Shane is all about numbers. He likes lists and statistics and categorizing things based on numeric value.
He also likes music. So when Shane discovered the Daly Download on the radio – the modern version of Casey Kasem’s Top 40 – he was thrilled.
Every Sunday morning, Shane rushes to turn on the radio. It plays twice (thank goodness) so if he misses something because of church, he can hear it on the second run-through in early afternoon. He tries hard not to miss it. The radio plays for six hours straight on Sundays.
But this is not quite enough for Shane. The countdown only happens once a week! Shane needs more. So he spends the rest of the week making his own lists of favorites: Shane’s Top 10 Favorite Modern Pop Songs, Top 14 Favorite Bands, Top 13 Favorite EDM Songs, Top 10 Favorite Country Songs, Top 15 Favorite New Modern Pop Songs (when the old list is defunct). The possibilities are endless.
And all of this is fine with me. I’m happy that he’s happy. But sometimes he expects me to choose my favorite songs, too. So I try desperately to keep up with today’s music, so that I can relate to my children.
I am a child of the seventies, who devoured pop, country, heavy metal and new wave through the eighties. I have a jukebox that plays 45 rpm records. So to say I am not “modern” would be an understatement. When the kids were born, I turned off the radio and put on Toddler Tunes instead.
So it’s a bit difficult to answer Shane’s questions sometimes.
“Mom, what’s your favorite modern song?”
“FourFiveSeconds!” I practically shout, because I adore this song as if it came from my own era. Indeed, Paul McCartney, who is 72, plays acoustic guitar on the song – which explains a lot.
“It’s way down in the countdown,” Shane tells me. At six months, this song is too old. “What’s your second favorite song?”
“Oh, I like All About That Bass,” I say.
“Well that’s really old. Do you like Dear Future Husband?”
“I do!” I say, excited to recognize Meghan Trainor’s follow-up hit. Both songs sound like they were written in 1958.
“Well it’s been out for like three months. What are your other favorite songs?”
“Is Uptown Funk still popular?” Uptown Funk is practically a remake of Jungle Love from 1984. “I like that one a lot.”
“Yeah, but it’s going down on the countdown. What new songs do you like?”
I was feeling so proud that I’d chosen songs from this century. I had to think hard, but I finally remembered a new song I liked. I could hear the tune in my head.
“I like Bagdad!” I said.
“What?!” Shane asked. “What’s Bagdad?”
“No, sorry. It’s Bangladesh! I like Bangladesh a lot. Is that still on the countdown?”
“What’s Bangladesh?” Shane asked. Clearly, he had no idea what I was talking about.
I sighed. “You know, that song? It goes like this.” I sang a bit of the tune for him.
“You mean Budapest?” Shane said.
“Budapest! Yes! That’s it! I like that one. Is it still popular?”
“Yes,” he said.
Whew. Finally!
There was a short pause.
“What other modern songs do you like?”
During the last week of school, Dylan went to bed a bit late. He was still taking his L-Tyrosine, and following a behavior chart, and supposedly maintaining a high protein diet and getting plenty of rest. (The protein and rest is essential for the L-Tyrosine to work.
But my idea of “plenty of rest” and Dylan’s idea are different. In order to get a star on his behavior chart, he has to go to bed before midnight. And he did. He went to bed at 11:45.
My idea of a reasonable bedtime – especially on a school night – is much closer to 10:00. Even 10:30 is sometimes okay. He seems unaware – but Dylan’s ADHD symptoms flare up like actual flames when he doesn’t get enough sleep.
He came downstairs late to go to school. He seemed confused about what he should be doing, even before we got in the car. He started beat-boxing within five minutes, a sure sign that he was tired. (That’s when I asked what time he went to bed.)
“I’m not really that tired,” he said – several times – during the car ride. Two minutes later, he’d go right back to beat-boxing or humming or tapping his foot against the car door or drumming on his leg.
By the time I picked him up, I wasn’t sure how he would make it through the evening. I played music in the car, which helped stop his random noises. He went straight to the piano and started playing. When I asked him to go study, he decided to do voice exercises instead.
The sounds of Italian opera over my garage never sounded so beautiful.
