“I wish all my students were like Mowgli,” said the instructor.
My daughter envisioned her son’s bedroom floor covered with clothes, books, and dog toys, the bed unmade since the beginning of time, and the curtains drawn forever darkening the room. “Are you talking about my son?” she asked. The teacher at West-MEC continued, recounting Mowgli’s attention in the classroom, his prompt response to instructions and careful execution of tasks. He attributed the organization of the supply room to Mowgli’s leadership. Huh? Organization?
At dinner, in Mowgli’s presence, ED recounted the scene. “Our Mowgli?” Mike and I asked, offering our congratulations when it was affirmed that the young man at our table was the recipient of the praise.
I learned much about boys when raising a boy. I learned much about dogs when adopting a dog. I have learned much about mental illness living with a child with ADD (technically, ADHD.) This boy unable to print a legible sentence could spend an hour coloring a complex design. The boy who struggled with spelling could spell “world” backwards without hesitation. (Useful skill. It may appear on a cognitive exam.) The boy who has difficulty making friends expresses deep insights about human behavior.
I muse about why he can organize the supply room at school but is unable or unwilling to place clothes in a closet or drawer. His grandfather has set the example of organized workspace, the workshop in the garage meticulously organized—the organization so fine that ED and I can’t find anything. I doubt Mowgli is much influenced by the garage. The house is also well-organized.
We praise Mowgli, careful to contain our excitement which would drive him to his room. I know to tread softly, offering hugs only when he invites them. When he is down, I back off, letting him find comfort with his mother. When he is up, I am there, riding the rapids, reveling in his laugh, his pithy comments, his happiness, imprinting these moments in my memory, to recall when the worry sets in, which will happen shortly.
Mental illness. Every family is affected by it, directly or indirectly. Because the symptoms are not physical, it is easy to dismiss as bad behavior. Because the symptoms are not physical, it is difficult to treat. Because the symptoms are not physical, they change as the brain develops. It is easy to throw up our hands in defeat, letting the victim flounder. But when that victim is your child or grandchild, you see who they really are and what they can offer the world.
My mantra: be kind, be compassionate, be generous. With everyone. That sullen distinterested young man is someone’s much beloved son.
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