I checked Dylan’s grades on the computer.
I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I wanted to know if he was still failing Spanish. (He is. I’ve been trying to get Dylan out of Spanish since before he ever started.)
Dylan is getting C’s, D’s and F’s in every academic course.
Everyone says I need to let him fail. I’ve backed off and stopped telling him what to do. And every day, he comes home from school declaring that he has nothing to do. And so he does nothing.
And so he is failing. And I am standing by, watching.
Meanwhile, I discovered that he didn’t have a book to read for English. He’s supposed to have read 23 chapters – but he hasn’t had a book.
“The teacher said he didn’t have any more,” he told me. (The teacher did not verify this statement.) I thought it was important that he figure out a way to get a book, and then actually read the thing.
Surprisingly, he was able to bring a book home when threatened with losing his weekend fun time.
In the midst of all this, Dylan wanted to go for a walk. He hadn’t done his algebra (again) and he had read only the last two chapters of the book he finally brought home – but not the first 21 chapters.
“No,” I said. It was almost a reflex.
“Why not?” he whined. “I just want to go for a walk. I’ve done everything I can do already! There’s nothing else I can do today!”
It was raining and cold outside, and getting dark, too.
“No,” I said, digging in deeper. I knew I was supposed to let him fail, but I was furious. We argued for awhile (my mistake) and he fumed away, believing me to be the core of evil.
He came down later and said, “Mom, I would really appreciate it if you just wouldn’t say anything at all to me about school. I was all like, I’m going to do this! and was going to do my work. And then when you said that stuff to me I just felt like, What’s the point? And now I don’t feel like doing anything at all.”
Somehow, his apathy was my fault.
I got sucked in, of course. I went into a full-blown lecture about how this was all his choice – the grades, the book, the things he chose to do instead of school work. I talked about how I’d given him all the tools he needed, and he was just dancing around the tool box while it sat on the floor.
I knew I was in trouble when I said, “You don’t dance because someone tells you to dance. You dance because you enjoy the music.”
I understood it. But I’m not sure anyone else did, so I just stopped, then and there. I turned around and disengaged.
Again.
In Algebra, Dylan has done quite well on most things. But when he took the Chapter 7 test, he flunked it. He got 20 out of 40 right.
Against my advice, his teacher gave him the test to take home and correct during spring break. And he did something with it over spring break, but I don’t know what.
She emailed me the day after spring break ended, and told me he was getting another chance.
I told her to stop giving him chances, but thanked her for her concern. Then I talked to Dylan when he got home.
“You are really lucky to get this chance,” I said. “She’s giving you another day – so I suggest you actually use that time to do the work.”
“I know,” he said. He got out his algebra book and some papers and went to his room. Ten minutes later he said, “I’m done” and put the book and papers in his backpack.
Two days went by, and I got another email from the teacher. “Dylan needs to show his work,” she said. “I’ve given back the test for him to do that. I’m concerned that he doesn’t understand the material.”
When Dylan came home that day – a full month after he’d taken the test originally – we had another talk.
He got out his book and his paper and went to his room. Ten minutes later, he came downstairs.
“I don’t really understand how to do it,” he said. “I have to ask her.”
“Can’t you look it up on the internet?” I asked. “Or better yet, use your algebra book. That’s what the book is for.”
“It’s just easier if I ask her,” he said. “It’s just one simple question and then it’ll only take, like, five minutes to do.”
“You’re sure you’re going to ask her tomorrow?” I said. “Because I do not want to see this test at home again tomorrow. It’s already been three weeks.”
“I’m sure,” he said.
The next day Dylan said, “Um, she wasn’t there. But I’ll look it up on the internet this weekend.”
On Monday, I got another email from the teacher.
“I asked Dylan for the test this morning and he told me that he really did not understand it. I am going to walk him through a few of the problems on the test during his lunch today and then he is supposed to finish it tonight for homework. And if he does not have it fully completed by tomorrow then his grade will stay as it is.”
