The pain and joys of teenage boys
ONE minute you’re threatening to remove the door, the next you’re taking medical advice.
Our eldest son turns 29 this year and is halfway through a Doctor of Medicine Degree at Griffith University on the Gold Coast.
Being accepted into medicine was hard fought and won. He completed his undergrad degree with distinction but was knocked back for med school entry the first year he applied.
He regrouped, worked hard and the following year made the cut.
Now the kid who needed constant pushing and prodding has a stethoscope and is already seeing patients.
There are three sons and 12 years ago I was cooking for a small army and barking orders like a sergeant major.
There were chores to do, rooms to clean and schoolwork to supervise.
My husband and I were not popular.
It was as if our home was inhabited by chimps, whose communications consisted of eye rolls and grunts.
Eye rolls = stop nagging me, I don’t want to do it.
One grunt = yes, I heard you, stop nagging me, I still don’t want to do it.
Two grunts = I had a good day and I love you.
When the boys were at school, I’d open their bedroom doors to air out the dank, musky scent of testosterone.
Teenage boys have a whiff to them, ask any parent who has navigated life with one and they’ll agree.
One time I found 14 dinner plates in a bedroom.
Yes, 14.
So many that I’d bought more thinking we’d broken them.
Then weeks later when trying to open a curtain I saw a glint of metal behind the computer desk.
I pulled out eight spoons and two forks.
We are the kind of parents who keep in touch with our children’s teachers, as we want to know how they are doing academically.
Our eldest has diagnosed ADHD and throughout his school life there was the constant ‘he’s distracted and not completing tasks’ then ‘he’s scored 100 percent on the exam’.
He has an eidetic memory – an ability to recall visual information with exceptional accuracy and detail.
The problem is new information is absorbed so quickly he gets bored.
He’d spend 20 minutes trying to find the perfect pencil and be 20 minutes behind the rest of the class.
Then get near perfect scores at exam time.
When he was nine someone from the Department of Education put him through a series of tests.
He was selected to continue primary schooling at a high school set up to cater for children with exceptional academic ability.
But ability only equals success if there’s effort and when he entered his teens, computer games became his focus rather than schoolwork.
My husband was at the high school at least once a week, trying to keep him managed so he wasn’t forced to drop subjects needed for university entry.
We knew he was smart, he knew he was smart, the teachers knew he was smart … but being smart without putting in the work means nothing.
It was the same with all our sons.
We paid attention to their education because a high ATAR means more choice and more choice mean a better chance at a job you genuinely enjoy and are good at.
It’s their best chance of a happy life and as parents, our role is to set them up properly.
We started by changing the WIFI password, it was given to boys who did their chores, were polite and completed school assignments on time.
It was fun thinking up silly passwords, writing them onto pieces of paper, then handing them over when an ‘inmate’ ticked all the boxes required.
There were a few tense months at the start of Year 12, as he wasn’t prioritising study. When Wifi access was removed, he played games on his Play Station that worked without it.
So, out went the Play Station.
He read his books and listened to music or slept.
Out went books and mobile phone.
He became grumpy and stomped about complaining about how unfair life was.
Off came the door.
When the door was removed, we stood it against the wall and marvelled at how little was left.
It was a very sad moment; we felt hopeless and that we’d let him down.
What were we doing wrong and why wasn’t he using all that talent to seize life?
To us being successful didn’t mean wealth or influence, but doing something fulfilling that made him happy.
A few days after D(oor) Day, a change happened.
I took him to a stationery shop and bought a big planner.
We marked off goals and deadlines.
He started finishing assignments and powering through schoolwork and the responsibilities of Year 12.
The door went back on, books and music returned, the computer was plugged in and Wifi restored.
He passed Year 12 and then a Bachelor of Health Science at Griffith University.
He graduated with distinction and it was an emotional moment seeing him at the ceremony dressed in his robes.
There were more challenges for him and I hope it was some of the early work we did that helped him persist.
I hadn’t realised how hard it was to get into medical school.
There’s a test that must be sat, it’s held in an arena filled with hundreds of hopefuls.
It’s the Graduate Medical School Admissions Test or GAMSAT and happens twice a year in March and September.
It costs $560 and if you fail, you pay again each time you sit the test.
Without a GAMSAT pass, you can’t apply to med school.
My son sat the test and passed it first go.
He applied to Griffith’s Doctor of Medicine pathway and was knocked back.
He spent a year completing smaller medical courses while working as a barista and waiting for the next year’s application run.
A year spent waiting and working paid off and he was in and is now halfway through his degree.
A week ago my husband had a nasty ear infection, he saw the local doctor and was prescribed antibiotics.
The pain was so bad he was trying to sleep it off.
I heard him talking to someone through speaker phone. He was asking how best to apply the ear drops and whether ibuprofen could be taken at the same time as another medication.
It took a few minutes sneaky listening before I clocked that it was our eldest.
He sounded so professional, grown up and knowledgeable.
Of course, he is all those things, but parents see the child first and adult last most of the time.
“Darling, he said I can take two ibuprofen, please bring me some,” I heard coming from the bedroom.
One minute you’re threatening to remove a bedroom door, the next you’re taking medical advice.
