The Third Son

“Your son said something unacceptable,” he said. “We’re sending him home early for Purim.” “Oh, no,” I croaked. “What did he say?” It was bad. Not printable. I was floored. Mortified. “We’re putting Eli on the seven o’clock bus,” the mashgiach continued. Fear for my tenth-grader’s welfare temporarily overcame my feelings of mortification. “The seven o’clock bus?” I asked.

“That arrives at three in the morning! A 15-year-old Jewish kid can’t be in the bus station at that time of the night! Can you send him out tomorrow morning? Or even on the eleven o’clock bus tonight? At least then he’ll arrive when it’s daylight.” “He has to leave now,” the mashgiach said flatly. Furious with Eli for getting himself into this mess, and unsure how to deal with the situation, I called up Rabbi Rollman, the master mechanech that my husband Aron and I consult with. “Whatever you do,” he advised, “greet your son with a smile when he comes home and let him know that you’re happy to see him.”

Greeting my son with a smile was the last thing I felt like doing. I wanted to shake his head and yell at him, “You stupid kid! We did everything for you, and you ruined it!”

FROM THE TIME I was young, my dream was to give my children the perfect upbringing. As a child of divorce, I had been shuttled around from house to house for most of my childhood, and I was determined to give my kids the stability and normalcy I never experienced. I taught for a number of years before I was married, and in the course of working with my students and their parents, I encountered many different types of parents and parenting styles. By the time I had my own kids, I knew exactly how to be a mother. I would give my children lots of love and warmth, but I would also set limits. I would be firm and consistent with my kids, but I would not pressure them. I would raise them to be frum, but not farfrumt. Our Shabbos table would offer just the right balance of divrei Torah, zemiros, good food, and relaxed conversation. When the kids were little, things went exactly according to plan. Although they each had different personalities and preferences, they were all so cute and innocent, and they dutifully followed the script I had mapped out for them. My family was just perfect — until my third son, Eli, started first grade. The first day of school, he came home sobbing. “It will get better, Eli,” I comforted him. Had I known then what a nightmare school would be for him, I would have matched him sob for sob. It turned out that Eli had sensory issues that made it difficult for him to learn. Aron and I were both in chinuch, and we didn’t have two pennies to rub together, but we borrowed money to pay for tutors and therapy. Even so, by the time Eli graduated eighth grade, he was missing key Gemara skills, and we had to find him a high school that was geared to kids who were not academic.