Brilliant … But Bouncy

Dylan Doesn’t Actually Play the Piano.

Dylan signed up to sing for the elderly residents of a local nursing home.

“I really just want to help people,” he told me. So I gave him a choice of two dozen volunteer opportunities, and he decided to sing.

When they emailed him, they said he needed a TB test and a volunteer application.

I told him to call for the TB appointment. He set it up – but then we had to reschedule for some reason, so I rescheduled it.

He had the test and results in less than a week. Meanwhile, he signed up with another nursing home – and this one required a TB test, an application and an hour-long orientation.

So Dylan decided not to do any singing for either place until he finished the orientation – which was in May.

It took him six weeks to commit to a date at one of the places. It took him another two weeks to show up and sing.

And that’s all he did: show up and sing.

He didn’t contact the place in advance, to confirm that he’d be there. He didn’t know the name of the person with whom he’d been communicating. He woke up at 10:30 for an 11:00 gig. He brushed his teeth and his hair, but he didn’t bother to shower. He only ate breakfast because I made him a sandwich to eat during the five-minute drive – but he had trouble choking it down, because he was too busy writing out his set list – the one I’d told him he needed to do at least two days prior to the event.

Dylan said that he spent hours “getting ready” to sing. He played the keyboard and sang songs for hours and hours and hours and hours. We suggested old spirituals, since that’s what the home recommended, and taught him popular songs from decades ago, like Bicycle Built for Two and Let Me Call You Sweetheart.

But Dylan had other plans. He downloaded the lyrics to How Great Thou Art on his phone, and read them while he sang. He only knew one verse of Amazing Grace. He sang at least one pop hit, a few songs from the eighties, and a song from the sixties – by The Monkees – even though he didn’t know how the song went.

He’d planned to spend far more time playing the piano than singing, even though Dylan doesn’t actually play the piano. He doesn’t read music, and he doesn’t look up from the keys when he plays. And while his voice is wonderful and his piano playing isn’t bad, the combination knocks him completely off his game.

His strength is in his voice.

When I finally encouraged him to come out from behind the piano, Dylan started to really sing. Staff members came out of the woodwork and started to dance. Residents started swarming into the room. There were song requests. People from all walks of life were looking down from an overlook upstairs, smiling and pointing.

Dylan was a hit.

When it was over – and in spite of Dylan’s insistence on singing songs for which he had no preparation – the staff begged him to come back.

And in spite of his unprofessional demeanor and inability to prepare, I suppose I’ll take him back again someday.

You Are Always Right.

Every time I open my mouth, Dylan jumps down my throat.

For example I might say, “Dylan, you are walking out the door without shoes. You need shoes.”

“No I DON’T need shoes,” he will growl. “No one’s going to throw me out of the store for being barefoot.” Then he will stomp on.

This example didn’t actually happen, but you get the idea. If I speak to Dylan, we get into an argument.

So I decided to try a new way of communicating. I would no longer speak, except to say one thing: “You’re right, Dylan. You are always right.”

Dylan is not always right. In fact, Dylan is wrong quite often.

I try to admit when I am wrong. Sometimes it requires a phone call, an internet search, and/or a trip to the library to prove that I am wrong – but truly, I am often wrong. And I will say, “Wow, I was wrong about that.”

But Dylan refuses to admit that he is ever wrong. Therefore, arguments abound. If anyone disagrees with someone who is always right, there is no winning the argument – no matter what. Dylan is very smart, and can make even the tiniest tidbit into a day-long debate to prove this correctness.

But I can’t just sit around saying, “You’re always right.” I also have to make known my expectations for Dylan’s day.

So when I have something to say to Dylan, I write it down. He has been getting a note every morning with a list of expectations and responsibilities. When he has chores to do, they are on the list. If I want to tell him something I’ve been thinking about, it goes in the note. And every morning, since I wake up thinking about what I need to tell Dylan, I just write it all down – once – and I’m done for the day.

Then, when we are spending time together, the only thing I say is, “You’re right, Dylan. You’re always right.”

This morning, Dylan came downstairs to go to the fair – the outdoor county fair – in the hundred-degree heat. He came downstairs at 9:30, having not yet eaten breakfast, to walk out the door “at” 9:30. He is wearing black, which absorbs heat more than any other color. He is wearing warm socks and high-top sneakers. He is going to roast and sweat like one of the pigs in the county fair pens.

But I am not saying a single word. Nor will I mention it in tomorrow’s note. Because until further notice, Dylan is always right.

Use As Much As You Need!

I have a friend who is very artsy, and her daughter, who is Shane’s age, is also an artist. Last year, the daughter entered her art into the county fair competition.

So Shane decided he wanted to enter the competition, too. He is a very skilled photographer.