But really, he needed to study. He had both an algebra and a physics exam coming up – and only four days of school left, to pull both grades up for his high school transcript.
“Please, Dylan,” I begged. “You are going to be too tired to study tonight, and you only have one more night to study for both tests!”
“I’m really not that tired,” Dylan said for the umpteenth time. He wandered over to the keyboard and started playing it. (Yes, we have both a keyboard and a piano. And it’s impossible to keep him away from either of them.)
Eventually he wandered downstairs to get his book. Then he put it on the floor and walked away. He announced loudly, “I’m going up to study now!” and went all the way upstairs before he realized he didn’t have his book.
This was beginning to look like the “old” Dylan – pre-L-Tyrosine. But I saw him take it with my own eyes!
He did settle down to study then – for a little while – although I’m not sure how much he retained. And then, a few hours later, after more rambunctious behavior and spit-singing and bouncing balls all over the house, he finally decided to try to get some sleep.
“I’m still not that tired,” he said.
And then he fell asleep … in three minutes flat.
When Dylan was in kindergarten, he sat on the floor watching his school talent show.
“I want to do that,” he said without blinking.
“You want to be in the talent show?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
I thought he was out of his mind. “Okay,” I said.
So the following spring, barely 7, Dylan got up on the stage and sang. Then he did it again in second grade – the year he also sang solo in the musical.
By third grade, he hired a little backup singer. Shane, who was in kindergarten, donned sunglasses, stomped, clapped and sang with Dylan, We Will Rock You. (The video still makes me laugh.)
Dylan continued singing and acting. Shane acted in a never-released movie. Then Shane became an amateur magician, and started performing everywhere.
When I was a little girl, I barely spoke above a whisper, and I didn’t have the confidence to perform anything.
Still, I tried out for the school talent show in sixth grade. My friend Margaret and I walked in a dizzying circle, playing a tambourine and bongo drum. We sang Helen Reddy’s I Am Woman: “I am woman, hear me roar…”
We were 11.
In an act which, I now realize, could only be described as merciful, we were rejected and never performed in the show.
I was so quiet, in fact, that the chorus teacher couldn’t hear me when I auditioned for the high school chorus – and I was sitting right next to her on a piano bench. So I was rejected for chorus, too.
And my husband has always considered himself to be shy. He spends a great deal of time speaking in front of audiences, but he’s always nervous about it.
For whatever reason, though, our kids do fine on stage.
Dylan’s English teacher – who had not one single positive thing to say about Dylan all year – sent me an email that said of Dylan, “He’s so talented in speaking to a large crowd.”
This came on the heels of a note from Shane’s teacher, who also does not dole out easy compliments. Yet he has asked Shane, on more than one occasion, to present to not only his own class, but other classes as well. And Shane has also been writing a book, and reading it to the class as he finishes each chapter.
Shane’s teacher said, “He has a real talent in the whole process of creating and implementing presentations to an audience. He is so calm, cool, collected and has a presence where kids are silent and really pay attention. It has been so much fun to witness his growth.”
Then – in case that was insufficient to bring me to tears – the teacher said Shane has “great character with real depth combined with a sense of humor and an ability to get along with everyone.”
So my kids are both great on stage. What a terrific attribute to have! Presentation skills can be useful no matter what profession they choose. And being comfortable in front of an audience? Most of us would give anything just to be able to stand there without humiliating ourselves.
It brings briefly to mind the “Nature versus Nurture” debate.
In this case, I believe Nurture has knocked out Nature with one punch. And I am just so glad about that.
After Dylan’s success with L-Tyrosine as a daily supplement, I got a book called The Mood Cure by Julia Ross. I wanted to double check that Dylan was taking the appropriate dosage – which, happily, he was.
But The Mood Cure wasn’t only about L-Tyrosine.
It starts with a series of quizzes about the way a person might feel during any given day. The quizzes are titled things like “Are You Under a Dark Cloud?” and “Is Stress Your Problem?” The others asked, “Are You Too Sensitive to Life’s Pain?” and “Are You Suffering from the Blahs?”
I took all four quizzes, since I simply love to take quizzes.
