Dylan – whose most noticeable talent is his angelic singing voice – is dropping out of chorus.
Dylan auditioned for chorus with a man who was known for his love of music, kindness to students, and good nature. We’d known the choral director for years, since Dylan’s 5th grade chorus sang with the high school chorus once a year. He was a wealth of knowledge and talent, and worked wonders with the students.
When he auditioned Dylan, he put Dylan in Chamber Choir – the highest level of chorus, an utterly spectacular feat for a freshman.
Then the choral director quit.
We don’t know where he went, or why he quit. We begged and pleaded – but of course, he kindly declined to stay just for Dylan’s sake. The brilliant choral director went off into the wild blue yonder.
The new teacher is barely out of college. She teaches middle school chorus, too, and her abilities are very limited. Without any warning, one of the first things she did was to eliminate Chamber Choir.
So Dylan – with his angelic singing voice – went into what is, essentially, a taller version of middle school chorus.
After two quarters, he was having fun – but didn’t really care for it. There’s more to the schedule change (saved for another blog post) but the new teacher eliminating Chamber Choir sure didn’t help.
In fifth grade, Dylan was in honors chorus, which made “regular” chorus seem rather dull. In sixth grade, Dylan was in the Children’s Chorus of Washington (CCW), which kind of ruined him for “regular” chorus. CCW sang at the Kennedy Center and traveled around China singing in the finest opera houses. It’s hard to go back to middle school chorus after that.
Dylan is taking voice lessons now with a spectacular teacher who has 40 years of experience at the high school and college level. The new voice teacher is impressed by Dylan’s talents and offered him a position in his adult choir.
So, in two weeks, when the quarter is over, Dylan is done – at least for now – with high school chorus. A month later, he is scheduled to audition for The Voice. It may be a bit of a reach at 15. He’s barely old enough to audition. But he wants to do it, and it will be an interesting experience.
And I’m sure Dylan will continue to sing endlessly at home.
Shane was sick, and missed school, for two days.
Most of his teachers put an “X” in his grade book, meaning that his missing assignments were “eXcused.” It’s a good system, although Shane would still have to make up quizzes or tests from his absence.
His math teacher, however, put huge, glaring “ZERO”s in the grade book. She explained to me, early in the year, that otherwise, she would forget to make sure he does his work.
His grade plummeted from a high “B” to a “D” because of his two-day absence.
I sent her two handwritten notes and two emails, begging for an “X” in place of some of the zeros. I begged for her schedule, so that he could work with her to get caught up. She never responded, except to say that she was sick on Sunday so she couldn’t meet with him on Wednesday.
WHAT?!? That was totally unrelated to what I’d asked.
Shane talked to her, though, and she finally agreed to meet with him – five days later – for 45 minutes after school.
Forty-five minutes?!?
I was incredibly frustrated. He had three quizzes, two homework assignments and two days’ work to make up.
So on the day he stayed after school, I went to pick him up. Furious, I went inside with the Wicked Witch of the West theme music blaring behind me. Shane had way too much to do to be given no leeway. And I had way too much to do to be ignored for a week!
My cell phone suddenly rang, catching me off guard as I ran smack into Shane’s teacher in the hall.
“Oh, it’s you,” I said, barely recognizing her, the Wicked Witch theme suddenly dropping away. “Where’s Shane?”
“He’s right there,” she said, pointing down the hall. Shane was trotting toward us. “He did some great work today. He got two of his three quizzes done, and all of his homework. His grade is now a 90% – an A!”
I was stunned. “He did all of that in 45 minutes?”
“Yes,” said the teacher. “I wish all the students could do that much in 45 minutes!”
I found myself thanking the teacher profusely for spending her time with him, all the anger completely deflated.
And Shane actually brought up his grade.
I had just dropped off some stuff at the high school, and was walking out the door. It was early morning, but the busses were gone. Some late stragglers were coming in, being dropped off by their parents.
One such straggler was heading for the front door of the school as I was coming out. But he was stopped cold in his tracks by his mother’s voice behind him.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” she shrieked. “WHY DID YOU SLAM MY DOOR?!”
I hadn’t heard any door slam. I was right there, but I hadn’t heard anything at all. Until the shrieking.
I couldn’t hear the boy’s mumbled response. He was tall and thin, with dark hair and a tired face.
The boy walked back to the small, red car. The passenger side window was down.
“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” came the deep, growling voice from inside the car. “YOU CLOSE THIS DOOR PROPERLY!”
How much control do you need? I thought. He’s a teenager. How much longer do you expect him to be closing the door the way you want him to close it?
The boy opened the car door. Then he slammed it as hard as he could, and walked toward the school.
Good for you! I thought. At least you’re standing up to her!
“DON’T YOU SLAM THAT DOOR!” his mother growled. “JACKASS!”
I felt a pit rise sharply in my stomach. You’re calling him names? I thought. That is your BABY and you’re labeling him forever as a jackass? Do you really believe that your baby is a jackass?
I know having a teenager is frustrating. And I know how it feels to be out of control. But screaming uncontrollably in the parking lot about a slammed door? Swearing and name-calling? Is that really something you have to do?
