While Shane was auditioning for his play (and waiting for callbacks, and the cast list to be posted), Dylan was sick.
I mean, Dylan was really sick. He called me to get him from school. Then he vomited in the school parking lot, and spent days in bed with a fever. It was horrific.
I canceled work – lots of it. While Bill cleaned up most of the stray vomit (thank God for my husband), I spent my time washing sheets and pillows and towels and comforters, and chasing down sugary drinks that Dylan would drink, so as not to be dehydrated.
Right after Shane’s cast list was posted, Shane got sick. He was achy and had a fever and was in bed for days. While most of Shane’s sickness happened on the weekend, he still missed some school. So I canceled work and spent my time washing more sheets and comforters, and chasing down sugary drinks that Shane would drink, preferably ones with Vitamin C.
The day after Shane got well, Dylan auditioned for his play. He got his callback, and his cast list was posted. Finally, after all the auditions were over, we all gathered together for family movie night on Friday night.
Just as we were about to start the movie, Shane threw up.
Shane’s fever hit with a vengeance and he spent the weekend holed up with a high fever. It lasted days. It was horrific. I spent the weekend washing sheets, towels, pillows and comforters, while Bill cleaned up the vomit buckets (thank God for my husband). We chased down even more sugary drinks for Shane to drink – this time, so that Shane would not be dehydrated.
His fever finally lifted on Sunday, and he started to eat again, trying to get his strength up so that he could go to school the next day.
And that’s exactly when Dylan came home from his friend’s house and said he felt sick. He’d been complaining of cold-like symptoms for two days, so I felt his forehead.
Dylan had a fever of 101.
I canceled my work, again, for Monday, since Dylan would not be in school. I will be spending yet another day washing sheets, towels, pillows and comforters.
We now have plenty of sugary drinks.
So this week, Dylan auditioned for his school play.
He had the audition. They asked him to sing two different songs, and one of them twice. He got a callback.
Dylan got a callback for the lead.
He got a callback for the part of Willy Wonka in … Willy Wonka. He spent hours learning the song, perfecting it. It sounded beautiful, what little he shared with me, and we were all a little excited here.
We were also all a little nervous here. Willy Wonka is a huge part, and Dylan barely has time to do his schoolwork as it is. He would have to memorize all those lines, all the songs, all the places he needs to stand – where and when – on stage.
We were also nervous because of Shane, who had just gone through the same thing and didn’t get the part of his dreams.
Well, Dylan didn’t get the part of his dreams, either. After days of agony, he finally saw the cast list this morning.
Dylan got the part of Grandpa Joe.
And – best of all – he is actually excited about it. He’s got a huge part, and he sings sometimes, and he’s going to have a lot of fun playing someone who is really old.
Although they might ask him to cut his hair. I’m not sure he’s thought of that. It’s currently below his shoulders, and green.
Anyway – all is well here in the Hawkins house. Both kids got parts that will be fun to do. Both kids are looking forward to a season of learning lines, singing songs and having fun with the rest of the cast.
It’s going to be a long three months, but it will be worth it.
I’m just thanking God that the auditions are over.
Shane will be in the school play. In fact, everyone who auditioned will be in the school play.
The director – who is a saint – decided to keep everybody who auditioned, and has created two separate casts so that more kids will have a chance to do their things. They’ll be performing on separate days/nights – but all kids will be in both casts.
To be quite honest, I don’t care at all that Shane has a minor role. If there were no minor roles, there would be no play. It’s not all about “being the star” on stage. It’s more about working together, being together, and creating something from nothing. It’s about starting with nothing but a script and a group of people, and making a whole show.
It’s about the kids having fun and making people smile.
I think Shane’s going to have a really good time being part of the cast, helping to make the play great, and hanging out with his friends after school. He’s going to be able to take a bow at the end, and hear the applause, and feel that surge of accomplishment from being a part of a team that’s created something great.
My only real concern is that – once again – all of Shane’s closest friends got lead roles. His two best friends got the two roles Shane wanted most. His other very close friend got the lead. Two female friends from his church group got lead roles.
Shane has some very fun, smart, and outgoing friends who are going to be marvelous on stage. I am thrilled for his friends. They are all great kids, and I’m really looking forward to seeing the play with them in it.
But I can’t help myself: I flash back.
