For the Halloween season – which runs from mid-September until early November in a house with two Halloween-obsessed boys – Dylan has been given a special opportunity.
He was “hired” (receiving social service learning hours as “payment”) as a scarer at the local haunted forest extravaganza. Normally, those who are hired must be 16 or older – but Dylan volunteered to help with set-up, and somehow finagled his way into a scarer position at age 14. Because of his height, no one seems to know the difference.
Dylan has been asking to be part of Field of Screams since he was old enough to know it existed, and long before he was old enough to walk through the attractions himself.
We took him to the Field once a year on Family Day, when they “toned down” the terror. Family Day has since been eliminated entirely, so Shane still doesn’t care to attend. The first time we went, Dylan was six – and very sensitive.
While I wouldn’t allow Dylan to try, we watched his friend Kyle, a month older than Dylan, walk into the Field of Screams trail – and less than three minutes later, we saw Kyle running back out of the entrance, sobbing and screaming.
We did the relatively mild hayride instead. For years.
But Dylan would stare longingly at the woods. “I want to do that,” he would say in his pitifully high voice.
“When you’re 16, you can!” I would say, imaging that day to be far, far away.
Well, that day has arrived.
And Dylan has never been happier in his life.
After 14 years of people telling Dylan to sit down, be quiet, stand still, and STOP DOING THAT! – he is now doing a job that actually requires him to stand up, jump up and down, chase people, climb on things, spin, startle, screech, scream, and roar.
“Do they tell you what to do at your station?” I asked him after his first night.
“Not at all,” he said. “I have to think of what to do to try to be as scary as I can. But I am basically supposed to be completely crazy,” he said proudly.
He was thrilled after the second night, too. Then he counted days until the following weekend, so he could go back.
Dylan came home equally delighted after his fourth night.
“I can do whatever I want!” he practically screamed. “It’s like they want me to be me!”
They WANT him to be HIM.
Finally.
Shane is running the timer for his school’s Morning Show.
“What do you have to do?” I asked him.
“I have to time the beginning song,” he said. “And if there’s a video, I have to time that, too. And then when it starts, I wait for the guy to push the space bar, and then I start the timer.”
“Wow,” I told him, “Your job sounds very important.” I went on to tell him about professional TV news and sporting events, where timers are used extensively to make sure that commercials run as scheduled. I explained that going over or under the time could result in not being able to run a commercial ($$$) or worse, dead air.
Shane seems quite pleased with his position.
To be quite honest, though, had I known there was a timer position available, I would have recommended Shane from the age of two to do the job.
When he was little, Shane was rarely put into time out. He didn’t do much, other than lie on the floor and play with toys, so he rarely got into any trouble. He had some trouble putting away his toys, and still does, but for the most part, he wasn’t often “in trouble.”
Dylan, on the other hand, was three years older, and rambunctious. Before we knew he had ADHD, we were just trying to keep him still for one minute at a time.
Dylan was in time out a lot.
He would whine and mope and stamp to the stool, where he plopped himself down with clear disgust. Then, every 14 seconds, Dylan would say, “How much longer?”
I eventually learned to set a timer, so that Dylan could see how much longer. One minute for each year of his life = five minutes. As soon as he was on the stool, I would start the timer.
Shane would watch quietly from a distance.
After a few days maybe, Shane realized what was going on. “Time out” meant “timer countdown.”
So, at the age of two, he would wait until he was sure I was looking at him. Then he would pick up a toy and throw it against the wall.
“Oh no,” I said, the first time it happened. “We do not throw toys! You’re going to have to go to time out. I’m really sorry but ….”
Shane went racing across the room, as fast as his little legs could carry him. He plopped himself down on the stool and looked eagerly at the timer.
At the time, I still didn’t get it. “Okay, Shane,” I said, pushing the buttons. “You have to sit here for two minutes.”
“Okay,” he said in his darling monotone toddler voice. Then he stared at the timer, watching every one of the 120 seconds tick by.
Afterward, Shane regularly put himself into time out. Eventually I figured out that he just wanted to watch the timer.
So to say that he is happy with his Morning Show job would be a genuine understatement.
Because of Shane’s obsession with numbers, which apparently started in the womb, I always thought he’d make a great accountant, or maybe he could do something with statistics. But I am open to ideas, if anyone has one, for a good profession for someone who just wants to watch time go by.
Dylan’s unit test in Spanish was three parts: two days of written work, and one oral test. For those who didn’t read Friday’s blog, Dylan took day one and thought he was finished.
