The Pittsburgh area school stabbings that took place on Wednesday happened 10 miles from my own high school. My best friend’s boyfriend (later her husband) went to Franklin Regional, where the stabbings occurred.
After Sandy Hook, I was certain that nothing could affect me as profoundly again. But somehow, this stabbing incident has hit home hard.
When I took Dylan (and later Shane) to his first day of kindergarten, I bought him a new lunchbox and a pencil case. I made sure he had a jacket with his name in it, sharpened his thick, black pencils, and brushed his hair just so. He put on his sparkling new backpack and shuffled into the classroom with all the other kids.
Every day, I send my kids to school with the exact same feeling as I had that first day. It’s great that they’re growing up and learning to be independent. I’m hopeful that they’re learning things that will help in their adult lives. And every day, I’m just a little sad to see them wander toward the front door, looking around for their friends.
And every day, I recognize that I might never see them again.
I shouldn’t have to believe I might never see them again. I shouldn’t have to worry about stabbings and shootings and mass murders. Because these things just should not happen.
But they do. And the media never shuts up about it.
I try to remember that these things happened long before television. Worse than Sandy Hook (if that’s possible) was the Bath School mass murder in Michigan. But I’d never heard of it – because it happened before television was able to sensationalize it and broadcast it worldwide.
I stopped watching the news for years shortly after 9/11 because my son, who wasn’t even walking yet, sat in his bouncy chair and watched me stare at the TV for days. It didn’t seem fair to be so obsessive about the death and destruction when my baby didn’t understand what was going on.
Right after that, the D.C. sniper came around, shooting random people on the streets. We were in baby music class when the three-week rampage started – less than 3 miles from where the first victim died.
Baby Dylan and I sat inside the house for almost the entire three weeks.
I only ventured out once, with my mom, to get gas and groceries. We drove 45 minutes from home, thinking we’d be safer there – but were still so scared that Mom dropped me off at the front door – and we both ran into the grocery store as fast as we could. I remember ducking down while putting the gas pump in the tank, terrified that I’d be shot any second.
And now, 12 years later, I want to grab my child (300 miles from where the stabbings occurred) and run screaming to … where?
Where would we be safe? Sitting in the house may have been safe with a sniper about, but there are “snipers” everywhere. We can’t go to the movies without a mad gunman coming out and shooting us. We can’t go to school without an agony-filled teenager killing us. We can’t get in an airplane or we may end up at the bottom of the Indian Ocean.
And God knows, we’re more likely to die in a car crash than anything else. So we should probably all just sit inside our houses, never venturing out, never risking our safety for the right to live in this society.
I always thought we were better off here in America than anywhere else in the world. We have better resources: jobs, healthcare, education, freedom. We aren’t (yet) being attacked by another country. We don’t have to stay inside and pray that a bomb doesn’t hit the house.
Although we could.
And if we’re going to live life terrified about walking out the front door to go to school, we may as well just sit at home all day, every day. And pray.
Dylan has let it slip that there are kids in his school who are … well, bullying him. He doesn’t call it “bullying” because that’s become such a trendy term. To Dylan, bullying implies something much worse than what’s happened to him.
A guy – we’ll call him “Dave” – punched Dylan in the stomach as he was walking down the hall. He’s been tripped, slapped and smacked.
“It’s just random,” he says. “It doesn’t really matter.”
Another day, “Dave” tried to slam Dylan’s head into his locker – something that Dylan had seen happen before.
“But I pulled the top pin out of my locker door,” said Dylan – the future engineer. “So the locker bounced back and hit him in the face.”
I’m so proud of my boy for standing up for himself – even if it just meant not having his head slammed into his locker.
I never stood up for myself. I was an incredibly shy wallflower who almost never spoke. I guess I was an easy target. So I quickly became a victim of my own personal bully.
Mindy started in fourth grade by sending me a Valentine that was signed with – instead of ‘Love, Mindy‘ – ‘Hate, Mindy.’ To this day, I have no idea what inspired her to hate me so.
