If you haven't heard, the American economy is in somewhat of a pickle. There exists only a handful of tyranical, evil-spirited humans we call "the rich," and the rest of us are innocent and struggling. Wouldn't it be just wonderful if someone could take the money from the rich and give it to those who REALLY deserve it? Like me?
Read this article if you want to learn more about what awful, stingy, horned monsters the wealthy are....
Or, allow me to describe the preschool version of the same issue which plays itself out in front of me on a daily basis:
Little Johnny walks into school with a brand, new toy. Most of the other kids admire it from a distance--telling Little Johnny how cool it is and maybe asking to touch it. But, Tiny Tim doesn't want to look or touch. He wants to HAVE the toy. And, luckily, he's armed with the Buzzword of Most Classrooms...
"Miss Amanda, Johnny won't share!!!"
Now, perhaps if I were power-hungry, I would enjoy the opportunity to solve this problem. After all, my preschoolers--like American voters--cannot fix issues themselves. (Right?) They need some sort of authority to step in and make things fair, because they aren't capable of making their own decisions. It's a good thing preschoolers have teachers and Americans have politicians to take control. And, since the definition of "fair" is NOT "keeping whats yours" but rather, "surrendering whenever Timmy is mad," I would force Johnny to share.
However, I am not power-hungry, and my aim is NOT to educate a bunch of co-dependent, open-handed future citizens. Instead, I usually reply:
"Tiny Tim, if you work hard when you're a grown up, you can make lots of money and buy a cool toy like that for yourself."
-----
The adult buzzwords are similar to the classroom's. SOME teachers would force Johnny to give up his toy in the name of the righteous principles of "sharing," just as some politicians act swiftly at the mention of "poverty," the "poor economy," or the "wealthy class." The unbalanced wealth in America is causing many citizens to buy the argument that what we really need is a strong, authoritative teacher to yank the toys away from the wealthy and give them to the deserving, struggling Tims.
Except for one thing. In America, we have the right to be selfish.
Morally, I spend a lot of time talking about the evils of self-obsession and looking-out-for-number one. In fact, I believe selfishness is the single most destructive problem in civilization. But, if even God Himself will not force us to do right--but, rather, gives us the freedom to love ourselves more than others--why do we believe Washington should be the Moral Police? Do we really want to give politicians control of the money--trusting THEM to make the "fair, balanced" decisions?
If I were a kajillionaire, I like to believe I'd be generous. As a God-fearer who wants to obey the command to care for the poor, the widow, and the orphan, I hope I would give endlessly. Even now, as a person who isn't starving, I try to keep my pocketbook open when confronted with the needs of another. But, it's none of my business whether Kobe or Madonna or Trump are charitable with their money. God doesn't force me to love my neighbor, and I can't force them to love theirs, either.
As adults in a free country, Americans are NOT helpless, as I implied earlier, and we do not need somebody to regulate our finances, even when we disagree with the financial choices of another. In a free country, anyone can start a business, make a killing, and keep the entire haul for himself, if he wants--no matter how much Tiny Tim wishes that person would share.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
My Background--the Neighborhood
My youth minister once told Tim and I we were the most “normal” homeschooled kids he knew. He didn't know the meaning of the words “politically correct." For that matter, I think he enjoyed making waves with offensive stereotypes like that. But his comment was rooted in the fact that homeschool families are notorious for over-protection. Not all, but many of them live in the country and go to very small churches, where it's difficult for their kids to find friends the same age. The homeschoolers my youth minister complained about were head-smart, but they didn't have real-life experiences. What he meant by his comment was that my brother and I, in contrast, didn't lack exposure to the real world. And, if that's true—if there was anything “normal” about us—I credit the time we spent getting in trouble with our hoodlum, public-school buddies.
