L-Tyrosine, the amino acid that so helps Dylan work through his ADHD symptoms, works in conjunction with protein. If he takes a Tyrosine supplement, but doesn’t eat a healthy dose of protein, it doesn’t appear to have any effect on his behavior.
I think this is what happened the other day, when Dylan was like a whirling dervish – again.
He woke up and went to work, helping with a fundraising breakfast at church.
Dylan did a great job. He ate a quick breakfast (NO PROTEIN) and then started bussing tables, preparing place settings, and the like. He worked for two hours without complaint or problem.
Then he came home and regressed a solid 10 years: feet stomping, body spinning, maniacal laughter… balls bouncing, wild flailing of arms, exceptionally loud voice…
And the things he spouted were random gibberish. “Ippety dippety doooooo,” and similar sounds. He sounded like someone with – well, a brain issue.
His dad and I both expected more from him. We expected better. We expected more mature. But it just wasn’t happening. We had three solid hours of Dylan’s absurdities, during which time his only explanation was bothersome:
“I’m just happy!” he shrieked. “This is just how I am when I’m happy!”
I don’t know if it’s right to tone down his “happiness,” but I didn’t want to spend even one moment with my own kid during that time.
We threatened, we screeched, we told him to SHUT UP. We begged, we pleaded, we appealed to his sense of logic. Nothing worked.
Then we went off to a concert, where his school chorus was singing with the United States Marine Band in an annual holiday concert. There were 7,000 people in the audience.
I imagined Dylan up there, on the stage with the chorus, unable to control his movements. The peaceful choir would be singing O Holy Night and Dylan would be rocking back and forth with abandon, knocking his fellow chorus members off the risers.
But that’s not what happened.
Dylan jolted back into perfection, singing like the angel that he is.
And then I remembered. Dylan did great in the morning, working at the church breakfast. He did great in the evening, singing with the chorus. In between, he was left scrambling for something to do, with no way to focus his behavior on something that mattered to him.
ADHD 101: Always give the kid something meaningful to do.
Shane is a songwriter. It is a talent he’s had forever, that I didn’t even recognize as a talent, until about six months ago when his church choir director pulled me aside and explained.
He’s gifted.
The choir director then asked if Shane could write a song for the choir, and offered to have the group perform it at church.
Shane was elated. This was validation of his talent, and something he could do. Better yet, he was writing a song for God! And for Shane, there is nothing better.
So he wrote the song, sang it into a voice recorder, and then we had it transcribed into sheet music. It turned out to be about the baby Jesus, so the choir decided to perform the song at their Christmas concert. And practice for that concert is limited – only three practices! – so Shane was going to teach the choir his song at the first practice.
But he missed the first practice – because Shane’s mother forgot to take him.
The next day I got an email from the choir director who, of course, had to teach the song without him. She asked if he was sick.
No, I thought, his mother is sick. She totally forgot the day of the week!
Some weeks, I can’t remember what day it is without great effort. On this day, apparently, I didn’t remember what day it was until the next day.
I beat myself up over breakfast. First, I reprimanded Shane for not remembering. He said, “I thought it was next week.”
Then, I apologized profusely because I knew it was this week. I knew it, and for whatever reason, I totally missed it. I was still apologizing to Shane on the ride to school.
He seemed nonplussed.
“I am really upset about this,” I told him. “But you don’t even seem to care.”
“I care,” he said. “But there are two more practices left. I can teach them next week.”
“Yes but,” I said, “aren’t you really upset with me for not getting you to something that’s so important?”
“No,” he said. “Because it’s not your fault that you forgot. I forget stuff all the time.”
I turned around and stared at him. I was almost crying, but his eyes were dry. He was casually looking back at me. There was no animosity, no judgment, not even a minor crushed spirit.
Shane cared. But he didn’t moan or whine or become overwhelmed with regret. He just moved on, contented, with his life.
So I did, too.
Shane came home from school one day and blurted, “One of my teachers killed a bug today.” He was visibly upset by it – which is the way he gets whenever a bug is killed.
I started to say, “I know, Honey – sometimes that happens.”
