A Good Catholic Family Man

Every Monday afternoon, I sit in a room with a dozen other sets of parents, accompanied by their troubled children. Sitting next to me is my own, a sixteen-year-old boy who has become a man without warning. To the other side of him is his mother. Each child is there for substance abuse problems.

Paul was a charming, intelligent boy. He still is, in fact, even as his gifts are clouded in a haze of anger and medication, both perscribed and otherwise. His downward spiral began in the sixth grade, with the suicide death of a friend. Several months later, his mother called. Paul had to be committed to a psychiatric ward. I knew nothing of his problem. I was only consulted on the matter when it came time to pay the bills.

Two and a half years ago, Paul and I became estranged. He stopped visiting me every other weekend, saying how his mother could go to the judge and have my custody rights taken away from me. (Where would he get an idea like that?) I threw up my hands, and began the painful task of letting go. This once-straight-A student could barely pass his subjects. Not that it mattered to him. Too much pressure, and that was bad for him. Then came drugs, alcohol, staying out all night -- with a mother too proud to admit her limitations, and a father kept in the dark.

When Paul's mother finally gave up, and placed the matter in the hands of the court, I was finally brought in to "do my share of the load." I convinced her that charging Paul with a felony for "borrowing" her car was counterproductive. I agreed to take Paul to his AA meetings twice a week, even if it meant driving to another part of town just to take him a few miles, then sit and twiddle my thumbs until he was finished. In return, I get to send his mother a check every month. Other than that, I get blown off half the time, until another ride, or another check, is needed.

The terms of our custody agreement called for renegotiation within five years. I made two pleas to take Paul during his tenure in high school. I was dismissed out of hand by both of them. He started going out on "dates" in the fifth grade, over my strenuous objections. He should be nurtured in the manly rites of passage by his father, I told his mother. She insisted that she knew more about bringing him to manhood than, say, the man in his life.

I have waited in the wings ever since.

Barely a week goes by, when I don't find myself reading in a Catholic periodical, from the wisdom of some sanctimonious button-down twerp, talking about how "the family is under attack." His task complete, he retreats to his safe suburban home, to his docile wife and ten or twelve obedient children.

He doesn't know the half of it. Come next Monday, I'll sit in that room again, feeling more like Ozzy Osbourne than Ozzie Nelson. No matter what I do, it is safe to assume that the Knights of Columbus will never nominate me as "Family Man of the Year." After all, they need someone who can set the proper example, who can serve as an inspiration to others.

Saint Joseph, inspire me.