So on day two, Dylan pulled out his laptop during the test and his teacher thought he was cheating – when, in actuality, he just wasn’t paying attention. Again. He had no idea he was taking a unit test, so he was visibly upset (and called me sobbing) when she took away his paper and gave him a zero.
Dylan’s teacher kindly agreed to let him retake the second part of the test. She sent an email on Friday.
“Just want to let you know, that after some consideration I decided to let Dylan finish his Unit test. I will cancel the questions he already answered (I believe it was 3), but he will be able to complete the rest. Please, ask him to see me during lunch on Monday at my office.”
So on Saturday night, I asked Dylan, “What’s your plan for tomorrow?”
“Huh?” he asked blankly.
“Don’t you have anything to do on Sunday?”
“Play tennis?” he asked, obviously clueless. (The boys are taking tennis lessons on Sundays, though – so bonus point there!)
I asked, “Besides playing tennis, don’t you think there is something else you want to do?”
“Not really,” he said.
“Isn’t there something you want to do on Sunday to get ready for Monday?”
“Like what?” He honestly had no idea what I was talking about. Again.
“Dylan,” I said, clearly agitated, “if you can’t figure out what you are supposed to do, then I am not going to bother mentioning college ever again.”
Bill was sitting in the room, too. He understands Dylan, since they were cut from the same mold. Bill said, “Do you have a Spanish test on Monday?”
“No,” Dylan said. “I thought I just took that test.”
Dear Lord, I thought. How can he make the same mistake AGAIN?!
“Did you even read the email?” I shrieked.
“Yeah,” he said. “But I thought I was done taking the test.”
This can’t be happening.
“Then you MIGHT want to read it again!” I shrilled, and stomped off to bed.
Sigh.
I have no idea if he will study. And I have no idea if he will show up for the test today. And in my zeal to get him to self-advocate, I’m not sure how I can – ever again – possibly help.
Dylan called me from school in tears.
“Something happened in Spanish,” he choked. “They thought I was cheating and now I got a zero on my unit test!”
My stomach clenched. I wanted to vomit.
Denial hit instantly. No! My child wouldn’t cheat!
My mothering instinct kicked in immediately after: What if he did cheat? What if he’s just upset because he got caught?
The two sides of my brain fought while Dylan gave me details.
“I had this piece of paper on my desk and I didn’t even know what it was, and then I didn’t know what this one word was so I got out my computer to look it up and the teacher said I was cheating!”
Paper? Computer? Dylan has an IEP allowing him to use a personal computer for his writing issues.
“She thought you were cheating because you were looking up something on your computer?”
“Yeah!”
How stupid does she think he is? If he were going to cheat, he’d at least TRY to be slick about it! He’s not going to pull out a laptop in the middle of the test!
“Okay,” I said. “The worst thing that can happen is that she thinks you are cheating and you get a zero on your unit test. That has already happened. It can’t get any worse than that. So what are we going to do next?”
“I’m going to go to the guidance counselor’s office. I had to beg her to let me leave the room,” Dylan said
“Okay,” I said. “When you get to the counselor’s office, have him call me right away. And we will see if we can get you to retake the unit test after school, okay?”
“Okay,” he sniffed. And so the guidance counselor called me, and I emailed the teacher, and I talked to the teacher. And I met Dylan at school, and drove him home to hear the whole story.
Long story short, he didn’t cheat. He totally flaked out, didn’t hear the teacher say anything about a test, and thought he was just working on a paper. Which is why he pulled his laptop out of his backpack, plopped it on the desk for all the world to see – on top of his binder, which is enormous – and didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was looking up a word.
The teacher told me the worst of it.
“You’re taking a unit test!” the teacher told him.
“But I didn’t know I was taking a test!” Dylan exclaimed. The kids around him laughed at him.
He honestly didn’t know. We still don’t know if she’ll allow him to retake the unit test. But at the very least, I know – and my son knows – that he’s doing the best he can, and being honest.
And that’s really what matters the most.
While wandering the halls of middle school, I ran into a student I recognized. I couldn’t quite place her, and I assumed it was because she’d grown substantially since I last saw her. In middle school, people range from tiny to monstrous, so I figured that she’d grown at least a foot.
And then I remembered her name.
“Are you Tina?” I blurted, incredulous. She’d grown maybe two feet since I’d last seen her, at least two years ago.
“I am,” she said.
“Oh my gosh!” I sputtered, like I was in the presence of greatness. “You played the guitar in the talent show! And you practically ran the show! You’re the most responsible and mature person I ever met!”