I emailed her back (four long paragraphs). I told her that Dylan had really had enough chances, and that the next time he fails a test, he needs to just fail the test. I explained that we have been encouraging this behavior by allowing him to continue not doing his work – and not studying for tests – and having no consequences for his actions. I assured her that not only did I want her to leave this grade as it is (20/40) but to leave the rest of them, too.
“There are no do-overs in high school, or in life,” I told her.
Then I called Bill, to decide what the consequences would be at home. Consider the ipads, video games and computers gone until the grades come up.
And if they don’t come up? Well, that’s okay, too. It’s no longer my job to fix him.
But it is my job to give him realistic consequences.
The high school IEP meeting was far less … structured and worrisome than those from our past.
For one thing, Dylan appears to be in good hands. His counselor is absolutely wonderful. He’s very laid back, calm, professional and kind. He knows what he’s doing, and seems to actually care about the students.
Better yet, Dylan’s special education coordinator is awesome. Unlike those we’ve met before, he is way laid back. He never seems to think anything is a problem. He’s not just reassuring – he’s there. In the moment. And he is there for Dylan.
We spent an easy hour together – parents, Dylan, counselor and coordinator.
We discussed Dylan’s schedule. They were a bit surprised to see that Dylan needed both an IEP and a four-year plan to get an IB degree. But they studied it, and determined that it was in keeping with what was needed to graduate.
They even decided that Dylan’s taking both video production and computer coding would be fine – in spite of our last-second decision to do so. If the IBCP offers a computer pathway in the next year or two, Dylan will be able to hop on board. If not, at least he gets to take a class he will really enjoy.
I’ve still got my concerns about Dylan taking Spanish, but he has 21 days to decide – and drop out, if need be. We’ll just have to deal with the colleges when it’s time to deal with colleges.
My favorite part of the meeting, though, was when the special ed coordinator interviewed Dylan. It was hard to keep my mouth shut, but high school is obviously different than middle school. Dylan answered the questions. Dylan made suggestions for himself. Dylan talked about what he liked and didn’t like.
Dylan talked about how it was sometimes difficult for him to deal with certain people.
The coordinator listened. This may be his best attribute, even though his other attributes are so good.
“If you have a problem with any person,” he told Dylan, “a student or a teacher or anyone – you come and talk to me about it. And I will work with you to fix that problem.”
“You see, Dylan?” I blurted. “You go to him. You don’t come to me, and then I go to him. You’re in high school now!”
“That’s right,” said the coordinator. He looked at me, all-knowing.
In spite of my glee at the teachable moment, I should have kept my mouth shut.
Then he took Dylan on a brief tour, and told us about orientation.
As an aside, each of my children have a half-day orientation – Shane in middle school, and Dylan in high school. Probably not coincidentally, orientation takes place on my birthday.
I’m not sure if that’s a gift, or a horrible joke. But I am learning to be open, so I will just wait and see.
While Bill and the boys played laser tag, I went to see a movie. Given that my options were Home in 3D, The Gunman, Get Hard or any one of eight sequels, I opted for a movie called, Do You Believe?
The movie profiled twelve characters from different walks of life, whose lives intersect in meaningful ways. The underlying thread is that they are all trying to find meaning through a belief in Jesus Christ. Normally, this is not the kind of movie I would choose. But honestly. Get Hard? The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel?
No.
So I sat through the movie with the other ten people in the theater who were also desperate, and I watched. It was sad and violent and wildly inspirational. By the time the end credits rolled, I was nearly bursting at the seams to run out and do something meaningful. Volunteer, help the homeless, become a Big Sister, devote my life to missionary work….
I was ready to save the world.
Then I got in my car and pulled out of my parking space. I could hardly wait to get home and search all the volunteer positions at our local center. I pulled out onto the main road.