And he said, “But she didn’t just kill the bug. She killed a lot of bugs. And she didn’t just kill them, she burned them in a fire.”
“She did what?” I asked, incredulous.
“We were doing this experiment in science with fire, and we were supposed to put this white powder in the fire. I think it was flour or something? But there were bugs in ours, so we told the teacher. And she came over and just grabbed a big handful with bugs and everything, and threw it right into the fire!”
I imagined the little bugs being burned alive. I wanted to vomit.
Shane didn’t seem any too happy about it, either.
I realize that many people consider bugs “just bugs.” But I’ve raised Shane to be kind whenever possible. That doesn’t mean we don’t kill anything – we slaughtered an entire ant colony just last month. But if it’s not absolutely necessary to destroy something, we simply won’t do it.
Shane’s science teacher apparently believes that saving a few bucks on a new bag of flour makes burning those bugs worthwhile.
Shane and I had a long talk after that, about how even good people can do things that aren’t very nice. And that doesn’t make them bad people – it just makes them different.
Next year, Shane will be expected to dissect a frog – the most loathsome school assignment of all time.
And, like his brother before him, Shane will do his dissection on the computer, far away from the last gasps of the poor creatures who will give their lives, literally, for science.
Shane’s first middle school report card came home: Honor Roll, and straight A’s.
We are all so proud.
I went to his teacher conferences. Other than his math teacher, who has issues of her own and doesn’t seem to know who Shane is, his teachers absolutely oozed praise for Shane.
All of his teachers showed me his grades. None of them said, “The only problem is…” They simply showed me his grades, which were all good, and talked about how wonderful it was to have Shane in class.
“He’s very bright.”
“He’s a real delight.”
“He follows directions, turns in his work, and if he needs something, he has no trouble asking me for it.”
“He seems to really enjoy what we’re learning.”
And – my personal favorite, from his World Studies class – “I wish I had a whole class full of Shanes.”
When I told Shane about it later, he said, “I didn’t even know my World Studies teacher liked me.”
I didn’t even spend the allotted 10 minutes with every teacher. I found myself talking about Dylan – three times! – just to keep the conversation going.
In a way, I was pitiful.
But there was nothing to discuss about Shane. I just sat back and soaked it in. Shane’s got it under control. He’s doing everything right. And he’s happy in middle school.
It’s crazy, I know.
Thanksgiving was a truly blessed event in our household.
We had family over, and did the traditional turkey. My nephew – who might be my kids’ favorite relative on the planet – showed up as “a surprise guest.” Everyone was happy.
Shane said a little prayer to launch dinner, and all the food was delicious. Shane did a magic show for us. We played a rousing game of Apples to Apples, and laughed like we were in a commercial. We ate dessert (thanks, Mom!) and had delightful conversation.
I would say I felt like we were part of a Norman Rockwell painting, but I’ve never been a fan of ol’ Norm. Instead, I felt like we were in an episode of the Brady Bunch.
Things go this way sometimes.
In fact, they go this way often. The house is usually a happy place to be. I’m fortunate to have wonderful family, and to be able to enjoy their company at any given moment, every day of the year.
These are the days that go by with us snapping a few photos, making a few memories, and smiling more than we usually do. These are also the days I rarely write about, because I write when I’m stressed.
I recently heard Adele talking, on The Today Show, about her songwriting. Adele’s songs, while incredibly powerful, can be quite depressing.
Adele has a son now, a little boy, who has provided her with an entirely new happiness in her life.
The host asked her if this concerned her, since her songs tend to be written from a sad place. And Adele said, sure, she was worried because she thinks that it’s a lot easier to write about the sadness in her life.
I tend to agree. Sadness, heartbreak, anger – these are all emotions that inspire me to write.
But today, I couldn’t pass up the chance to say something pleasant.
Dylan was alone at home when the power went out.
Our house is all electric. We don’t even have a gas line, let alone a gas cooking range. Without power, there is very little we can do.
It was mid-afternoon, so it was plenty bright. Dylan wasn’t worried about being able to turn on a light. But we always have a ton of food stored in both the refrigerator and the upright freezer. And Dylan was worried that, with the electricity out, the food might go bad.
