Earlier this week, in the course of about 25 minutes, Dylan created one of the most beautiful, complex, fun marvels I’ve ever seen. It was a kind of marble roller coaster game that involved gambling, guessing and statistics.
The marble track started high on a table and led across the room through obstacles, ending on the floor in the kitchen. The track itself was awesome, but it’s what he did with the track that was so awesome: he made it into an awesome game.
The end of the track had nine stations where the marble might land at the end of its run. He marked each landing area with playing cards and deemed each area worth a specific amount. Then he set up a betting area on the table, so that people could guess which station might catch the marble – and win points.
Shortly before this, Dylan said he’s “not sure anymore” if he wants to go into engineering.
Engineering involves math. Dylan was a whiz at math in fifth and sixth grade. His grades were so high, in fact, that he skipped a class and went directly into algebra class in seventh grade.
And Dylan hates algebra. He sees no real-world reason for learning it, and I must agree.
Thanks to some poor teaching, years of neglect in preparing kids for algebraic thinking, and a teacher who so humiliated Dylan in class that she may as well have asked him to wear a dunce cap – my son is now ready to give up on his career as an engineer.
Music is easier, he says, so he thinks he’ll do that.
The statistics on this phenomenon are horrific. In spite of efforts to the contrary, the number of graduates in the STEM fields (science, technology, engineering and mathematics) continue to steadily decline. Students with awesome intellect and creative abilities are refusing to follow their dreams of designing, building and inventing – because math is so abstract and mind-numbingly dull in school, they assume it will continue in real life.
There’s no connection between algebra, for example, and anything in life. And at least for Dylan, if there’s no greater meaning in something, it becomes an unnecessary burden – for him, and for the world.
He does want to take calculus, though. “It looks really cool,” he says.
He’s already taking physics. The way he talks about it, the concepts in physics are just common sense.
I can’t even imagine thinking the way he thinks. It hurts my head to imagine thinking the way he thinks. I simply can’t.
We need his brain in the world. We need him to create incredible things. But I can’t convince him that engineering will allow him the opportunity to do this. Nor can I guarantee that, because of his specific issues, he’ll be able to complete the work – and turn it in – that’s required of an engineering student.
Worse yet, I don’t know what he can do with the gift that’s been given to him. He’s been building spectacular games since he was barely old enough to talk. He’s been taking common household items and turning them into awesome strategy challenges for ten years.
He takes nothing and turns it into something for his entertainment all the time.
So how do I explain that to the college admissions office?
And how do I explain to Dylan that his brilliance is not common sense, and that it’s really worth using for the greater good?
I guess I don’t do either. Because at this point, it’s up to Dylan.
Yesterday, we had a meeting at the public high school with Dylan’s soon-to-be guidance counselor. We had a few questions, as I’m sure all incoming freshmen do. And while the counselor had many strong answers, he didn’t seem to know the answer to the underlying question that – I only realized yesterday – is plaguing my every move.
What should I do about my son who’s so brilliant that he’s bored, and so unfocused that he can’t turn in his simplest homework assignments?
Dylan hates school. He finds it to be incredibly boring. So I was thrilled to hear that he could take IB classes – classes that are made for college-bound, advanced-level thinkers like Dylan. These classes delve deeper than the standard, add a global perspective, and offer the flexibility of open-ended, written answers during testing.
For Dylan’s brain, these classes are perfect.
But Dylan has a writing issue. Because of his ADHD, he has trouble getting words onto paper without a computer. All of his IB classes would require constant writing. And while he is excellent at organizing his thoughts, he has issues with capitalization and punctuation. His ideas are exceptional. His writing is wonderful. His technical writing abilities are not.
And while his ideas would add much to the IB classes, and while he would enjoy the mental stimulation that comes with it, he has not proven that he’s capable of handling homework and class assignments responsibly enough for even the simplest of classes.
Dylan has yet to succeed in avoiding a “zero” in any class. He has not turned in all of his assignments on time in any class. Ever. He usually does the work. But he never seems to know that it’s due.
