Runaway Teens: Level One Detention

Old Battersea Bridge by James Abbott McNeill Whistler. 1859

How do we get a kid to leave Fantasy Island and cross the bridge to Reality? 

We shout out a few Wake-up Calls and REFUSE to meet 'em even half-way to crazy.

My nephew ran away on Wednesday after getting in trouble on Monday, managing to make a bad situation worse with his arrest on Friday. That’s three days on the lam. They were armed with DVDs, CDs, ipods, and comic books---enough entertainment to distract them from freezing temperatures, growling tummies and adolescent egos too proud to call home.

I am thankful the police were concerned when we reported him missing Wednesday afternoon. I am thankful watchful people called police when they spied two stray kids roaming a parking lot. They could have ignored their intuition, but they didn’t. Bless them.

For three days, the agony of not knowing if my nephew had been kidnapped was hellish beyond description. We hardly slept a wink. We were reassured by his disheveled appearance on Friday that he hadn’t gotten much sleep either.

My sisters and daughter and I kept vigil in our home while extended family members called for updates. Prayers went out all over the USA because we did not know if he had run away of his own volition, been abducted by a weirdo, or kidnapped by his estranged father. The waiting period was excruciating and our imaginations got the better of us from time-to-time. Then we’d joke ourselves back to normalcy, cry to relieve the pressure, and start the emotional rigmarole all over again.

We admitted that if he walked through the front door at any moment (which is what the police presumed would happen), our immediate reaction would be to cover him in kisses and hugs; we’d be so relieved. 

I’m deeply sorrowful for parents who never know what happened to their child. The unknowing is immobilizing. It’s as if life stops. Moving one foot feels like a betrayal to the child’s safety. We want to freeze time in place. Hold our breath long enough to keep the days from moving forward. Maybe we could find a magic key and turn back the hands of time? I bargained with myself, “If he comes home, I’ll hug him every morning before he leaves for school.” “If he comes home, I’ll pay more attention, be less critical, make chocolate pudding three times a week. If he comes home, I’ll…”

Well, you get the drill.

The initial decision to have him arrested was hard because parents cannot bail out a child in state custody. That meant he could sit in detention anywhere from three days to thirty days, depending on the judge. We went for the three-to-thirty anyway. He got five.

We kept his psychologist informed from the day he ran away to the time of his arrest. Once she knew he was safe in detention (and yes, she’s the one who told us to let the cops handcuff and arrest him), she outlined a plan for our consideration.

She suggested we keep ourselves busy over the weekend while my nephew was locked up and not spend the weekend in detention ourselves. That we go about our normal routine so he did not control the family’s behavior. She suggested we not call him or visit him during visiting hours because in her opinion, he needed to miss his family--to really and truly YEARN for his family. Detention was a good place for him to think about what he’d done and make the connection between his choices and consequences.

“First,” she said. “By choosing to run away, he has basically lost his privileges in the family. Do not reward him for coming home. If you do, anytime he has problems, he’ll leave, expecting you to shower him with love when he returns. If you’re strong enough to take my advice and nip this self-destructive pattern in the bud RIGHT NOW, you can start with Level One Detention: his room is his prison and you guys are his wardens.”

That meant removing everything from his bedroom but the bare essentials. We were supposed to transform his bedroom from a teenage sanctuary to a detention cell.

1-We removed his favorite feather pillow; his comfy comforter; his games and game players; his extra clothes and stuffed animals. Yes, teen-age boys do have stuffed animals even if they won’t admit it to their friends. We stripped his bed of everything except a bottom sheet, a polyester pillow, and a meager blanket.

2-We boxed up his stuff, all his luxuries, and stored them in the garage where he could gradually earn them back for good behavior. (Good behavior=not sneaking out of his room; getting to school on time; no sass-back and no snotty attitude either). Some items he could earn back but others would be pawned to pay his legal fees, which we would not be paying for him. That meant the Sony player and other expensive items would be hawked at the pawnshop…when he had permission to leave his room, that is.

3-He could not eat with the family. He was to stay in his room for at least a week and IF he followed the rules, his dining privileges would be restored.

4-He had one menu for an entire week (or longer if he gave us any flak): a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk. That’s it and that’s all he could eat even though he knew we were enjoying his favorite dish: heavy-on-the-garlic-pork-carnitas simmering in the kitchen. When we sat down to eat as a family, someone took his sandwich to him on a paper plate where he ate alone in his room. Nobody joined him other than his cat.

5-We drove him to school and picked him up (how embarrassing!) at the end of the day. He lost the privilege of walking home by himself. Until he earned our trust again, his pajama-clad aunts with no make-up and lousy hair would shuttle him back and forth.

6-He could not play games with the family nor watch TV. No radio, no telephone, no music, no puzzles, no free time outside his room other than practicing the piano, using the bathroom, doing his laundry, cleaning the cat box and taking garbage cans to the curb. Not beyond the curb either since the ‘street’ was out of bounds without a chaperone. That also meant he was banned from shopping or going anywhere other than school or his room.

7-He was not allowed anything in his room other than a couple of books we selected from our ‘classics’ collection. I believe he finished reading Huck Finn in fewer than three days. If he was bored, he had two choices: read a book or think in silence. If he was really desperate, he could study all the little sparrows flitting to his windowsill like the birdman of Alcatraz did in his off-time.

8-He called his case manager daily. We did not. We did not remind nor beg him to conform to the law. If he didn’t do what he was supposed to do, he knew the consequences: Go Directly To Juvenile Detention where the beds are hard, the floors are cold, the food is lousy, and the wardens watch you pee in your toilet. 

9-He went to his high school and talked with the counselor, making arrangements to catch up on his homework. Even when one of his aunts or his mother accompanied him to the counselor’s office, he took full responsibility for the arrangements. We let him do all the talking, all the apologizing, and we never flinched a muscle or made excuses.

10-We did not handle his money crisis for him. He didn’t have a job so he had to sell his stuff. (Yea, it bout killed his mother who’d paid fifty bucks for a computer game bringing three dollars at Game Stop). I’m proud of her for sticking to the ‘rules’. That wasn’t easy. He also gave the courts all his Christmas money along with any savings he had accrued.

11-We did not hire a private attorney. This was juvenile court, which is less serious because of his age, but we wanted him to be represented by the attorney he could afford (another big reality check). That meant he had a public defender with about fifteen minutes of preparation prior to standing before the judge. A judge, who from the looks of her, was plenty fed up with juvenile delinquents who thought they could do whatever they wanted because somebody would let ‘em the hook. That somebody was usually a parent.


Hugs,

CZBZ

Prior message: Rescue yourself from the DRAMA