“Ian, time to get up.” I started by being cheerful, tickled him, warned him that I’d tickle again, then followed through with my threat. But when he rose, he wasn’t happy. He ate his breakfast hunched over and scowled at all who glanced in his direction.
That was just the beginning. Fed and medicated, he retreated to his room to hide under the blankets and continue his active resistance that didn’t end until we saw him board the bus. At school, the teachers were astounded. He was a model of compliance, and they never had trouble with him.
It could be his disability, or that he’s only being a teen. Maybe he’s just not a morning person. Whatever the reason, every dawn brought a contest of wills that left me drained and exhausted. This continued the entire school year.
Until the morning I kept the music playing on the computer. I rise early and write in the peaceful stillness. This day, Reiki Zen concentration music caught my eye and my ear.
I left the music playing instead of turning on the radio or TV.
When Ian came downstairs and ate, he was different. So much so, that I didn’t notice. He dressed, followed instructions and, if not entirely cheerful, at least he wasn’t hostile. And I didn’t catch on for almost a week.
When the realization dawned on me, I was stunned. Could it be so simple? For the rest of the school year, I left the radio off and turned up the volume of the Reiki Zen music. Magic. I remembered the cliché about the charms of music, but now I witnessed it every school day.
He’s still a teen, alternately sweet and surly without warning. But I’ve outsmarted him. All I have to do is play the music.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.