And no matter how much I have prodded him to talk to each teacher after class, to make sure he knows what to do and when to do it, he absolutely refuses. So he doesn’t know what’s due, or when to turn it in.
In GT/LD lingo, they call this a “lack of self-advocacy.”
So I can hardly suggest that we put Dylan into a top-level class with advanced-level work, since he is completely incapable of turning in his work.
The problem is not: Is Dylan able to handle IB work? The problem is, Is Dylan able to turn in ANY work?
And unfortunately, I simply have no idea.
The day after I found Dylan on his computer at 10:30 p.m. (an hour and a half after the turn-it-off deadline), we had the following conversation.
“Dylan, we need to talk about this electronics thing. It’s getting ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“You are on the iPad, iPod, cell phone or computer all the time! This can’t keep happening. You have always been good about following the rules. So do you want to tell me why you have broken the rule about turning off electronics twice in the past week?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s because there’s like no other person in the world who’s my age who has any restrictions on electronics. I mean, they are on them all the time. Not one single person I know has to turn off their electronics ever, and I am the only one who has a time limit.”
“Well, maybe you need new friends, but it’s not about them. You are on some kind of electronic device every minute of every day, except when you’re in school. We never see you anymore! So for the next few weeks, you are on restriction. No electronics, except your cell phone, until February 15th. And then we’ll decide what to do.”
“Okay. I was kinda thinking about doing that anyway. I wanted to do something, because I knew I was just on there too much. But I just didn’t really know what I should do.”
“Good. So you’re okay with it.”
“Yeah. It’s just that sometimes I don’t feel like I have anything else to do. I really want to see my friends but you always say I can’t see them, and they really understand me. And I love Shane, I mean, he’s like my best friend. And you’re always on the computer and Daddy’s never here. But mostly I just want to do stuff with people my own age, and I don’t ever get to do that.”
“So you want to have your friends over more often?”
“Yeah, or go to their house or whatever.”
“And you’re okay having friends over without using electronics?”
“Yeah, because really all I do on electronics is talk to my friends. So if they’re here, we can just talk and do stuff.”
“Okay. So here’s my issue. Instead of telling me that you want your friends to come over in ten minutes, maybe you could let me know a day or two ahead of time. That way, we can schedule our family activities and you can still have friends over. Can you do that?”
“I can try. But sometimes people just want to come over in like ten minutes.”
“Well sometimes, that works. But sometimes we have other things planned. But I hear what you’re saying, and I will try to make more time for you to have friends over. And you try to tell me in advance, if you can. Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
And that was that. No yelling, no arguments. All kinds of mutual respect, and a new understanding for what’s going on with my son. Awesome.
Shane came home from school with a green piece of paper and a course booklet for middle school.
“We had five minutes to choose our electives,” he told me. “And we had to take a foreign language, so I picked French.”
“WHAT?!” I shrieked, as I often do. Long story short, the middle school counselor had come to the elementary school, and had the students select electives during an assembly. The fifth graders turned in their choices on the spot, without so much as a note to parents that it would be happening.
Within minutes, I was on the phone with the middle school.
Shane and I went through his elective choices, read the course book, discussed the classes, and chose electives that he would actually enjoy: band, film and theater.
Two days later, the middle school counselor called me back. I tried to be polite, even though I wanted to crawl through the wire and strangle her with it.
“I was wondering if we could meet for a few minutes,” I asked, “so that I could give you Shane’s new list of electives.”
“Oh that goes to his homeroom teacher,” she told me.
“But you already have a list of electives from him, right?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “but I don’t even look at those unless I don’t get a new one from the fifth grade teacher.”
In other words, I thought, 90% of parents whose children did NOT tell them about the assembly will never even know they had options.
“Well,” I ventured, “I would like to make sure that the old list is thrown away.”
“I always throw away the old list when I get the new one,” she said.
She wasn’t understanding how her stunt at the elementary school made me distrust her. I had to explain further – and with good reason.
“I have an older child,” I told her. “When he was in fifth grade, I spent 45 minutes with the counselor – a counselor who is no longer there – and we discussed his options. It all seemed fine until the first day of school, when we discovered that nothing from our discussion was in his schedule.”
