Every day I picked my sons Carter and Owen up from school. “What’d you do today?” I’d ask. Shrug. “What did you have for lunch?” Shrug.
I longed to hear about what they played at recess and how they did on their spelling tests. But the more I pushed, the more they retreated into stony silence. St. Paul advised Ephesian parents not to “exasperate” their children, but my boys were certainly exasperating me.
One day, instead of asking questions, I prayed. Please, God, help them open up. I got the same results. I just have to accept they don’t want to share their lives with me that much, I thought that night as I tucked Owen into bed.
“Scratch my back?” he said. I hadn’t done that since he was a toddler. Carter wanted a back scratch too. So I obliged.
“We had a substitute today,” said Carter with a sigh. “She was really mean.”
“Did she have red hair and big glasses?” said Owen. “We had her last week! We missed half of recess because she didn’t like how we lined up.”
“Sounds like you’ll be happy to get your regular teacher back,” I said.
“She’s nice,” said Carter. “She’s been teaching us about space. It’s really cool.”
I kept scratching and the boys kept talking. By the time I said good night I’d heard more about school than I had all year. Back scratching became a nightly ritual—conversation optional. Angels had scratched the itch of a curious mom.
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