had to say in that post offended no one, and if it did, please forgive me.

I'd like to share with you some of the positive things that have occurred since my son's five-day out of school suspension began last Thursday. There has been no sleeping in. He has not been apart from me to do as he pleases. And for those of you finding this site from a Google search for the Rip Stick, there was no Rip Stick riding. He spent the hours he would have been in school writing, whether it's at the dining room table, or at a place I set up for him in my office at work. God bless my co-workers for not letting this become a social time for him. They knew how serious I was about this, and I thank them for respecting what needed to be done on company time.

I had him write a letter to his biological mother explaining to her exactly what he's done (over and over again) and why correspondence between them would have to occur in the form of written letters. I think this was a hard letter for him to write, but he was honest in it, and apologized to her for any pain his actions may have caused her. His P.S. was "I love you."

I asked him to write a letter to me, in which he shared all the ways in which he now realized I was fighting the good fight on his behalf. He acknowledged that I had taken responsibility for a life that I did not create, and was working harder than he was to mold it into the sort of person the world could be proud of. He did not, however, thank me, apologize to me, or say that he loved me. I thought this was quite telling. Perhaps he shows no remorse for some of the things he's done because he doesn't know how to love, at least as most of us know love to be. I did praise him for a well-written and thoughtful letter, as he did do a great job of sorting through the past four years to see things he had been taking for granted. I told him that I couldn't teach him how to love, I could only show him. The only thing I can really teach him is how to treat others.

Following that, I told him about the sacrament of confession, which he had yet to experience. I told him that I could have ambushed him by just driving him to the church, or I could play fair and allow him time to prepare, which is what I chose to do. He made his list, checked it twice, then waited for me to tell him when we would be visiting our priest.

His next assignment was to write a 500 word essay describing where he thought his life would be one year from now. "Where do you want to be in a year?" Obviously, he was hoping to earn back privileges he had lost so many times before, hoped to increase a few B's to A's, develop a social life, manage his own money, get a job, earn trips with the school through drama and chorus, maybe try out for the swim team... some pretty good stuff. Unfortunately for him I'm a Sales Director and write action plans for a living, so I created a chart, had him identify clear goals within his paper, and began helping him to create a realistic plan that would insure that he achieved these goals. Each goal has specific actions and measurements (either a report card, a bank statement, or a behavioral assessment), and a date by which he must complete the action in order to remain on track to achieve his goals.

Then, we had a heart-to-heart. I told him that I had two chances to say "no" to him. Once when I was asked if he could be placed with me as a foster child, and another when they asked if I'd be willing to be his forever father. Both times I said "yes," but not to just any child in an effort to achieve my goal of becoming a parent. I specifically said yes to him. That means I didn't help one of the other hundreds of children in this state who are still waiting to be adopted. I asked him to write a letter to that child, and let them know what they've missed out on. "What's this kid's name?" he asked. "Just address it to 'Dear Orphan.'"

It was a very good letter, written to be read by someone his own age, in a way that made it sound like a non-stop party around here. He admitted that he has had fun since he moved in here. A couple of things did jump out at me, though, which I brought to his attention (after praising him for the time he took to write it, of course!). I thanked him for not scaring the child with details of my cooking, or overwhelming him with the rules of the house right away. I did notice, though, that he hadn't mentioned that he has received a hug at bedtime every night since his first night here, and has heard the words "I love you" every single day. He didn't mention that we have a dog who would love the child as if he's always been here from day one. He did mention that he would be allowed to keep his name and just add my last name to the end, and said "If you know your real family, he'll make those visits happen."

Semantics or not, I did have to talk to him about this. He said he meant to say "biological," but I reminded him that he had worked all day on this project, so I was sure he had chosen his words carefully. I recounted for him the days when he was new here and the neighborhood kids would ask I was his "real" dad. David was unsure how to answer this, so I stepped in with "I'm his only dad."

I asked him how "real" a mother is who is unable to parent?

Silence.

"You now have a parent who is committed to parenting you. How real is a father who walked away from his responsibilities?"

Silence.

"You now have a father for the rest of your life."

I told him that from where I stand, he has a "real" family for the first time in his life, and although he may be adopted, I would never refer to him as anything other than my "real" son.

"I'm sorry, Dad."

It was time for bed, so in saying our goodnights he hugged me tighter than any other night since he's been here, and I held him for a little longer than usual. He may not always have the words, but he's still able to communicate.

