Dylan started the quarter with high hopes and lofty expectations. He said things like, “I’m going to get an A in Geometry, for sure.”
And interestingly, he does have an A in Geometry! A solid 96 percent. With only a week left in the quarter, it is looking like he will get an A.
At the beginning of the quarter Dylan also said, “I’ll probably get an A in English, too.” He loves Shakespeare, and they were reading Romeo and Juliet for most of the quarter.
But he currently has a D in English.
I don’t understand how he has a D in English. At Dylan’s IEP meeting, his English teacher was the only one who showed up. He smiled and said that Dylan is doing much, much better in his class. He sang Dylan’s praises for a full five minutes.
Then I asked the English teacher, “If he’s doing so much better, why does he still have so many E’s?” In Dylan’s case, E’s mean missing work.
“We’re working on those,” his teacher said, still smiling. He seems genuinely pleased with Dylan progress.
I still see a bunch of E’s.
When Dylan got sick and missed school for two full days, his grades plummeted. Dylan brought his failing grades up after that in both History and Spanish – two classes that had, at one time, also made him feel hopeful. He is struggling way more in history this quarter than any other class – and I have no idea why. He did very well in the class, and always got his work turned in. This quarter, though, he started off in a deep hole – three E’s – and has been digging himself out ever since.
He had a crazy-hard time in Biology last semester, but this quarter, he’s doing great. He would have an A in the class, but for three missing assignments that were substantially docked for being turned in so late.
I’m confused by Dylan’s inability to turn in assignments the day they are due. He is working more at home, studying even, yet he has these huge, glaring holes in every class.
Luckily, my job is only to be positive and encouraging.
Somehow, I feel that positivity fading as I am holding my breath and waiting for the end of the quarter.
Saint Patrick’s Day fell in the middle of Shane’s school’s “Spirit Week.” For the first three days, his middle school did not seem very spirited.
“Hardly anybody was dressed up,” he said on the first day – and the second.
But on March 17th, when everyone was supposed to wear green, Shane said, “Everybody went completely crazy!” The green was rampant in his school. And luckily, Shane had remembered to wear green as well.
Dylan said high school was also rather spirited on March 17. One friend, he said, “wore green pants, green socks, green shoes and even sprayed her hair green. But she didn’t wear a green shirt.” He seemed perplexed by her not wearing a green shirt – but I thought wearing green pants was so over-the-top, she probably didn’t need a green shirt, too.
Dylan wore a shamrock-studded bandana around his wrist like a bracelet. The rest of his outfit was not green because, of course, he slept through his alarm, came downstairs late, and forgot that it was St. Patrick’s day until I mentioned the bandana.
Best of all, they both felt spirited and enjoyed the day.
I can remember waiting patiently for March 17, so that I could wear something green, and probably velour. I loved knowing what to wear, showing a touch of individuality while fitting seamlessly in with the crowd.
I saw some teachers at Dylan’s school who were dressed head-to-toe in green and I thought, gee, I am glad I don’t have to do that anymore.
And I thought of all the other things I don’t have to do anymore to “fit in.”
I am glad my kids fit in. But I am also glad I don’t care so much about fitting in now.
Dylan can’t comfortably sing the opening song of the school musical – although it is his job. We had expected that the school band would play the song in the key of G.
Since we are working on self-advocating, Dylan went to the choral director to ask about getting a key change for the opening song.
“She said they won’t change the key,” he told me later. “She kept saying it was just a student band, and I guess a student band can’t change the key.”
With six weeks left to practice, it seemed unlikely that they weren’t already learning the song in the right key. After all, our voice coach had emailed the band director two months ago. It also seemed unlikely that a band as good as our high school band was incapable of a key change.
I pounded off an email to the band director. The play can be opened on a strong, positive note, I explained. Or it can open on a weak note, with Dylan sounding like a weak singer. If it’s not done in the key of G, it will not be a strong, positive opening.
The band director sent me back a four-paragraph expose on what the band does, really, and how much work it is to change a key. As a layperson, of course, I had no idea. I begged Dylan’s voice coach to do something, but it was too late. No one could do anything.
I felt like Diva Mom, barging into an already half-learned production, saying, Stop everything! My SON needs to SING!
I don’t want to be Diva Mom. I want Dylan to be flexible. But I’ve heard the incredible way he sings the song in his key. It could have been awesome.
But Dylan will be performing the song in some other key, and it is going to be rough. Dylan will do his best, of course, but he simply can’t sing that high.
I was so looking forward to the play, until now. Now I almost dread it.
Dylan is such a strong singer. It’s a huge talent, and a wonderful gift from God. But he’s basically been backed into a corner that can only allow him to perform in a way that – he will believe – is subpar.
He takes music very seriously. “Music is my life,” he says.
The voice coach will work with him. The band director and choral director have offered to work with him.
But I can’t imagine that it will do any good.
Dylan is a sensitive soul.
One night, when we called him in for dinner, he looked at the chicken and said, “I can’t eat that.”
