I didn't pray for that

I have reached the end of my rope. Actually, I am barely hanging on to a rope. In fact I'm slowly slipping down the surface of whatever it is that comprises my life.

My 11 year old son (turned 11 today) has worn a great big hole in my patience and has my level of unconditional love dangerously low. I'm sure I'm remembering it wrong, but I remember being a pretty good student. Sure, I often procrastinated on some projects, but I eventually did do them even if it meant a couple of late nights. I might have to ask my mother about that. I did pretty well in school and so did my husband. So I don't understand how I'm getting this bachi -- what goes around comes around.

How did I get a son who is so disorganized that he was capable of losing a trombone? A TROMBONE! This isn't some tiny little instrument. This is a big, trip-over-it-when-he-leaves-it-in-the-hallway trombone. It was missing for the last week. He did find it again at school and brought it home yesterday. Shockingly, he's only lost his retainer once. It is a tiny thing but he's never supposed to take it out unless he's eating. You'll never guess where I found it -- his sock drawer. How do you lose a retainer in your sock drawer? Does this even remotely make sense in any universe?

Two months ago, my husband and I made a deal with my son who is perpetually late on his homework. He complained that we were always riding him about it. My husband proposed the deal that we lay off completely. In exchange, if my son manages to do all his work, then great, we all win. If he doesn't, he'd have to do the work when we told him to, no argument. Well, he took us on our word. We did not bother him about his homework. But true to form, he didn't do any of his assignments. *sigh* Do I have sucker written across my forehead in some kind of magical marker that is only visible to kids?

So this morning I called his school counselor for advice. I called to find out if there were some kind of program, summer school or workshops that he could attend that might help with this. As I laid down my woes at her feet, instead of coos of, "oh, you poor thing..." I got raucous laughter. She said, "I don't mean to laugh but I know your story all too well. It's mine too, and my son is 30 years old now."

"Wow! That's great. How great is it to know that there is a light at the end of the tunnel." I was so relieved to know that a child like that could make it to adulthood.

She said, "What's funny is that now he's a pediatrician. If you had told me that when he was 10 years old, I would have fell right over."

We went on to compare notes, laughing in our commiseration.

"As a joke, my husband and I bought him a guitar. We thought that it would be nearly impossible to lose something that large. Now he's a pretty good guitar player."

"Oh," I said laughing, "I expected you to say that he did lose it and then you ended up getting him a cello."

"No, a piano! 'Here, try to lose this!'"

She was impressed that my son had managed to lose the trombone this last week.

She said she wishes she could say that at age 13, a switch goes off and all of a sudden he will start caring about his assignments and his surroundings. But that didn't happen. In her experience, her son ended up making it all the way through school just kind of scraping by with good enough grades, but not the best. When he went to college, when he was out of her home, he stepped up to the plate and really buckled down. Clearly, he's come a long way having earned his medical degree and specializing in pediatrics.

So maybe the gloom I've been feeling over the past few weeks is unfounded. This too shall pass, right?

A couple of nights ago I watched the movie Evan Almighty. There is a scene where God played by Morgan Freeman asks one of the characters, "If you pray for patience, do you think you receive patience or get the opportunity to learn patience?" It was a good line. If I'm honest with myself, I've prayed for patience a boatload of times. So I guess it is my fault in that sense.

Next time I'll be more specific.