Today I go to Ben's school and sit at a table with seven other people who are not related to me. Yet they are invested in both his well being and his future. We will pore over a twenty five page document that spells out every life skill and academic goal they have for him for the next year. It's called an IEP. I just read it over in preparation and I feel like a slacker. 

Every school morning I jolly Benjamin out of bed with tidbits about the coming day. "Today is Coco loco!" "Today you go see Kirsten!" "Today you work at Andy's Diner!" Then we amble to the bathroom where he takes a shower. For those of you still bathing toddlers let me tell you, your days doing that are numbered. Mine weren't. At just shy of seventeen I am still prompting, reminding about soap, and pouring shampoo. There are six bottles of shampoo, citrus wash, and conditioners to choose from and although I could get a Sharpee and write "BEN USE THIS" I keep handing him the right one. It's easier.

"No, cutie, the soap goes on your body." I am supposed to push him to self sufficiency, but most mornings I feel the time crunch and rinse his hair which is full of bubbles he cannot see, and is too busy writing Harry Potter on the steamy shower wall to remember. 

Benjamin puts on his bathrobe, slowly, deliberately, for the twelve step trip to his room. He dresses methodically, and if we are later than usual I pick out the clothes too and toss them in his lap. I do let him put them on by himself, even though watching him button to the very top button as if he had all the time in the world makes me crazy.

"Hurry, Ben."

Then we hussle downstairs, and I confess, to you, not his teacher, that I pack his lunch while he eats the breakfast I laid out for him. I know, I know he is meant to do it himself, but hey the bus is coming. I fetch his deodorant, comb, toothbrush and toothpaste. It's pathetic, but I even put the toothpaste on the brush. 

Then when my phone alarm dings I pull the orange sweatshirt over his head, nice and bright so the cars won't flatten him if he forgets to stay on the steps, hand him his backpack and hug him goodbye. It is usually a matter of seconds before the faithful bus driver turns on his blinking red light and stops at our house. Then I exhale. 

His teachers want him to learn to do things independently. That annoying five syllable word is plastered all over the document we will dissect today. I concede that in the long run, letting him achieve it even at the cost of missing the bus is a good idea. But I'll let him learn tomorrow. 

God is interested in us becoming independent. At first He hands us magnanimous words and thoughtful gestures like a presqueezed toothbrush. 

But the long range plan is to be able to say I love you when your spouse is forty, moody, and just finished off the ice cream. Our IEP goal is to be kind when it is inconvenient. 

Because, folks, the bus is coming.