On the first day of school, I remembered to take pictures of the boys as they headed off. It was the first time in the history of their young lives that we had NO prior “back-to-school” activity. We didn’t meet and greet with teachers. We didn’t go to the school and find out who would be teaching them. We didn’t even have the added assistance of a lengthy orientation process to welcome us to a new school.
They just … went to school.
I took the dog for a walk. I was also starting my new fitness regime, which means I am now taking the dog for daily walks.
And then I went to work.
By that I mean, I had ten billion things scheduled to do. I needed to call the substitute teaching office and sign up for orientation. I needed to look over the list of students to be taught at home. I still do the “home and hospital” teaching for the public schools. I needed to check my work email – and my home email, of course.
I did all of it in ten minutes. I even checked – and responded to – my emails in that time.
Then I went to work on the calendar. I was changing over to the new 2016-17 calendar. I spent nearly an hour scribbling events and times on the new calendar. I even stuck stickers on it, where appropriate.
And when I looked at the clock, I had only one hour before Dylan would be hopping on his bus to come home. Where did the day go? Oh! And I forgot to take a shower!
To think, I thought I’d have time for a nap.
Today I am going to my training to be a substitute teacher.
I earned my teaching certification decades ago, and I have been teaching kids one-on-one in their homes. I really love teaching one-on-one. But I can earn some additional money as a substitute, and I think I would like to be back in the classroom – temporarily and for the short term.
So today is the training, and I am actually quite scared. I am afraid about going into the school and spending all day in a classroom with kids I don’t know. I am afraid of not knowing what to do for a whole day when I get there. I’m afraid that the staff won’t help me and that I won’t know where to go or what to do during lunch and I’m afraid that the other teachers won’t have time to answer me if I have a question.
I’m afraid that the kids won’t like me. I’m afraid that they will be mean to me, or think I am mean, or that I will make some stupid mistake and that the parents will find out about my stupid mistake and they won’t like me either. I am not feeling confident at all.
But I am trying, for today, not to worry about all that.
After all, I am just going to an office building today.
I am just going to hang out with a bunch of other people who want to be substitutes, and learn what it’s all about. I am going to sit in a room for hours, learning about policies and procedures.
That I can handle.
I will have to decide about the rest of it later.
Shane was getting dressed to go to a Bat Mitzvah – his first ever.
Since it is a formal occasion, he was working diligently on his attire. I found him that morning in a pair of khaki pants and beige crew neck t-shirt. I tried to say something about the colors, but he interrupted me.
“I’m not done yet,” he said. So I muttered something about shirts that have collars, and I left.
Bill found him a few minutes later. Shane was wearing a pair of black pants, a white undershirt, a sport coat – and a tie.
“This looks nice,” Bill said. “But if you’re going to wear a tie, you might need a shirt with a collar.”
Bill helped Shane a little with his outfit.
Ten minutes later, Shane came downstairs looking like he’d just stepped out of GQ Magazine. He has done his own hair for years – styles it the way he wants it. On this day, he wore it short and slicked back in the front, not a hair out of place. He was not smiling, as is usual, and looked like he might belong on the cover of that magazine.
“Wow!” I exclaimed. “You look awesome!”
“Thanks,” he said, oozing cool.
“Do your shoes fit?”
“Kind of,” he said. “They’re a little tight but I can get through the day.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think about your shoes. We’ll get you some new ones before you have to wear dress shoes again.”
“Okay,” he said. He started to walk away, while I was looking at his shoes and I caught a glimpse of … white.
“Let me see your socks,” I said.
He held up his pant legs. He was wearing bright white, ankle-high sweat socks with his black dress shoes and black pants.
“No,” I said. “Let’s go find you some black dress socks.”
“What’s wrong with my socks?” he asked.
“It’s just better to have all black,” I said. So Shane went and changed his socks.
When he stepped out of the car at the synagogue, I had tears in my eyes. Shane looked so beautiful, so handsome … so adult.
“Hi Shane,” someone called.