I scored pretty high on the Dark Cloud quiz. I’ve always been a bit depressed, so I took the recommended amino acid – for two weeks. The book recommends stopping the amino acid if you have a hard time sleeping – which, after two weeks, I suddenly did. So I stopped. I can take it again if I get depressed again.
But first, I had to confront my real demons.
I scored very, very, very, very, very high on “Are You Too Sensitive to Life’s Pain?” Anyone who knows me will likely laugh out loud at the incredibly OBVIOUS FLASHING NEON LIGHT above my head on this one.
Am I too sensitive to life’s pain? Well, let’s see.
The first time I saw a dead dog on the side of the road, I cried for three days.
When Fonzie got a girlfriend on Happy Days (when I was 12), I became rageful and cried for another three days. I know, because I wrote about it in my diary. (For the record, I watched a movie with Henry Winkler in it last week, playing a happily married man, and I didn’t cry once.)
When a guy I liked – but barely knew – suddenly enlisted in the army and left, I crawled onto the floor of my closet, shut the doors and cried in the darkness for three days.
Actually, most of my life has been spent crying in three-day jigs – or raging at some imagined injustice – so scoring absurdly high on this quiz didn’t surprise me.
But the “essential amino acid” that was recommended tremendously surprised me. I wish I could tell you what it’s called, but I can’t pronounce it or spell it. You will have to read the book.
I took one tiny little tablet at 9 a.m. By 9:30, I felt … I would say I felt… I felt kind of …
NORMAL.
I called Bill at work. I was scared. I’d never felt normal in my entire life. These words came out of my mouth:
“I feel like I’ve had a screw loose for my whole my life, and someone just tightened it.”
I’ve never felt normal before. Ever. I don’t mean “high” on life, or happy or even calm. I mean NORMAL.
I suddenly didn’t feel like killing everyone who cut me off in traffic. I didn’t feel like I had to be doing something at every redlight. I didn’t cry when I remembered that the dog is 7 and she might die in seven more years. I didn’t even feel like I needed a nap or a chocolate bar.
I just felt like, Hey, this is life. It’s not as bad as it usually is.
And, like Dylan with his L-Tyrosine, the effects lasted all day – with no side effects. Interestingly, the amino acid I’m taking assists my body in producing … drum roll, please … L-Tyrosine.
So apparently, I’ve had an amino acid deficiency for my entire life. Too.
I still have emotions. But I don’t feel like crying all the time. I don’t feel absurdly anxious. And I am awestruck by my own ability to function like a human being.
So.
I think I’ll try this “normal” thing for awhile.
When I took away Dylan’s electronics – which happened in an instant and without any forethought – it never occurred to me that it would benefit the whole family.
Shane now tries to get in his daily hour of video time when Dylan isn’t around – usually early morning. He doesn’t want to “waste” his daylight hours, during which he could be playing with Dylan, on watching YouTube. That gives us the whole day to spend together! Shane usually spends his time with Dylan (and doesn’t clamor to spend it with me or his dad), but still.
Dylan’s punishment has also given me a new respect for the computer. I can easily spend a day on the computer, barely looking up – in spite of what doctors say this will do to my weight, internal organs, and eyesight. But now that Dylan isn’t allowed to use anything electronic, I’ve noticed that I am trying to stay off of the computer, too.
For one thing, we no longer rush in to watch whatever YouTube or Instagram video most recently made someone laugh. The kids have favorite YouTubers – Smosh and Unlisted Leaf come to mind – and they used to spend the majority of dinnertime replaying (over and over and over) whatever hysterical scene they’d seen that day.
Dinners are a bit more pleasant now – for everybody.
Television is no longer taken for granted. If the TV is on, Dylan isn’t in the room. We can’t even watch home movies together. We had to grant a “special occasion” to watch the DVD of the play in which he starred at school.
After a couple of weeks, I allowed Dylan to contact his friends – using that old-fashioned device, the telephone. NOT the cell phone. An actual land line. (We still have one.) There is still no texting allowed – so Dylan gets on the phone in the evenings (after Shane heads off to bed) and sometimes chats for more than an hour.
Our house is a bit like The Brady Bunch, except without all the siblings clamoring for the phone. It’s like The Brady Bunch with maybe just Peter on the phone, and Bobby having some milk and heading off to bed.