She didn’t let up for three years. I got nasty notes. She threatened me constantly. She’d slap my notebook out of my hands, throw books at me in the hall, and sneer “QUEER-stin” anytime she got within range. Then she would do something really odd, like treat me with incredible kindness. And I’d think, Oh, she likes me now!
One day, after being nice for a few hours, she borrowed 15 cents from me so she could buy ice cream. I can’t even imagine why I had 15 cents – but I gave it to her, in hopes that we were actually becoming friends. I actually believed it when she said she’d pay me back.
I was a naive child.
Eventually, Mindy beat me to a pulp after school. I walked out the door and she jumped on me. She’d hired someone to hold my arms behind my back – someone I’d really thought was a friend – while Mindy punched and pummeled me until I couldn’t even stand up anymore.
I don’t remember any bullying after that. I believe that’s when I shut down, and stopped trusting people for the rest of my life.
Mindy has had the chance to apologize to me, since we are both on Facebook. Oddly, she hasn’t come forward. I sent her a note that said, quite simply, “Do you remember me?”
I never got a response.
I can see from her Facebook pictures that she has two tween/teen girls. And I can’t help but wonder if they are victims or bullies themselves.
But they’ve probably been trained to crush anyone who crosses their path. Because God knows, I simply breathed the same air as Mindy, and I was mercilessly abused for it.
I try not to compare my son’s experiences to my own – but given my own experiences, it is incredibly hard not to compare.
I only hope he never gets to the point of shutting down, like I did. I hope he stays true to himself, and knows that he is good, and true, and beautiful – inside and out – and that no one has a right to hurt him.
He is one of God’s angels. I see it clearly and know it with every fiber of my being. Dylan is perfect as he is, and he’s here for a reason.
Maybe someday, I’ll realize that I am one of God’s angels, too.
Last night, in an unprecedented attempt at allowing the children to have independence, we left them at a friend’s house – with their two children – and the four adults went out to dinner.
It’s hard to trust your kids – at ages 10 and 13 – to spend an evening with other kids, even if the other kids are incredibly responsible and well-behaved. But I just plain trusted them. I went out without worry, and the kids were playing happily when we left.
As a result, I’m not sure it would have been possible for any of us to have had a better time.
We got home very late on a school night, and the kids were still wide awake and bouncy. Normally, exhaustion makes Dylan into a tall, red-headed rubber ball – but he was almost sedate. And normally, Shane falls onto his face in the middle of the floor when he’s tired – but he was clear-eyed and quite conscious.
We put them to bed quickly anyway. Shane was probably asleep before I left the room. Dylan showered (and took too long) and was probably awake when I went to bed at 11:00.
Dylan said he could get himself ready for school, if I would just drive him. He set his alarm for 6:30.
So this morning, I went downstairs when Dylan was supposed to be climbing into the car – but he was not there. His lunchbox was empty. No breakfast had been made.
Against the better judgment (again) of all the self-help books, I started making an egg sandwich for Dylan to eat in the car. (I won’t be all that surprised when Dylan never learns to have natural consequences to his behavior – because I keep helping him against the better judgment of all the self-help books.)
Dylan came downstairs. “I don’t know what happened,” he said. “When I woke up, it was 7:04.” He doesn’t even remember his alarm going off.
So he made his lunch and I made his breakfast and we got out the door just fine, in plenty of time for school and still way earlier than the bus arrives. He went in tired, but fed.
Shane slept almost two hours later than he usually does, and woke up well-rested and ready to go – and just in time to eat breakfast and get out the door a tad early, so he could see his friends before school.
I wonder if my whole life would go this well if, say, I trusted that everything was going to be okay.
Sadly, I’m not sure I’ll ever know. I worry and worry and worry! But maybe today, I can give it a try and see what happens.
I bought a fish.
So what? you say. What’s the big deal about a fish?
