If my husband and I had considered the ramifications of inviting into our lives a 16-year-old exchange student from Turkey, we might not have done it.

If we’d thought for one moment, we’d have realized we knew virtually nothing about the social and academic life of high school students on Vashon. (Our son is in middle school.)

We might have asked if his mother spoke English (she doesn’t) and contemplated the immense responsibility of parenting a young person without being able to chat with his mother on occasion.

We might have talked to others who have hosted exchange students and heard a horror story or two (those came later, after we were committed).

But alas, I have an impetuous streak in me, one my husband gives way to on occasion. And thus, last summer, when I overheard a colleague mention that the Vashon Rotary was in need of a host family for a 16-year-old boy from Turkey, I jumped at the opportunity — and my husband agreed.

This was one impetuous decision we didn’t regret.

Emir Nohutcu arrived last August. In mid-February, he moved to the home of another family, per the Rotary requirement that he have two or three host families during his year here. In between, for those nearly six months that he lived in our house, he graced our family with his remarkable warmth, his good humor and a sensitivity beyond his years. He also made us a few fantastic Turkish meals.

As his host family, we were, of course, determined to create a nice home for him.

He arrived, however, days before we moved from our tiny rental to a home big enough to accommodate him, and thus, before we knew how to pronounce his last name or identify his home city on a map, he was schlepping boxes and hefting furniture, tripping over the dog with the rest of us.

And once moved in (as I recall, he set up his own bed), he then had to adjust to a schedule that wouldn’t win us any “Family of the Year” awards.

My husband works full-time, mostly off-Island. And I’m the editor of the paper (need I say more?). So it was a rare night that he came home to find a meal in the oven, ready to be served.

But young, flexible and accommodating, he quickly grew accustomed to our 8 p.m. dinners, our weekends built around work demands and our nearly complete lack of vacations or outings. At times, I felt a bit sorry for him: What a dud of a family he’d landed in, I thought.

But then I’d remind myself that our own son has somehow managed the hectic pace of our lives, and surely what’s good enough for our son was good enough for our exchange student. What’s more, we’re a jovial and loving lot, and all of us — including our nutty terrier — welcomed him fully into our hearts.

That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a challenge or two.

Hardest for me was navigating the landscape of Vashon High School before I had the experience of doing so with my own son.

I believe it’s one of the truisms of parenting that we learn as we go, sometimes by the seat of our pants, trying to get a handle on the toddler years, the elementary school years, the teen years as our child goes through them. Have a kid leap-frog ahead and enter your life before your own parenting experience gets you there — and it can be a bit bewildering.

In an effort to be a responsible host mother, I talked to Emir about the penchant some teens have for drinking, about the importance of never getting a ride home from someone who’s had a beer or two and about calling us, any hour of the night, if he ever needed a ride home.

And of course, I insisted that he call and let us know whose house he was going to, should his friends decide — as they often seemed to — that they needed a change of venue.

But those 11 p.m. phone calls were cryptic, at best. The combination of his accent, lousy cell phone reception, a din in the background and my complete lack of familiarity with any of the kids he was talking about made it hard for me to know where he was, least of all if he were safe.

The conversations would go something like this:

“Where did you say you are?”

Something undecipherable.

“Emir, could you spell that, please?”

He would.

“Who’s that?”

A wave of noise in the background, making his response again undecipherable.

“Come again?”

But those challenging moments were few and far between. Mostly, what we experienced was what I had hoped for: a family a bit more full of life.

I’d come home from work to find my son lying on the floor next to Emir at his desk, the two doing homework together. We’d sit together at the table after dinner, discussing Turkish politics or pondering the arcane process by which this country elects a president. We’d watch movies together, discovering along the way that he knew far more about American popular culture than either my husband or me.

And more often than not, I’d feel a little less guilty working the hours I did, knowing that my son was not alone in an empty house, but rather with a young man who became, or so it seemed, his older brother — kind, funny and far more interesting than his 50-something-year-old parents.

We have no idea if we’ll do it again. It depends, I suppose, on another magical moment when need and impetuosity collide. Meanwhile, though, we’re thankful we had the experience, as we’re sure we’re richer and maybe a tad wiser for having done so.

— Leslie Brown is editor of The Beachcomber.