A minute or so later, I needed to get into the left lane. I turned on my left turn signal and looked over my shoulder. There was a van in the left lane – the driver of which saw my turn signal.
So he sat on his horn, sped up, and cut me off so that I couldn’t get into the left lane. The light changed to yellow as I pulled behind him – and he raced through it.
I stopped.
I thought, This is how it happens. This is why I do nothing to save the world. The people – some of whom were portrayed in the movie – the people are just so heartless. No one wants to GIVE one single thing. They’re out for themselves, trying to get ahead, move faster, be better, get richer. No one seems to remember that it’s actually all about love.
The American quest is not for peace. It’s for money and power.
And how am I supposed to teach my kids to give, and to be kind, when so much of the world is barreling through like bulls in the proverbial china shop? How do I let them be free, and make their own decisions, and watch them be stomped upon like garbage by so many half-crazed, selfish people?
I was thinking about this when the light turned green again. I moved forward to the next light. And there was the white van, sitting at the next light, stopped. Waiting for the opportunity to barrel forward again.
I looked at the driver and thought, He doesn’t know anything else. He doesn’t know better.
But he does know better. I bet his parents raised him to be kind and giving and unselfish. And then he learned, by living in this world, that speed and power and greed would provide him with “more.”
I can teach my kids by being a role model. Maybe I am not Mother Teresa, but I can be kind. I can give, whenever I am able. And if that just means letting people get in front of me in traffic, then so be it. At least it’s something. It’s something I can do.
When the light changed, the van went straight ahead. And I turned left.
For spring break, I took Dylan on a road trip to start looking at colleges.
I know it’s early, but I couldn’t wait. (Note that Dylan probably could have waited a decade.) But thus far, Dylan’s college experience had been limited to the handful of colleges around our home – and there are so, so many more out there for him to see!
So we headed out with a very brief itinerary. Over the course of three days, we saw 5 colleges.
During our first stop, at a small college of about 1,300 students, we hiked all over campus. We saw students carrying instruments, and followed them into the music building. We saw a classroom where the musicians were all blowing – and chasing – bubbles. It looked like a lot of fun, in my opinion. Then we walked through the student union.
Dylan kept fixing his hair. “I feel like we shouldn’t be doing this,” he said. But he seemed interested.
It was a nice place, and it gave Dylan a feel for the smaller, liberal arts world. Then we visited an enormous college – much larger – which Dylan said was okay. He was much more interested in the football stadium than any of the other buildings.
And there were lots of other buildings.
We saw another large university, and stayed overnight. Without really much thought, and without much discussion about its attributes, Dylan really seemed to like the third college.
“I just feel like I should be here,” he said, quite sincerely. He was at peace in a way that I rarely saw, except when he became obsessed with watching a fish in water.
He practically became that fish in water.
We saw a few more schools, but after that one, the others were a let-down for him.
He started asking questions about how he could get into that college. What did he need to do? What were his chances of getting in?
Dylan would gladly give up if I told him he had no chance.
But he does have a chance – a good one.
“You’re lucky,” I told him. “You’re brilliant. You’ve got an IB program in high school. And you get pretty good grades. All you have to do is do your work and turn it in.”
And now he has a mission. He has a focus – a goal – a light at the end of the tunnel.
“Can I apply now?” he asked. “Like after 8th grade?”
“You’re not a prodigy,” I said. “You’d have other problems if you were – so just relax and enjoy high school. And just turn in your work. Besides, we have lots of other colleges to see before you apply.”
We had a great trip, just the two of us. Dylan is funny and kind and delightful to be around. He’s got a super heart and a wild wit. And I adore him – for those reasons, and so many more.
It’s wonderful, just being able to relax and enjoy that for a change.
On the day of the big revelation – the day I realized I’d finally let go of controlling Dylan, for real, I came home and started writing. There were a lot of blogs to be written, to keep up with my racing and wildly uncontrolled mind. Everything was swirling around in my brain, while the rest of me felt empty and raw.