All of Shane’s friends who got lead roles in the play … were also patrols in fifth grade. And Shane, who would have been a spectacular patrol, was not a patrol. It’s still painful for me to think about, even though Shane doesn’t talk about it anymore.
Shane’s a pretty happy kid, actually.
But I was not a happy kid. And I’ve realized that a lot of my angst over Shane’s being overlooked is just unresolved sadness from my own youth.
When I was growing up we moved, on average, every two years. As the “new kid,” I kept trying to reinvent myself. I figured eventually, I would get it right. I would somehow show up at a new school, and suddenly people would like me.
This finally happened – sort of – in college.
Before that, I was bullied, ignored, beaten, rejected and – most notably – silent. In 6th grade, I auditioned for the school talent show – and didn’t get in. In 8th grade, I auditioned for the school chorus – and didn’t get in. I joined sports teams in high school without auditions, but I spent most of my time on the bench.
I didn’t speak to anyone. I didn’t smile. And I sure didn’t go out of my way to be kind to people. I just wandered in, glanced around in a panic, and said nothing – did nothing – while waiting for someone to like me.
Looking back, I realize that I was never comfortable with myself as myself – which meant I let very few people know me.
But Shane is not like that. He is already content with who he is, a characteristic I so admire in him. He’s happy with his friends, his family, and his way of being.
And he should be, because Shane is a great kid.
I could learn a lot from him.
Shane texted me after he looked at the callback list, which was posted the day after auditions.
“I’m not on the callback list,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
As in the past, Shane seemed to have been overlooked. I flashed back to the days when so many of his friends were accepted into the GT program, when every one of his friends was selected to be a patrol. I remember only too well his self-proclaimed “worst day of my life” – the day that all the patrols went to a huge carnival, exclusively for patrols, and Shane was left at school alone.
It was hard not to think of those things again, as all of the friends who auditioned were called back to audition again. And Shane wondered, again, What about me?
Rejection is a horrible thing. It’s the kind of thing that can take a self-confident person and crush his spirit. Or it can take an insecure person (like me) and turn her into an incapable blob who gives up on life.
Shane is so loaded with talent. He writes better than anyone I’ve ever known. He has a natural-born ability to take photographs that surpasses even my greatest efforts over the past 50 years. He’s a great drummer. He’s fantastic in the tech booth for the school’s morning show, and will likely be the student director next year. He’s hysterically funny, in a low, off-beat sort of way. He gives spectacular speeches and was a great magician (when it interested him to be one). Shane remembers things – punchlines, statistics, things that happened when he was a toddler – so well that sometimes I wonder if there’s more to his memory than just intelligence.
He’s just got a knack for these things.
But when it comes to being chosen for stand-out roles, on stage or in the world, sometimes he just gets overlooked.
Shane tried out for the school musical.
He loves acting. He had a bit part in last year’s musical, and he had a big part in a movie that was filmed by college students and (six years later) has yet to be released. He thinks acting is great fun.
So we all wish the best for him when he’s auditioning.
When he came out of the audition this year, he said he remembered every word of the song. “But I forgot to project,” he said. (Dylan taught him to project, to sing from the gut.) He was worried because he didn’t know what was most important.
Of course, no one knows what’s important. Acting is such a subjective thing. Shane’s drama teacher is the absolute best. She really tries to give everyone a role that works for them – even though (this year) 90 people are auditioning for the play.
“There was one interesting thing about the audition,” Shane said.
“What?”
“Well, when I was walking out, the teacher took a new piece of paper out. And I saw her write ‘Shane’ on it. I don’t know what the new piece of paper was for, and I didn’t think I should ask her, but my name was the only one on the piece of paper.”
My mind raced. With 90 kids auditioning, why did he get a separate piece of paper? Maybe she was just listing names, and she’d run out of room on the other piece of paper. But Shane was second-to-last that day, so I can’t imagine she would have started a whole new piece of paper for just two people.
It’s amazing how easily a little act like writing down one name on a piece of paper can become the Dark Mystery Of Our Time.
We are all anxious to find out what it means. My guess: it means nothing.
But who knows?
Auditions are always stressful.
Dylan came home in serious emotional distress. He finally admitted that trying to keep up with the rest of the class was nearly impossible for him. He said he’s been overwhelmed with feeling that he may as well just give up.