“Does Shane have an IEP?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “In fact, after today, you may never hear from me again. Shane is a completely different kind of kid.”
“Well, she was a different counselor,” the new middle school counselor assured me. “I’m very detail-oriented and I make sure that every piece of paper that crosses my desk is handled appropriately.”
I envisioned her writing my name on a post-it note as we talked, scrawling, “TROUBLE-MAKER” after it.
I tried to laugh. “Oh, so you’re like me!” I exclaimed, suddenly hoping to bond.
She chuckled, but not much. “If it would make you feel better,” she said, “you can bring Shane’s electives list into the school and I’ll destroy the old one while you’re here.”
“That would make me feel better,” I agreed. “Thank you.”
Sometimes it just takes awhile to get what I want.
The last time we allowed Dylan to use YouNow.com, he ended up on the phone, in less than an hour, with some complete stranger in New Jersey.
“But I blocked my number,” Dylan whined, when we told him it was not okay to call a complete stranger.
As parents, Bill and I can’t keep up with what sites my kids are on. As soon as Dylan was old enough to have a Facebook page, which I understood, he moved directly to Instagram, SnapChat and Vines. I got an Instagram account, and kept up with it for about two days. Then I got behind.
I’d never heard of YouNow, but we thought it was risky. We said he could try it – and then we had the New Jersey stranger incident. To say that we kaboshed YouNow quickly would be an understatement. We CRUSHED it. Immediately.
Then, tonight, Dylan was bored and wanted to take another stab at YouNow.com.
From what I can tell, YouNow is a forum for anyone, anywhere, to broadcast anything – LIVE. From what I can tell, it is almost exclusively teenagers behaving randomly, seeking attention. It doesn’t look like a positive way for my boy to voice his talents.
“I think it’s a bad idea,” I told him.
“But I know better now,” he said, “and I won’t give out my phone number or any other personal information. I won’t use my own name. I won’t even use my own voice!” (How he can pull off this stuff is beyond my intellectual capacity.)
“Dylan,” I said, “you are 14 years old now. You are going to do what you want to do, no matter what I say. I am telling you that I think this is a really stupid idea.”
“But can I do it?”
“I would rather you don’t do it. I don’t like it. I don’t like what happened last time.”
“But that won’t happen this time. I’ll be much more careful.”
“But you don’t know what will happen this time.”
“I do know! I’ll be way more careful. You can trust me.”
“I’m not worried about trusting you,” I said. “I am worried about the people in the world who I don’t know, and who I can NOT trust.”
“But I know about all of that,” he said, “and I will be really careful.”
My voice rose to record decibels over the course of our 35-minute argument. By the time it was over, I still had not definitively said “no” but I had voiced absolutely no assent.
“I THINK IT IS A REALLY STUPID IDEA!” I screeched, accomplishing nothing.
Eventually, I left the house to pick up a pizza. He continued the debate by calling me on my cell. Then, after I accidentally hung up on him – my phone is broken and randomly does this, I texted him:
Here is the bottom line. If you make immature and irresponsible decisions, we will be forced to treat you like a person who makes immature and irresponsible decisions. It is your choice.
When I came home with the pizza, Dylan and Shane were playing together – sweetly. Laughing. Having a ball.
Like nothing had ever happened.
It’s supposed to snow.
I get an email from Dylan’s school saying, “The school will call you at 5:30 a.m. to let you know if schools are closed.” So I set up my room in such a way that the phone is next to my head. I set my alarm, in case schools are open. Then I go to bed.
I am dreaming that I am pedaling a Big Wheel on the highway, singing Gordon Lightfoot at the top of my lungs: “If you could read my mind Love, oh the tales my thoughts would tell….” Then, suddenly, mid-pedal, I am awake.
I don’t look at the clock. I don’t even open my eyes. I am thirsty, but I don’t want to get water, for fear of waking myself further. I think, I should turn down the heat, and realize I’m in trouble because I’ve had an actual thought. I try to go back to my Big Wheel, but it’s no use. I stay very still.