In my neighborhood--the downtown area in a city of 50,000 people--kids we had never seen before would show up on their bikes, play our games for a few weeks, and then never be heard from again. A boy named Clinton—who said his different-colored eyes came from the time a policeman threw him down the stairs—never answered questions about where he lived. But, we still played football with him and listened to his dirty jokes until he just stopped coming around. Another kid, a girl with a bowl-cut whose name escapes me, rode up one day with a huge gash on her leg, blood trickling down and collecting in her sock. I tried to look her in the eyes while she said something about the Icecream Man, but I finally asked if she needed a band-aid. “Huh? For this?” And she wiped the blood off with a leaf. I was deeply impressed by her strength and would have become a follower if she had shown up more than a couple times.
But there were seven of us not allowed to cross Taylor Street who formed a core-group for years. Three sets of siblings lived on the same block: my brother and I, Calvin and Wesley, and Drake and Ian, plus, when Cory visited his grandmother, he joined the clique. We all became friends the year the school system put the new bus stop in front of my house. Tim and I liked to sit on the corner after school and wait for the “normal” kids to come back. For the first few days, they stared at us suspiciously as they jumped out of the bus and headed home, but eventually, one of them asked the burning question:
“Why don't you go to school?”
“We do,” I explained. “Our mom teaches us at home.”
“Do you get to wear your pajamas?”
“Sometimes.”(long pause)
“Wanna play football?”
From then on, we did virtually everything together, especially when it came to defending our “property”—the Kingdom that spanned our entire block, from Taylor to Mulberry St. and from Leeds to Lindsay. It was a small territory, but the alleys formed a perfect X in the middle, making it a prime piece of land we felt was prone to attacks. We constantly rehearsed battle tactics using hand-drawn maps, code names, and whatever weapon-like objects we found in garages and figured nobody would miss. If a member of our army stood on each corner of the block and a fifth person parked a bike on the manhole cover where the alleys crossed, the signal from our walkie-talkies reached everybody.
Nobody stepped foot on our soil without our knowledge, and one of two things happened when a stranger crossed that line.Sometimes, as in the case with Clinton and the short-haired girl, we would invite the newcomer to join our ranks and hand him or her a walkie-talkie. However, some undefinable process offered other invaders worse luck. Usually, we would discover that the unknown kid was a notorious trouble-maker in another neighborhood, known for stealing bikes and smashing pumpkins. But even if he or she had a clean record, Calvin, the oldest among us, had the power to label him or her “stupid,” which was an equally good reason for war.
“Get off our property!” one of us would bellow.
“Make me!” This was the standard reply, but, fortunately, Wesley would be ready for it:
“You can't stay here.”
“Can, too. I got rights.” If the kid had been around the neighborhood awhile, he may even use the word “constitution” in his retort. We respected that kind of knowledge, but we had a comeback for it as well.
“Well you're a loser, loser, double loser, as if, whatever, get the picture, duh...”
This was my stone to throw because I was best at memorizing the really cutting insults.
“You are times ten!”
At this point, I may have handed over the reigns to my apprentice, Drake, for the classic: “You're a super-sonic-idiotic-brain-disconnected-ding-dong-double-decker-dork.” But, if we got this far in the battle, we knew we had a worthy opponent. Therefore, Calvin may have broken out the big guns:
“If you don't leave, I'll go get my dad.”
All of us from the block knew that Calvin and Wesley's mom actually was much scarier than their dad. But, historically, kids from other neighborhoods used their dad's names to settle fights. This was a strategic move on Calvin's part.
“Whatever, you're stupid,” the enemy would say as he turned to leave. And all of us would throw our remaining assaults at his retreating back.
“Yeah, and don't come back!”
“Maybe Mommy will make you feel better!” etc.
When we grew tired of scouting and defending, the block allowed for great games of tag, and we turned its ragged sidewalks into bike ramps. Also, if we were lucky, our parents would give us permission to take the alleys past Lindsay Street to Village Pantry, where we bought our candy cigarettes. (Since then, ethically-concerned adults have insisted they be renamed “candy stix,” but I trust that kids still know how to use them.) Though glass-littered and full of potholes, the neighborhood was a dream playground, and we never missed the chance to meet in it every day after school. We'd ride, pretend, and fight for hours until the streetlights came on, or until Mom whistled for us—a sound that could be heard well outside the Kingdom.