The kids – particularly Dylan – spend much of their time on music. Dylan plays the piano. The keyboard. The guitar. The drums. He sings. A lot. And if there are no instruments to be found, Dylan is making his own instruments out of anything that makes a sound: a ball, a rubber band, a pen, the table, the floor, the wall….
And while we’ve gone a bit back to basics here, the only issue that has surfaced is the inconvenience for me. I am no longer able to say, “Go play Wii!” and expect the boys to simply disappear for an hour. I can’t say “Free computer time for one hour while I work!”
In the summer, that was always an important way for me to get some peace.
But for now, our peace is coming in the form of fewer electronics, less noise, and fewer distractions from the real world. And it’s actually kinda cool.
Writing a blog about parenting – or, for that matter, any subject – leaves a writer open to comments from all walks of life. While so few people read my blog that it even warrants comment, I am always amazed by the comments I get.
Mostly – and quite surprisingly – my readers are worried.
They are not worrying along with me, which is what I would have expected. They are not concerned for the well-being of my children, or Dylan’s success in algebra, or Shane’s remnants of vision processing disorder that won’t allow him to spell properly. In fact, they’re not worried about my children at all. Not directly, at least.
They’re worried about me.
To be fair, the people who read my blog are almost exclusively people who care about me. I mean, why else would anybody read this thing every couple of days? I know why I write it – but I’ve never understood anyone’s propensity to actually read it.
Some of this stems from my insecurity, I realize. And some of this is just common sense.
Regardless, I have had more outpourings of love and compassion since I started writing this blog than I have in my entire life – with the possible exception of love from my parents, who have been compassionate since the day I was born.
My “sick” brain thinks that I should continue to be anxious and upset and worried all the time, so that I can continue to get attention from those who love me.
But the rest of me – the vast majority of me – would like to get better really fast. And while I’d like to say it’s partly for my readers and those who love me, I’d actually like to get better fast for the sake of my kids.
The stuff I do – inappropriate yelling (followed by very appropriate apologizing, for example) – keeps me up at night. I don’t think I would do these things if I weren’t always wound tighter than a top. I keep reading books – book after book after book – hoping to find “the answer” that I seek.
I don’t want to be a control freak. I want to have more faith than fear. I want to be a kind, loving, caring human being.
I really do.
And I think I am heading in the right direction… one day at a time.
Which, quite honestly, is much too slow for my tastes.
In our household, in spite of my best efforts to the contrary, Shane has a tendency to be … overlooked.
Shane is brilliant, funny, creative and incredibly sweet. But his laid-back demeanor means that he also flies easily under the radar. Sometimes this means that he gets away with things he shouldn’t. But because Shane is a very serious rule-follower, it mostly means that even his most amazing accomplishments can go unnoticed.
So when Shane’s youth music teacher at church asked to meet with me, I was quite surprised. Shane had been in the church group for two years, singing and playing drums and ukulele. And until now, I’d never heard of anyone being called in by the teacher.
What on Earth did he do, to warrant a meeting with the parents?
Miss Margaret came to the meeting with note cards, and an obviously prepared speech. Having been through many, many teacher meetings, I recognized that she was prepared for some sort of battle.
Shane and I sat quietly across the table. She started very slowly, looking at her note cards.
“The kids have been writing music,” she said. “I asked the group to just sort of sit and strum their ukuleles and see what they could come up with. And every week, one student performs a song he or she wrote. You know, it’s usually something like, I like pizza; I like Oreos…. And they strum along. Then last week, I don’t know if Shane told you …”
“No,” I inserted. I glanced at Shane, who hadn’t told me anything, ever, about any week.
He was stoic.
“Well, Shane performed his song for us.” She smiled at him across the table. “And I must tell you, all three of the teachers – our jaws were just … on the ground. His song was incredible. He used his ukulele as a drum for the first part, and did kind of a rap. And then he turned it over and started strumming when the melody changed. And the lyrics were just … beautiful.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. And then tears came to my eyes. Shane is a great songwriter, I thought.
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” I squealed. “He does write some very nice songs!”
But there was more.
“I’ve been teaching music for 30 years,” Miss Margaret said. “And for his age, what he has accomplished is really quite incredible.” She stopped, searching me, still somewhat ready for battle. “I’ve heard a lot of children write songs, but with Shane…” She paused again. “I really think it’s a gift from God.”
