A Bad Case of 15

“Shut up!” Ian yelled at James again. Ian has never been a morning person, but this wasn’t just being tired and grumpy. He’d launched himself at his brother earlier and, when I’d separated them, he turned on me. “Leave me alone! You’re nothing but a stupid, old man.”

My youngest child had always smiled, had a quick laugh and was a joy to be around. Sure of himself and always ready to try a risky adventure, he loved every bit of life. As he got older, his easy demeanor changed. He tossed childhood favorites aside with scorn, grew tall and sulky and preferred a grunt or a growl over speech. His favorite expression became a glower.

Getting Ian ready and off to school was more than the usual morning chaos, but we wouldn’t let him stay in bed. We’d cajole and bluster, with a fair amount of success.

Church was no different and, sometimes, I’d make a tactical withdrawal and allow him to miss a service, but it was always noticed. “Where’s Ian?” people would ask.

“He has a case of 15.” Knowing looks and expressions of sympathy came my way. It’s similar to the terrible twos. He has temper tantrums, refuses to listen and will not talk out his problems, but he’s nearly man-sized and quick to seek a physical solution. He knows so little and thinks he’s the master of his world.

Still, we try. We hold him accountable for his behavior and don’t let him avoid family activities. I held out a platter. “Ian, would you like the last cookie?”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “No, Mom can have it.”

They do it all the time. Just when you think you’ve failed as a parent, the little sprouts will do something that makes it all worthwhile.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.