It isn’t often that a kid with ADHD gets an unsolicited compliment. It’s sad, too, because there is so much to be complimented!
It’s just that the wild whooping and leaping, and the sometimes exceedingly loud behavior is so obvious, whereas the exceptionally pleasant behavior is usually not as noticeable. Often I just screech “STOP IT!” without giving it much thought.
But Dylan has always been an amazingly sweet, empathetic, deeply caring and emotional boy. So it was a welcome – but not a huge – surprise when one of his teachers put the following in a “P.S.” at the bottom of an unrelated email:
“We just finished an appreciation exercise in morning homeroom. Dylan’s comments were sensitive, showed a depth of understanding, and were quite well-spoken. I was very impressed.”
I didn’t know what an appreciation exercise might be, nor could I imagine what would inspire Dylan to be so open after only a few short weeks at school – and in homeroom, too, which is ungraded.
But obviously, he was moved enough to speak. And the morning homeroom routine is one reason why I so wanted Dylan to be part of this glorious Quaker environment.
So I asked Dylan what it was all about.
“Basically, we just came up with a compliment for whoever was sitting next to us,” he said.
“That sounds interesting!” I said, not hiding my enthusiasm. “So what did you say?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what you said?”
“I don’t really remember what I said.”
“So who did you compliment?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you remember what anybody said about you?”
“Not really.”
There’s something about this age that makes teenagers leave home and light up the rooms outside of the house, wherever they go. They become mature and gorgeous and wonderful. Other people see their kindness, comment on how polite they are, extol their virtues and recognize how great they are to have around.
And at home, they only grunt.
So I don’t know what Dylan said that was so moving.
But whatever it was, it sure impressed the teacher. And it doesn’t surprise me one bit.
“Student government elections are coming up soon,” Shane told me.
“That’s exciting,” I said. “Do you want to be in student government?”
“I think I would like to try,” he said.
“What do you have to do?”
“You just say that you want to be in it. Then you can give a speech,” Shane said, “but you don’t have to. And then the class votes on who they want to be in it.”
Oh no, I thought. First he wasn’t accepted into the GT program. Then, every single one of his friends was chosen to be a patrol – but Shane wasn’t.
And now there was going to be an election.
The teachers and administrators had overlooked him for two programs which would have suited him beautifully. He is smart and mature and responsible – but he had watched while everyone in his small group of friends was recognized for those same qualities, while he wasn’t.
And now my dear, quiet, beautiful boy was going to have his peers vote for their favorite candidate in a class election.
Shane said he wanted to write a speech, so he sat down to start.
“Pick five things that you’d like to do for the school,” I said. “Then pick five characteristics about yourself that make you the right person to do those things.”
After about ten minutes, he said, “I have four!”
“Four is perfect,” I told him. And we went over what he had. Full of misspellings, his list was loaded with great ideas. To go with them, he considered himself “smart, careing, genarous” and “an animal lover.”
Then I suggested that he have an opening line that would catch the students’ attention, but not be too silly so that they wouldn’t take him seriously as a candidate.
“I have one,” he said. “This is Shane Hawkins, reporting LIVE from the front of Mr. B’s classroom!”
Simple, and serious enough, it sounded perfect – so he rolled with it. He put together a brief but phenomenal speech in less than an hour – and knocked the ball out of the park with his close, which included him raising his fist in the air, declaring: “… because I am part of the school community!”
It was all his, beginning to end. He put it on note cards, practiced it two or three times, then tucked it away in his backpack for two days later, when Shane would be giving his speech.
But speeches – and the election – happened the very next day. And thirteen students in Shane’s homeroom ran for student government.
Only two students could be chosen for the coveted student government position, and two “runners-up” were chosen as alternates.
When Shane told me all of this after school, I wanted to vomit. First, the election was a day earlier than expected. And half the class was running for only two positions. I could feel the sting of rejection – again – already.
But instead, Shane said, “I have good news! I was picked as one of the two main people. So I’m in student government now.”
I nearly leapt through the roof. They voted him in! My baby got into student government!
“Congratulations!” I shrieked. “That’s awesome!”
“Yeah,” Shane said calmly. “But I’m going to have to work really hard to make sure I keep all of my promises for the school.”
“Yes you are,” I laughed. “And you will do a wonderful job.”
Dylan has guitar class at school today. And he went to school … without his guitar.
Dylan had to practically leap over his guitar to get out the door.
I keep telling myself, This is the year he will do it on his own. He is old enough now. He has to train himself. I can’t keep doing it for him.