Upon saying this, I realized two things. First, I probably embarrassed her – although no one else was around to hear me – except a teacher who chimed in, “Yes, she is!”
Second, I also know two girls from another family who are equally mature and responsible. So I may have exaggerated a bit to Tina.
But the whole experience gave me reason for pause.
I remember meeting Tina when I was a supervising parent for the elementary school talent show. She played the guitar, which was nice, but she also had a real take-charge attitude backstage. She was in charge of making sure all the other students were ready when it was their turn, sending them on stage and shuttling them off.
Tina handled the show like an old pro – like a Broadway old pro. I asked Dylan about her later. “Do you know that 5th grader, Tina?”
“Who?” he asked.
“The one who makes sure you’re on stage. Tina – you know, she plays guitar?”
“Oh her,” he said. “Yeah, but she’s in third grade.”
“No she isn’t,” I said. “She was practically running the show!” Tina is a full year younger than Dylan.
“Yeah,” he said. “But she’s in third grade.”
Stunned, I had to wonder how someone can be that responsible at the age of 8. And now that’s she’s taller, I recognize that she’s related to a girl in Dylan’s grade – her sister Vivian, who is also quite responsible.
And since that long-ago talent show, I’ve gotten to know another family with two girls who are also wise, mature and responsible beyond their years.
And that’s how I learned that parenting matters.
I realize that girls are more inclined than boys to be mature. But I’ve noticed, too, that the most responsible and mature children come from responsible, mature adults.
Parents who show respect for their kids teach respect. Parents who trust their kids can trust their kids. Parents who allow their kids to be independent thinkers and doers, who don’t correct and change their kids’ choices, who guide but do not demand … those are the parents whose kids grow into wonderful adults.
Best of all, the kids learn this from Day One – so they mature early.
Unfortunately, I am realizing this way too late to fix what I’ve already messed up. I’ve been correcting my boys since they came out of the womb. I’ve been instructing and changing and demanding the entire time.
(This comes from a deep sense of insecurity, which causes me to try to control everything.)
In other words, I realize I haven’t done it all right. In fact, I’ve done a lot wrong.
But I can try, today, to respect and trust and guide. I can work on that for myself. At the very least, maybe I can become a better role model for my kids, who are maturing at their own pace.
I knew Dylan would be busy in high school. I did not, however, realize how busy he would be – or how fast it would happen.
Dylan has volunteered to work at the local Halloween attraction (scaring the wits out of people) for two months. He will work six to eight hours, twice a week. In addition, he got a small part in the school play, so he will be staying after school for hours, at least a few times a week.
In addition, he has decided to try tennis. For some odd reason, I thought this would be his only extracurricular activity this fall – so he is scheduled for tennis once a week, all the way through January.
And in case some time accidentally got leftover in his schedule, he started with a new church youth group last week, and they need a guitar player for the Praise Band. Dylan volunteered. He did, after all, take guitar once a week at school last year.
So I decided to get him guitar lessons.
I texted his voice coach – the highest-notch teacher he has, who is honing his exceptional singing skills. Dylan sounds like a full-grown man when he’s with his voice coach, and possibly a full-grown man who sings at the Met.
“I think we’re going to have to take a break on voice,” I said. “With all the other things he has to do, I just don’t think he can squeeze it in.”
The voice coach called me.
“Who’s teaching him the guitar?” he asked.
“Well,” I said, having Yelped the situation, “I’m emailing some guy named Billy.”
The voice coach was very calm. “I’ve been teaching guitar for 55 years,” he said. “So some guy named Billy could do it, but…”
“We’d love to have you teach him!” I practically screamed. “We could combine voice with guitar!” This teacher is – to put it mildly – incredibly musically gifted, Peabody-educated and a true artist in his field. Plus, he’s a great teacher and Dylan likes him.
“I can do that,” he said. “We’ll work it out. I think if Dylan sticks with me for four years, when it’s time for him to apply for scholarships, he’ll be ready for that.”
“When that time comes,” I said, “you will have to point me in the right direction. I didn’t even know there were voice scholarships.”
“There are for the kids who are exceptional,” he said. “They aren’t there for everybody. But I think you know that your son is special.”
I almost fell over when he said that. In all the hoopla over Dylan’s schedule, I had forgotten that Dylan was special. I had forgotten that he was musically gifted, incredibly brilliant, sweet, kind and funny.
I had forgotten that my own son was special.
