I sit here in the car driving home from the office. My twelve year old son sits next to me and I think back on the years in which our relationship developed into what it is today.
When the doctors pulled that little guy out of the womb (by C-section) almost thirteen years ago, he screamed like banshee, and just kept on screaming. . . for years, only taking a breath now and then for eating and sleeping. That’s how we were abruptly and a little rudely introduced to parenting so many years ago.
At the beginning, fathering for me involved bringing home a paycheck and a good night kiss on his forehead. I was too busy changing the world, writing books, running for governor of the state, and that sort of thing. I was too busy changing the world to realize that all my activity out in the world couldn’t hold a candle to the kind of deep-seated, long term effect I could have in the life of one solitary little boy. I just kept the door to my office closed so I could concentrate better on changing the world. He was three years old and still screaming an awful lot.
I heard somewhere that it might be a good idea to read the Bible as a family and we began a daily habit of, what we called, “Bible Time.” This was a huge leap in my conception of parenting, although I was later to discover that this fifteen-minute-a-day routine was not enough for me to build a relationship.
My son had a strong will, strong emotions, and a strong mind. He was a difficult boy.