So, of course, I sent a note to the guitar teacher. But instead of begging forgiveness (which I did for the first five years of his schooling), I encouraged the teacher to be rough on him.
“Dylan has a long record of forgetting very important things,” I told her. “You probably have some extra guitars just for this purpose … but don’t make it easy on him. Maybe give him one that’s incredibly difficult on his fingers.”
I signed it with a smiley face.
Her note back was very kind, and said that she would remind the students again today how important it is to be prepared. She suggested a large note on the garage door to remind him to bring his guitar.
She doesn’t realize that we’ve tried the “large note” trick before. It works for a week, then – like everything we’ve tried – after a week, it doesn’t work anymore.
Sigh.
A few hours later, I got an email from his math teacher.
“Dylan has completed the wrong assignment the past 2 nights. But, I checked his agenda and he did have the correct assignment written down. I have talked to him about making sure that he checks his agenda before he begins his homework, instead of trying to remember it. It may be a good idea if you could check to see that he has his agenda out when completing homework for the next couple of nights.”
I almost laughed out loud. I tried to tell them weeks ago that the agenda book lost its usefulness after the first week Dylan used it in fourth grade but no one listened to me. And surely I am not expected to make sure my 13-year-old has his agenda book out when he is doing his homework.
So I emailed her back, as well.
“I think a ‘zero’ on Dylan’s homework is definitely in order when he does the wrong work. He has to learn to live with his own consequences (now, so that he won’t flunk out of college). If he were in public school this year, he would get a zero and there would be no second chances. I am okay with that at his new school, too! … I will do my best, but I feel pretty hopeless after seven years of failure in teaching him executive functioning skills. Thanks for keeping me posted – and please do what you think will be best for him in the long run.”
He is going to get a lot of latitude, and a lot of help, in his new school. Hopefully it won’t be too much help – since obviously, he isn’t taking charge of his responsibilities quite yet.
But he’s not feeling the tremendous pressure and anxiety he had last year, either. And I’m hopeful that that will allow him the opportunity to do exactly what he needs to do for himself.
But just in case, I’m writing up a new contract for the school year.
Dylan has joined the cross country team. It is his first non-intramural sports team, and I am very excited.
Best of all, the boy can run.
I learned a lot about Dylan’s new school from the week’s events.
We got an email on Sunday, announcing that the cross country team would be practicing on Mondays and Thursdays – effective immediately. This seemed to be rather short notice. Plus, their first meet was scheduled for Wednesday.
“Dylan,” I said, “your school has a cross country team. I think you would kick butt in cross country. Do you want to do it?”
“Sure,” he said. “I guess I could try it.”
I danced a silent jig.
So, with 7 hours notice, I began making the necessary schedule changes for our family, especially with regard to picking up Shane after school. Every day, I thank God for my parents’ help. I honestly don’t know how I ever imagined that I would do this without them.
We rearranged everything so that Dylan could participate. Dylan went to practice on Monday. I envisioned great bonding between his new classmates and Dylan – the whole slap-on-the-back kind of camaraderie that usually comes with sports teams.
“How was practice?” I asked.
“It was fine,” he said.
“How many people are on your team?” I asked.
“Four,” he said. “And one of them is in high school, so he’s really on the high school team.”
Then, on Wednesday afternoon, two hours before the meet, I got another email that the meet was postponed until Friday. Dylan followed up the email (thank goodness) with a phone call, for those of us who may not have been sitting at the computer getting emails.
We rearranged everything again.
Later, I asked the two coaches why the meet had been postponed. I got two completely and utterly conflicting stories. I have no idea which one was true. Both blamed the other school, so at least we were all clear on that.
I was the only parent who showed up at the meet to watch. Only three kids represented our school. One of them missed practice this week because he had to get a haircut.
At least 20 kids ran from the other school – also private, and about twice our size in overall population.
All the kids from the other school had orange shirts with their school name emblazoned. Our cross country runners wore whatever they wore to school.
“We’re going to get them some shirts!” said one coach enthusiastically.
I am already learning to doubt the promises they make. Ensuring that Dylan is taking all the right classes, for example, has been impossible. So he is simply not taking the right classes. This, after several promises to the contrary.
So the school is basically disorganized, doesn’t deliver much in the way of gifted academia, doesn’t plan more than a day ahead for sports… but they do everything with a huge smile.
And Dylan is happy.
Plus, he ran in his first cross country meet, even without a special shirt, and got first place for his school – and fourth overall.
I am very proud.
“So tell me about school,” I said to Dylan one morning, on our long drive to get there.
“It’s school,” he said.
“I was looking for a few more details,” I said.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Dylan said. “It’s just school with less people and more freedom.”