I haven't seen any of them in years. A small civil war erupted after my brother broke a tree branch over Wesley's back, but I don't think that alone ended our adventures. A short time after that, there was a fire in Calvin and Wesley's house which killed their mother. Tim and I were home, as usual, when we heard the sirens stop very close. We saw Calvin and Wesley's bus pull up right next to the ambulance...but we didn't know what to say to the boys, so we didn't say anything ever again. And even though their dad repaired the house, we just never repaired the group.
Still, what we had was special. And whether or not it made me “normal,” there's no question my childhood friends helped shape who I am. Something about skinned knees and bare feet on asphalt make a kid grow up right. A little trouble and some candy cigarettes are good for the soul. The seven of us weren't meant to chase enemies off our land forever—it was bound to end at some point. But every time I see kids riding bikes, I smile and wonder which one delivers the best insults or bleeds without crying. It's comforting to know there's a new generation out in the neighborhood, getting a proper education.
In my neighborhood--the downtown area in a city of 50,000 people--kids we had never seen before would show up on their bikes, play our games for a few weeks, and then never be heard from again. A boy named Clinton—who said his different-colored eyes came from the time a policeman threw him down the stairs—never answered questions about where he lived. But, we still played football with him and listened to his dirty jokes until he just stopped coming around. Another kid, a girl with a bowl-cut whose name escapes me, rode up one day with a huge gash on her leg, blood trickling down and collecting in her sock. I tried to look her in the eyes while she said something about the Icecream Man, but I finally asked if she needed a band-aid. “Huh? For this?” And she wiped the blood off with a leaf. I was deeply impressed by her strength and would have become a follower if she had shown up more than a couple times.
But there were seven of us not allowed to cross Taylor Street who formed a core-group for years. Three sets of siblings lived on the same block: my brother and I, Calvin and Wesley, and Drake and Ian, plus, when Cory visited his grandmother, he joined the clique. We all became friends the year the school system put the new bus stop in front of my house. Tim and I liked to sit on the corner after school and wait for the “normal” kids to come back. For the first few days, they stared at us suspiciously as they jumped out of the bus and headed home, but eventually, one of them asked the burning question:
“Why don't you go to school?”
“We do,” I explained. “Our mom teaches us at home.”
“Do you get to wear your pajamas?”
“Sometimes.”(long pause)
“Wanna play football?”
From then on, we did virtually everything together, especially when it came to defending our “property”—the Kingdom that spanned our entire block, from Taylor to Mulberry St. and from Leeds to Lindsay. It was a small territory, but the alleys formed a perfect X in the middle, making it a prime piece of land we felt was prone to attacks. We constantly rehearsed battle tactics using hand-drawn maps, code names, and whatever weapon-like objects we found in garages and figured nobody would miss. If a member of our army stood on each corner of the block and a fifth person parked a bike on the manhole cover where the alleys crossed, the signal from our walkie-talkies reached everybody.
Nobody stepped foot on our soil without our knowledge, and one of two things happened when a stranger crossed that line.Sometimes, as in the case with Clinton and the short-haired girl, we would invite the newcomer to join our ranks and hand him or her a walkie-talkie. However, some undefinable process offered other invaders worse luck. Usually, we would discover that the unknown kid was a notorious trouble-maker in another neighborhood, known for stealing bikes and smashing pumpkins. But even if he or she had a clean record, Calvin, the oldest among us, had the power to label him or her “stupid,” which was an equally good reason for war.
“Get off our property!” one of us would bellow.
“Make me!” This was the standard reply, but, fortunately, Wesley would be ready for it:
“You can't stay here.”
“Can, too. I got rights.” If the kid had been around the neighborhood awhile, he may even use the word “constitution” in his retort. We respected that kind of knowledge, but we had a comeback for it as well.
“Well you're a loser, loser, double loser, as if, whatever, get the picture, duh...”
This was my stone to throw because I was best at memorizing the really cutting insults.
“You are times ten!”
At this point, I may have handed over the reigns to my apprentice, Drake, for the classic: “You're a super-sonic-idiotic-brain-disconnected-ding-dong-double-decker-dork.” But, if we got this far in the battle, we knew we had a worthy opponent. Therefore, Calvin may have broken out the big guns:
“If you don't leave, I'll go get my dad.”