Well, we have a dog. She’s a very cute rescue dog. I often think about getting another dog or even two, because rescuing them seems like such a good idea – even if my house would then be over-the-top insane. I try to remember the insanity, so I don’t get another dog.
I also frequently consider rescuing a cat – but then I remember the hair on every chair from my former pet. So I haven’t given in and gotten a cat.
Dylan wanted a chinchilla or a turtle for Christmas. Getting a pet for an ADHD kid requires careful consideration – and research. Chinchillas and turtles are absolutely terrible choices for pets for any child.
So I got him five hermit crabs instead. They are great pets. They are interesting and eat almost anything. Plus, if you set up their tank with deep, proper substrate and specially filtered water, they can be fun to watch, too. But they still require daily care.
One of the hermit crabs died, possibly from old age or the stress of moving to a new tank. We miss Squirt terribly.
Shane’s Betta fish died several months ago – after living with us for three years. Dylan had two Betta fish, as well.
We also feed the birds and squirrels outside. (I won’t even discuss the fox, deer and raccoon families.) And while I was at the pet store this week buying bird seed for spring, I walked right past the Betta fish selection.
They store each fish in a tiny little cup, so they have nowhere to go and nothing to do – all day, every day. It is absolutely pitiful. To be fair, they would eat each other if put in a tank together – but still.
I should have never looked at the fish. But a white one with a red and blue tail darted over and looked right at me as I was walking by. And I was hooked.
I went back to the pet store the next day and bought Ezekiel. I looked up the name – which I chose instantly – because I was curious as to why I was so drawn to that name, and that fish. Ezekiel means “strength from God.”
The name is appropriate. Because with 2.5 kids, a dog, 4 hermit crabs and, now, a fish … I sure am going to need it.
Dylan has insisted on spending mornings alone this week – getting up, making breakfast & lunch, getting to the bus on time. I’m okay sleeping in, but I do worry that he’ll forget to take his pills.
Today, his pill bottle hadn’t moved (since yesterday) and I had a sneaking suspicion that he’d gone off without them. Since it was a new bottle, I counted them – knowing how many should be missing – and sure enough, he hadn’t taken his pills.
Then I found his lunchbox crammed sideways behind the fruit bowl. It was empty. But he had obviously put said lunchbox there – it wasn’t laying out, half-packed, like usual. So I didn’t know if he had lunch or not.
Should I take him the pills? Should I feed him? Or should I do what all the books say to do – let him live with the consequences of his actions – and starve, and be unable to concentrate all day?
I never know what’s right. He’s staying at school until 5 p.m. tonight for extra-long play rehearsal. He could buy lunch – but I know he won’t. And to go without the pills – bare-minimally helpful though they may be … it just pained me to think of it.
Will he be offended if I do for him what he wanted to do for himself? Will he yell at me for interfering in his life?
I wanted to do what’s best for him. Isn’t food best for him? And his pills? My mother’s instinct won. I made him a quick sandwich and, after dropping off Shane at school, I took his sandwich and pills to the middle school.
Dylan sauntered into the office a few minutes later, and I handed him his pills.
“Oh, thank you!” he said, smiling. I handed him a bottle of water. “Thanks,” he said again. He didn’t appear to be offended with my interference. “I knew I’d forgotten them and I didn’t think there was anything I could do about it.”
He took the pills.
“Do you want a sandwich?” I asked him, taking out the peanut butter sandwich from my other pocket.
“Thank you!” he said.
“I noticed your lunchbox was at home,” I said.
“I took a different lunchbox today,” he told me, “but I forgot to make my sandwich.” He smiled again. “You’re like telepathic or something!”
“Maybe I could get up with you in the morning,” I said. “Just for moral support.”
“Yeah,” Dylan said, pumping his fist, “like, Go! Study!”
We both laughed. His smile was huge as he walked away, backwards, bowing to me like a Chinese servant. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said.
I guess I did the right thing.
Even if it was the wrong thing, Dylan’s smile just totally made my day.
