On his birthday, while Dylan was at school, I couldn’t stop thinking about this kid named Danny from my high school. It’s been many decades since high school, and certainly it wasn’t relevant in any way to Dylan’s birthday. But still, the memory was stuck in my head all day long.
My high school had a Sadie Hawkins dance. For those whose school did not have this absurd tradition, this was a dance where the girl was supposed to ask the guy to a dance.
And I was a girl.
I was not popular by anyone’s standards, and – while cute enough – not even remotely confident about the way I looked. I adored a lot of boys from afar, and went out with very few. So I spent days agonizing over who I could ask that I liked – but who would also be a little “below” the caliber of football player or cheerleader.
I wanted to ask someone I thought was cute, which narrowed the field to about half the guys in the sophomore class. But not someone so cute that he’d be asked by every girl in the school. In other words, I wanted to ask someone who was good, but not too good.
Probably I should have just asked someone I actually liked. Instead, I analyzed the situation to death – and finally decided upon Danny.
Danny hung out with some of the popular kids. He was skinny and had long, stringy, black hair. I thought he was adorable. But no one really considered him popular, since he didn’t play any sports. He wasn’t very smart, either. But he was okay – good enough, but not too good.
It took all the courage I had in the world to ask him to the dance. I was twiddlebug-quiet and very, very shy. I caught him during lunch period one day, when he was walking alone.
I squeaked, “Danny?”
He turned around and looked at me, confused.
“Will you go to the dance with me?”
He smiled and, for one micro-second, I thought he was going to say, “Sure.”
Then he laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed. His laughing was genuine and loud, and hearty for his skimpy frame. It was as if I’d told him the funniest joke he’d ever heard. He just laughed and laughed.
It may have gone on for two seconds or two hours. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes and willed them back down.
Eventually, Danny just turned and walked away, still hysterical with laughter.
I can’t remember if I went to that dance, or even if I asked anyone else.
Ever.
I did look up Danny on Facebook. He is a nobody now, as he always was, with a life that – according to Facebook – revolves entirely around his motorcycle. He has tiny teeth and a long, stringy, black goatee. So in a way, I feel better.
But in another way, I don’t feel better at all.
I sent Dylan and Shane, on their own, to get ice cream after school. Because the ice cream place is within walking distance from their schools, students often gather there.
Midway through their unsupervised time, I got a text from Dylan:
“nadia invited me to go to panera btw”
“when?” I texted back.
“after this I guess”
“we’re having movie night tonight”
We have a weekly pizza and movie night, which was already in jeopardy because the kids had eaten so much ice cream.
“yeah but I’ll be back by 6”
It was already 4:00. I wasn’t even picking up the kids until 4:30 and Panera was not next door.
“what are you going to do at Panera if you don’t eat?”
“I’ll probably just get a cookie and talk”
That’s what Dylan needs – a cookie after his $9 bowl of ice cream. And I barely know Nadia. Is she old enough to drive?
“who’s driving?”
“you”
Me?!? I thought she invited him…?
So Dylan wants me to pick him up from the ice cream place, drive him to Panera, drive Shane home, then turn around and drive back to Panera and pick him up? So that he can have a $3 cookie after his $9 ice cream?
I picked up my phone to rant into the voice activation system. I punched the microphone button and opened my mouth.
But nothing came out.
“I’m dumbstruck,” I finally texted. “The answer is NO.”
“why?” Dylan texted back. “are you busy or…?”
I didn’t bother to reply.
I was too busy driving to the ice cream place to pick up my kids – and take them home.
Last week, I drove some chorus students to and from a “field trip” so that they could sing together.
That morning, I got a text from Dylan:
“Could you bring me a black dress shirt before 11:30?”
He’d forgotten to wear the appropriate attire. Not only that, but Dylan doesn’t own the appropriate attire.
We had a text conversation, which I won’t bother to repeat. But it ended with me saying, “Do you think I am your personal assistant?”
Then I called Bill, because Dylan said that Bill had a black dress shirt that Dylan could wear. We all believed that said shirt was clean and hanging in the closet.
But in the course of our conversation, Bill mentioned – oh, by the way, the tuxedo pants have a broken zipper.
The tuxedo pants that Dylan needs to wear for tomorrow’s concert. The pants that have been hanging in Dylan’s closet for three months, in anticipation of tomorrow’s concert. The pants that Bill knew last week needed to be fixed, but he forgot to mention it to me.
So first, I went to the gym. This was very good for my stress level, which was severely – and not imperceptibly – rising. I decided that I would find the black dress shirt, and take it to the school, even though this allows Dylan exactly ZERO consequences for his actions. If I hadn’t been driving, I could have let him stay at school and miss the concert – like he missed the school picture, when he forgot to wear appropriate attire. But I was driving the kids, so I was driving him.