His next project was to write a thousand word essay describing where he'd like to be in five years. This seemed like a daunting task to him, but I asked him to think about what he would have written when he was ten, and if he thinks he's where he thought he would be at fifteen? The answer was no, so I gave him the "plan your work and work your plan" talk. Five years is a long time to a fifteen year old, but practically nothing to a man in his forties. "It will be here before you know it," I warned.

He has never been taught how to set a realistic goal, so had never had the mindset with which to create a plan to insure his own success. Setting a goal for him amounted to throwing a "want" out there and waiting for someone, anyone, to make it happen for him. I told him that only he could insure his own success. I can support him, but I can't make it happen.

He has some high hopes, which I pray he'll achieve as he studies for that double major at Duke while working two jobs and driving around in a car he fixed up while still helping his mother out financially. He hopes to receive scholarships for his academic work as well as in swimming (this is a new interest that came out of all of this). He'd like to have a strong relationship with me so that I can help guide him through some of the challenges college students face. I told him I thought his goals were good ones, and that he should keep them in mind with everything he does over the next five years, but not to be discouraged if he didn't have money at 20 to help his mother out. "College students tend to be broke most of their college years..." He watched, surprised, as I folded the letter into thirds. "Is that it?" I laid my hands across the letter and said "I'll mail this to you in five years. Make sure I always know where you are. If you haven't reached them all by then, you'll be able to write an action plan at that time to insure that you achieve them by the time you graduate from Duke."

Yesterday, I asked him to write a 300-word description of "the ultimate friend." I heard him when he approached the dining room table at 6:30 a.m. to eat his breakfast and read the day's assignment. "Ug."

Making friends has not been David's strong point. I was interested in seeing what he thought a true friend would be. He thinks they should be honest, and caring, and loyal. They should tell you if something's in your teeth. They should want to spend time with you, not kill time with you because you are bored (I had read him the passage On Friendship in Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet last week while we were discussing friendships, and that part seemed to stick with him). You should be able to be with each other even in silence, and you should be able to talk with them about anything without being judged.

I read his paper and agreed with the points he brought up, handed it back to him and said "This is the kind of friend you need to be to someone. You have to be a friend before you can make a friend."

After lunch, we headed to church so he could give his confession. Father spent just over a half hour with him in the office he has off the altar. I left the room and spent time looking at icons in the Narthex and reading the assorted pamphlets on the table. I didn't want to be within an earshot of their conversation, and I wanted David to know I wasn't listening. I knew he had made his list, felt that he was being honest with himself (I told him that in being honest with himself, he's being honest with God), and would learn through this to be honest with others.

I spent a little time of my own with the priest afterward. He's the father of five, and someone I think quite highly of. Without revealing the specifics of their conversation, he did tell me that he had encouraged David to use his services as a supplement to his regular counseling, which David seemed willing to accept.

Afterward I told my son that the time I spent with the priest was not spent reviewing anything they had discussed. I felt that David was prepared to own up to the things he had done, and that Father was wise enough to guide him properly through the process without any input from me. In fact, I told him that I had a confession of my own to make, which Father was kind enough to hear. On the way to the car, I asked him if he felt any better. He said "I do NOW." I explained that it was normal to feel anxious prior to confession. That's very much a part of it. Then I reminded him that his goal for his next confession was to enter the process with a shorter list. We then walked out of the church feeling lighter, together.

That evening, we met his new counselor. As we were getting into the car, I asked David if he'd like to know what I know about this guy. He said he would. I told him "I only know his name."

Turns out, he's a former Navy guy who has helped hundreds of foster children and adoptive families, and renewed my faith in therapists during our first five minutes. His former counselor was a very understanding woman who, after three years, didn't feel that she was getting through to him. They would play games and talk about books, but she was never able to get to the issues that David has probably been carrying around with him for years. She had suggested that since David had responded more positively from my direction than to hers, that perhaps I should consider a male therapist.

This guy opened with "Why are we here?"

"I don't know" was David's response.

"I don't know is not an answer."

And we were off. He is firm, compassionate, genuine, and realistic. He cut to the chase and won David over without any toys or games or books. Before either of us could say anything about conversations we'd had, he addressed the fact that I was David's "real" dad. That anyone who acts like, takes on the responsibility of, or dedicates his life to the raising of a child is a real parent. He could tell from how David and I interacted that we were in tune with each other, and allowed David to understand that it is O.K. TO LIKE HIMSELF.

Pow. He's the man!

David's assignment today, his "final exam" for the work we have done together over the past seven days, was to write a thousand word essay on what he had learned about himself this week. He is not finished with it, but I am hoping to see in there where he realizes that he is going through all of this, I am going through all of this, our network of help is going through all of this, and I'm afraid the neighbors are witnessing us going through all of this because he is worth it.