Hm, I thought. Less people and more freedom.
Since he explained it that way, I’ve realized where the beauty of this school lies. It is not, as I once believed, in having fewer people in the class. Instead, it is in giving Dylan more freedom.
Public school sucks the life out of freedom. I can remember having a meeting with the vice principal at Dylan’s public school when he was only in first grade. Dylan had come home from school rather distraught.
“I don’t know why they have to blow that whistle,” he said.
“Whistle?” I asked. “In P.E.?”
“No,” young Dylan explained. “At lunch. Whenever we hear that whistle, it means we are talking too loud.”
At. Lunch.
That’s when I started volunteering at lunchtime, to get an idea of how lunchtime really works.
Kids are forced (all the way through fifth grade) to sit with their class. They don’t get the option of sitting elsewhere. They were allowed to talk, but only if they are doing so quietly.
The lunch lady blew the whistle so many times, my ears were ringing. So I discussed my concerns with the vice principal. He was wonderful – listened carefully and nodded at all the appropriate times.
Best of all, he got rid of the whistle. They went back to “The Clap,” (too hard to explain) to get the children’s attention. It is a much more effective, less harsh way to do so.
The kids are still forced to contain their enthusiasm for life to a whisper whenever they are indoors. They aren’t allowed to sit on their feet, or swing their lunchboxes, or share food with another student. They can’t talk to the people at the table behind or beside them – even if their best friend is sitting there.
In middle school, the lunchroom changes – and becomes a different kind of nightmare. But the lack of freedom is still ever-present in the classroom.
Dylan isn’t going to succeed at his new school because he’s getting more one-on-one attention.
He’s going to succeed because he’s allowed to sit on his foot if he wants to.
On the fourth day of school, I came home from my 90-minute-round trip to find Dylan’s lunchbox still on the counter.
NO! I thought, I am not driving all the way back to his school!
But his school doesn’t have a cafeteria with other options.
For many years, Dylan has been regularly forgetting his lunchbox. I’m not sure how “lunch” doesn’t qualify as important in the ADHD mind. But other than homework, it is last on the list of things Dylan can remember to take to school.
So for years, I helped Dylan. When he was very young and forgot his lunch, I drove back to the school (a few short miles away) and called him out of class to come and get it.
I’d bend way over to talk to him. “Dylan,” I’d say to his six-year-old self, “it’s really important that you take your lunch to school every day. I won’t always be able to get to your school, and I want you to have food to eat.”
“Okay,” he would say, “I’m not going to forget again!”
Then we would go through the same thing the next time he forgot his lunchbox.
When he got old enough – sometime around 5th grade, I think – I told him, “Dylan, I give up. I cannot keep driving into the school with your lunch. It’s wasting my time and yours. If you forget it again, I am not going to bring it. The next time you forget your lunchbox, don’t even call me. You are going to have to eat the crappy cafeteria food, and I know you don’t want to do that!”
“No, Mom,” he said with such sincerity. “It smells bad and nobody who buys lunch even really eats their food so I know it’s not good.”
He was on permanent threat, from that day forward, that he would have to eat the cafeteria food if he ever forgot his lunchbox again. Luckily, money was not an issue. We put money in an account for him, and he pays with a pin number – something Dylan can remember.
From that day forward, Dylan was doomed to eat cafeteria lunches about once every two weeks. Eventually, he got pizza – and his opinion of the cafeteria food changed. (Mine didn’t.) So he wasn’t terribly upset if his lunch didn’t get to school with the rest of his stuff.
And he never stopped forgetting.
So when Dylan forgot his lunchbox on Day 4 at a school 45 minutes away, I very seriously considered letting him starve. I thought maybe starvation would guarantee that he would remember his lunchbox.
I waited almost an hour before I felt like a bad mom and called the school.
“My son forgot his lunchbox,” I said, “and I don’t know what to do! We live 45 minutes away. Is there any way to get food to him?”
“Don’t worry,” the office manager said. “We have hot dogs, peanut butter, applesauce and granola bars.”
“He’ll eat all of that!” I said, relieved. “And I’d be happy to pay you for it!”
“No, no problem,” she said. “I’m just glad he doesn’t have any allergies. We’ll be sure he gets something to eat!”
And they did. Later, I found out that the “peanut butter” was an Uncrustables, which has jelly in it. Dylan doesn’t like jelly. And he doesn’t like Uncrustables, either.
So I am thrilled. He didn’t starve, but he didn’t get nearly enough food, and he didn’t like the food he got.
I hope he has finally found a reason to take his lunch to school every single day.