When Dylan was two years old, we came home to our two-bedroom, garage-less rambler. Our rental home was tucked away in a wooded yard – oddly also on a very busy street.
I unbuckled him from his car seat, and he said, “Can I go in the back door, Mommy?”
“Okay,” I told him. “The back door is locked, so I’m going to go in the front door. I will go through the house and unlock the back door so you can come in.”
“Okay, Mommy,” he said.
I went as fast as my feet would move, as I watched Dylan toddle around to the back of the house. I unlocked the front door, went inside, and raced to the sliding glass “back” door.
Dylan wasn’t at the door. I didn’t see him on the porch, either. I raced out the back, calling his name – “Dylan!” – but he didn’t answer. He wasn’t anywhere near the back door.
We didn’t have a backyard – just a little porch and a shed. Screaming now, “DYLAN!” – I ran to the locked shed, ran around it, looked in the neighbor’s yard, desperately searching for my little boy.
“DYLAN!”
No answer. How could this have happened? I thought. It only took me 30 seconds to get in the front door and through the house!
I went back into the house, hoping he’d somehow gone in the back door after all. “Dylan?!” I tried. The one-floor house was achingly empty.
I ran out the front door. “DYLAN!” Still no answer. But through the wooded front yard, I saw something move.
Right next to the street.
It was Dylan. He had his back to me. Cars were roaring by him, not three feet from where he stood. He looked like he was waiting for an opening in the traffic, so he could cross.
In his right hand, he held the handle of his little red wagon. And he was just standing there, staring at the cars.
“DYLAN!” I screeched, running full-force through the trees to stop him from stepping into the rushing traffic.
I fell to my knees next to him. I tried to take a breath. I probably cried. I probably said, “Why didn’t you go in the back door?” but I don’t remember saying anything at all.
I just knew my baby was safe. I thanked God. And we went on with our lives.
This morning, I dropped off Dylan at middle school. And every time I do, I feel like I’m putting him back where I found him at age two: standing next to the roaring traffic, with his little red wagon and his back to me, watching.
And waiting to take his next step.
In all my angst about Dylan’s seventh grade experience, I took it upon myself to learn about our options for high school. I emailed the IB coordinator, and set up a meeting.
“What’s IB?” you are saying – because who ever heard of an International Baccalaureate program in high school?
Sure enough, that’s what it is. Kids who complete the IB program in high school get 30 college credits upon entry. They are the ones who apply to Harvard and Yale and Princeton – and even though they graduate with a 6.2 GPA, they still may not get in.
But they definitely won’t get in without an IB diploma.
This is what I learned at my meeting.
If a student doesn’t have the required work ethic or the ambition for IB, we also have the option of AP classes – which means Advanced Placement. These kids are top-of-the-heap – or at least, they were until IB came along. But supposedly, AP is the hardest type of class.
If you can’t hack it in AP, though, you can still take Honors classes. Basically, this is the third level of “smart.”
I’m not even going to get into Pre-IB, because I still don’t understand that.
Then, since there are no “dumb” classes, because all kids are brilliant, we have the choice of taking Grade Level classes. For example, in Grade 9, you would take Grade 9 English.
Simple, huh?
So – since my children are top-of-the-heap in brilliance (as all moms believe), I learned more about IB. It is a fantastic program. Students take specific classes in a variety of areas, and they expand on the subject matter by discussing topics in depth. It’s like GT for high school, really – which would suit Dylan perfectly.
Sadly, it requires Dylan to take substantial amounts of a foreign language which, because of his ADHD, may be difficult to manage. Or, it may be incredibly easy for him. But who knows? And do I want to doom him to three years of French if it’s going to be agonizingly dull for him?
Worst of all, though, every class includes an in-depth, incredibly lengthy written essay.
And that’s where Dylan is left out in the cold. Because of his issues, writing is incredibly difficult for him. He can express himself in a thousand ways, but sitting and writing in depth would absolutely kill him.
But wait! There’s more!
