Page 14

Twenty minutes later, we get in the car to drive home. Jason is unusually quiet.

“What sounds good for dinner? I could make chicken tacos, or spaghetti and salad, or maybe some chili?”

In the rearview mirror, I see Jason staring out the window. He shrugs.

“Or does something else sound good? What would you pick?” I ask.

He turns his head to the front. “Could we have some raviolis?”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you liked ravioli,” I say, darting glances to observe him in the mirror. “We have some spaghetti sauce at home, but we could stop and pick up a bag of ravioli.”

“Huh?” Jason sounds completely confused. “What do you mean?”

“You know, like a bag of pasta . . .” I trail off as understanding breaks through. “Do you mean the ravioli that comes in a can? Not a bag?”

“Yeah, those ones,” Jason affirms. “The easy ones that you don’t even have to heat up.”

I stifle the threat of tears. “Yes, we can have those tonight, absolutely. How about we stop at the store on the way home so you can show me exactly which ones you like?”

He seems to perk up at the suggestion, so moments later, I park in front of the grocery store. I lead Jason to the pasta aisle, and he shows me the generic brand of canned ravioli that he likes. He also leads me to the same brand of boxed macaroni and cheese, citing it as another favorite meal. I put several of each into our cart, and then I lead Jason to the fresh produce section to grab some salad and baby carrots.

“How about we strike a deal? We’ll have ravioli for dinner if you have a little bowl of salad and carrots too,” I say, holding out my hand to shake on it.

“Deal,” Jason says, placing his hand in mine. After solemnly shaking it, I playfully shake his hand back and forth, making him smile.

At home, I ask Jason if he’d like to try the ravioli warm this time, crossing my fingers and praying that he’ll agree. Thankfully, he does and eats them with enthusiasm.

I’ve never had canned ravioli in my life. It’s not exactly the type of food my parents deemed acceptable for a refined household. But I’min this with Jason, so I manage to eat a small serving of ravioli alongside an extra-large bowl of salad.

“Wow, these are evenbetterthan I thought when they’re heated up!” Jason exclaims around a mouthful of ravioli. The bright orange-red sauce on his chin nearly matches the color of his hair, and I can’t help but smile at his delight.

Swallowing a bite of salad, I take a deep breath before bringing up the conversation I know needs to happen. “So, I heard that today might have been a little hard for you at school.”

Jason’s face darkens. “Ms. Benson tattled on me? Since you’re both teachers?”

“No, bud, it’s not like that,” I say. “Any time a student has a hard time like that at school, Ms. Benson calls to let that student’s grown-up know about it. Not only because I’m a teacher. It’s because she wants to make sure that every student can talk through the emotions at home after a hard day at school.”

Jason looks down at his bowl, chasing ravioli with his fork. “Well, Peter was mean. He was bullying me. Screaming was the only way to get him to stop.”

I reach over to place my hand on Jason’s shoulder and try to remember the tips Meghan gave me for these kinds of conversations.Connect to understand. Empathize.“It sounds like Peter did say some hurtful things to you. What were you feeling inside when he said those things?”

Jason’s quiet for a moment, but I see emotion building on his face. “I felt like punching him.”

My heart lurches, and I take a deep breath before responding. “Well, I can understand why you might have felt that way. I’m really proud of you fornotpunching him even though you wanted to. Hurting people is wrong, so I’m proud of you for making a better choice.” Jason glances up at me, and I take another deep breath. “But what were you feeling inside your heart that made you want to punch Peter?”

For a second, I think that Jason might be about to open up and talk about his deeper emotions. But then his face scrunches up and reddens. He yells, “I don’t know! I don’t want to talk anymore—talking is dumb. Can I play the tablet instead?”

Adrenaline surges through me as I try to sort out how to react. “I’m not sure that playing the tablet is the best choice right now. We could play a card game or read a book together, or we could build some Legos—”

“No!” Jason’s shout cuts off my suggestions. “I don’t want to do anything with you! I’m going to my room.”

He stomps up the stairs, and I try to follow him. After all, every book I read to prepare me for this unconventional motherhood emphasized connection. Things like “time in” instead of “time out” and being emotionally and physically present for your child when he’s struggling.

When I step into Jason’s room, he whirls around to face me. “I said I don’t want to be around you! Leave me alone!”

I’m a deer in headlights.Does he actually want me to stay even though he’s saying he doesn’t? Or does he really need some alone time to calm down? How in the world am I supposed to figure this out?

“I could sit here with you while you—”