“Oh hi Ava,” he said, turning around.
“You look dashing,” she said.
And indeed, he did. Two additional friends arrived at the same time, and patted Shane on the back as they all walked toward the synagogue.
As I drove away, I realized that I hadn’t taken a picture.
But the picture in my mind’s eye, with Shane in his stunning attire, strutting away with his friends surrounding him … that picture is priceless.
Dylan found out that the bus driver just started showing up ten minutes early – and on Day 4, he caught the bus – with no help from me. This was a HUGE deal. So I wrote him the following letter:
What you did with the bus was awesome. You took responsibility for your own life, your own failure and your own success. You missed it twice, through no fault of your own, and then caught it when other kids are probably still struggling.
Here is why this is such a big deal.
A year ago, if you had missed the bus on the second day of school, I would have called the school or gone into the office for you. They wouldn’t have known anything, and I would have been a wreck until I figured out what was going on. I would have called someone to get the number to the bus depot, and then I would have called the bus depot to complain. I might have even had to write an email to someone’s supervisor, to figure out what was going on. And even then, I may have tromped out to the bus stop with you, and gotten onto the bus and yelled at the driver, and then asked what time the bus would be coming. THEN I would have spent two days telling you exactly what time you should get up, what time you should get out of the shower, and what time you needed to be downstairs and out the door so that you could catch that bus at whatever time the bus driver, or the bus depot, or the office, or the school bus liaison said that the bus would be there. And then I might have even driven you up to the bus stop to be sure that you caught the bus.
You know this is true, right? This is how my days have normally gone when you have a problem.
But you are almost 16 now. And I said that I would allow you to take responsibility for yourself. So while your way was not nearly as agonizing or as time-consuming as mine, which means you may have missed the bus for an extra day when I might have done all of my research/agonizing/yelling at people on Day 1, you did everything on your own.
I don’t even know what you did. You went into the school office, maybe, or you checked with other kids, or your just went up to the bus driver and flat-out asked. But YOU did that. YOU figured out what time you would need to get up, and get showered, and get downstairs, and out the door. And YOU got to the bus in time, in spite of the absurdity of the situation, and the downright impossible bus driver. YOU did that.
I did absolutely nothing. Well, except worry a little. But I didn’t have to DO anything!
This probably doesn’t mean anything to you – maybe it’s just a little thing. But to me, it’s absolutely huge. It’s the first time in awhile that I’ve thought, “Hey, maybe he can do this after all.” Because gosh, you CAN do this.
I am feeling very proud of you today.
So I wanted you to know that.
It was Day 2 of the new school year.
The bus stop is a three-minute walk from our house. Dylan’s bus was scheduled to arrive at 7:10.
Dylan left the house at 7:09.
Even at 7:09, he stopped in the middle of the driveway, and asked whether or not I thought he could go back inside, run upstairs, find his ear buds, and still make it to the bus stop.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said.
“I think I could do it,” he said.
I was watching to see if the bus might whiz past. He was still thinking about the ear buds.
“You have one minute to get to the bus stop,” I said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Whatever,” he said, and started strolling toward the bus stop.
The phone rang three minutes later.
“Hello?”
“There’s like nobody here,” Dylan said from the bus stop.
“Perhaps you missed the bus,” I said.
“How could I have missed the bus? I left in plenty of time!”
“You didn’t leave in plenty of time,” I started – but was interrupted by the shrillness of his voice.
“I did leave in plenty of time! The bus could not have been here at 7:10 or I would have seen it!”
“Maybe the bus came early,” I said.
“Why would it come early?!” he wailed.
Like it was my fault he missed the bus.
Dylan walked back home and rode with me while I took Shane to school. I’ve told him before that if he misses the bus, he can ride with us – but his school starts earlier than Shane’s, and we would have to get Shane to school first.
Traffic was atrocious. We stopped along the way to mail a letter, then looked futilely for Shane’s friends, then drove back up the street to drop off Shane with some other friends.
