Attention Parents: For those of you with teens who are getting close to college-age, specifically high schoolers in their junior year or younger. I'd like to suggest the Posse Foundation as an option for you.



The time to act is when your child is a junior in high school. Make sure they are tuned in with their high school counselors and make sure their counselor(s) are aware of Posse. They currently have sites in the following cities:

• Atlanta
• Boston
• Chicago
• Los Angeles
• Miami
• New Orleans
• New York
• Washington, D.C. 

If you have any questions, feel free to ask me here. I'm a Posse volunteer in the Atlanta area and have been brought to tears watching kids earn and receive their scholarships. If I can't assist you I will put you in touch with someone who can.

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Thoughts? Please, let me know in the Facebook or Disqus comment sections below.

A few weeks ago I got a call in the afternoon from my wife. She was enraged. The fact that she was upset wasn't too much of a surprise. As I scrambled to figure out what I did she told me it was our son. Again, I wasn't too surprised. It was the why that made all the difference in the world.

He got picked up for truancy...

Father & Son, Homer & Bart Simpson

High School

When dropping my teen off at his high school I always tell him to have a good day and do his best. The usual response I get is an unintelligible murmur followed by a series of grunts. He then drags his war-ravaged backpack across my dashboard or the back seat depending on where he's thrown it. Then like clockwork, no matter how many times I tell him, no matter how many times he apologizes, he winds up and slams my car door as if he were going for the gold in a championship game of handball.

I watch him skulk off to the school entrance, walking like he's headed for the electric chair. I shake my head and wonder what happened, trying to remember if I was that way. I probably was.


Preschool

Entering my daughter's preschool is like walking into a live action cartoon. There a bright colors everywhere. Handmade art and pictures of little smiling faces adorn the walls. The sound of children laughing and squealing perpetually floats in the air (followed sometimes by a sharp reprimand of "No Running!" from a teacher). The staff is usually smiling. And everyone calls me "Dad", presumably because knowing all the children on a first-name basis doesn't allow for enough RAM to remember the last names of their parents. My daughter bounces into her classroom and her little classmates happily call out to her. Everything is little, clean and cute. She sheds her jacket, hands it to me to hang up for her and goes to wash her hands in a sink situated not too far from the floor. I always manage to chat with at least one parent for anywhere from two to ten minutes. And without fail before I leave, my daughter hugs me around my legs and says, "I love you, Daddy," before being herded off to some activity.

I walk to my car, slightly missing her, and at the same time thinking how amazing it must be to learn anew and experience every single day as a brand new one. I try to remember my preschool days, but I can't. I'm too old.

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