As I was sitting at the computer, trying to compose but mostly just sobbing, Dylan came in.
“I know you’re mad at me,” he said, “but I’m going to hug you anyway.” The boy is an angel. He gave me a hug and knelt beside my chair.
“I’m not mad at you,” I blubbered. “I’m mad at myself. I spent all those years trying to do what was right for you, learning about you and taking care of you, that …”
“You didn’t spend any time taking care of yourself,” he said – extolling wisdom beyond his years.
My voice escaped through the choking sobs. “Right,” I said. “And now I just don’t have any idea what to do with myself. But it’s not your fault. I’m really not mad at you. And I think it’s a good thing. I think this is going to give me time and space to let God run things for awhile, instead of me having to be in charge of everything all the time. It’s just hard right now.”
“It’ll be okay,” he said. He hugged me again and – probably not coincidentally – went off to finish his algebra.
Later in the day, Shane and I went to the library. Since I’d stopped reading and listening to Healing ADD, I needed something else in the CD player for those long drives to and from school.
And there it was, on the shelf, screaming my name: Melody Beattie’s Make Miracles in Forty Days: Turning What You Have Into What You Want. I grabbed a number of other books, too, but this was the one that nearly leapt off the shelf at me. It may as well have had actual feet for the leaping.
The next day, after I dropped off Shane at school, I hit the “play” button on the CD player. And these are the words I heard:
“When I stop trying to keep everything and everyone in neat little packages and allow myself to let go of illusions of control, God’s vision for my life miraculously unfolds.”
So I don’t know what’s next.
I just know that it’s not what I’ve been doing for so long. I know that all of those feelings of control are illusions – and not ones that work anyway. And I know that letting go is the only way to get anywhere.
I know there will be setbacks. I know this isn’t what I intended to write about in this blog. And I also know that, in spite of all of my fear and anxiety and emptiness, this is the right direction.
I just don’t have any idea where it’s taking me.
In the morning, after “I quit” being responsible for Dylan’s entire life, I woke up feeling strangely empty.
I didn’t have anything to do.
It was a Sunday, so I had to get ready for church. Shane was singing with his youth group.
I have to make sure he’s wearing the right shirt, I thought, knowing he’d already be awake, dressed, and wearing the right shirt. (He was.)
At least I have Shane, I thought – followed immediately by, NO. I don’t need to obsess over Shane the way I’d obsessed over Dylan for so many years, even though Shane is younger and there’s still time for me to “take care” of him.
I didn’t know how to handle Dylan. I woke him up and yelled at him, as always. Then I thought, I really will leave without him today, if he’s not ready on time.
But he was ready on time. He came downstairs and made himself a high-protein breakfast.
I didn’t feel like I’d quite done enough, after only 14 years of constant vigil. So I went to the computer and made a list.
- take responsibility for your own health
- know what you need to succeed
- exercise and take care of your body
- brush and floss (use water pik)
- wipe dinner table every night
- do Saturday jobs on Saturday
- set alarm and get out of bed on time
- be ready to go and downstairs on time
- be prepared by taking all the things you need
- demonstrate proper, respectable behavior
- know when work is due and turn it in
- bring home all the things you need
- do homework without being asked
- do jobs without being asked
- get to sleep at a reasonable hour
I gave him the list. I said, “This is everything I’ve told you in the past 14 years, the stuff you need to do to be responsible. If you want to go on the school trip, act like an adult, or be treated like an adult, then these are the things you need to do.”
“Okay,” he said.
It didn’t feel sufficient, but I backed off anyway.
I’ve done all I can do.
So now what do I do? I have no life outside of these kids. I have nothing to do, no life of my own, nothing to think about, nothing to research. I’ve created my own empty nest syndrome, and my kids are still here!
I knew about this, of course. I mean, I knew it was coming someday. So I padded myself with softball teams, a gym membership, and a part-time teaching job.