“What do you mean you can’t eat it?” I said. I rarely cook, and having a “real” dinner – with meat and vegetables – was a fairly special thing.
“It’s a bird,” he said. “I’m not going to eat a bird.”
Given my own history as an occasional vegetarian, I knew exactly how he felt.
But like any good mom who’d just spent half an hour making dinner, I screeched at him. “You WILL eat it!”
He didn’t eat it. In fact, he declared himself to be a vegetarian for the rest of time.
Dylan takes L-Tyrosine for his ADHD, which works in conjunction with the intake of protein. Dylan needs more protein than most people, or his ADHD symptoms get worse. We learned this the hard way when he was young. We started giving him an egg for breakfast when he was barely old enough to say the word “cholesterol.”
He can still eat eggs, which are the most substantial source of protein in the world, other than meat. Dairy – which is awful for him – and nuts are the other two significant sources. Sure, spinach and kale provide some protein, too, in a good way. But they aren’t fast or easy – and Dylan rarely eats anything that is not fast and easy.
To put it into perspective, Dylan would need to eat four eggs to get the amount of protein he gets from one slab of meat. He would need to eat eight peanut butter sandwiches. And the amount of cashews he would need to put away … well, I can’t count them.
So I said, “You will eat meat.”
And he said, “No, I won’t.”
And that’s where we are now.
Dylan sings like an angel and, as such, was given a role in the school musical. He is the “Featured Male Singer,” which means he sings several solo songs, including the opening number.
“I can’t hit these notes,” Dylan told me in January. “The opening song is too high for me.”
“Let me hear you try,” I told him, knowing that Dylan has a very impressive range.
He actually squealed when he got to those notes. He tried again, starting in a lower range. But the lower version sounded worse than the squealing.
So we went to his voice coach, who worked with Dylan for a few minutes.
“It’s not a problem,” said the voice coach. “We’ll just have the pit orchestra play it in the key of G.”
The voice coach knows the band director at Dylan’s school. They’re old pals.
So I stopped worrying.
And two months went by.
Two weeks ago, Dylan started rehearsing the opening number – and it was being played in the incorrect key. It wasn’t the band playing – just the original song, and Dylan was supposed to sing along.
“I can’t sing it in this key,” he told the technical advisor – a burly man who really doesn’t know anything about music.
“Sing!” screamed the technical advisor, who is not known for being warm and fuzzy.
“But I’m not comfortable singing it in this key,” Dylan stammered.
“JUST SING!” bellowed the technical advisor.
“I can’t hit the notes,” Dylan said calmly.
“JUST SING THE SONG!”
Dylan did not sing the song. Eventually, the burly man stopped fuming, but will likely never forgive Dylan for his insubordination.
Then Dylan went to the choral director to discuss changing the song key – which is a blog for another day.
Dylan participated in a singing competition at his school called “RAM Idol.”
A play on American Idol, it featured 14 singers who each sang one song, and then the top four were selected to sing a second song. Of the final four, one winner is selected to win two hours of recording studio time.
Two years ago, Dylan came from the middle school and was one of the opening acts for the show. He chose a song he didn’t sing well, and the background music overpowered his voice. He didn’t move on stage, and sang haltingly. The middle schoolers didn’t compete. But it was a good experience for him.
“Don’t worry about winning,” I told him. “Don’t worry about anything. Just think about the music.”
“Okay,” Dylan said.
Dylan sat in the audience with us for the first few singers. One of them kept staring at the monitor, as if she’d forgotten the words.
I envisioned my son as a shy kid, standing motionless in front of the screen, not looking up.
“Don’t look at the monitor,” I whispered to him.
“I won’t,” Dylan said. I worried that he might forget the words, stumble and forget, and then he would need the monitor. Then I worried that he would be afraid to look at it, because I told him not to.
But I stopped giving advice. This was, after all, Dylan’s show.
Dylan sang seventh.
He walked out onto the stage and greeted the crowd to thunderous applause. Then, without ever knowing a monitor existed, he sang a powerhouse ballad so strongly, so beautifully, even his little brother got tears in his eyes.
He took command of the stage, not standing still for too long – but not moving so much that it destroyed the effect of the ballad. He made eye contact with the audience, didn’t even notice the monitor. The crowd hushed during the quiet parts, roared during the robust parts. Several times, girls screamed like they were watching The Beatles.
Dylan totally nailed it.
He was the only male singer in the final four contestants. For Dylan’s second song, he did a strong rock number, showing another side of himself entirely. And again, he totally nailed it.
It’s been several days since the competition, and I just sit and watch the videos over, and over, and over again.
We repotted our beloved orchid.
I say “beloved” because, quite literally, we love this plant.
Bill loves it because he just loves orchids. I am not a plant fan. In fact, I could never have another plant again as long as I live, and I would be perfectly content.
But this particular plant has sentimental value. When Bill and I first started dating – years and years and years ago – Bill bought this orchid for me. I remember him skipping around the corner with the pot under his arm, and this long, skinny stick with a flower on it nearly hitting him in the head.
