Vicky's Story...“A Late Night Caller”

It always alarms me when the doorbell rings after 11:00 at night. This night, it made me especially uncomfortable since I was alone. My husband was camping with a friend, and my daughter was spending the night out. It also startled our little Bishon, Sylvie, who was snuggled up in a deep sleep on the end of my bed. I put on my robe and turned on the front porch light before opening the door, chastising myself for not having a peephole installed. At least I remembered to lock the storm door while securing the house for the night.

As I peered out the door, I was horrified at the young man who stood before me. His head was shaved except for a Mohawk, obviously dyed black, to make it look even more dramatic. He had earrings in both ears. His shirt was black with “Anti Flag” written on it, a debauchery of the patriotism I had been so pleased to see increase since 9-11. His torn jacket had patches with words like “Punk” and “Anti Establishment” written on them.

In a quick glance, his look told me he stood against everything I held dear. In that instance, I had a decision to make. A decision that would change my life and the young man’s before me.

It only took a second for me to make that life changing decision. I threw open the door, grabbed my son in my arms and said, “What a surprise to see you. I’m so glad you came!”

We all have those moments. Moments when we look at a young person and decide whether to judge them or accept them, reject them or love them unconditionally. Standing before me was so much more than a rebellious teenager trying to find his way in a cold harsh world. It was really not a difficult decision at all.

As I listened to him recap his night at work, I cherished our time together and was so pleased at the maturity I was seeing. He was paying his rent on time and taking great pride in supporting himself without asking us for help. On his way out, after his usual “I love you Mom,” I heard him lock the door making sure his Mom was safe.

As Sylvie and I snuggled back in bed, my mind wandered over the life of this child of mine. Flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. At least this time I did not relive every mistake I’ve made. Instead, I focused on the hours cuddling in the rocking chair, the nighttime ritual of singing and bedtime stories.

It took years to allow myself to remember the good times. For a long time, I couldn’t remember. I would torment myself about what I did wrong. Did I discipline too much or hug too seldom? Maybe I didn’t laugh enough.

Every year, my husband and I would meet with all of his teachers and share our hearts over and over again. “Yes, he is ADHD. Yes, he is on medication even though it gives him headaches and nausea. True, it is over diagnosed, but he has had an extensive evaluation and really has ADHD. No, we do not let him use it as an excuse for bad behavior. We expect him to respect his classmates and especially his teachers. Please call us if you have any problems and we will back you up. We care.”

His high school guidance counselor, at our request, called the last conference. One teacher showed up. I sat there and remembered all the comments teachers have made over the years. “Everyone these days has ADHD; my neighbor’s dog is even on Ritalin.” Or, “If you would just discipline your son…” I also remembered my son coming home time after time embarrassed because of something a teacher had said in front of the entire class. “The class is going to miss watching TV in class today because of you.” or “Your parents told me I could call them and they would take care of you.” or “I know you have ADHD…” Eventually, we stopped asking for meetings with teachers.

It’s funny how people who had never been in our home knew exactly what we were doing wrong. Yet, we were the ones who read everything we could get our hands on and talked to expert after expert. Teachers, relatives, and even well meaning friends made their judgments. Did they know that we were doing our best to make the punishment fit the crime? Did they hear our conversations until the wee hours of the morning about what we could try differently? Did they hear all our prayers, feel our pain, or see our tears? There were many times I wanted to video tape our lives to show anyone who would listen and ask them what they would suggest. What had we not tried? What would they do differently?

When I imagine what life would be like with a child who was not ADHD, not strong-willed, not oppositional, at first it seems that life would be wonderful. But I know myself, and I would be self-righteous. I would be one of the very people whose comments hurt me the most. The ones who said that they could raise my son and he would act right, or their kids turned out right because they poured themselves into their children, or all my child needed was a good spanking. I could hear myself saying those things. After all, it is so easy to cast stones.

Instead, everyday I thank God for those who have not judged. I’m thankful for those who have encouraged us and who have looked deeper, past the weird haircuts and offensive clothes—people who have looked into my son’s heart. They see the fear and insecurities. They see the potential and the good. These people see the creative, sensitive child longing to feel safe enough to come out. They see the wounded child who has never fit into this world.

These friends have given us hope. They tell us that they see who he will become one day: the faithful husband, the loving father, and the honest businessman. I see him too—disguised in a Mohawk and torn jacket.