“Sometimes I just sit through an entire class with my head in my hands,” he said. “And no one even notices.”
The boy needs a break, I thought. He just really needs to be able to take a break when he needs one.
I spoke with Dylan’s case manager about it.
“In elementary school, his IEP used to suggest ‘frequent breaks,'” I told her. “Dylan could get up and walk to the back of the room, or stand up and walk around during class. But now that he’s in high school….”
“You have to be concerned with how it affects the other students,” she said. “Frequent breaks aren’t as easy in high school. But let me meet with Dylan and I’ll see what we can do.”
The case manager and I talked for a long time. I felt confident that she could do something – but I had no idea what she could do. It seemed impossible to give Dylan the leeway he needed, especially since he is often so far behind in his work.
The next day, I was ‘cc’d on an email to Dylan’s teachers:
Dylan is carrying a Flash Pass. He will show/flash you this pass when he needs to use it and no words need be exchanged during the class period either upon leaving or returning.
He is to use this Flash Pass when unfocused or stressed. He will be able to do one of two things:
- He can step outside the classroom for a couple of minutes to regroup and then return.
- He will take his backpack with him and come to my room.
Dylan is aware that he will be responsible for the work in your class. He can either access materials online or meet with you before/after school or during lunch. Please feel free to email me with work and I can also pass it along.
I know it sounds extreme, but this solution may change Dylan’s life.
He can finally take the breaks he needs, when he needs to take them.
I got an email from another parent – someone serving on the Drama Club’s “parent help” committee. She emailed a vast number of parents, asking for help during the play.
This is typical, and I would be happy to help – except that Dylan was not in the play. In fact, he didn’t even audition. He’s been so busy with Field of Screams AND rock climbing club AND ultimate frisbee club AND the rest of his life that he simply didn’t have time to take part in the play this fall.
So I responded to that drama parent, politely, and said that my email address should not be on the list because my son is not in the play.
And she responded to me, not as politely:
“I was working with a list of current cast and crew, so if your child isn’t involved with the current production I would not have your email address.”
Since I have been taking my vitamins regularly, I was able to write a very kind note (in comparison to the one in my head):
“Please don’t say, ‘If your child isn’t involved with the current production I would not have your email address.’ That is very frustrating for me. I think I would know if my child (who IS involved with several other clubs right now, and doesn’t have time for drama) were involved in the current production. My child is NOT involved with the current production, so you should NOT be using my email address. He is NOT involved.”
I realize that parenting is hard work, and that volunteering can add to that stress. I know that coordinating parental volunteers can be time-consuming, thought-consuming and all-over consuming.
But gosh darn it, I thought, when you’re wrong, just admit it.
I was fuming, but trying to remain calm. I hate when someone doesn’t apologize. Minutes later, I got an email back:
“I’m not sure what just happened here. I think you misunderstood what I was saying. The only reason I sent the information out through [the school email list] was to make sure that I was able to contact as many of the parents as possible that would be interested in helping. I don’t want anyone to feel left out.”
What? I thought. Did she say school email list?
I suddenly remembered the original email. It had been sent to the whole school.
No one had singled me out, claiming that my son was in the play. In fact, the only person who singled me out was ME. And so it was suddenly my job to respond – and quickly:
“OH! I think I understand what happened – and it is TOTALLY my fault. You sent this via [the school email list], and even though I noticed that subconsciously, I somehow thought I’d been put on a new email list for the drama department! I now get what you were trying to say, and how you were trying to say it, and it is my turn to apologize. With the busy kids and all, I haven’t gotten a lot of sleep lately and I think it’s starting to show! I’m truly and sincerely sorry for jumping down your throat. If I didn’t have so much to do, I would go take a nap. Seriously – I am sorry.”
And then I sheepishly walked away from the computer.
I never heard back from the other parent.
We had a non-traditional Thanksgiving this year.
Instead of turkey, we went out to an Indian buffet. Instead of pumpkin pie (which, oddly, was offered at the Indian buffet), we went to Ben & Jerry’s. And then, instead of sitting around watching TV, we went to see a movie.
Everywhere we went, we were the only ones there.
At the movie, we spread out in the last row – but there were only a handful of people in the rest of the theater. At Ben & Jerry’s, we came in more than an hour after it opened, and we were the first customers of the day.
