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I needed babysitter for Saturday, and was at a loss.

At the time, my three boys were eight, six, and one and a half. Finding a sitter for three young children is not easy under the best of circumstances, but since our oldest Matthew, is autistic, finding help was a tremendous challenge.

Our usual choice was Rocky, the fourteen-year-old son of Matthew’s old preschool teacher. He was a great kid from a loving Mormon family who was too good to be true. He handled Matthew’s odd behavior with good humor, and was loved by all three of my boys. I knew that if he were in a pickle, he could call his mom for advice or rescue, but he never needed to. He often watched the boys at his house – a dream home with a trampoline and a game room filled with arcade games.

My grandson, Matthew, and I like each other and we get along just fine. He tests me now and then, like any teenager, and I tighten up when necessary, but as we got through our regular routines it’s usually “OK, Grandpa” and me move right along. We established certain schedules years ago and they have become as important to me as they are to him.

It became clear to me the day my sixth grader’s first progress report came home that I needed to help him get organized.

The grades, all low, were followed with the phrase “late or missing work lowers grade.”

When he breezed in the door after school that day, I didn’t hold back.

“Hi, John-got your progress report. Let’s take a look at your binder.”

Wide eyed, he followed me to his room and dumped the contents of his backpack on to his bed.

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