Fuck.
If my kid got cancer and got sidelined by two years, I'd get to sit by his side and hold his hand and make sure he had milkshakes or whatever people eat when they are on chemo. Sure I'd be stressed and sad, but at least I'd get to see him every day (not that I wish cancer on the Boy at all ever.)
So now I get to write him letters once a week and get a phone call? Nooooo!!!! I wanted to scream.
- I want to drive him to soccer tournaments.
- I want him to get his drivers license.
- I want to let him drive himself to soccer practice.
- I want to take him skiing.
- I want to eat dinner with him every night.
- I want to help sort through all of the junk mail he is starting to get from colleges because his PSAT scores were high enough to put him on the list.
- I want to sit in orchestra concerts.
- I want to write a check to his bassoon teacher for his lessons.
The idea of leaving the Boy someplace else for the next year or two was killing me. Prior to this weekend, I thought I'd be fine with it, that I could pretend that the Boy was accepted to college early or something. But no. My mind suddenly decided that that mind trick was bullshit.
"Breathe," said Jack. "Take a deep breath."
I took a deep breath and continued to sob.
"Hector says negative emotions only last thirty seconds to three minutes," said Jack. Hector was Yoda on our Family Quest weekend, in case you forgot.
"Hector is an idiot," I said, even though it is not at true because Hector is awesome. Hector might not have been referring to true grief when he said this. I tried another few deep breaths but continued to cry. It didn't work. I finally settled down enough to go to sleep.
In the Boy's most recent letter to us, he asked us to look for an aftercare program that will suit him well. "Please be thorough but also don't take forever." Yes, the Boy knows us well. Jack will do extensive research on buying a toaster oven. How long might he spend researching some thing as important as a place for the Boy to live for the next year when he spent hours on something as trivial as a toaster?
Today, we visited another school waaay out in the middle nowhere.
The staff was interviewing us as much as we were interviewing them. The first question was what did we do for a living and the second question was where we went to college. Isn't that what LinkedIn is for? At first, I was put off by this is a little bit, but then it started to make sense. Perhaps having well-educated, ambitious, professional parents are part of the problem. These kids all came from a similar type of background which would then give them something in common to work out in group therapy. In addition to having well-educated, professional parents, the kids are intelligent, came out of pressure-cooker high schools, and the kids underperformed. Is there a pattern there? Yes. These kids are capable of more than they were doing in a regular setting, and the goal is to get these kids back on track. I think what they do is appeal to these kids' intelligence to help them tap into their emotions. I don't exactly know for sure, but perhaps that is the plan.
This school also interviews the parents to make sure we are on board with the program. This program--like many other therapeutic boarding schools--has a heavy emphasis on family dynamics and fixing the home so there is a safe place for the kid to come home to. By having a very narrow demographic, it probably makes it easier for them to corral the parents. And if the doctor dad sees the lawyer mom being called out for lack of "recognizing" who their kid is, it might be easier for the doctor dad to see that behavior in himself.
Yeah, this is going to be tough.
So what will be my work, as the diligent, hardworking, stay-at-home mom for a million years? The Director asked what I did to help the Boy cope, and I listed all of the things that I did to support him.
"Did he go on sleepovers as a boy?" the director asked.
"Um," I said. "Not that often."
"Did he not want to go?" the director asked.
"When he would go to a sleepover, he'd be up all night and then he'd be a monster the next day," I said. "It wasn't worth it for me to deal with a super grouchy kid for the next twelve hours."
"So you tried to manage the Boy's depression and emotions from the sidelines?" the director said.
"Yeah," I said, knowing it was the wrong answer. "But he would have a meltdown the next day for two hours and I couldn't take it." Seriously. A two hour meltdown sucked.
"You know that you really couldn't do that, that you couldn't manage his emotions for him," the director said.
"Yes," I said.
"He needs to learn to manage his emotions on his own," he said. "It is impossible for one person to manage another person's emotions. That is why he needs to come here."
I am not sure if this means I failed, or if it means I tried as hard as I could. Or both. I somehow felt that letting go of the Boy would have been catastrophic, and I had evidence to support that. If didn't, he wouldn't be in Wilderness in the first place.
Nevertheless, I have my work cut out for me. And so does the Boy.
In the Boy's most recent letter to us, he asked us to look for an aftercare program that will suit him well. "Please be thorough but also don't take forever." Yes, the Boy knows us well. Jack will do extensive research on buying a toaster oven. How long might he spend researching some thing as important as a place for the Boy to live for the next year when he spent hours on something as trivial as a toaster?
Today, we visited another school waaay out in the middle nowhere.
This school also interviews the parents to make sure we are on board with the program. This program--like many other therapeutic boarding schools--has a heavy emphasis on family dynamics and fixing the home so there is a safe place for the kid to come home to. By having a very narrow demographic, it probably makes it easier for them to corral the parents. And if the doctor dad sees the lawyer mom being called out for lack of "recognizing" who their kid is, it might be easier for the doctor dad to see that behavior in himself.
Yeah, this is going to be tough.
So what will be my work, as the diligent, hardworking, stay-at-home mom for a million years? The Director asked what I did to help the Boy cope, and I listed all of the things that I did to support him.
"Did he go on sleepovers as a boy?" the director asked.
"Um," I said. "Not that often."
"Did he not want to go?" the director asked.
"When he would go to a sleepover, he'd be up all night and then he'd be a monster the next day," I said. "It wasn't worth it for me to deal with a super grouchy kid for the next twelve hours."
"So you tried to manage the Boy's depression and emotions from the sidelines?" the director said.
"Yeah," I said, knowing it was the wrong answer. "But he would have a meltdown the next day for two hours and I couldn't take it." Seriously. A two hour meltdown sucked.
"You know that you really couldn't do that, that you couldn't manage his emotions for him," the director said.
"Yes," I said.
"He needs to learn to manage his emotions on his own," he said. "It is impossible for one person to manage another person's emotions. That is why he needs to come here."
I am not sure if this means I failed, or if it means I tried as hard as I could. Or both. I somehow felt that letting go of the Boy would have been catastrophic, and I had evidence to support that. If didn't, he wouldn't be in Wilderness in the first place.
Nevertheless, I have my work cut out for me. And so does the Boy.
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