Responsibility

Sitting at the conference, we knew what to expect.  "He is performing here, but his ability is here."

I can practically paraphrase this conversation, for it has occurred, on average, twice per year for the past six years of school.

Teachers have told us our child is on a pathway to destruction.
Others have empathized, based on raising a child just like ours.
Some are impatient and clearly don't like our son.
Some figure puberty will knock this out of his system.

My witty comeback, said with laughter, a smile, a frown, a grimace, or a tear rolling down my cheek, depending on which teacher we are talking to, where I am emotionally, and how his grades are shaping up, goes something like this "If you can tell me HOW to bridge the gap between here and there, I'll gladly pay you a ton of money."

Nobody can tell us.
Nobody has the faintest clue.
Everybody wants us to be aware.  Yet no one can offer advice.

We've tested for allergies and removed offending foods.
We've removed all dyes, preservatives, nitrates/nitrites, and gone practically 100% organic.
We've done expensive programs designed to create equity between the left and right brain hemispheres.
We've added vitamins and minerals and supplements galore.
We've medicated for ADHD.
We've prayed again and again and again.
Nothing changed.

New Years 2014 rolled around.

I stood at the doorway to another year and realized I wasn't going to try to lose weight, even though the scale clearly put me at a weight I didn't like, a weight that has historically made me so mad I started a quest to shed pounds.  (Instead, I am choosing to be conscious about my choices and cut out sugar and diet drinks.  Baby steps.)

I wasn't going to make some grandiose pronouncement about exercise.  The dogs, I figured, could use a daily walk.  The neighborhood streets would serve as my gym.

I wracked my brain for inspiration.  "Never been good at resolutions", my brain shouted in response.  But something told me I needed one;  something that mattered.  The bedroom shelves held my old love, books, and I immediately vowed to clear them off, making room for gifts that had yet to come and new purchases.  Read one fiction and one non-fiction book per month;  that was a worthwhile resolution.

I had promised a friend a re-read of The Metamorphosis (Kafka) to discover WHY I found so much hope in such a sad story;  that was clearly my first fiction choice.

The non-fiction didn't prove so easy;  at least twenty tomes begged to be read.  None spoke to me.  The one the author spoke about on the radio seemingly jumped out of a stack on the bedside table.  It spoke of "youth entitlement" and "things your child should know before they leave the house".

That was the one:  Cleaning House. 

The first few pages made my stomach ache.  I had tried so hard to be good to my kids but had, instead, made them entitled.  From sun-up to sun-down, life had revolved around making their lives easier.  But, as the book explained, making some one's life easier also sends the message "You aren't capable.  You can't handle this so I'll do it for you."

All I ever wanted were kids who could do for themselves.
I wanted future daughters-in-law to praise me for sending them men who could cook, clean, wipe a baby's butt, and still be a man.  In other words:  be responsible.
Yet, it was clear I was raising boys to continue to act like boys, with no knowledge of how to wash clothes or dishes or put together a suitable meal.

That all changed one week ago today.

We bought alarm clocks.  Don't get up in time?  Late for school.  Late too many times = detention.  Detention = suspension from fun activities.  Get up when the clock goes off!

We thoroughly cleaned and organized rooms and set expectations for them for every day of the week.  If they do not meet those expectations?  Pay the piper (literally).

We determined an appropriate time for leaving for school and church.  If you aren't ready?  You get left behind on the first trip out to door.  We'll meet you around front and you can pay the "taxi".  And, again, pay the piper (double what it costs to have a messy room).

We decided messy counter tops/sinks in the bathroom should be taken care of by the offender.  We bought wipes and taught everyone how to use them and dispose of them.

We were sick to death of unbrushed teeth, unused soap and shampoo in the shower, and smelly boy pits.  Equally as frustrating was not dressing to school uniform code;  do it right or....you guessed it....pay the piper.

Now, it has only been one week, but so far only two dollars has been collected from all three boys (and that occurred today for being late for carpool).  Our mornings are practically blissful.  There are no arguments, no reminders, no nagging, no stress.  Every single person in this house knows their chores and goes about doing them.

And, my son, who previously was having a hard time bridging that gap?  Well, he stepped up to the plate at school yesterday, reporting something that he previously would have let go.  He didn't ask my opinion, didn't ask for help, he just DID IT ON HIS OWN.  And when I asked him how he felt?  He said he was PROUD.

I'm not delusional enough to think this is the end-all-be-all, but I do think we are on to something here.  Maybe common sense in parenting is right:  every one should pitch in because they live under this roof.  Age doesn't matter.  Skill doesn't matter (most skills are learned, after all).  Taking responsibility DOES matter.

Our next parent/teacher conference?  I expect to hear some version of skill vs. output.  After all, my son has a lazy streak as long as a football field.  Yet this little experiment is proving that, if we just step away and let him take responsibility, in the end he'll get it done.  The key is LETTING him, and not jumping in and sending the message that we parents can do it better/faster;  we have to show him we are confident in him.

Next month we are tackling shopping, cooking, setting a table, and doing dishes.

I am confidently buying Pepto Bismol.