All of us from the block knew that Calvin and Wesley's mom actually was much scarier than their dad. But, historically, kids from other neighborhoods used their dad's names to settle fights. This was a strategic move on Calvin's part.
“Whatever, you're stupid,” the enemy would say as he turned to leave. And all of us would throw our remaining assaults at his retreating back.
“Yeah, and don't come back!”
“Maybe Mommy will make you feel better!” etc.
When we grew tired of scouting and defending, the block allowed for great games of tag, and we turned its ragged sidewalks into bike ramps. Also, if we were lucky, our parents would give us permission to take the alleys past Lindsay Street to Village Pantry, where we bought our candy cigarettes. (Since then, ethically-concerned adults have insisted they be renamed “candy stix,” but I trust that kids still know how to use them.) Though glass-littered and full of potholes, the neighborhood was a dream playground, and we never missed the chance to meet in it every day after school. We'd ride, pretend, and fight for hours until the streetlights came on, or until Mom whistled for us—a sound that could be heard well outside the Kingdom.
I haven't seen any of them in years. A small civil war erupted after my brother broke a tree branch over Wesley's back, but I don't think that alone ended our adventures. A short time after that, there was a fire in Calvin and Wesley's house which killed their mother. Tim and I were home, as usual, when we heard the sirens stop very close. We saw Calvin and Wesley's bus pull up right next to the ambulance...but we didn't know what to say to the boys, so we didn't say anything ever again. And even though their dad repaired the house, we just never repaired the group.
Still, what we had was special. And whether or not it made me “normal,” there's no question my childhood friends helped shape who I am. Something about skinned knees and bare feet on asphalt make a kid grow up right. A little trouble and some candy cigarettes are good for the soul. The seven of us weren't meant to chase enemies off our land forever—it was bound to end at some point. But every time I see kids riding bikes, I smile and wonder which one delivers the best insults or bleeds without crying. It's comforting to know there's a new generation out in the neighborhood, getting a proper education.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
My Background--Tim
I'm not even going to attempt to explain my absence.
Okay, really quickly: Chicago Trip, Texas Trip, Thanksgiving, House projects. I apologize sincerely to those who enjoyed the first installment of my personal soap opera and desperately craved more. Today's trip down memory lane includes a summary of Life with Tim (the "Difficult Child" as I referred to him in the previous post). I feel it necessary to mention that Tim is a very different person as a man than he was as a boy. Currently, he's in Iraq with the Air Force and one of the most respectful, driven, and well-rounded individuals I know. But, growing up, he encountered plenty of rough times--which impacted ME in various ways as well....
----
We drove past the topless bar on Markland almost every day, and Mom was frank with 6-year-old Tim when he asked about the bright pink building. She said: it's not a good business because women take their clothes off. Another day, while riding with our dad, Tim tried to relate this knowledge.
“Daddy, Mom says that's a place where ladies dress up naked.”
Dad wanted to laugh, but he knew better. Likewise, we hid our amusement when we found out Tim, at 10-years-old, thought the guy who fell off the wall was called “Humpty Dump-Me.” And we forced blank expressions while he recited spelling words or read from textbooks, just to make sure he didn't mistake a smile for a joke at his expense. Tim was a sensitive little boy.
One day, during a not-uncommon screaming fit, Mom told Tim to go to his room until he could calm down. He yelled something back, gasping for air between sobs, and Dad stepped in to attempt reasoning.
“Buddy, just take a break and sit on your bed for awhile. You always get so worked up.” But Tim was already out of control, and he wasn't about to let Dad tell him what he “always” did. Clenching his fists at his side, his entire body heaving, he took a deep breath and bellowed:
“Well, you never, ever, E-VER!” My parents waited for the rest of his accusation. But when they realized he was finished, they looked at each other and burst into laughter. Big mistake. Tim flew into his room and slammed the door, rattling the windows and knocking a picture off the wall. Within seconds, toys were being dumped and flung against his bedpost, and he was kicking his closet door. Even across three rooms, I heard the thuds and shrieks of Tim's outrageous temper.