Where will it end?
I was headed an entirely different direction in the parking lot, but I wanted to walk up to her car. I wanted to say, “Is this boy really your child?” Because I didn’t believe that someone who gave birth to a precious little baby boy could be so heartless. How could she not see what she was doing to him?
But she didn’t let up, not for a moment.
And she was still screaming. As I was getting into my car, the boy who had slammed the door was rethinking what he’d done, and walking slowly back to the small, red car.
And there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing to stop her from ranting and shrieking and screaming for control. Nothing to alleviate her fear. Nothing to bring back the tenderness she needed to move forward, to bring back the love she drove away, nothing to help her find peace.
Most importantly, there was nothing I could do to help that boy.
She’ll just keep screaming, until he’s gone.
“It’s weird that everyone celebrates New Year’s Eve,” Shane said. “But nobody really celebrates New Year’s Day, and that’s the real holiday.”
“That’s true,” I laughed. “Maybe we should celebrate New Year’s Day. What would you like to do to celebrate?”
“I don’t know,” Shane said. “Maybe we could have all of our friends come over and have a huge party.”
I imagined the hung-over parents’ glee at dumping all of their kids at our house. Then I imagined trying to put together a party for a dozen kids in two days. We didn’t have nearly enough pizza.
“That might be nice another year,” I said. “But for now, let’s just figure out something special to do – maybe something new for the New Year.”
We came up with the idea that we could go to the movie and, since Shane wanted to see The Road Chip and I didn’t, I came up with the idea that Shane and Dylan could go to the movies on their own for the first time.
Dylan liked the idea, with one caveat. “What if I want to go to Ben & Jerry’s, too?”
“I will pick you up at Ben & Jerry’s,” I told him. The ice cream store is right next to the theater.
So the kids were in – a new thing to do, perfect for New Year’s Day.
On the way to the theater, I handed out discount cards and lots of cash. I put Dylan in charge of tickets, and Shane in charge of Ben & Jerry’s. I gave instructions for 15 straight minutes.
The kids were joking around during my instructions, and I got more and more panicked, thinking I wouldn’t have given all of my instructions before we got to the theater. My voice started rising with the panic.
Dylan said, “Mom, do you want to come with us? Because it seems like you’re the only one who’s worried.”
“No,” I said. “I just want to be sure you’re safe and happy.”
We arrived at the theater. The kids got out, laughing and excited.
I took a deep breath and drove away.
Everything went fine.
For New Year’s Eve, we decided to watch the appropriately named Tomorrowland on DVD – the boys’ favorite movie. It was a special “movie night” for the family, and a calm, quiet time for me.
Then, for the first time, both boys were allowed to stay up until after midnight. Dylan’s an old pro by now, since he’s stayed up till midnight nearly every night since winter break started, but it was Shane’s first time. Last year, Shane went to bed (as usual) and we woke him up to watch the ball drop on TV. He was awake for a few minutes, then went right back to bed.
But ushering in 2016 was different.
At 9:00 – the time Shane usually gets ready for bed – Tomorrowland was over and the ball-drop event was on TV. Dylan disappeared; Bill disappeared. I was ready for bed.
“So you’re just going to sit here for three hours and wait for the ball to drop?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m going to do other things while it’s on.”
Then Shane went upstairs to gather supplies. He came downstairs with his new cell phone, some books, pencils and a writing tablet. I hopped on the computer for half an hour, then heard a song I like on TV – so I rushed back in to watch Elle King sing on the New Year’s Eve show.
“What are you doing now, Shane?” I asked.
“Abstract drawing,” he said. And he showed me some abstract art.
Half an hour later I wished him a happy new year and went to bed. Bill, Dylan and Shane all watched the ball drop together. I was zonked out shortly after 11:00 – but awakened when the power blipped (off and on) at – I assume – midnight.
I lay awake for an hour, trying to get back to sleep. By the time I did, everyone else was asleep, too. I could tell by the silence.
In the morning, I asked Shane about the ball drop. “So what happened at midnight? What did you do?”
“We all said, ‘yay!'” he told me. “Then we went outside and did some sparklers. And then we went to bed.”
“What time did you go to sleep?” I asked.
“About 12:15,” he said.
Apparently the celebration was rather short.
But I bet it’s one he remembers for his whole life.
In the night, I woke from a dead sleep, and found it impossible to sleep again.
Why?
I had a dream. It wasn’t necessarily a nightmare – but I was afraid to go back to sleep, for fear that I might fall back into that same dark place.
In my dream, I’d been caring for two chinchillas. Chinchillas are exotic pets and, at one point, Dylan wanted one more than anything in the world. In real life, we would never get a chinchilla.
But in the dream, I’d been responsible for these chinchillas for awhile. I was just wandering around one day, when I suddenly remembered that I’d left the chinchillas in a closet for weeks.
I’d given them no food, and no water. I’d completely forgotten them.
So I ran for that closet, suddenly remembering my obligations. I wailed, “No! Nooooo! Noooo! Oh my God, no!” My dream-sobs were so deep and painful, I can hardly believe I didn’t wake myself up.