It all felt a little surreal, like the world had ended the day before and we hadn’t yet been clued in.
We also had a blast. Having the town to ourselves was a rather novel thing, and we made the most of it. Employees snapped our family photos, and we stopped on the street to admire grass growing in the cracks of the sidewalks. We weren’t sure about where and how to pay for parking – of even if we should pay for parking. But we paid nonetheless.
When Fun-on-the-Town was over, we went home and watched football for hours.
The only bad thing was, when we got hungry during the football game, there were no leftovers in the fridge. In fact, we now have to find something to eat for every meal, all weekend long.
But it was still a very nice day.
Shane came home from school and said, “It happened again.”
“What happened?” I asked, concerned.
“I got on the bus and the bus driver said, ‘You don’t ride this bus!'”
“NO.”
“YES.”
The exact same thing happened to Shane this past spring. “You have to be kidding! Was it the same bus driver?”
“No,” Shane said. “This time it was my regular bus driver, the one I’ve had for the past two years!”
“NO,” I repeated, dumbstruck.
“Yes!” he said. “And this time, Noah wasn’t there to tell her that he recognized me. So she said I had to sit down in the front seat and ride the whole way home next to her!”
“You’re kidding!”
“I am not kidding.”
“How could she not know you after two years?”
“I don’t know. But she said, ‘You don’t ride this bus. I know you don’t ride this bus. I’ve never seen you before!’ And then she asked me what stop was mine, and I told her, and she still didn’t believe me.”
“So did somebody finally tell her that you rode that bus every day?”
“No,” Shane said. “I had to sit next to her in the front seat the entire way home.”
Dylan was nearly hysterical, listening to this story. He’s had the same bus driver for five years – the same one Shane has, in fact – and she has never questioned Dylan. But now Shane was being questioned for the second time in two years.
“You know what you should do?” Dylan suggested. “You should get on the bus every day and say really loud: ‘I’m here! I exist!’ And then just walk away.”
“You should!” I agreed.
“You absolutely should!” Dylan said again. “You should do it every single day!”
“I should,” Shane said.
But of course, he didn’t, because Shane doesn’t like to cause any conflict, or stand out in any way.
This, of course, is the problem.
Oops.
I forgot to tell Dylan to take his caffeine pill after breakfast.
So our morning was a little rocky.
I made his animal-protein-filled-(because-it-interacts-with-L-Tyrosine) sausage, egg and cheese sandwich. I set out a huge glass of water, a banana and some eggnog on the side.
But Dylan came down late, as usual. He took all three pills and shoved the banana into his face when I wasn’t even looking.
I offered to drive him to school, so he put the eggnog in a portable cup, chugged the water, and wrapped up the sandwich.
He slurped down the eggnog while Snap Chatting.
While we were stuck in traffic by a park, Dylan said, “Wow, look how cool the trees look.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
I hadn’t heard him talk like that since the first time he took Adderall in fourth grade. Dylan was focusing on the trees, watching how they swayed in the wind, noticing the fall colors for the first time in eons.
The pill was working.
Then I noticed the sandwich, still wrapped and sitting in his lap. “You have to eat, Dylan,” I said. “We’re almost there.”
“I can’t eat. I feel sick.”
Oh no, I thought. This happened with Adderall, too.
“You need to eat,” I said. “You took the caffeine pill on an empty stomach, and then you chugged all that liquid. You have to eat. It will actually make your stomach feel better.”
“I literally can’t eat,” he said.
“You have to eat,” I said. “You need the protein, and it will help your stomach.”
“I CAN’T EAT,” he declared. “I will THROW UP.”
We started screaming at each other. (It was another proud moment for Mom of the Year.) I pulled the car over, and wouldn’t let him go to school until he ate something.
Eventually, he pulled the sandwich apart and shoved the sausage into his mouth. He chewed with great disdain, breathing shallowly as if this were causing him extreme pain, then swallowed.
“THERE,” he said, livid. “Can I go to school now?”
He was late for school, and furious with me. But he was alert and aware on 200 milligrams of caffeine.
I texted him later: “I sincerely hope you are feeling better.”
“I still feel kinda sick,” he texted back. “But hey, I was the first one in my class to finish my government paper.”
Last week, he had four unfinished assignments in government.
The pill works.
