I have two sons. My oldest son, Max, decided around age eleven that school was a just a game he needed to play if he was going to get where he wanted to go. From that time forward it was relatively easy for him. He graduated high school near the top of his class, he was elected Junior Class President, he was a member of the debate team, he was offered a scholarship to American University, and was one of two seniors selected to speak at his commencement. He also had a girlfriend, for the record.
My younger son, Sawyer, decided around age twelve that he wanted nothing more to do with school, and he has been homeschooled ever since. He has never been a member of any team, he has never won an award, nor does he have a circle of friends. He was diagnosed on the autism spectrum when he was seven.
Do not be fooled by this list, however. Max and Sawyer are different in the way all brothers are different and are similar in the way all brothers are similar, just as two branches grow in different directions from the same tree. Lists of accolades and diagnoses form extremely misleading portraits. Missing are the thousands of tiny choices that make up a day, choices that ultimately determine the course of a life.
As their father, my concern is not that list of accolades and diagnoses, but those tiny choices that make up a day. And not their choices -- but mine. No matter how different their choices and experiences, my job remains exactly the same: to ask myself, whenever my boys and I are relating, "What is the very best thing I can do or say at this moment?" That's it. My job is not to fix them or plan their lives or even teach them right from wrong.
It is a very simple job that nonetheless requires my full attention because no two moments are ever the same. Sometimes the best thing to do is to tell a story, and sometimes the best thing to do is to listen to a story; sometimes the best thing to do is give a little advice, and sometimes the best thing to do is take a little advice. Of course, sometimes I do not give a moment my full attention, which is always when I find other people most annoying. When I don't give a moment my full attention, instead of asking, "What's the best thing I can do or say?" I usually ask myself, "What the hell is wrong with that person?"
The answer to that question is always, "nothing." Yes, sometimes that other person is upset, or scared, or angry, or tired, or confused -- but nothing is ever wrong with them. They are never broken. If I ask honestly ask myself, "What's the best thing I can do?" I always get an answer. If I ask, "What is wrong with that person?" any answer I hear is merely an invention of my own fear that life itself has somehow gone off-kilter and I must now correct it.
That is not a job I want. I've attempted it often, with very poor results. In fact, I could no more do that job than teach a tree to grow. Whether I am a parent or child, the best I can ever do is align myself with where I authentically want to go. This choice requires my full attention, but the benefits of giving that attention are always immediate. No sooner do I do so than I am back with myself, and my boys, and all those other people of which a life is made.
You can learn more about William at williamkenower.com.