Then I dropped off Dylan at his school, which is semi-walking distance from Shane’s school. Miraculously, Dylan arrived for his second day of school just as the last bell was ringing.
No natural consequences for his behavior.
The next day, he missed the bus again. I got the call from the bus stop.
“So I left three minutes earlier today,” he said. “And there’s only like one person here.”
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe you should have left more than three minutes earlier.”
“Why would I need to leave more than three minutes earlier?” he shrieked. “I was here in plenty of time if the bus was coming at 7:10!”
Sigh.
“Did you ever consider,” I said, “that maybe the time was changed and that you somehow missed the announcement?”
“I didn’t miss the announcement,” he said. “Everybody was listening to music. So everybody would have missed the announcement.”
“Perhaps you should have left way earlier today to see what time the bus actually plans to arrive. There’s another person there, right?”
“Not anymore,” he screeched. “She left! Why should I come way earlier if the bus is supposed to be here at 7:10?!”
“Why don’t you come home…”
“I am coming home!” he screamed.
Like it’s my fault he missed the bus.
Dylan walked home. I drove Shane to school and Dylan rode along. And then I dropped off Dylan at his school.
Miraculously, Dylan arrived at school just before the final bell.
Summer has – once again – completely bypassed me somehow.
I remember that we went to see Finding Dory on the last day of school, after which I swore that we would go swimming every week during the summer. I didn’t want to miss anything. Then, with only two days of summer vacation left, we finally spent two hours at a swimming pool.
Where did the summer go?
Our vacation was brief – albeit jam-packed with activity. In seven days, we saw eight colleges. We visited the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and two huge amusement parks over the course of three days. We even stopped to ride the world’s oldest coaster. For the first time ever, our vacation was filled with enough roller coasters.
But the kids also went to camp for a week, an experience they absolutely treasured. Bill and I had “date week” while they were gone, and stayed at a B&B, and ate ethnic foods and went to fancy restaurants, and became spies at the International Spy Museum.
Dylan spent a week on a mission trip to serve less fortunate folks in West Virginia – and came back muscular and serene. Meanwhile, Shane entertained preschoolers at Bible School in the mornings, then he worked in the evenings as a junior mascot for a baseball team. I played a lot of softball, and we went to a lot of baseball games.
We went zip-lining through the trees – twice. We went tubing down the river – twice. We took walks in the woods and went to the movies and visited farmers markets and played ball and went to escape rooms and the library and the dog park and the playground and the pool. We shopped at the mall and went pedal boating and played miniature golf and hit softballs and ate ice cream and chili dogs and fried brownies and popcorn and burgers and pizza and sweet corn and fresh-picked tomatoes – and then we ate more ice cream.
We went to the county fair twice. Shane won prizes for his photography. Dylan sang karaoke, and he sang for school kids and for seniors. Dylan and Shane both earned more than 50 student service learning hours toward graduation. Oh, and they somehow finished their summer homework. They read books and wrote music and made lists of their favorite things. They had friends over for playdates. We all played board games and saw some spectacular concerts.
For maybe my favorite Norman Rockwell moment of the summer, the boys and I sprawled on the porch at midnight and watched shooting stars fly across the night sky during the perseid meteor showers.
Okay. I think I see where summer went.
We had fun.
I am sorry that it’s over.
But that’s how summers are supposed to be.
I have been agonizing with what to do.
School starts on Monday, and I wanted very badly to let Dylan “do it all himself.” I want to go an entire year without contacting his teachers, without asking him if he’s done his homework, without checking every day to see if he’s doing what he’s supposed to be doing.
We start the school year with a contract for each boy. The contract outlines expected behavior, and consequences of behavior that is inappropriate or otherwise detrimental to their own lives. I’ve delayed creating the contract because while my head is begging me to let this be THE YEAR that Dylan does what he’s supposed to do, this is entirely dependent on Dylan suddenly outgrowing the behavior that has been with him since he was in fourth grade.
Dylan is also preparing to drive a car. In a few weeks, he’ll be old enough for his learner’s permit. But having his learner’s permit does not make him responsible enough to drive a car – no matter how well he’s done in his go kart.