She was allowed to say that, since we were in church.
Ah, I realized. She wants us to nurture this gift. And she’s afraid we won’t!
“So what can we do to nurture this gift?” I asked. Finally, the teacher relaxed. She had a plan – several people she wanted to contact, so that Shane could get his music written down on staff paper. As a graduate of one of the most prestigious music colleges in the country, Miss Margaret knows a lot of people.
She outlined her plan, and I cried a little more. I had heard plenty of Shane’s songs. And I’d clapped, and hugged him, and then pretty much ignored them.
“He’s been writing songs since he was a toddler,” I told her. “I had no idea that his talent was unusual. I thought it was just … Shane.”
“It is unusual,” she assured me.
And then we went to work on our plan – for nurturing Shane’s gift, and for finally giving Shane the recognition he deserves.
The algebra tutor visited three times in a week, for two hours each time.
Dylan had a test coming up on Chapter 9, and he wanted to be ready. Meanwhile, the class took three quizzes, so that the teacher could see if anyone was having trouble.
Dylan got a 1 out of 11 on the first quiz. That should have been a clue. His overall grade was a low D.
His behavior chart at home called for “No D’s or F’s as final grades” – a goal that Dylan had to attain in two weeks’ time. If Dylan didn’t get a star on every category on his behavior chart, he wouldn’t be attending the extremely fun church event at the end of the school year.
When the tutor first arrived, Dylan had very little knowledge about factoring polynomials. Near the end of the second visit, Dylan realized that he’d been doing something wrong all along – and knew that he had not (as he’d hoped) aced the second quiz. In fact, he got a 63%.
When the tutor wasn’t around, Dylan was still working on his problems. By the third quiz, Dylan had a grasp of the material. The third quiz was a binder check, whatever that means – and he got a 16 out of 17.
Then, the night before the test, he called the tutor at home – twice – to get some clarification on how to do something. The tutor’s patience was endless.
Meanwhile, his other grades steadily went up. He had to get rid of that D in algebra in only four days!
On Monday, Dylan took the test. He took it during algebra class, and worked on it some more during lunch time. He went back and worked on it again at lunchtime on Tuesday. And then he went in again and worked on it during lunchtime on Wednesday. Three days (five school hours) later, he finally finished the test.
On Thursday, I went out of town. It was Dylan’s last chance to raise his algebra grade – and I was almost glad that I wouldn’t be home when the deadline hit. If Dylan didn’t substantially raise his algebra grade, he didn’t get a star on his chart – and until now, he hadn’t missed getting a single star.
So I was more than 200 miles away when the call came. Dylan was calling on my husband’s cell – in a moving convertible with the wind whooshing. I could barely hear him. “Phlmbtpt bluk algebra!” Dylan yelled over the wind.
“What?” I asked. “What about algebra?”
The windows in the car went up. “I have a C in algebra – 73%.”
“Holy cow!” I said, finally hearing him. “How did that happen?”
Then he dropped the real bomb.
“I got a 94 on my test,” he said.
Did I hear him correctly?! He got a 94! A 94! I wanted to jump up and down screaming! HE GOT A 94!
Instead, I started to cry. I tried not to let Dylan know, since he was on the other end of a telephone.
“Oh Dylan, that’s great!” I said. Then I started to say, “I’m proud of you!” But long ago, I read a book that said you should not tell your kids how proud you are, and instead point out how proud they should be of themselves. It’s a good way to raise self-esteem.
“You should be really proud of yourself!” I said. “You worked really hard for that grade; congratulations!”
“Yeah, thanks,” he said, cool as any teen can be.
Aw, to heck with that book.
“And I am so proud of you!”
The following is not an advertisement. It is my real-life experience. Just like all these other blog posts. But there are links herein, if you have ADHD and want to try this. It sure beats the heck out of taking stimulants.
After Dylan started taking L-Tyrosine, as recommended in books by ADHD expert Dr. Daniel Amen, I noticed a real difference. It didn’t “cure” him by any stretch, but some of the craziness stopped.