Shane chose four photos to put on display at the fair. The rules are very strict, as to sizing, matting and overlays. Participants must follow the guidelines, or photos will be disqualified.

I am not an artist, but I am a skilled shopper. To mat Shane’s four photos, I bought 50 mat boards, 25 white overlay mats, 10 black overlay mats, and a can of spray adhesive.

Then we went to work. With Shane’s gorgeously enlarged photos, we spread out our supplies on the table.

Let me backtrack a moment to say that my friend – the one with the artsy daughter – has the best parenting style of anyone I’ve ever met. She is positive and encouraging, and allows her kids to actually do whatever they can do. As a result, they do a lot, quite independently and very well.

So, wanting to imitate her awesome parenting, I put Shane in charge. He chose the mat boards and the appropriately colored mat overlays. He figured out where he wanted to place the photos and marked the mat boards with pencil.

He read the directions on the spray adhesive. Then, with carte blanche from me, Shane opened the can of adhesive, held it six-to-eight inches from the mat board, and started to spray.

Within two seconds, it looked like a smoke bomb had exploded. We could barely see the mat board under the flying spray. Shane kept stopping and starting, afraid that he was doing something wrong, but I encouraged him to keep going.

“Use as much as you need,” I told him with a shaky smile, wiping the flying glue from my hair. “Just make sure you do the edges, too.”

Big blobs of white goo formed on the mat board, while an aerosol-rubber smell filled the room. He sprayed and sprayed and sprayed, but the top left corner was still completely empty.

“Don’t miss the top right corner,” I said, forgetting that my right was his left.

Shane sprayed more blobs on the left side. “Oh sorry,” I said. “I meant the left side.” He caked the left side in glue.

Finally, the spray stopped.

“Okay,” I said calmly. “Put the photo by the pencil marks you made.” I looked at the board, where the pencil marks had been devoured by spray adhesive.

Shane dropped the photo in the mess. He slid it around as much as he could in the glue, trying to place it correctly. The adhesive had started to dry, and nothing was moving easily. His hands were covered in glue. My hands were covered in glue.

I handed the mat overlay it to Shane, and he shoved it down on top of the photo. There was glue on the photo, glue on the mat, and nearly a full inch of glue on the table, two square feet around the finished project.

I grabbed a wet paper towel and wiped some of the glue off the photo, while Shane got more wet paper towels. My hands were nearly embedded in all the glue on the table. We tried to save the photo, the table, the chairs, our hands, our clothes, our hair.

Five minutes later, the area was as clean as it was going to get.

“Okay,” I said to Shane. “Which one do you want to do next?”

I Have to Let Him Go.

During our vacation, we spent one evening at the beach.

It was low tide on a Great Lake, so the little waves went on and on and on. When we first walked into the water, which was calm and warm, the water went up to our ankles. We walked a bit further and it went up to our knees. We walked a long, long, long way – and it went up to our waists.

The kids had fun jumping and splashing in the waves, but I got tired and went in to sit and watch the sunset from the sand. A little while later, Shane got out of the water, and Bill took him to the nearby swimming pool.

Dylan stayed in the water, so I stayed on the sand to make sure he was safe.

I’d told Dylan about drop-offs, and how he had to be careful to stay close to shore. But the waves went way, way out into the water. And Dylan went way, way out into the water, too. With every wave he jumped over, he went a little bit further. The water was only up to his chest, but the waves kept rolling in, so I could only see his head bobbing above the waves.

Sometimes, I couldn’t even see his head.

And as I sat on that chair in the sand I thought, This is how it’s going to be. 

As he drifted further and further away from shore, jumping wave after wave and having a great time, I realized that I had two choices. I could race out into the water and drag him back in to shore, or I could sit and watch while he did whatever he was going to do.

And in life, I realized, those were my choices, too.

In my opinion, Dylan wasn’t making a wise decision to go so far out. But Dylan – who has never known anyone to be swept away by an undertow – thought he was making a fine decision. He thought he could handle the Great Lake on his own. He’s tall, and strong, and – like most teenagers – utterly invincible.

I have to let him go, I thought. I have to let him make his own choices, and do his own thing. I have to let him go.

And I sat on the shore and I cried. I cried because I know he’s going to make really stupid decisions, and that I won’t be able to stop him. I cried because he could quite literally die if he makes those stupid decisions, and I will never see his beautiful smile again.

Then I remembered that what happens is God’s will, not mine. And I prayed my standard prayer: “Please keep him safe and healthy, God. Please keep my child safe and healthy.”

I repeated it like a mantra while the tears rolled out from under my sunglasses, and the sun disappeared leaving the sky full of bright, gorgeous colors.

Eventually, I stopped crying and just watched.

Dylan Never, Ever Even Picks Up the Ball.

Dylan has had a busy summer. To be fair, it’s not his fault that I revolved my entire summer around his schedule. But I did.