When I got off the phone, Dylan was playing the piano. He’d taught himself something by Lincoln Park – a phenomenal piano version of an otherwise electronic song. When I walked in, he started playing one-handed and without looking at the keys.
I told him what his voice coach had said, and gave him a hug.
“I don’t want you to forget how special you are,” I said.
I’m not sure exactly which emotion caused my tears.
Shane wrote a song, which he decided to sing for me at about 9:20 p.m. In spite of the late hour, I listened intently. Shane had written a very nice song – good lyrics, catchy tune.
“That face you are using makes me think that song isn’t any good,” he said.
“Sing the first part again,” I said.
He did, and I sang it back to him – hoping I was slightly more in tune than he’d been. I didn’t do a very good job.
Dylan came in from the room next door.
“Are we singing?” he asked.
“Have him sing it,” I said to Shane. “Sing the first line for him. Dylan, you repeat what Shane sings.”
Shane sang a line, slightly off tune. Dylan repeated it with perfect pitch. It sounded spectacular.
After singing the song through once, Dylan said to Shane, “I can’t write songs at all. This is the last song I wrote…” Then Dylan sang something, and rapped something, and the lyrics were about a tire in the woods and a kangaroo and they really didn’t make much sense.
“You guys need each other desperately,” I told them. “You make a fantastic team.”
Shane went to bed, and I put some laundry in the washer. When I came out of the laundry room (maybe three minutes later), I stopped to say goodnight to Dylan. He asked if I wanted to hear the song he’d written on his iPad.
“Sure,” I said. It was 9:45 p.m. And again, in spite of the late hour, I listened intently. It was electronic music with a catchy tune, no lyrics.
“That’s really nice,” I said. “It sounds familiar.”
“It’s background music,” Dylan said.
“Background music for what?”
“For Shane’s song,” he said.
I almost fell out of the bed. Now that he mentioned it, indeed it was Shane’s song.
“You have to play this for Shane,” I told him.
We went into Shane’s room, where he was supposed to be sleeping. In the dark I said, “Listen to this.”
The music started to play. Both boys started singing the beginning part of the song.
“Sing when I point to you,” Dylan said. The music continued. Dylan pointed. Shane started singing his song.
It was a perfect fit. Dylan started harmonizing a little. The song wasn’t quite finished, but the two of them, together, with the background music – they sounded like a boy band, right there, in Shane’s twin bed, just before 10:00 at night.
In less than an hour, they’d created a pop hit.
I just stood, and stared, and listened, and cried.
In my dream…
I don’t know what city I’m in, but I know that I have overstayed my welcome. I’m out of money, out of time. It is time for me to go home, and I need to hurry.
I run outside into a city I’ve never seen. And like in many of my dreams, I realize that I’m on a college campus.
I want to find the Metro – the D.C. area subway – but I have no idea where there might be a Metro station. I keep running and looking, but there is nothing to see. There are no signs, and no helpful strangers. The city is shaded gray and black, and I am looking for a big, red “M” for “Metro.”
I hear a train, so I run to a platform. It is an Amtrak train, but Amtrak would take me too far away. In spite of my confusion, I think I am closer to home than that. Then I see a Metro train pulling into the station.
I decide to get on. I walk up to it as the doors open, and start to step on – then I realize that I don’t know which direction it is going. I read some signs, but don’t recognize any of the stops. And I don’t know which way is home. I take a step back, off the train.
Another train pulls up. It is the tiny, open-air, ride-on train from a farm where we vacationed with our kids a few years ago. The train is so small that only elementary-school-aged kids will fit in the seats.
I can’t take that train home either.
I suddenly realize I’m at the wrong platform, maybe the wrong station altogether. It is late, getting dark, and I’m still in some unfamiliar college town. I’m even more lost than I was before. So I start running, hoping to get to the right train before it gets dark, but I am running aimlessly with no hope of finding what I need.
Then my alarm goes off, and I wake up worried. I think I still need to find my way home. But I am home, in my bed, safe and sound.
And apparently, I am subconsciously very, very lost.
Dylan wanted to be an engineer when he was younger.
We bought him every building kit known to man: blocks, train tracks, marble tracks, hydraulic kits, electronics kits and Lego robotics. He built amazing structures with all of them. And when he wasn’t building inside, he was building things outside – mostly “rides” that Shane would be forced to test drive.
Dylan had plans to go to MIT – (“Mom, what’s the best engineering college in the world?”) – and took two engineering classes in middle school. Dylan gave up his engineering dream when he realized it required math and forethought – two things he didn’t enjoy using.
