Yesterday, I picked up my seventeen-year-old son from his last camping weekend as a scout.
Appropriately, the trip had been in Forestburg, NY, on a clear, cold, beautiful weekend with a frozen lake and constellations at night he could identify, conducted at their council’s own Boy Scout camp, where he has made countless memories.
And I imagine committed countless shenanigans. At least, I hope so.
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On my way over to get him, I couldn’t help but think of his, and my, scouting career.
He started at the tender age of six in a then-large pack in our town, with boys from his school.
For a boy with autism and ADHD, sometimes meetings and events were exceedingly difficult.
Fortunately, he fit right in with the rest of his den, as well as his fearless leaders, who at least until me and my Cub Scout wife took over years later, had the patience of saints.
I also volunteered extensively.
Hint to new parents- volunteering goes a long way toward eliciting compassion for your kids.
I signed him up in part because there are three Eagle Scouts in his family, and many decades of scouting between them; and in part because I knew scouting would be hard for him, but good for him too.
There’s no coddling in the BSA. If you need something, you’d better ask for it.
Of course Cub Scouts is a kinder, gentler version of Boy Scouts, but regardless, even as a young boy, he learned from his challenges.
How to wait.
How not to be the best at something.
That spending two hours selling popcorn, standing up in a uniform, would not, in fact, kill him.
He learned about responsibility.
He learned about duty.
And when he hit his actual Boy Scout years, he learned the most invaluable lesson of all, something all parents of autistic children strive for, at least any I’ve ever met.
He learned how to advocate for himself.
There are no handouts in the BSA.
As he entered my car yesterday I looked over at my tired, dirty, son, and contemplated the remarkable transformation he’s made over the past twelve years.
When he first started, my child was afraid of bugs.
In the past month, one leader has told me he was instrumental in keeping his kids safe on the NY subway on their December hike, and how invaluable his help was to his family.
Another came up to my car yesterday praising his speech at dinner, where my once-shy son spoke about how much scouting meant to him, how much he loved everyone in the troop, and how happy he was to continue on as an adult leader.
This leader told me how much that feeling was reciprocated within the troop.
Scouting, when done right, is transformative.
This troop, the men, women and scouts in it, and his Cub Scout pack before it, made him an adult.
In seven months, I will take the advice of all my friends who had kids at normal ages, hold onto my tears until I exit his dorm room, then sob my guts out.
But even as I decimate my Kleenex box, I will know this.
I leave behind a son who acquired resilience from completing tasks he never thought he’d finish.
I relinquish a son who learned both how to both follow instructions and lead, competently, and respectfully.
I say goodbye to a child who began his scouting career eliciting compassion from others, and learned how to return it fully to those in his troop who needed his care.
I am forever indebted to Pack 163, Brick NJ, and Troop 82, in Wall.
And if you choose to sign your son or daughter up for scouting, live their motto.
Be Prepared.
You will be amazed at who they turn out to be.
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