Right on schedule, the doctors diagnosed him with ADD. But, as far as my parents were concerned, the doctors simply informed them Tim was a boy—perhaps shorter-fused than most, but simply wired for energy. They were given a bottle of blue pills to manage him, which required a couple hours of fighting just to get down his throat. Even still, the medication didn't improve things. Sure, it made Tim lethargic, and he no longer had the stamina to scream and throw things. But the hate never left his eyes. He wanted nothing to do with family or with the happiness and affection associated with it, and he would say as much—scream it when he skipped a pill.
Then he grew up. At least, his body grew up. The house enjoyed quieter days than when Tim was in grade school, but this is because, as a teenager, he often stayed out with friends. Reports of his well-being had to come indirectly, through the rapid disappearance of food and overpowering scent of cologne in the morning. But when we did see him, we tried to be warm. Mom and Dad faithfully attended football and soccer games, attempting to speak love in Tim's language. Had we continued this way, more or less leaving him alone, he would have been content. But our parents knew he wasn't doing homework, and they constantly asked their jobless son where all his new stuff was coming from. During these confrontations, the tears would begin to form in his eyes and his temper would spiral away.
It was the first of June, Tim's 16th birthday, when Mom and Dad spelled out his options: bring your grades up over summer school or there will be no sports next year. Tim's point was semi-valid. “Coach said he could work something out so I can play if I get a paper signed.” And this was despite the school's policy stating that athletes had to maintain a C-average or be benched. But, Mom and Dad explained to Tim that school rules and home rules were different And they promised to call the rule-bending coach to make sure Tim didn't play unless he studied harder. The bedroom door slammed, several pictures fell off the walls, and I could hear Tim swearing three rooms away.
Mom often said she couldn't handle it anymore, but this time, she demanded my dad call the police. I saw disbelief on his face for only a second before he composed it again. Mom continued, “You call them and tell them we have an insane teenager, and tell them he's violently out of control.” Dad hesitated for another minute, but then we heard the sound of glass shattering in Tim's room. Dad dialed.
“Yes, I could use an officer at 1103 W. Taylor. We're not sure what to do with our teenage son right now.” At that moment, Tim came down the hall, holding his right hand to reveal a gash between his fingers at least an inch wide--causing blood to stream past his elbow and drip on the carpet. “And, we're going to need a paramedic, too.”
I hid in the stairwell when the police pulled up, but I could smell leather boots and foreign fabric softener from there. The crackling radios and strange voices didn't let me pretend it wasn't happening, so I listened to them. Straining, I could hear the EMT's tell Tim he'd have a pretty big scar, and one of the officers asked him why he punched the mirror.
“They just make me angry,” Tim said in a low voice, sobered by the pain and commotion.
“There's nothing wrong with being angry, partner. You just have to deal with it better.”
Another officer said, “Look, son, we're gonna go ahead and take you to the juvenile jail for booking. That way, if there's ever a problem again, we have you in the system.” And Tim spent his birthday in the police station. As the officer made his way out the door, holding my baby brother's arm, he spoke into his radio. “10-16, just a domestic disturbance.” His nonchalance infuriated me. I couldn't believe he summed up our nightmare in so few words—that the police had a code to label my family's crumble.
Two years later, Tim was picked up for shop lifting, and a few days after that, our parents kicked him out of the house for good. Dad, the reasonable one, put all of Tim's belongings in garbage bags on the porch. Then he locked the door and went to bed. I went to bed, too, but I didn't sleep. The house seemed empty and cold without my brother, even though he wasn't home much anyway. It was different when he wasn't even welcome there. Mom and Dad had been hardened by the Difficult Child, and they didn't care if he was sleeping on a bench somewhere. But, I wanted to march into their room and plead his case. I knew he had burnt through all his extra chances, but I didn't want to let it go. I contemplated sneaking to unlock the door, even if it was just a temporary fix. But I laid there and cried instead. Tim was never, ever, E-ver coming back.