Meanwhile, Shane wanted to be a magician. But after three years of obsession with magic tricks, he suddenly stopped performing, almost overnight. He didn’t turn to anything new, really, but Shane started fiddling with stuff that he found around the house.
At first, he built marble tracks with his friends. Then he built marble tracks with Dylan. Now Shane is building marble tracks every day. They are long, complex, jumping-over-stuff marble tracks. They are combination tracks, sometimes where the marble transfers mid-track to a completely different track. Shane has made tracks that I couldn’t have conceived in my wildest notions. I had no idea marbles could do such things!
Often, the marble tracks fall down, or get knocked over by a dog, or just collapse in mid-build. Shane – who used to give up easily – doesn’t give up. He sighs. Sometimes he complains. But mostly, he just starts over and builds a new track.
I am awestruck by his patience, by his imagination, by the complexities he’s both developed and conquered. Whereas Dylan’s multitude of tracks explored speed and distance, Shane’s tracks tend to favor curves, drops, tricks, and veering up or around before dropping down.
So I said, “Shane, you could actually do something like this for a job when you grow up. You could design roller coasters and then ride them!”
“I like to ride roller coasters,” he said.
“I know – but maybe you could design your own. STEM starts next week.”
Dylan was in STEM for two years, so Shane knows that the Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics club is a place to design and build robotics with friends.
“Would you be interested in joining STEM this year?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said, never looking up from his track.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try it? Wouldn’t you like to build a robot with a team?”
“No,” he said. “Why would I want to work with a team? I just like building tracks by myself.”
And that was the end of Shane’s engineering career.
I am looking into American Coaster Enthusiasts instead.
The kids make their own lunches, but I make their sandwiches (fresh!). Last year, they also made their own breakfasts, but now I make breakfast, since it gives me a tad of time with them before school.
One morning, I attempted to do too much. In addition to making breakfasts and lunches, I decided to hard-boil some eggs. I had French toast already cooking, so I filled up a pot with water. I walked across the kitchen with five eggs.
Oops! I dropped an egg on the floor. The dog was still asleep, so I left it there while I put in the remaining eggs to boil – and went back for a fifth egg. I turned on the heat and walked around the demolished egg for awhile.
With two burners going, I washed some grapes and put the (all natural! no caramel coloring!) syrup on the table. I finished Dylan’s French toast, put it on a plate and grabbed a fork. The water started to boil, so I pushed the pot off the heat and set a timer. Then I cleaned up the runny egg mess from the middle of the floor.
Dylan came downstairs as I was finishing on my hands and knees. He walked over to get a fork.
“I have a fork for you,” I told him. Now where did I put that fork? “Oh, here it is,” I said, reaching for it.
“HHHHHUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” I gasped in pain.
I’d somehow left the fork on the still-flaming-hot electric burner, where the boiling eggs had been only seconds before.
And then I’d tried to pick up the (stainless steel!) fork.
I’d burned the heck out of at least one finger, maybe more. The pain was so extreme, I didn’t know how many fingers were injured.
I raced for ice and started begging Dylan to do everything. I asked him to turn on the computer so I could find out what to do for a burn. I asked him to drain the water from the eggs when the timer started dinging.
Shane came downstairs in the middle of the hoopla. “Something’s wrong with my alarm,” he said. “The radio won’t go off and it says ‘0:59.'”
“Sorry Shane,” I said. “It sounds like you hit the sleep timer. It will go off when it gets to zero.” He wandered away.
I checked the internet. “Do not use ice,” it said. Oops. “Use cool running water until it the pain subsides.”
The pain did not subside.
Using a spatula, I carried the offending fork to the sink, where Dylan “killed it” with cold water.
“I want to make sure it never happens again,” he said. (This was my favorite moment of the morning.)
Dylan had three minutes to get out the door and I still hadn’t made his lunch. I painfully slopped peanut butter on bread and screeched at him to put it in a (reusable!) bag so I could get my fingers back into cool water.
Dylan finished making his lunch and raced out the door. Shane came downstairs and complained that his French toast was cold.
I was amazed that it was even cooked. I was soaking my fingers in a bowl of cool water, which I carried around while looking for aloe vera.
“Just put it in the microwave,” I told Shane. I explained the burn, whined a bit, and threw his lunch together with one hand while he ate.
Long story short, I have a minor, second-degree burn on one finger. And the kids got to school just fine.