But with his history, I doubt it.
About 15 years ago, I married a wildly entertaining man. Born with an overly kind heart, Bill is incredibly intelligent and brilliantly funny – two qualities that go so well together, and sold me on him from the first moment we spoke.
Although he is almost a decade older than I am, Bill’s enthusiasm for life and non-stop activity have always made it hard for me to keep pace with him. He’s constantly moving – doing some sort of project, working on something, taking care of something or someone. He’s a natural problem-solver and the way his brain works makes him incredibly handy.
But after 15 years of marriage, Bill drives me absolutely crazy. I thought he would mellow with age. No.
On the weekdays, he is up obscenely early, making tons of noise and shining bright lights everywhere. He rushes off to the gym on most work day mornings, mostly for the social aspect, rather than the exercise. I’ve been going to the gym for two years longer than he has, and I know maybe two people. He knew two people in the first day, and everyone in the gym by the end of two weeks. He’s a very friendly guy.
Again, that happy sociability in the morning drives me nuts.
Then there are weekends. This weekend, for example, we specifically had nothing planned. Bill got up on Saturday and hopped in the shower. We ushered the kids off to a buffet breakfast at church, then came home to (what I thought would be) a relaxing day.
Bill went to the hardware store. He went to the closest store, because he didn’t want to deal with Home Depot on a Saturday. He came home with a few items, including sarsaparilla.
I have no idea why he would buy sarsaparilla.
“It’s hard to find!” he exclaimed, as if that explained it.
Then he pitter-pattered around in the garage, followed shortly thereafter by another shopping trip. This time, he went to Home Depot. He came back with a bunch of potted plants – “for fall” – which he plopped on our porch.
After so many years, I realize that the “fall flowers” will live on our porch, in the pots, for the next few months until they wither and die. Then they will stay there, dead, for a year or more, until someone (ME) dumps them out of their pots. Then I will pile the pots in the garage with all the other old pots.
The pots inside the house never get any light, unless I open the curtains. Bill never opens curtains. During the years when we were dating, I just watched all the indoor plants starve to death.
But with the outdoor flowers safely on the porch, Bill partially mowed the lawn before asking Dylan to finish it. Then while Dylan was mowing, Bill went back to Home Depot to return something he bought earlier. He is currently fixing something in the kitchen (very loudly) which was not even broken. I don’t even want to know what it is.
Meanwhile, Dylan breezed around the yard in the sunshine. Dylan loves to mow the lawn.
And therein lies the crux of my real issue with Bill: Dylan is just like him.
So I am living with two absurdly sociable noise-makers who love bright lights and lots of activity. They never stop moving, except to sleep. They constantly start projects, lose pieces and hang onto garbage as if it’s the got great value. The hoarder mentality is quite prevalent here – and it’s my job to keep it under control.
And someone, someday, is going to have to live with Dylan, too.
I’d rather Dylan find someone, later in life, who doesn’t have to clean up after him. Perhaps Dylan could learn how to take care of himself now – without allowing the house to be overrun
There is a question that will plague me for, at least, the rest of this school year:
Is Private School Worth It?
After less than one week of Dylan attending this absolutely wonderful Quaker school, I am utterly exhausted.
First, there’s the drive. Thirty-five minutes (highway driving on a toll road) to the school in the morning, then 45 minutes home. Then I take Shane to school. A few hours later, I drive 45 minutes both ways to pick him up (and save the toll). Someone else picks up Shane.
The bus just didn’t work out, and my parents have graciously offered to help. But I miss Shane.
Second, there’s the problem with Dylan’s classes. He needs to be in Algebra I but he will lose music/art/P.E. if he takes Algebra I. There simply aren’t enough teachers to teach two Algebra I classes in a school this small.
We’ve also learned this week that his science curriculum is an exact duplicate of the curriculum he had last year in public school. He is going to be bored to tears in science – or we’re going to have to rearrange that part of his schedule as well.
Then, there’s Dylan’s reaction to the school itself.
Before I tell you about his reaction, in case this is the first blog entry you’ve read, let me explain why he’s in private school. Dylan was miserable at his old school. He was bored to tears in class, bullied by several students, anxious beyond the breaking point, and taking medication just to make the day bearable.
So one might think that a school where all of those issues are alleviated would be absolutely spectacular!
After Day One, Dylan said, “It’s good.”
When pressed for more detail he said, “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
After a few days, I asked him if he thinks he needs to go back on medication. He snorted, “That wouldn’t help! I am already the most focused person in the room!”
Apparently, the classes are a bit “looser” than those to which he is accustomed. The kids talk “even while the teacher is talking,” for example.