In fact, the go kart is sitting in the garage waiting for Dylan to put a new belt on it. It’s been broken for the entire summer, and Dylan claims that he hasn’t “had time” to fix it. Surely, ten minutes of those 7,000 hours he spent playing the keyboard could have been spent fixing that go kart.
It’s a fine example of how Dylan is not quite responsible enough to drive a car.
So I am thinking that we make his driving privileges contingent on his ability to know when a test or a quiz is taking place, to know when he’s got homework – and (perhaps a miracle will happen!) when to turn it in.
I don’t want to take away his phone anymore. I don’t want to take away his music time. I don’t want to take away his voice lessons. And his favorite job in the world is coming up, too – scarer at Field of Screams. I would never, ever want to take that away from him.
But if Dylan can’t remember to turn in his homework, how will he ever remember to turn on his turn signal, turn his head and look into his blind spot, and glide over into the next lane calmly? If he can’t study because he’s too distracted by Snap Chat, how can he drive a 3,000-pound vehicle down the road without Snap Chatting? If he can’t handle 10th grade, how can he handle a car?
Hm. I think I may have inadvertently discovered the answer we’ve sought for so long.
We can wait for Dylan to drive until Dylan proves that he’s mature and responsible enough to handle something simple – like school. And I don’t mean “remember your homework for a week and drive forever,” either. I mean, “BE responsible, so we’ll know you’re a responsible driver.”
This may be the only way to move forward – and save his life.
Even if he doesn’t like it.
The school year is fast approaching. I am a little sick about it.
Shane is not looking forward to returning, although he misses his friends. But my major concern is my eldest.
While Dylan and I have not had a positive, rewarding summer, I have enjoyed watching him as a happy, fun-loving member of the family. Sure, we’ve had our arguments about him taking responsibility for himself. And I’ve been rudely reminded to back off a few times. But for the most part, Dylan is so much happier when he’s not in school.
This is not to say Dylan is not happy when he is working. In fact, he’s been working quite a bit this summer, and he’s been very happy. He’s been singing at the senior living centers. He’s helped to rebuild a home in West Virginia. And he’s volunteered at baseball games, sung for school children, and written numerous songs. He’s been very busy – and that is what makes him happy.
But he hasn’t been forced to sit still for seven hours a day. That starts again soon.
A friend posted a reminder on her Facebook page. It was a photo of a sign that was posted at a school. It said:
This is the reminder I will need every day of the school year. It is Dylan’s job to remember what he needs for school. It is Dylan’s job to remember what he needs to bring home for homework. And it is Dylan’s job to do that homework, turn it in, study for tests, remember that there are tests, and know what is needed to succeed.
He simply doesn’t know. And I have spent far too long finding out for him, then relaying that information to him.
Dylan goes to college in a few short years. He needs to know – on his own – how to succeed. He needs to find the methods that work for him.
And I need to back off, and let him learn.
Dylan was getting ready to perform again at the senior living community.
Given that he sang a number of songs that residents didn’t know in his prior performance, I suggested that Dylan sing some songs from the 1940’s, since those are the songs best known by people whose average age is 85.
“Okay,” he said without flinching.
“Do you want me to get you some karaoke CDs?”
“YES!” Dylan said. (Since most of our communications are via text, I know that he said this emphatically, in ALL CAPS.)
So I spent yet another $15 on yet another karaoke CD. And when it arrived two days later, I made note of the six songs most likely to be known and loved by people in that senior residence. Dylan took the CD upstairs to his “studio” and started learning the songs.
Or so I thought.
Three days later, Dylan could only sing five words: “I did it MY WAY.”
“It’s the only one of those olds songs that I like,” he said.
“What about the other songs?” I asked. “Aren’t you learning those?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not going to sing songs that I hate.”
“But they are songs that the residents are going to love!” I shrieked. “You need to do the songs they like, not what you like!”