So he went out to the garage.
He found the generator, and pulled it outside.
This first step – pulling it outside – is essential. An indoor-kept generator can asphyxiate the entire family. Personally, I would have missed this step, since I have no clue how to set up a generator.
But Dylan pulled the generator outside. He checked to make sure it had sufficient gasoline. Then he hooked it up to both the refrigerator and the freezer, making sure that the power cord wasn’t wet or near any puddles.
He turned the choke on. He made sure the power switch was set to “on.”
Then he pulled the cord, and started up the generator.
I didn’t even know he’d done it until he called me an hour later to say that the power had come back on.
“Should I turn off the generator?” Dylan asked. I almost fell over.
Later, my neighbor said, “I was over at my house, struggling to get my own generator started, and Dylan just came out and did it all!”
I have no idea when or how Dylan learned to set up a generator. But this kind of prowess makes me wonder why I even bother worrying about whether or not he turns in his homework on time.
He’s going to be just fine.
Since there are no parent-teacher conferences in high school, I arranged one.
I met with Dylan’s case manager, his guidance counselor, his English teacher and his Biology teacher. And Dylan came to the meeting, too.
My job – as parent of a high school teenager – was to sit down and shut up. And mostly, that’s what I did.
Dylan’s English teacher spoke first. He and Dylan discussed how well Dylan had been doing, talking to him after class. They decided that a teacher prompt might be necessary to help Dylan remember to check with his teacher after class. His English teacher was wonderful – which we already knew – and when he went back to his classroom, I felt certain that everything was under control.
We repeated the scenario with Dylan’s Biology teacher – also wonderful, also certain that everything was under control.
We discussed with Dylan that, from now on, missing work meant no more electronics until the missing work was turned in. This policy had been in place many times in the past few years – but this time, it was being strictly enforced until the grade changes. This means that, as long as the teacher doesn’t put in the new grade, the electronics stay off.
This seemed to be great inspiration for Dylan. He talked to both his English and Biology teachers every day. I encouraged him to branch out, and also talk to his other teachers, since he was doing so well with those two.
After a week, quite out of the blue, FOUR missing assignments showed up on the computer – all of them in English.
I emailed Dylan’s teacher, and ‘cc’d his case manager.
“Yes, he is talking to me every day,” his teacher responded. “But he is still missing these assignments.”
Dylan scrambled to get them all turned in in one day, since he loses his electronics whenever a missing assignment appears online.
Meanwhile, no one could quite figure out why – if Dylan asked every day what was due – why didn’t his teacher tell him these four assignments were due?
His case manager emailed me. She emailed the English teacher. She emailed me to tell me that she’d emailed him. I emailed her again.
After nearly a week, she met with the English teacher – and Dylan – separately, and again. What she learned remains a mystery, but she sent an email to everyone:
“We clarified that Dylan is asking for any/all work due, including homework and if there are any missing assignments. Dylan and I also talked about using the phone to record the discussion at the end of class when he asks about his work. Dylan says that he will type the information into his phone.”
I have no idea if this means the teacher didn’t tell him the assignments were due, or Dylan just forgot they were due. Either way, it seems we still have a long way to go.
Last night, as I was tucking Shane into bed, he told me about the honor roll “party” at school.
“Basically we all got ice cream at lunch,” he said. “They just said, ‘whoever is on the honor roll, line up.’ And then like half the cafeteria got in line. And then we got our ice cream and ate it.”
He made it sound rather anticlimactic. (Since my dad and I had both already taken him out for ice cream to celebrate straight A’s, it probably was anticlimactic.)
Then Shane shocked me.
“The whole time I was waiting in line,” he said, “I kept thinking about all the kids who didn’t get ice cream. And I remembered how I felt when all of my friends were patrols, and I just had to sit there.”
In fifth grade, Shane was the only one of his dozen closest friends who wasn’t chosen to be a safety patrol. He rarely spoke about it, ever.
“Probably the worst day of my entire life was when they had the patrol picnic,” Shane continued.