So when he came downstairs asking to go to Hershey Park with a friend, I may have overreacted a bit.

“Mom, can I go to Hershey Park next Friday?”

“Look at the calendar and tell me what you think.”

Dylan looked at the calendar. “It’s my last day of Driver’s Ed. Can I reschedule it?”

“NO, you cannot reschedule Driver’s Ed.”

“But it’s Hershey Park and it’s the only day I can go!”

“I am not rescheduling your last day of Driver’s Ed. In fact, I have revolved my entire summer around your plans, including this class. Your entire family has been doing absolutely nothing so that you can go to Driver’s Ed for 14 days in a row! AND you are going on vacation the next day!”

“But I won’t get to go to Hershey Park!”

“No, you won’t get to go to Hershey Park. You will only get to go to Kennywood for a day and Cedar Point for two days. Awwww, poor thing!”

“I don’t know why you’re getting so mad at me! I just wanted to do this one thing on one day and you’re getting so upset!”

At this point, I may have started to blow a fuse, because I walked away.

Later, I came back with the calendar. I pointed out the four days in June that we’d had together, before Dylan went on the Appalachia Service Project trip. I pointed out the five days after the trip and before camp, when we’d been able to schedule a zipline excursion for the family. Then I showed him the entire month of July, where he was either at camp or scheduled for Driver’s Ed class for three hours a day, for two weeks. Then I showed him the eight day vacation plan.

I remembered that we still have Groupons for a drive-in movie and a tubing trip, which we’ve yet to schedule. I remembered that my nieces are coming into town, that the county fair is yet to come, and that Dylan will be singing at an event in August. I thought about Dylan’s voice lessons and his trips to nursing homes to sing and his volunteer work at the collegiate baseball games.

I didn’t bother mentioning these to Dylan.

I did write a lengthy note to him, complete with email addresses and phone numbers of all appropriate contact people for Dylan’s enormous number of upcoming commitments. Then I told him to keep his own schedule.

Dylan said, “You can’t just dump everything on me all at once like that, Mom.”

“Yes, I can,” I said. “You are 15 and a half. You are plenty old enough to keep your own schedule. If you don’t learn to do it now, you won’t be able to do it for college!”

“But I need you to help me with this stuff,” he said.

The hardest thing about raising Dylan is that I can’t tell the difference between what he needs from me because he has ADHD, and what he thinks he needs because he’s never tried to do it himself.

There’s no doubt that he needs help. There’s no doubt that he has a disability.

And there’s no doubt that when I intentionally “drop the ball,” Dylan never, ever even picks up the ball – let alone runs with it.

“So basically you want a secretary,” I said.

“Basically, yeah,” he said. “Is that a problem?”

Yes, I thought. That is very much a problem.

Shane Counts These as “Celebrity Sightings.”

Last night, Bill took Shane to a concert.

Shane has been waiting eight months to see this concert. He got tickets for Christmas, when he really liked one Nick Jonas song on the radio. His Christmas list asked for “concert tickets” and Nick Jonas was one of the few musicians on tour in this country whose tickets were on sale before the holidays, so those are the tickets Shane got.

Dylan asked me, while Bill and Shane were gone, why I didn’t get to go to any concerts. After all, Dylan got concert tickets for Christmas, too – and the two of them saw Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood. (I love Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood.) So Dylan was confused as to how Dad got all the fun.

I reminded Dylan that I saw Skrillex with him, and also saw Taylor Swift with Shane last summer. We also saw Imagine Dragons last summer – one of Shane’s favorite bands – and Twenty One Pilots this summer, as a family. In case that was insufficient, my dad also took Shane to see American Authors – Shane’s absolute favorite band – along with Andy Grammar.

Shane counts these as “celebrity sightings.” So when there’s a special guest, or an opening act, Shane counts those as “celebrity sightings,” too. Halsey opened for Imagine Dragons. Shawn Mendes opened for Taylor Swift last summer, and has since become a household name for many tween girls. And Jason Derulo made a guest appearance, as well.

For Shane, it’s about sheer numbers. He likes to say he saw … however many celebrities he’s seen. It’s a big deal to him. We can’t afford to keep paying him for these “sightings” at such an alarming rate, but we are happy that he’s happy.

Last night’s tickets were on huge sale – but the concert came with a huge count of celebrity sightings. It wasn’t just a Nick Jonas concert, for example. It was a Nick Jonas and Demi Lovato concert. Mike Posner opened for them. Then Brad Paisley joined Demi, as a featured guest. Then Nick came back out and joined Brad and Demi – just before Joe Jonas also appeared. It turns out that Joe is not only one of the Jonas brothers from back in the day (2013) but now he is the lead singer of DNCE, singers of one of my favorite songs, Cake By the Ocean. That’s like getting two bands in one, and Joe wasn’t even on the ticket!