“Performing is a cooperative effort,” Dylan said. “I will sing some songs that they like and some that I like.”
“They don’t even know the songs that you like,” I said. “I thought you wanted them to be happy!”
“But I’m not going to sing a song I hate!” he said. “I’m the performer and I think I know what are the best songs to perform.”
The argument went on longer than it should have.
This is why you will not be able to have a career in music, I wanted to say. You don’t think about them. You only think about you.
I wanted to say, No one is going to want to see you perform if you don’t do what THEY like. I wanted to say, Performing is about giving of yourself, not having a fun time and showing off how great you are.
I remembered Dylan declaring – for years – his loftiest ambition: “I just want to make people happy with my singing.”
But now that ambition has taken a back seat to his teenage will: I want to do what I want to do, and if you don’t like it, I don’t care.
A few weeks ago, I watched those senior living residents closing their eyes, hands to their hearts, singing along with the TWO songs they knew, dreamily diving into the music they loved so well. They were so incredibly happy for those six minutes.
Music is therapeutical. It can transform people from the space they’re in to a whole different time, in just a few seconds. The people in that community can go from being stuck in a nursing home to sitting in the front seat of a 1949 Ford pick-up with just a few notes.
And maybe Dylan will sing those two songs for them again this time. So for those six minutes – out of an hour – they will be transformed. But it sure won’t be a performance designed to make them happy.
It will be a performance designed to make Dylan happy.
And the Ford pick-up will have to wait and find them in their dreams.
Shane entered four of his photos into the county fair competition. So we went to the county fair to see how he’d done.
We went to the arts building, and finally located the wall labeled “Children’s Photography.” There were about 200 photos on that wall, many stuck with ribbons to designate what award they’d been given. We were happy that the judging had been done before we’d arrived, so we knew whether or not Shane’s photos had been recognized.
Shane found three of his photos right away. “I got third place for my picture of the camera!” he exclaimed. “And fifth place for my water fountain!”
He found the squirrel in the “Wildlife” section – which was a very popular section. The squirrel photo was awesome. I’d been trying to capture a squirrel in action for thirty years and had never taken a photo that good. “I got Honorable Mention for my squirrel,” he said.
We all scoured the wall for his fourth photo, which was in the “Buildings and Memorials” category. We couldn’t find it.
I thought maybe they’d lost it, somehow, during the insane submission and judging process. We kept looking, to no avail.
I remember when Shane took that photo. It was a photo of the Bennington Battle Monument, in Vermont. We’d stumbled upon it over spring break, while trying to find Robert Frost’s gravesite which we never did locate. The monument is more than 300 feet tall, and towers above everything for miles.
Shane took half a dozen photos of it – but what he was doing was just odd. He was pointing the camera toward the monument, and waving his hand in front of the camera. With his left arm in the photo realm, he was manipulating the camera with only his right hand.
I was baffled, watching him. He looked like he was doing some kind of ritualistic dance.
“What are you doing?” I finally asked.
“I’m taking a picture,” he said. Then he showed me the digital images on the back of the camera. In the photo, it looked like Shane was picking up the monument. Using perspective, he was able to make it look as though his hand was actually around the entire 300-foot monument. And the way he framed it, he could have been carrying it away.
After we’d matted all four photos, Shane and I liked the monument best. But we couldn’t find that photo on the wall.
Finally, we asked a fair volunteer if maybe that photo was lost.
“Did you try the Champions wall?” she asked.
“The what?” I said. We had never heard of the Champions wall, so the volunteer pointed the way.
We all raced over to a board labeled “Photography Champions.”
And there, on the wall, was Shane’s photo of the Bennington Battle Monument being carried away. It was one of only three children’s photos to be selected for the Champions wall.
Shane won the Chairman’s Choice Award.
While we were snapping photos of Shane next to the Champions wall, my eyes were so full of tears that I could barely see the photos I was taking.
I’ve been crying for years, every time my son walks out onto a stage. But I’ve just realized that these tears are not necessarily only tears of joy.
They are tears of pride.