Then I start thinking about going to visit the Grand Canyon with my kids. I worry that they will fall off the edge. I lecture them in my head, as if we are taking that trip tomorrow. In my head, they are angels, listening to my lecture. My lecture alters their otherwise devastating destiny of doom. Then I start to worry about steep roads and rattlesnakes.
When I roll out of bed, maybe 20 minutes later, the clock says it’s 4:15. I peek out the window. No snow. I still have two hours to sleep.
I get back into bed. I flip from one side to the other. I cuddle my pillow, then let it go. I lay flat on my face, hoping it will ease the permanent pain in my neck. It doesn’t.
I start to think about the high school IB program, which is eliminating the Pre-IB classes for underclassmen. This upsets me, even in my bed. I consider emailing the IB program coordinator. I draft the email in my head. I try very hard to be polite.
I curl my body into a fetal position. I realize that I am grinding my teeth and forcibly relax my jaw. I hear a roar in the sky – is it a fighter jet? or just thunder? I don’t hear rain. With our close proximity to the White House, I can’t identify the noise.
I don’t even know that I’ve drifted off until the phone rings. I pounce on it like a lion, say “hello.” My voice is clear, because I’ve been awake for so long.
There is no one there.
It is 5:30 a.m. It’s Dylan’s school calling. I go downstairs and check the school’s website to find out what they would have said, if the automated system worked. The website says: “OPEN ON TIME.”
They called me at 5:30 a.m. to tell me schools are NOT closed?!? I want to kill someone. Of all the stupid …!
But I want to sleep more. I go back to bed. I take deep breaths. I flip and flop. I unclench my teeth again. I unclench my fists, too. I stay as still as possible.
Suddenly a French nurse is asking me how to pronounce my name – which wakes me up. Is my name French? I don’t think so. And why was I dreaming about a French nurse?
I lie flat on my face again. It still doesn’t work. I toss, turn, try desperately not to think.
Someone in my dream says, “And what is your opinion about these locker-pushers?” Then my alarm goes off, waking me for the day. I groan. My eyes burn.
I look out the window again. Now, in the pre-dawn hours, it starts to snow.
When Shane was born, it was via C-section – along with an emergency bladder repair. I’d had a normal labor, until something went horribly wrong and even the epidural couldn’t kill the pain.
One nurse – only one nurse – knew that something wasn’t right. She saved my life, and probably Shane’s, by insisting that the doctor take a second look at me. He did, and I was rushed to the operating room where they discovered that my normal labor was no longer normal.
When Shane emerged, he started to cry. Well, he screamed. The doctors told me that he’d popped a small hole in his lung with all the screaming. They made it sound like it was nothing. In fact, Shane had a pneumothorax, which is a collapsed lung caused by air in the chest cavity.
In his entire life, Shane has never screamed that ferociously again.
As I lay on the operating table, I begged to see my baby. I had to yell to be heard. He’d been crying non-stop since he was born, and the nurses and my husband did nothing to make it stop. They all wanted to get Shane to the NICU as soon as possible, but I insisted on seeing him first.
Shane was gorgeous (unlike all other newborns except my own). And he was wailing uncontrollably. He hadn’t shut up for even one second since he’d been removed from the womb.
“WaaaaaaWaaaaaaWaaaaaaWaaaaaaWaaaaaaa!”
Someone was holding him next to my head, since the rest of me was strapped down. I couldn’t hold him, but I could introduce myself. With my high-pitched, reserved-for-babies-and-puppies voice, I said, “Hi, Baby!”
And Shane stopped crying.
His newborn eyes widened into tiny saucers as he tried to locate the source of the sound. I kept talking. I don’t know what I said, but he didn’t cry at all for the two minutes I spoke.
Then they whisked him away, and he was crying again before he got to the door.
When they allowed me out of the recovery room, I insisted that they take me to the NICU to be with him. I’d had a rather major operation and everyone wanted me to rest, but I wanted to be with Shane. So for the next two days, while Shane was stuck in an incubator with a blue hat and a pacifier to keep him quiet, I spent every waking moment in the NICU.
Eventually, we all were allowed to go home.