I kept getting texts from the concert venue; my husband was nearly as excited as Shane.

It was an exciting night for everyone.

If Something Happened to Them, I Would Die.

While watching a completely fictional TV show, I heard a woman describe how she felt about the children in her life:

“I love them like… If something happened to them, I would die. My heart is so wide open. And they’re so fragile. I don’t know how you live like this.”

I had to pause the show, rewind, and listen to it over again. It’s a good thing I watch TV “on demand” or it may have gotten by me. But I listened to it again.

“If something happened to them, I would die.”

I thought and thought about this. And then I thought some more. Because honestly, I think about this all the time. It’s the reason I worry so much about them. It’s the reason I’m a bit too … involved in what they do.

I don’t think I can live if something happens to them.

My children have been lectured so often about safety, in so many aspects of their lives, that their little brains are full of things they probably never needed to know. They know what to do if they see a gun, or find out someone has one. They know what to do if someone grabs them from a crowded play area and runs off. They know the dangers of mosquitos (West Nile virus) and ticks (Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever and Lyme disease) and bed bugs (just annoying).

They know how to read labels on processed foods, and what contains obscene amounts of sugar. They know that fruits and vegetables are essential to their overall health, and that fruit juice is not. They know about nitrates and caramel coloring and the difference between real food and the stuff most Americans eat. They know that their plates should be colorful, and not because they are eating rainbow-colored Goldfish.

They know that car crashes are the leading cause of accidental death among children. They know that, when they get their driver’s licenses, they should drive like all the other drivers on the road are deaf and blind. And they know that any number of drivers could simply plow them down on the street when they are walking, so they need to be extra vigilant when crossing.

Because if something happened to them… I would die.

This doesn’t seem right, or even okay.

In fact, it’s more likely that something will happen to them and I will not die. It’s likely not to be something catastrophic, for which we are all supposedly prepared. It’s likely to be a broken limb, or pneumonia, or a broken heart. And I won’t die when those things happen – or any of the other things for which I am completely unprepared.

I will be here for them, no matter what, for as long as I possibly can.

Everything else is up to God.

It’s just hard to remember that most of the time.

Shane Patiently Waited His Turn.

During Carnival at camp, Shane had just enough tickets to play “Dunk the Counselor.” In this typical carnival game, kids were given three balls to throw at a target, which would – if they hit it – knock the counselor into a pool of water.

Shane could hardly wait to play. But when he was only a few spaces from the front, Evan showed up, and cut in line. He stood two spaces in front of Shane, who had been waiting ten minutes for his turn already. Evan made some kind of “deal” with the kid in front of Shane, so he could get a turn to dunk the counselor, too. Evan just didn’t want to wait like all the other kids.

According to Shane’s description, Evan is nearly a foot taller than the rest of the kids. He was well-liked and people wanted to do whatever Evan wanted them to do. So Shane stood, silently seething, while Evan took his turn before Shane.

But Evan didn’t just take his turn. Evan made a huge production of throwing each ball – and all three balls missed completely. Then, since he didn’t dunk the counselor, Evan ran up to the target and started shaking it with all his might, trying to knock the counselor into the pool. The counselor held on for dear life, not allowing himself to be dunked, while Evan broke every rule and kept shaking the target.

Meanwhile, Shane patiently waited his turn.

Finally, Evan gave up and darted off. The counselor gave Shane the nod. And Shane, finally able to take his turn after nearly 20 minutes, lifted his arm to throw.

“ATTENTION CAMPERS!” the announcement boomed, just at that moment. “CARNIVAL IS NOW OVER! ALL CAMPERS RETURN TO YOUR STATIONS!”

Shane never got a chance to throw a ball.

Two days after Shane told me this story, I asked him to write a letter to Evan. I was concerned that Shane was burying his anger about this all-too-common situation, and I wanted Shane to be ready to speak up next time something like this happened.

So Shane wrote the letter. And I went over it with him.

I circled Shane’s powerful words: “What you did wasn’t right.” I pointed out that Shane could, next time, say that out loud. He could work with the other kids behind him in line, and stand up to Evan – tall as he was – so that the kids who were doing the right thing would be allowed a fair chance. I told Shane that he should deal with his anger when it came up, rather than shoving it all down and not saying anything.

Shane listened politely. Then he said, “I did deal with my anger. I was really mad for like two hours. And then when I was going to bed, I thought about it a lot. And then I wasn’t angry anymore. I even got to be kinda friends with Evan after that.”

It was my turn to listen. Shane had handled his anger like … well, better than most of the adults I know. He was angry. He stayed angry for a while. Then he thought about it, and made a conscious decision to go forward with his life in spite of what had happened, to not hold a grudge.

Shane handled the entire situation better than I would have.