But none of that takes place on Sunday.
So I went to church. I saw Shane sing, which was awesome. And then the minister started to talk. He talked about the Golden Rule, about “doing unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
He talked about creating a healthy environment within yourself, so that you have room for God to take over your life. He talked about clearing out everything else so that there’s plenty of room for God.
And then I remembered: This is how it begins.
Something breaks inside of me when I see Dylan playing video games at night.
I think, What is he doing? Why isn’t he studying? Does he think he has nothing better to do? Look at his bedroom! It’s a disaster! He hasn’t cleaned up anything since 2008. And what about his hermit crabs? Has he fed them? Does he even know if they have water?
Lately, I’ve been pushing Dylan to take control over his own ADHD. The Healing ADD book on CD has been transferred, in part, to his room. So lately, I’ve had the additional voice screaming in the back of my head: WHY ISN’T HE TAKING CARE OF HIMSELF?
And of course, this happens every night. Some nights, I mention the crabs. Some nights, I mention studying. Lately, I’ve frequently mentioned listening to the ADD book.
But on this night, something NEW broke inside of me.
He was playing video games at 9:30, as he often does. Sitting on his bed in his messy bedroom, having been forced to re-do his algebra work earlier in the day – but otherwise, not having done a single thing to take care of himself.
I started in: “Why aren’t you listening to the CD I gave you? I have to get it back to the library. Have you listened to any of it yet?”
“No, but I was going to.”
I don’t know when I snapped, exactly, but I snapped. I had Chris’ words ringing in my ears, about negativity. I had my ex-friend’s words ringing in my ears, about my negativity. I didn’t know how to be positive or encouraging. I couldn’t remember a single positive, encouraging thing to say to anyone about anything – least of all, Dylan.
So instead, I quit.
I quit being responsible for Dylan. I quit being responsible for his ADHD. I quit being responsible for his moods, his work, his room, his study habits, his school, his teachers, his hermit crabs … his life.
“I’m done!” I screeched, tossing things around the room.
I threw the hard copy of Healing ADD down the hall, because I wasn’t ever going to finish reading it.
“Can I have the CD book?” Dylan asked. I told him he could get it out of the car if he wanted it. I was done reading about ADHD.
I don’t even have ADHD.
So in spite of my great enthusiasm for learning everything there is to learn about it – and in spite of my hours and hours and hours and hours and days and weeks and years spent researching Dylan’s behavior and trying every solution known to mankind – I quit.
In haste and anger, I scribbled four words on a post-it, and handed it to Dylan.
It said (in all caps): DIET, EXERCISE, MEDICATION, SLEEP.
“THIS is all you need to know,” I said. “Good luck.”
I’ve done everything I can do for Dylan.
It is now time that he steps up and does it for himself.
With nothing to read, nothing to do, nothing to think about, nothing to worry about, and nothing left to say, I went to bed.
As I drifted off, a strange thought entered my brain: This is how it begins.
My stepson, Chris, is 23 years old. His brain works a lot like Bill’s, and like Dylan’s. In spite of this, he managed to not only succeed in school, but to graduate with exceptional grades from a college honors program.
So he’s been a great advocate for Dylan – especially when defending Dylan against me.
I mentioned something to him about my blog, and asked if he was still reading it.
“Yeah,” he said, “and not to be offensive, but I’m getting tired of all the negativity.”
“What negativity?” I asked, actually not understanding.
Chris then went into a ten-minute lecture on the virtues of encouraging Dylan, rather than constantly criticizing him. He explained that I needed to make sure that the positive things I say to Dylan far outweigh the negative things. He told me that what Dylan was hearing was an inevitability of failure, rather than a way to succeed.
Everything Chris said, I knew. I know. There is nothing that he said that I hadn’t either read somewhere, heard somewhere, or learned on my own and tried to practice.