As for the zipper, I was venting while walking around the track with my mom at the gym. I had no time to get the zipper fixed, of course, because I would be gone all day with the field trip. I was only venting, having completely forgotten that my mom knows how to sew.
So, because I have a great mom, she drove to my house to look at the tuxedo pants. They were shoved in his closet on top of his sweatshirts. (We found his tuxedo shirt balled up at the bottom of a nice carry bag.)
The zipper problem wasn’t something she could fix. So, because I have the greatest mom in the whole world, she took them to a tailor who could fix them – allowing me to rush off to the field trip with Dylan’s shirt.
When I got to the field trip, I asked his teacher if Dylan had a jacket to go with his tuxedo. I vaguely remembered seeing jackets. She looked on a nearby rack and didn’t find his name.
“Where’s your jacket, Dylan?” I asked.
“It’s at home,” he said.
“I looked at home, and it’s not there.”
“Yes it is!” he exclaimed. “I know exactly where it is!”
A few short hours later, Dylan was home, scrounging through his closets. The jacket was nowhere to be found. We shrieked at each other – him claiming never to have said he knew it was home, just that he thought it was at home.
I was just randomly shrieking.
Meanwhile, my mother picked up and even paid for the now-fixed zipper. She brought it back to us, like new. Dylan would have been wearing safety pins if it hadn’t been for her.
I got a text in the morning, less than 12 hours before the concert: “My jacket was on the rack with my name on it, at school.”
“Great,” I said. “Glad you found it.”
I woke up, well before dawn, and wrote Dylan a letter. Given our propensity for loud arguments, I just couldn’t talk to him anymore. One of the things I wrote about now sounds eerily familiar – like maybe I’ve done this before….
You asked me for help – years ago – with your classes. You were quite young, and you needed my help. You couldn’t remember what your homework was, or when it was due, and you couldn’t turn in classwork even though everyone else in the class did.
So I helped. I helped and helped and helped. I helped until I was utterly exhausted. And you continued to do the same things, over and over, expecting different results. You continued to not do your homework, not know when things were due, and not turn things in. And yet – I continued to help.
The rule of “‘E’ = No Electronics” will stand. That is not going to change. And yesterday, as usual, you told me all of your homework was done, that you had no homework or studying to do, and that you were doing fine in all of your classes.
Today you have an ‘E’ in Spanish. You have two ‘D’s and an ‘E’ in Biology. You still have four E’s in Geometry. You are putting in only a tiny amount of effort, and your grades reflect that. You are spending your time texting and playing the piano, and your grades reflect that.
You’ve been getting away with this for years. You have ‘extra help’ from the school, who allows you extra time. You have teachers who are asking YOU if you’ve got everything turned in. And yet, you don’t turn in things on time. You don’t even seem to know they exist.
There will be no more electronics until the E’s are cleared up on Edline. It’s the one thing we can control. The rest is up to you. I give up. I really, really, really give up.
And then, for the millionth time, I gave up.
The Steelers were playing the Colts.
On the very first play of the game, Steeler Jacoby Jones caught the kickoff, returned the ball for about eight yards, then fumbled the ball – and the Colts grabbed it. The Colts took possession at the Steelers’ eight-yard line.
As a Steeler fan, this upset me slightly. I assumed the Colts would run that ball right in for a touchdown, and the Steelers would be losing by seven points in less than 30 seconds. Then they would spend the rest of the game trying to make up for the deficit.
But as a parent, all I could think about was Dylan.
This is what Dylan does to himself every quarter, I thought. He digs himself a huge hole by not finishing his work and not studying, and jumps right into that hole. Then he spends the rest of the quarter trying to get himself out.
At the beginning of the second quarter, for example, he got a ‘C’ on a unit test in history – and has been furiously digging his way back to an overall ‘B.’ He turned in several things late in both English and Biology, leading to a meeting at the school and low grades to start him off, so that he’s digging – again – furiously, trying to bring up his grade to something above average by the end of the quarter.
Then I thought, I can’t even shut off The Mom Brain while watching Steelers football. What is wrong with me?
Luckily, I tuned in to the game in time to see the rest.
After the initial fumble, the Colts got four yards on a rush, then threw an incomplete pass. And on their third play, the Steelers defense intercepted the ball in the end zone – and the team got the ball back at about the place where they’d had it after the first play of the game.
It took the Steelers 51 seconds to dig themselves out of that original hole. Three plays later, they intercepted the football, getting it back to its rightful owners, no harm done.
It usually doesn’t happen quite so fast, or easily, for Dylan.
The Steelers also stayed in it for the long haul – and won the game, 45-10.
“The long haul.”
That’s where my hope lies.
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.