----
Okay, so it only FELT like he never would come back. But, as I said in the beginning, he only needed some time to mature. Tim moved in with a friend's family and got a job. Then, after highschool, it suddenly occurred to him that he "didn't want to rot in Indiana" like his friends, partying and getting into trouble with no real direction. So he joined the Air Force and never looked back.
Anyway, I tell this story because, years later, I'm actually really glad God allowed me to experience the irrational, emotional tantrums of my little brother. Now, in my job at the daycare, I'm responsible for calming and teaching children (mostly angry little boys) who exhibit the same behaviors Tim did. In fact, sometimes the similarities between my students and my brother downright floor me.
But, I've never felt intimidated by the violent outbursts or unpredictability of relating to a Difficult Child. It's almost homey, in a way. Or, maybe what I mean to say is my first instinct--rather than fear or anger--is a sense of sisterly protection and sympathy when one of my students has a really bad day.
Finally, and most importantly, growing up with Tim has taught me the number one thing that keeps me returning to work when others might quit. I know, since I've seen it in my brother, that there always remains hope for the most unhappy, out-of-control little boy to grow into a truly impressive man.
Okay, really quickly: Chicago Trip, Texas Trip, Thanksgiving, House projects. I apologize sincerely to those who enjoyed the first installment of my personal soap opera and desperately craved more. Today's trip down memory lane includes a summary of Life with Tim (the "Difficult Child" as I referred to him in the previous post). I feel it necessary to mention that Tim is a very different person as a man than he was as a boy. Currently, he's in Iraq with the Air Force and one of the most respectful, driven, and well-rounded individuals I know. But, growing up, he encountered plenty of rough times--which impacted ME in various ways as well....
----
We drove past the topless bar on Markland almost every day, and Mom was frank with 6-year-old Tim when he asked about the bright pink building. She said: it's not a good business because women take their clothes off. Another day, while riding with our dad, Tim tried to relate this knowledge.
“Daddy, Mom says that's a place where ladies dress up naked.”
Dad wanted to laugh, but he knew better. Likewise, we hid our amusement when we found out Tim, at 10-years-old, thought the guy who fell off the wall was called “Humpty Dump-Me.” And we forced blank expressions while he recited spelling words or read from textbooks, just to make sure he didn't mistake a smile for a joke at his expense. Tim was a sensitive little boy.
One day, during a not-uncommon screaming fit, Mom told Tim to go to his room until he could calm down. He yelled something back, gasping for air between sobs, and Dad stepped in to attempt reasoning.
“Buddy, just take a break and sit on your bed for awhile. You always get so worked up.” But Tim was already out of control, and he wasn't about to let Dad tell him what he “always” did. Clenching his fists at his side, his entire body heaving, he took a deep breath and bellowed:
“Well, you never, ever, E-VER!” My parents waited for the rest of his accusation. But when they realized he was finished, they looked at each other and burst into laughter. Big mistake. Tim flew into his room and slammed the door, rattling the windows and knocking a picture off the wall. Within seconds, toys were being dumped and flung against his bedpost, and he was kicking his closet door. Even across three rooms, I heard the thuds and shrieks of Tim's outrageous temper.
Right on schedule, the doctors diagnosed him with ADD. But, as far as my parents were concerned, the doctors simply informed them Tim was a boy—perhaps shorter-fused than most, but simply wired for energy. They were given a bottle of blue pills to manage him, which required a couple hours of fighting just to get down his throat. Even still, the medication didn't improve things. Sure, it made Tim lethargic, and he no longer had the stamina to scream and throw things. But the hate never left his eyes. He wanted nothing to do with family or with the happiness and affection associated with it, and he would say as much—scream it when he skipped a pill.
Then he grew up. At least, his body grew up. The house enjoyed quieter days than when Tim was in grade school, but this is because, as a teenager, he often stayed out with friends. Reports of his well-being had to come indirectly, through the rapid disappearance of food and overpowering scent of cologne in the morning. But when we did see him, we tried to be warm. Mom and Dad faithfully attended football and soccer games, attempting to speak love in Tim's language. Had we continued this way, more or less leaving him alone, he would have been content. But our parents knew he wasn't doing homework, and they constantly asked their jobless son where all his new stuff was coming from. During these confrontations, the tears would begin to form in his eyes and his temper would spiral away.