There is less shrieking at the dinner table. Dylan doesn’t spin as often when he walks. The incessant tapping isn’t completely gone, but he sometimes seems able to focus without tapping. (Sometimes.)
He is still quite brilliant, but less … bouncy.
Recommended dosage is 1 to 3 capsules daily. Dylan takes one per day, and we all agree that it’s sufficient. The bottle calls L-Tyrosine “neurotransmitter support” that you should take as a “dietary supplement.”
“L-Tyrosine is a non-essential amino acid that plays an important role in the production of neurotransmitters dopamine and norepinephrine. In addition, because L-Tyrosine is necessary for the synthesis of thyroid hormone and epinephrine (adrenaline), L-Tyrosine supports healthy glandular function and stress response.”
In other words, it helps your brain produce dopamine and adrenaline.
My guess – from watching both Dylan and my husband (who has ADHD but has never been diagnosed) – is that they were born lacking in the ability to produce sufficient quantities of either dopamine or adrenaline, or both.
That’s why they spend so much time obsessed with fast-moving vehicles. But I digress.
L-Tyrosine gives Dylan just enough help that he is now able to do anything he wants without having to move, bounce, kick, tap, sing, hum or spin to stimulate his brain.
And best of all: he is on absolutely no other medication and there are, therefore, no side effects whatsoever!
Two things: Dylan needs to eat plenty of protein for the Tyrosine to be effective. And he produces less (but not significantly less) melatonin now – which means he wakes up (then goes right back to sleep) sometimes.
It’s a wonder to me that the pediatricians, the psychiatrists, the neurologists and even the school staff don’t seem to have any idea that this exists. We went through prescription after prescription of pills and more pills, all with horrific side effects. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, got too wired, became lethargic, got moody and irritable – and finally almost suicidal – before we finally stopped trying those “recommended” medications.
We’d gone through years of fighting the “controlled substance” law and desperately searching for a pharmacy that carried the right medication. We spent hundreds and hundreds of dollars on pills.
L-Tyrosine costs about $10 for four months worth of “neurotransmitter support.”
So now Dylan takes vitamins instead.
They help. No side effects. And he’s able to function – finally – in a way that helps him to succeed.
On “Take Your Child to Work Day,” Shane went to work with his dad. Conveniently and somewhat coincidentally, Dylan was also out of school. So I decided to take the boys to see a movie.
At 2:15 on a weekday, we had the place to ourselves. “These are the best seats,” Dylan said, leading us to the middle of a row about ten rows from the back.
“We got here before the commercials!” Shane exclaimed, thrilled with our good fortune. The kids sat for about two minutes, then Dylan got up and went to the front of the theater.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” he said, standing on a pseudo-stage.
“Sing the National Anthem!” I bellowed from our seats in the back. Dylan made some lame excuse about not being able to sing, and was still yell-talking to us when the commercials started.
Within minutes, Dylan was doing shadow puppets on the screen. He’d gone to the back of the room and was creating some pretty convincing animals. Shane went back to join him, sitting on Dylan’s shoulders, making some shadow puppets of his own. Mostly I just saw the shadows of two heads and listened to the laughter.
They sat for the trailers – sometimes – and just before the movie began, Shane’s favorite part – the Regal Cinemas’ roller coaster ride – started. Before the launch, the kids raced down to the “stage” area and sat on the wall in front of the screen.
That’s when I had a moment.
It was the kind of moment I try to have often, but have less than I would like – where I am able to take a mental photograph. It was a moment when I could appreciate the incredible joy in my life, feel nothing but joy in my life, and not jump straight to worry because it’s so beautiful, I am overwhelmed by it.
It’s the kind of moment that gives my life real meaning.
I captured that moment in time, using only my memory, and was able to fully enjoy that on-screen roller coaster ride almost as much as the kids did.
The boys leaned and swayed as the coaster made its turns. And when it reached the giant popcorn kernel, Dylan “fell” off the wall, as if the popcorn had knocked him off. In the dark theater, he seemed to just disappear, making me laugh out loud. Then he jumped back onto the wall, and they “rode” to the end.
Dylan and Shane raced back up to their seats as the movie was starting, laughing and excited.
Then, the moment was over – for them. But that moment will last, for me, forever.