The picnic is a county-wide, day-long fair, to which only patrols are invited. There are treats and carnival rides, all created especially for those few kids, who leave school behind for the entire day to celebrate.
“First, my really good teacher went to the patrol picnic, because he was in charge of the patrols,” Shane said. “And we got a substitute, and it was a bad substitute. And I was left in school with all the bad kids while my friends got to ride on rides and have a party all day long.”
My heart almost broke in half.
Shane usually keeps his emotions in check. But on this rare occasion, he talked about a day – and an injustice – that crushed his spirit.
Ironically, this happened because he was rewarded for doing well.
Shane spent his celebration with an aching heart for those who weren’t rewarded.
Two-percent milk was on sale at Costco, so I thought we’d give it a try. Generally we drink one-percent or fat free, primarily because I have issues with dairy intolerance (and weight). So the kids have been drinking the lower fat stuff forever.
Knowing that the difference is minimal, I really didn’t think about it.
But Dylan and Shane came home from their afternoon dentist appointment and opened the fridge door, aghast.
“What’s two-percent milk?” Shane asked.
“Yeah, why did you buy that?” Dylan queried.
They stomped around the kitchen a bit, complaining. We still had plenty of the lower fat milk, but the boys needed time to object to this radical change.
The carton has blue lettering instead of yellow.
“It looks completely different.”
“Yeah, why would anybody buy this kind?”
“What’s the difference between two-percent and one-percent?”
“Why have we been drinking fat-free milk all this time?”
I left the room.
This morning, I sat down at the breakfast table with Shane.
“Do you know what, Mom?”
“What, Shane?”
“Two-percent milk is pretty good. I had two glasses of it last night.”
“I’m glad you like it,” I said.
Your friend absolutely cannot hang out on a school night.
Its legit just for half an hour. I’ve been working throughout rehearsal on homework so that I will have literally everything done.
NO.
Why?
Your commitment right now is to the school play. You do not have an extra half an hour on a school night until the play is over. And this is not a decision that you should have made without asking us first!
I didn’t, she said she was gonna come down and see me during rehearsal. It was just a question of if we could go to the shopping center afterwards. She doesn’t have to, I just thought it would work out well since she was gonna come down anyway.
She should not be visiting you during rehearsal. She is not in the play. She does not go to your school. I hope that she has not been hanging out at your school. I like her but you should have other priorities right now. For the record, there will not be a good time for you to see her until the play is over, unless you want her to go to church with you on Sunday, or she can come over for dinner on Sunday after your tennis lesson.
Mom. She just wants to see me. I have other priorities. After rehearsal is over, I will literally have everything done for the night. What makes you think I have more to do? She is coming Sunday she already agreed.
Cool. I am glad she is coming Sunday. And there are no available weeknights until the play is over. Period.
But I’m serious, all my priorities are out of the way. If I come home I will basically have nothing to do but kill time. I will have everything and I mean everything out of the way. I’m sure there’s room to hang out with her for only 30 minutes after rehearsal.
NO
NO
NO
So you would rather I come home and do some random stuff instead of hanging out with someone? Okay great. I understand that you don’t want me to but I don’t understand what reason there is behind it…
I’m sorry that you don’t understand. That makes me sad. The next time you ask me to see her on a weeknight before the play is over, we will cancel Sunday too.
Okay but I just don’t get it. I will literally be done with everything. Please just tell me what difference the half an hour makes that’s all I’m asking. I’m not trying to start an argument. Please don’t be mad. I’m just confused.
I am not mad. I am tired of saying the same thing over and over again. Whether or not you are finished with your schoolwork, and I’m not convinced that you are, weeknights are reserved for school. I suggest that rather than just sitting there, you study for an upcoming test, work on an upcoming project, or find some other schoolwork that you can get ahead on.
I’m done with my work that’s what I’m saying!!!!
Great! Then get ahead on tomorrow’s work.
I can’t! I have nothing more to do! That’s what I’m saying, I worked my butt off this whole rehearsal to be done for this one half an hour!
Fine. Then sit there and do nothing. I am sick to death of texting you and answering the same question over and over and over and over and over. The answer is no. I will see you when you get home.
So you don’t have a reason?