It was the first of June, Tim's 16th birthday, when Mom and Dad spelled out his options: bring your grades up over summer school or there will be no sports next year. Tim's point was semi-valid. “Coach said he could work something out so I can play if I get a paper signed.” And this was despite the school's policy stating that athletes had to maintain a C-average or be benched. But, Mom and Dad explained to Tim that school rules and home rules were different And they promised to call the rule-bending coach to make sure Tim didn't play unless he studied harder. The bedroom door slammed, several pictures fell off the walls, and I could hear Tim swearing three rooms away.
Mom often said she couldn't handle it anymore, but this time, she demanded my dad call the police. I saw disbelief on his face for only a second before he composed it again. Mom continued, “You call them and tell them we have an insane teenager, and tell them he's violently out of control.” Dad hesitated for another minute, but then we heard the sound of glass shattering in Tim's room. Dad dialed.
“Yes, I could use an officer at 1103 W. Taylor. We're not sure what to do with our teenage son right now.” At that moment, Tim came down the hall, holding his right hand to reveal a gash between his fingers at least an inch wide--causing blood to stream past his elbow and drip on the carpet. “And, we're going to need a paramedic, too.”
I hid in the stairwell when the police pulled up, but I could smell leather boots and foreign fabric softener from there. The crackling radios and strange voices didn't let me pretend it wasn't happening, so I listened to them. Straining, I could hear the EMT's tell Tim he'd have a pretty big scar, and one of the officers asked him why he punched the mirror.
“They just make me angry,” Tim said in a low voice, sobered by the pain and commotion.
“There's nothing wrong with being angry, partner. You just have to deal with it better.”
Another officer said, “Look, son, we're gonna go ahead and take you to the juvenile jail for booking. That way, if there's ever a problem again, we have you in the system.” And Tim spent his birthday in the police station. As the officer made his way out the door, holding my baby brother's arm, he spoke into his radio. “10-16, just a domestic disturbance.” His nonchalance infuriated me. I couldn't believe he summed up our nightmare in so few words—that the police had a code to label my family's crumble.
Two years later, Tim was picked up for shop lifting, and a few days after that, our parents kicked him out of the house for good. Dad, the reasonable one, put all of Tim's belongings in garbage bags on the porch. Then he locked the door and went to bed. I went to bed, too, but I didn't sleep. The house seemed empty and cold without my brother, even though he wasn't home much anyway. It was different when he wasn't even welcome there. Mom and Dad had been hardened by the Difficult Child, and they didn't care if he was sleeping on a bench somewhere. But, I wanted to march into their room and plead his case. I knew he had burnt through all his extra chances, but I didn't want to let it go. I contemplated sneaking to unlock the door, even if it was just a temporary fix. But I laid there and cried instead. Tim was never, ever, E-ver coming back.
----
Okay, so it only FELT like he never would come back. But, as I said in the beginning, he only needed some time to mature. Tim moved in with a friend's family and got a job. Then, after highschool, it suddenly occurred to him that he "didn't want to rot in Indiana" like his friends, partying and getting into trouble with no real direction. So he joined the Air Force and never looked back.
Anyway, I tell this story because, years later, I'm actually really glad God allowed me to experience the irrational, emotional tantrums of my little brother. Now, in my job at the daycare, I'm responsible for calming and teaching children (mostly angry little boys) who exhibit the same behaviors Tim did. In fact, sometimes the similarities between my students and my brother downright floor me.
But, I've never felt intimidated by the violent outbursts or unpredictability of relating to a Difficult Child. It's almost homey, in a way. Or, maybe what I mean to say is my first instinct--rather than fear or anger--is a sense of sisterly protection and sympathy when one of my students has a really bad day.
Finally, and most importantly, growing up with Tim has taught me the number one thing that keeps me returning to work when others might quit. I know, since I've seen it in my brother, that there always remains hope for the most unhappy, out-of-control little boy to grow into a truly impressive man.
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