September 11 2013

There are three boys living in my house. One is 8, one is 5, and one is 12 — the 12 year old is the one living in me. The 12 year old has lots of good ideas; most of them don’t work. He often shows up in the heightened moments, those times where discipline is needed.

“Stay in this area. Don’t go into that area,” I tell the 5 year old. As I say it I know what I’ve done, and it’s too late. I’ve made the off-limits area mystical, enchanted. “Don’t eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.”

Well what did you expect?

I’m sitting, watching. I see the 8 year old playing where I asked him to play (of course I do because he always wants to know what to do and what not to do so he can do what he’s supposed to do) (generally), but I don’t see the 5 year old. I know. I give it a few more minutes to give the kid a chance and to give myself a chance. Three minutes, no 5 year old.

The 12 year old shows up. I didn’t see him sneak in, which is my failure. He’s angry and scared, the 12 year old. I walk to the enchanted land. The 5 year old is caught, his gaze drops in shame.

If I don’t feel the 12 year old come in the room, he’ll run the show, and he knows so little, a kid in charge of a company.

I thank and dismiss the 12 year old. He’s important and is not to be killed. He may be immature and misguided but, he’s confident, and he remembers things that I don’t. This leaves me with me at 40, not knowing how to discipline, to disciple. Do I remove something from the 5 year old loves, a treat or tv time? Do I put him in the nebulous “time out”? Do I trust my gut, and is my gut the 12 year old in me? No one is there to help. Sometimes I have a sense of the next move; often I do not.

We stand there together while shame and fear devise a plan and attack.

The 8 year old keeps playing.