Two Pieces of Paper

There are two pieces of paper sitting in our house right now that may describe my twelve-year-old son better than anything I could possibly write.

We'll get to those.

First...

We still haven't found the phone.

It has now been a full week.

A whole week.

I have searched places where a phone could reasonably be.

Places where a phone could unreasonably be.

And places where I'm fairly certain a Samsung Galaxy has never existed in the history of consumer electronics.

Nothing.

I've given myself until the end of this week.

Then I'm filing the insurance claim.

Which virtually guarantees we'll find the original phone approximately seventeen minutes after the replacement arrives.

At least we finally got some good news about the van.

What started as an oil change turned into our mechanics noticing the valve covers beginning to leak on the relatively new engine.

Then, while fixing that under warranty, they found a few other things beginning to fail.

Also under warranty.

We've been without the van for more than a week now.

Yesterday, I finally got the notification.

It's done.

Ready to come home.

Now we just have to find time to go get it.

Because apparently even retrieving the vehicle we use to get everywhere requires figuring out how to get somewhere without the vehicle.

Logistics.

Still, there are much worse phone calls to receive from a mechanic.

I'm incredibly grateful they were paying attention and willing to address everything while it was still covered under warranty.

I'm also still sick.

Better.

Not good.

Yesterday was probably the worst of it.

The best description I have is that it felt like somebody wrapped my entire body in warm cotton.

Too warm.

Everything muffled.

Everything slightly disconnected.

My brain somewhere several inches behind the rest of me.

Today is better.

And naturally, today is also perfect sick-day weather.

Gray sky.

Cold drizzle.

Wind moving through the trees.

Temperatures refusing to climb much beyond the mid-60s.

Everything outside looks like fall.

But somehow...

It smells like spring.

This is weather specifically designed for staying in bed with tea and a movie.

Unfortunately, nobody consulted my calendar.

But yesterday, through the cotton and the cold medicine, came those two pieces of paper.

David walked into my office after school.

I knew immediately.

His face said everything.

"How was your day?"

"It was okay."

Not great.

Okay.

Uh-oh.

"What happened?"

"I got a detention."

There it is.

I needed a few minutes to finish signing out of work, so I told him we'd talk shortly.

Then I met my wife coming inside.

She handed me two papers.

The first was exactly what I expected.

Detention.

Playing games on his Chromebook during class.

A battle with which we are already familiar.

Then she handed me the second.

She was already laughing.

"This is our son David in a nutshell."

Across the top was his name in a fancy script.

Underneath?

An invitation to join the Junior Beta Club.

I stared at them.

Detention.

Junior Beta Club.

Same kid.

Same day.

Of course.

Maybe it was the fever.

Maybe it was exhaustion.

But I laughed.

Hard.

Because if you've ever needed proof that children can be more than one thing at exactly the same time...

There it was.

Printed on two sheets of paper.

We still dealt with the detention.

Our rule is simple.

Detention means grounded.

We talked about the Chromebook.

About distraction.

About setting an example.

About how little decisions can become habits if you let them.

He understood.

Then I told him something that visibly hit harder.

I'm not taking baseball away.

This time.

His face changed.

Because suddenly he understood what had actually been sitting on the table.

Next time, my hands are tied.

Choices have consequences.

And some consequences reach into things you care deeply about.

Message received.

Then we picked up the other paper.

Junior Beta Club.

A's and B's.

Leadership.

Service.

Character.

Standards for behavior.

We read through it together.

But I didn't sign it.

I told him to think.

Do you actually want this?

Are you willing to give it what it deserves?

Ask questions.

Find out what it requires.

Then decide.

The timing was almost ridiculous.

Because Sunday night, I'd gathered the kids for a small ceremony of my own.

A box had arrived.

I opened it in front of them.

Inside was the regalia for one of the two honor societies I've been invited to join during my time in college.

Before I pulled it out, we talked.

About all the hats I wear.

Dad.

Husband.

Leader.

Student.

Everything else.

And I explained something I desperately want them to understand.

I push them.

But I will never ask them to chase a standard I'm unwilling to chase myself.

And I will never ask them to do something I don't believe they're capable of doing.

Then I pulled out the regalia.

Their eyes got wide.

The room got quiet.

For a few minutes, achievement wasn't something Dad talked about.

It was something they could hold.

Two days later, David came home carrying his own invitation.

Alongside a detention slip.

Naturally.

He was still thinking about it this morning.

He'd already built a pros-and-cons list in his head.

I gave him a few questions to ask at school.

Now the decision belongs to him.

And regardless of what he chooses...

I'm proud of him.

Insanely proud.

He's worked hard.

He's smart.

He's thoughtful.

He's growing.

He's also a little wild.

But then again...

So was I.

The rest of the crew had a pretty good day too.

Asher got his schoolwork done with plenty of laughter coming from him and Mama.

Zoey woke up late and still finished everything before lunch, because apparently that's just what she does now.

And Jacob?

Most of his homework was finished at school or on the ride home.

Everything done before 6:00.

Monumental.

So today I'll work.

I'll finish the schoolwork my cotton-filled brain couldn't manage yesterday.

I'll drink something warm.

I'll probably stare longingly at my bed every time I walk past it.

And I'll give myself permission to move a little slower.

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

It looks like autumn.

Smells strangely like spring.

And somewhere in this house is a missing phone.

Probably sitting three feet from somewhere I've already searched six times.

But on the table are two pieces of paper.

Detention.

Junior Beta Club.

Both true.

Neither one the whole story.

Funny.

That's probably true about all of us.

We spend a lot of time trying to decide what someone is based on one moment. Good kid. Difficult kid. Smart kid. Troublemaker. Leader. But people don't fit particularly well on one piece of paper. Yesterday, David brought home two, and together they still don't come close to describing him. He's learning that achievement carries expectations and choices carry consequences. My job isn't to decide which piece of paper defines him. It's to help him understand that he gets to decide, over and over again, what he does next.

Much love.

Stay safe.

Wash your damn hands.

Seriously.

This week I mean it.

And I will see you, next time.