Since that time, Shane has been my darling and a saint. While he’s my “Angel Baby,” he idolizes Dylan – which means that Shane’s parents always come second. But he is a cuddler and gives great hugs and has always made others feel loved, even when he’d rather be playing a video game or eating some sharp cheddar. He’s been such a sweet, beautiful addition to our family, and I simply can’t imagine my life without him.
Shane turns 11 today, and I am just as in love with him today as I was on Day One.
Happy Birthday, Angel Baby.
We were out of town for two days, and I forgot to post my blog before I left. My apologies to my very few readers! I am technologically incompetent and couldn’t figure out how to post from the road.
When we got back into town, we lugged our various suitcases upstairs. After the first day, Dylan’s suitcase had become a hamper, and was stuffed to the brim with dirty laundry.
Without asking me, Dylan lugged his suitcase upstairs. It was heavy, and it’s the only one we took that didn’t have wheels. So it wasn’t an easy job getting it up the stairs. Then he opened it up, discovered that it was full of clothes, and immediately began sorting the mess. He made piles for each member of the family, folded the clothes neatly and then called us in to get our piles.
I had no idea he’d done any of this.
I was in the laundry room, and wanted to locate the laundry-filled suitcase, so that I could start sorting by color (not by family member).
Meanwhile, Shane picked up his pile and brought it to me.
“Why do you have a pile of dirty laundry?” I asked him. “Where’s the suitcase?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Well I don’t want you to throw the laundry on the floor. Go find the suitcase!”
Shane dutifully wandered away. Then my husband, Bill, came in with his pile – and we played through the whole scenario again.
“I don’t want piles of laundry on the floor! I want the suitcase! Where is the suitcase?”
No one bothered to tell me that Dylan had sorted the laundry. They just kept wandering out with their armloads of dirty laundry. Then Bill and I got into a big fight over my insistence on having the suitcase filled – which, he later confessed, was his way of “protecting” Dylan from the Wrath of Me.
When I was crawling into bed, exhausted and angry over the whole thing, Bill finally told me what Dylan had done. So I went into Dylan’s room.
“Daddy told me that you sorted through all the clothes,” I said. “That was so nice of you.”
“It took me like seven minutes,” he said.
“I’m really sorry I yelled,” I said. “I had no idea that you’d done that.” I patted his back, because he didn’t seem to want an apologetic hug.
I went to bed feeling guiltier than ever about my stupid control issues. Really? I couldn’t just take the piles of laundry and sort them later? Why did I have to have that suitcase packed with laundry?
And now it’s the next day, and I feel even dumber than the day before. Luckily, in addition to my church-course-related book – for which I am still waiting – I got an email from Free Range Kids author Lenore Skenazy, one of my heroes and the queen of letting go.
The email said that she’s got a new TV show coming out: “World’s Worst Mom.” I am going to love it.
Maybe they’ll even let me be the star.
Today, Dylan is on a field trip with his school. They went skiing.
Dylan is an excellent skier. He got his own skis last year, and he was zipping down the black diamonds (whether or not I liked it) in two days. I’m not worried about him getting hurt.
My concern, instead, focuses on the exceptionally high number of small things he must remember. So for the entire drive to school this morning, here is how the conversation went between obsessive, panicked me and my ADHD teenager.
Don’t lose anything. If you lose anything, you have to pay me for it. Do you understand?
“Yeah.”
It’s important to drink water. You will get dehydrated if you don’t. Where is your water bottle? Will it fit in your coat pocket?
“I think it fits. If I lose my water bottle, do I have to pay you for it?”
No. But don’t take it if it doesn’t fit in your pocket. There’s free water in the ski rental area, and in the cafe. But drink plenty of water. And be sure to eat. Eat on the bus – both ways. You have enough snacks for both ways.
“You already told me that – twice.”
And eat healthy food for lunch, not just junk. Don’t spend ALL the money we gave you! And don’t lose your snow pants. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wear long underwear? And what about a hat?
“I’ll be wearing a helmet the whole time, Mom.”
