The summer of my son’s 13th
year I really had trouble liking him.
Too soon? It’s that summer now
while I’m trying to write this so probably is too soon to say such a thing,
right? Also it’s not entirely true. It’s not that I’m having trouble liking him per say, it’s just that he’s
driving me crazy. Let me try to start over.
Dear Future Partner of My Son G,
I’m sorry.
I’m trying. I really am. But I’m beginning to suspect this absent
minded professor thing is neither an act nor something he’s going to outgrow.
The other day at the lake I handed him a bag full of water bottles saying, “I
need you to make sure this bag stays upright so the water bottles don’t leak.”
Two minutes later I found him
sitting on a bench, under which the bag was laying on its side, dripping water.
“I couldn’t make the bag stay up,” he explained. I will admit I found myself
once again wishing he were just a really dumb person so I could justify these
sort of actions, being able to sigh to my friends, “well you can’t blame him.
He’s just always been kind of stupid.”
But that’s not the case. He’s brilliant when it comes to things that
he cares about. He might not remember which of his frequently seen cousins is
which but he could answer Star War trivia so obscure it would baffle George
Lucas. He can astound comic book shopkeepers with his arcane superhero knowledge
but once forgot how old he was when he was still in the single digits. I don’t recall ever having to assist him with
his homework. He spends a few minutes on it and night and then makes the honor
roll.
At the end of that lake visit, I
asked him to show his younger brother where the changing area was in the men’s
restroom. “Actually,” I said, “don’t just show him. Please stay with him.” When
I emerged from the women’s room, I was immediately informed that he did not
stay with his younger brother. “I didn’t hear you,” he insisted. Nor, of
course, did it occur to him that perhaps a child who isn’t allowed to go into a
public restroom by himself yet should maybe not be left alone to undress in
front of strangers.
Later at the library I ran into a
friend, a teacher of gifted students. I complained to her about his behaviors
that day. “Gina,” she said, “that’s what all
of the gifted boys in my class are like.” “What can I do?” I whined. “Can you try giving
him more responsibility?” she asked.
The funny thing is that was the
approach I had already been considering. So the rest of that week he was put to
work: weeding, picking vegetables and walking the dog. I made him repeat
instructions to me ensure he really heard me. It’s exhausting to have to keep
treating him this way, the way I treat a much smaller child, especially because
I do still have three other smaller children at home. But for you, his Future Partner (okay and
fine, for the rest of the years he lives with me), I will continue to treat him
this way.
His older sister never needed this
kind of handholding. She, too, sails through her homework on her own, but she’s
always knew which cousin was which. At the start of last school year, I asked them
both if they’d signed up for Newspaper Club. My daughter had--for both of them.
And had gotten two permission slips for me to sign. “Stop it!” I told her.
“You’ll be at high school next year and then what is he going to do??”
That night they asked if they
could “Futuramen” together, which is their preferred shared activity of eating
ramen noodles and watching Futurama on Netflix. My husband is disgusted by how
frequently I let them eat ramen and I admit it’s a bit out of character—the mom
who swaps organic garden-grown spinach for local eggs to bake her kids granola
bars allowing frequent consumption of these 6 for $1.00 hypertension noodles—but
I just love that they bond this way.
G insists he cannot figure out how
to make them and my daughter gets so frustrated trying to explain it to him she
just does it herself. I get it, I once talked him through making a box of
macaroni and cheese and it was the most difficult thing the two of us had been
through together since I had pushed him through the birth canal. So I
understand her actions, but of course that does you, Future Partner, no favors
whatsoever.
What I’m trying to say to you is:
please, don’t blame me. I’m harping on
his sister to stop enabling him (blame her!). I’m trying, every day, to get him
to stop being so dependent and oblivious. He’s been doing his own laundry and
making his bed for over a year now. I hold on to hope that one day he’ll be
able to master making macaroni and cheese.
Because here’s the thing, Future
Partner: I really want you to exist. He has a sharp wit, a great smile, an
astounding love of babies, is an amazing cartoonist and an excellent writer. I
want him to have a full and happy life. I love him so much--and I don’t want
him to live with me forever.
Future Partner, I’m trying. But if
he still has shortcomings when he’s grown, I hope you can learn to live with
them and love him for the wonderful person that he is.
And always remember to not blame
his Mother.
She tried.
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