Yet, the words that came out of my mouth in response to Chris’ advice were defensive. I’d done the things Chris said, but I wasn’t still doing them. And I tried to explain why I wasn’t still doing them. In fact, I’d run through so many things in trying to help Dylan that my inconsistency in being positive was the only thing that was still overwhelming my behaviors.
Chris also said that I should let him fail. He said I swooped in and saved Dylan every time something happened. That I was still dealing with the teachers, reminding Dylan what to do, giving Dylan everything he needed instead of letting him get it on his own.
I heard myself saying, “Yeah, but…” and “Well the reason I did that was…” and “I only do that because…”
My mouth was moving, and the excuses were pouring out, but my head was screaming, YEAH, BUT…?!? These are all excuses! You ARE doing it all wrong!
And later, after asking Chris’ permission to mention him – and his advice – in my blog, I was thinking: Why don’t I stay positive? What have I been doing instead?
And I realized the sad inevitability: I did what I thought was right. But I made it worse. All of my interventions and attempts to force my child to succeed were actually keeping him from succeeding.
At one point, I read an entire book that told me – quite specifically – not to do any of these things. And somehow I forgot all of that wisdom, and started back on this path.
And all I can think now is: I was only trying to help.
It’s like a bad joke. A really repetitive, never ending, tiresome and very bad joke.
So it’s appropriate that I write this for April Fool’s Day, I suppose. But it’s a bad joke. Not a fun prank. Not something I want to keep living, day after day after day.
I had just finished putting the final touches on the Easter baskets. I had one more small item to squish in there, so I ran out to the store. I felt great – spring had sprung, and life was glorious. Best of all, Dylan was doing so well!
Then I got home and checked my email.
There were two “confidential report” emails from two of Dylan’s teachers. These are behavior incident reports – things that were so bad, the parents have to be notified.
One said:
“During a bathroom break today, Dylan placed textbooks and an umbrella in front of the boys bathroom door while it was occupied. The student in the bathroom at the time felt ‘barricaded in’ by the action. Although Dylan is allowed time to take a minute outside of class, moving materials in the hall and obstructing doors is not appropriate. In response, Dylan spent (recess) today in the office.”
The other said:
“During Science class, Dylan asked to use the restroom and I gave permission. However, after doing so he left the building and went to another building to get earphones for his friend. Middle school students are required to be escorted between buildings.”
These reports describe some child I’ve never met. Since he’s been going to this private school – with all the freedom and flexibility in the world – Dylan’s completely run amok.
I’ve never had reason to use that term before, but it fits. My child has run amok.
My first thought upon reading these reports was: WHY WOULD HE DO THIS?!?
My next thoughts poured out in an email to the headmaster – which I sent without re-reading:
“I know that the school is a wonderful, peaceful place that allows the kids to move around freely. I also know that Dylan is allowed “frequent breaks” on his learning plan. But this is a boy who absolutely does NOT need to go to the bathroom during the school day.
I’m considering having Dylan – even if it’s ONLY Dylan – be restricted to sitting in the classroom, away from the other kids, with no possibility of bathroom breaks or moving around inside the room. I realize that this sounds like prison. And it completely defeats the purpose of our bringing Dylan there in the first place. But if he can’t learn to be respectful in a ‘free’ environment, then perhaps he shouldn’t be allowed to be so ‘free.'”
Five minutes later, the phone rang. It was the headmaster.
“Spring is here,” she told me, “and the kids are very excited. The teachers are having an extra-hard time reigning them in. But this is not an emergency.”
“You don’t think we need to chain him to his desk?” I asked.
“I don’t,” she said. “We are seeing some improvements in his behavior. This time of year is always hard. We’ll just keep working with him on our end, and you keep working with him on your end.”
I wanted to crawl through the wire and kiss her. Well, except it was a wireless phone, and I’m not sure there are any wires through which to crawl.
Basically, she told me to take a deep breath and forget about it.
I’m starting to believe that if I would just learn to reassure myself, all of my anxieties would vanish.