Bill was very cute, carrying that plant.
So I kept the orchid, in my dark basement apartment. It survived. Eventually, I moved to a lighter basement apartment. Then Bill and I got married and moved into a tiny house, where the orchid really started to bloom.
I mean, it really started to bloom. As we got married and started having babies, the orchid went hog wild. Our cat died, and we got a fish, and the orchid bloomed and bloomed. We got a dog and the larger our family got, the larger that orchid got. We got three more fish, then five hermit crabs. And every few months, Bill would say, “I think that orchid is spiking again.”
If I straightened out the longest (current) spike, it would be almost four feet tall. It blooms constantly. The orchid is so big now, the repotting was more for our sanity than for the orchid’s health.
But when we repotted it, the orchid mix we used apparently had some gnat eggs in it.
So gnats started showing up in our house. In fact, so many gnats started showing up, we had to buy glue cards so that the new gnat population in our home would dissipate or, preferably, disappear altogether.
Did you know that a female gnat can lay 100 to 300 eggs? One gnat. We repotted this thing before Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day has come and gone. And we still have gnats. The cards are catching hundreds, and we still have gnats.
You can’t kill a gnat very easily, either, because you really can’t see them until they land in your food, or fly right past your eyes. One. At. A. Time. All. Day. Long.
So, since the orchid has – for me, anyway – symbolized my marriage, I am taking this as a sign. The gnats are, quite simply, a bothersome thing that has happened, while we were caring for our orchid – er, relationship.
And there are many bothersome things that happen, every day, in our relationship. I don’t live well with other people. I am very much a loner; Bill is very affectionate. I am bothered by nearly everything he does. I still love him, of course, but I wish he would do more things the way I want him to do them.
Some things are bothersome, but swatting at them does no good. I have to wait patiently until they fly away on their own.
Which, I believe, they will never, ever do.
So I was sick – totally bedridden with some sort of stomach flu – for three days.
During that time, Bill and Shane left for two days of Outdoor Education – the most fun a sixth grader can have and still call it school. Bill chaperoned. Dylan went to school and had play practice until well into the evening. Then he came home (well fed, thanks to my parents) and took care of our dog – and himself – even getting himself off to school in the morning, on time, with lunch in tow.
I am not happy to have been sick.
But I am happy that, even without me, my family is able to thrive.
This morning in the gym locker room, where most of my socializing is done, I overheard a woman talking about her garden.
“I don’t play favorites. Anything that is on my broccoli has to be killed. I kill everything.” She sounded proud.
I thought of all the little bugs, born in nature, trying to find something to eat.
“One guy said, ‘you just killed a monarch butterfly,'” she continued. “I didn’t care. They were caterpillars, you know? I killed a whole bunch of monarch butterflies, in the caterpillar stage. I say, if they wanted to live, they should have stayed off of my broccoli.”
Monarch butterflies are disappearing by the billions in this country, almost exclusively due to farms and pesticides. Less than a year ago, a campaign began to save the monarch butterfly from extinction. There are only about 30 million left.
“Well you want to nurture your garden,” said the broccoli gardener/murderer’s friend. “You have to use some pesticides.”
“Oh, I don’t use pesticides,” said the butterfly murderer. “I don’t want that stuff on my broccoli! I use scissors and cut them in half.”
At this point, I wanted to vomit. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to ask her if she also supported banning Muslims from the country. But it was done, and there was nothing I could do to stop her from her killing spree.
Even if I’d said something, she wouldn’t have changed.
I did print out a copy of the article about the campaign to save the butterfly, and next time I see the woman, I will give it to her. After that, it’s her decision.
Then, to help the butterflies I can save, I bought some milkweed seeds for my own garden – which, thus far, consists only of two butterfly bushes and – now – some milkweed plants.
This week is big for 6th graders. The whole class is going to Outdoor Education – a two-and-a-half day excursion into the wilderness, with only bunk beds, shelter and an occasional meal (served by students) as classic comforts.
Shane is very excited.
I am very excited for Shane. But last night, cuddling with him before he went to sleep, I had to confess:
“I’m really going to miss you when you’re at Outdoor Ed,” I said.
“That’s nice,” he said. “I’ll probably be having too much fun to miss you.”
“That’s a good thing,” I said.
“And your emailing and writing blogs and social media…” he continued. “I won’t miss any of that.”
“You do see me on the computer a lot,” I told him. “But most of the time, it’s because I don’t have time to do anything on the computer until you are home.”
Then I realized: No. I’m actually on the computer all the time.
I volunteer at the high school with a woman who gave up her computer for three months. She used her phone to get texts, but otherwise just quit – cold turkey.
“And I was never bored for a minute,” she said. “I got so much done!”
I don’t think I could do it.
But I think I could be extra cautious to not be on the computer when Shane is home – at least, and especially, when he needs someone with whom to talk, play, or just be.
The time is flying by – and I don’t want to miss it because I was staring at an electronic box.