“I’m going to keep at least some of my public school behavior,” he said, “so that I’ll be ready when I go back.”
So – that is the middle-schooler’s take on the (really, really, really great) private school.
I know he’s getting used to the kids, and the classes. It’s all new. But so far, between the commute and Dylan’s reaction, NO, emphatically NO – private school is not worth it.
Great things will ensue, I’m sure. And I’m not sorry I sent him. But I don’t know that I will be sending him again.
The night before Dylan’s first day of private school, I stayed awake too late – like I always do when I am stressed, and like I did last week before Shane’s first day of school. I woke in the middle of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep, worried that the alarm wouldn’t wake me, worried that Dylan wouldn’t get up in time, worried that Shane would be lonely while I made the trek to the new school.
So much for my “faith versus fear” lesson.
When the alarm did wake me, and Dylan wandered in to use my hairbrush a few minutes later, I knew we were all ready to go. (Except that Dylan admitted that he hasn’t seen his own hairbrush for three weeks.)
School supplies had been ordered and packed weeks earlier. Dylan had an enormous, stuffed-full, very heavy backpack. In addition, we had a bag full of classroom supplies to donate.
“Grab that white bag,” I told him, “and put it in the car, too.”
Four-course breakfast in hand(s), we clamored into the car for our 45-minute drive. I started the car and turned my head to back up.
There, in the backseat, were two bed pillows in a huge white trash bag.
“Why are the pillows for the dog shelter in here?” I asked Dylan.
“You told me to get the white bag,” he said.
“Not that white bag,” I said, putting the car into park. I went back inside and got the bag with the paper towels and hand soap from the school supply list.
“This white bag,” I said.
“Oh,” Dylan said. “That’s a lot more logical.”
I briefly considered what people would think if Dylan showed up for his first day of private school with two ratty bed pillows. I had to smile.
Correct bag in tow, we talked about his day – where he should go when he got out of the car, for example, and how to smile when he meets a new friend.
Please smile, I thought. He smiled for the first 12 years of his life, beautifully and quite naturally. Then he stopped.
“And if it makes you feel less awkward,” I said, “you can take the stuff out of the white bag and just carry it in.” We were both anxious about him lumbering through the door with his 12-ton backpack and carrying an additional bag of supplies.
But when we pulled up to the curb – on time! – we saw a dozen other kids going into school. And every, single one of them had a 12-ton backpack and a white bag.
I’m not sure what was in the other white bags. Maybe they were carrying gym clothes, or even lunch. We could have speculated, but we didn’t. It probably didn’t matter all that much.
At that moment, the only thing that mattered is that Dylan fit right in.
Shane spent much of his morning crying, which he announced at breakfast.
“First, I was wondering what I would do if Dylan died,” he said, starting to cry again.
Oh dear, I thought. He is so much like me. I worried about death all the time, when I was way too young to need to worry.
“Then I started thinking about what if there’s nothing after Heaven,” he wailed.
That one stumped me.
I let him talk for awhile. Other things had happened, including the toothpaste falling off of his toothbrush and his hair sticking up. I considered that hormones might be starting to kick in.
When Shane was finished talking, I said, “There are only two attitudes to have.” I held up two fingers. “You can have faith or fear. You can choose either one as a way to live your life – and you can change from one to the other at any given moment. But you can’t have them both at the same time.”
Then I set up two Fisher Price little people on the table.
“These two people are going to have a race. Rusty here, with the red hair, she has faith,” I said.
“Hello!” I squeaked, being Rusty.
“And Maya with the blond hair, she is having some fear. But they are both going to race.”
“I think I need some new shoes,” I squeaked again, being Maya.
“I’m ready,” said Rusty.
Then the two girls hopped down the table, together. Rusty was out front, then Maya, then Rusty again.
“I probably should have eaten a better breakfast,” said Maya.
Then WHAM! Rusty ran into the milk pitcher and Maya won the race.
“I win! I win!” yelled Maya, jumping around. “I am awesome!”
Rusty dusted herself off. “I did my best,” she said. “Maybe I didn’t win, but I am happy that I ran as fast as I could.”
I went back into my own Mom voice. “Fear means you think you’re in control, and faith means you know that everything’s going to be okay, no matter what.”
Shane half-smiled.
“So you are in charge of what attitude you choose every day. Do you understand?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I’m going to make a Little People Ninja Warrior track today!” he said.
And he did. It took him a long time, and then the dog knocked it down and he started to cry all over again.
Sometimes I think my lectures should be boxed into a vault somewhere, for later. Much, much later.