You might need a hat when you take off your helmet. But that’s okay, I wouldn’t want you to lose your hat. And don’t lose your gloves! Whatever you do, don’t lose your gloves! Remember how, last year, sometimes we’d see one glove when we looked down from the ski lift? If that happens to you, and you can’t get your glove back, ask a teacher to buy you a new pair. Tell her I’ll pay her back. But you have to pay me back. Okay? You can NOT ski without gloves!
“Okay.”
And don’t lose your skis. How are you going to remember which skis are yours? Are you going to remember where you put them during lunch? I marked one of them so you should be able to find them again. Don’t lose your boots, either!
“I’m going to be wearing my boots the whole time.”
Oh, right. Okay. So do you have everything you need? Where is your money?
“It’s in my pocket.”
Make sure it’s in your zippered pocket. Where is your phone? Do you have your phone?
“Yeah.”
Don’t lose your phone! It’s the only way you’ll be able to find everyone if you lose them. But the MOST important rule is, DON’T DIE! And don’t break a limb, either.
“Holden broke his arm last year.”
Who’s Holden?
“He went to this school last year.”
Well I’d rather you didn’t break anything – but definitely don’t die! If you see a tree, or even if you’re just going slightly too fast, sit down. Okay?
“But I was planning to die and break a leg today.”
If you’re dead, I won’t care if your leg is broken! So the most important rule is don’t die. Oh, and have fun.
I helped him carry in the immense amount of stuff he needed for the day. Then I drove for 45 minutes, and pulled into my garage. At about that time, I got a text from Dylan.
“Um, I don’t have any ski poles.”
Sure enough, in all of my insanity, I’d forgotten to pack his poles.
After declaring two days ago that I would be registering for a 10-week series of church workshops, I had some issues.
First, I don’t like social events of any sort. I am an introvert by birth, and have developed a strong fear of people thanks to – I believe – a horrific experience in middle school. So I wasn’t looking forward to going to any of these church meetings.
In addition, my husband – who is incredibly social and makes a great buffer at social gatherings – was going to miss at least two of the ten meetings. He did not need to be there, as the workshops were really for me. My husband has a very passive-aggressive demeanor, which means no one thinks he is controlling except me. And there is no doubt that I am too controlling. So everyone overlooks his issues.
And Shane has a church group on Wednesday evenings, which means that he would be at the church for more than an hour before my group even starts. And while there is free childcare, I had envisioned the group as a “family activity” – and I couldn’t see how Shane could take part. He is not in the least anxious, manipulative or controlling.
Yet, he would have to sit there for another two hours, waiting for me – either in the group, or in childcare. It didn’t seem like a good fit.
Then the Wednesday night school meetings started popping up. Everyone is suddenly getting ready for next year! Incoming 9th graders (Dylan) and their parents are going to be incredibly busy in the next few weeks. In addition to our high school “welcome” meeting, I will also be attending the informational meeting about the International Baccalaureate program at the high school.
Both meetings are on Wednesdays.
But I went to the church website anyway, because I felt compelled to do something – even if nothing was lining up the way I thought it should. There I discovered a video to “tell me more” about the meetings. And watching the video taught me something extraordinarily helpful: The meetings are based on a book.
The book is called, Keep Your Love On, which – in my not-so-humble opinion – is not the best title for the book if it means an end to anxiety, manipulation and control. But I suppose “love” is a fair antonym, so maybe it’s the perfect title. I don’t actually know.
Buying the book and the study guide online costs the same amount as the 10-week workshop series.
That was the final straw. I bought the book instead of registering for the course.
I figure that I would get one, maybe two tidbits for lifelong happiness from the workshops. And as a rule, I get one, maybe two tidbits from every self-help book I read.
This way, I can get the same information – which, I believe, is the stuff God wanted me to know – without the angst of socializing, missing school meetings and rearranging the family schedule.
I can – and will – read the book on my own time, and promise to share any wisdom I glean. Meanwhile, I thought I’d best come clean and admit that I am not going to register for the 10-week series, since I was so adamant only two days ago that I would.
I try hard to be honest.
Sometimes, though, I just change my mind about stuff.