But I had to know what happened to the chinchillas.
It was dark as I opened the closet door, and the sudden light made the animals blink – but only slightly. They were barely breathing, and didn’t move a muscle. Looking like kittens left outside during a flash flood, I could sense their excruciating pain – and I knew that I was the one who caused it.
I looked wildly around for water, still crying, “No! No!” I started dialing 9-1-1 on my cell phone.
And then I woke up.
In a way, I wanted to go back to the dream, and nurse the chinchillas back to health.
But my stronger sense was that those chinchillas were beyond saving. And while it was my fault, I didn’t want to remember what I had done.
On Christmas morning, Dylan was dawdling in the shower and I was getting some great compliments on my blog post. Since I wrote it for the boys, really, I decided to share it with Shane.
“Go read my blog,” I said. “I wrote it for you.”
Shane ambled over to the computer and sat down. A few minutes later, he got up.
“Okay, I read it,” he grumbled.
“Okay…” I said, hesitating to ask what he thought. A silent moment passed.
I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“What did you think?” I blurted.
“Well,” he said, “now I know for sure that there’s no Santa Claus.”
Dear Boys,
Gifts are just “stuff.” They are material possessions, not really worth anything important in life. Still, on Christmas, I want you to know…
With every gift you open, know that I thought about you. I love you so much, that I thought and thought about what you wanted most in the world. And if I couldn’t give you what you wanted most in the world, I thought hard on how to give you the next best thing.
Every single gift, even the tiniest one, is meant to bring you joy and happiness, which is what I want most for you in the world. I know that money can’t buy the things that bring the most joy, but with every gift you open, I hope you are completely enveloped in the love that was used to wrap it.
And perhaps most importantly of all, I want your Christmas to be full of those happy, gorgeous childhood wonderment memories that I’ve been carrying with me for all these years. My parents gave me so much, and so many gifts that – so obviously – were wrapped in that same love. And on Christmas, I knew that someone thought about ME.
I knew I was loved. Most of all, that’s what I want for you this Christmas. Please know that you are loved today, and every day.
Merry Christmas. May all your dreams come true.
Love,
Mom
With the Christmas holiday FAST approaching, I am still struggling to keep Dylan on track.
His last eight grades in Biology are D’s and E’s, and he added a zero to the pile when a study packet was somehow passed out without him ever knowing about it. He got 3 E’s for missing work in Spanish and U.S. History. And while he wasn’t able to find any of his missing work, he managed to find a long-lost Geometry paper at 11 p.m. on Sunday night.
While he got ready for the biology test that he expects will rescue his grade from the ditch, I scoured the internet for new app’s for his new cell phone. Now that he has a phone with no data block (his birthday gift), he can download a much better scheduling app to help him keep track of his work. Dylan spent this entire time upstairs on his new phone – not a huge surprise, given that he “only” had one essay to write for homework.
As I narrowed the app list down to a handful of choices, Dylan walked in, waving his phone in my general direction.
“Look what I did,” he said. And he played a video for me, featuring a Christmas carol with four separate harmonizing parts.
ALL of the parts were Dylan singing.
They blended beautifully. There was a low part, a high part, and two melodic parts that simply worked together.
Instead of sounding like an angel, he sounded like four angels.
Since my brain doesn’t work that way, and I have no capacity for harmony, I was blown away. My son was singing in four-part harmony, all at once, and he sounded spectacular.
“It’s my new app,” he said. “I saw it a long time ago and now I finally got it.”
He tried to show me some other (not important) people who videoed themselves on the app – but I wasn’t interested.
I just sat and watched it over and over and over again.
And cried and cried and cried.
With Christmas coming so rapidly, and Dylan’s birthday barely passed, I am discovering again the sheer thrill of giving gifts.
I choose everything for everyone. I love it, and I start buying in August, which means I am technically done – but still buying stuff – by mid-November.
It’s more fun than almost anything else I do, except possibly planning vacations – which is probably my favorite thing to do. Vacations can, occasionally, be given as gifts. One year, I planned a trip for my parents, at their request, as a gift. This was possibly the most fun I ever had, even though I didn’t go on the trip.
I am definitely a planner. It’s probably why non-planners make me a bit daft.
In fact, in the midst of all the holiday hoopla, I am planning a spring break trip that includes getting a feel for some of the northeastern colleges, as well as tons spring break fun. I’ve already reserved our (seven) hotels and picked out some choices for lunch.
But the past few months have been mostly about choosing the right gifts. I think about what the kids like, what they want more than anything, and then I work very hard to make that dream come true.
I don’t understand why Bill doesn’t do this. He not only doesn’t enjoy choosing gifts, but he often fails miserably when he tries. He seems to feel a burden that forces him to find something – anything – to wrap.
Bill’s motto is, “If it’s on sale, it must be the right thing!” His other motto is, “Everybody loves a Starbucks gift card!” I think this attitude is somehow related to ADHD.
But I love figuring out the absolute right-est things. It’s my favorite part of the Christmas season.
And then, just in case any kids are reading this, I write it all down in a letter, and mail it to Santa Claus, who takes care of the rest.