This year – this year! – our high school started a NEW IB program! It’s called the IBCC – the IB Career-related Certificate – and it’s absolutely made for Dylan!
He can take sign language instead of a foreign language – something he’s already partially learned and likes. He can choose more classes, rather than having them prescribed for him, including the five engineering classes he would love.
And best of all, while they do still learn to write well, his written essays in each class are replaced by “projects” of the students’ choosing.
IBCC is quite literally the best thing to happen to school (for Dylan) – ever. Except possibly the Montessori method, which we can’t afford. So we’ll go with this.
Of course, it doesn’t really kick in until 11th grade. But at least I can sleep at night for the next 3 years, knowing there is – finally – hope.
Thanks, God.
When Dylan was in first grade, I went in for Open House to observe. The kids were on the floor, the teacher on a chair, and she was asking questions that were so simple a bedpost could have answered correctly.
But six-year-old Dylan never raised his hand. Later I asked him, “Why didn’t you raise your hand? I’m sure you knew all the answers.”
Dylan said, “Because she only calls on me about once every three hours. I don’t know why I should make my arm tired if she’s not even going to call on me.”
And he was right. In trying to be fair to all 28 students, the teacher rarely called on anyone more than once or twice a day. As a result Dylan, who was re-learning things in first grade that he’d known since preschool, was beyond bored.
The boredom lasted for years.
Finally, in fourth grade, Dylan was accepted into the Gifted and Talented (GT) program. He was able to fully express himself. Dylan not only raised his hand often, he spent his days stimulated and engaged. There was true brilliance in the room. He and his classmates discussed topics like global warming, marketing strategies, alternative energies. Their “play” time was wildly creative, and they built their own toys, wrote their own books, and invented … everything.
And Dylan wasn’t bored anymore. In fact, he loved school.
But he doesn’t love middle school.
Today, I chaperoned a field trip, where we sat on benches and listened to a man talk about industry in 1863. He tried to personalize it, but for most of the audience, it was just plain dull.
The kids wanted to be doing things, experiencing the wide variety of hands-on tasks they could try at the museum. But instead, for all but 20 minutes of a 3-hour “tour,” we just sat on benches.
I found myself staring out the window at the harbor. I looked at the factory next door, and wondered if we could take a real tour of industry there. I watched stationery boats and thought about sailing. I saw a duck – and wished I could show it to the kids, who would have so preferred a duck over anything related to industry in 1863.
It reminded me that I spent my own school days entertaining myself while teachers droned on and on about things that didn’t interest me. I had some good teachers – I learned a lot in 7th grade English, for example. But mostly I wrote stories in my head, pondered philosophical questions, and decided which boys I’d rank as cutest in the class.
Life is hard as a middle schooler. And for someone who’s as smart as Dylan, classroom time needs to be a bit more … interesting. So later this week, I’m going to talk to a high school staffer to find out about future options.
I think Dylan is mind-numbingly bored with school. It’s not that he needs more medication. Duh. He needs mental stimulation.
Just like he did in first grade. I can’t believe it took me this long to realize it.
Again.
Tomorrow is Shane’s rescheduled, rescheduled-again field trip. With all the snow days we’ve had, I can no longer remember the originally scheduled date. And I am supposed to chaperone.
“Tomorrow is the last day for the whole school year that we can go,” Shane told me. “There are no other dates they can have us there.”
And – SURPRISE! – they are calling for snow.
Shane really wants to go on this trip. Field trips are fun. I want him to go, too. I’m not sure I want to go myself, but I want him to be happy.
Unfortunately, I still have control issues.
Weather – and the decision to cancel/delay/open on time – are completely out of my control. There is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Yet I sit here, worrying about it. I wonder, What if…? What if…?
As if thinking hard enough, wondering long enough, would change the outcome. As if I have any say in the matter at all.
Having kids – and living life – is frequently a matter of letting go.
My sister had kids before I did. When Dylan was so young he couldn’t even walk yet, she said, “Having kids is completely about letting go. As soon as they’re born, you start letting them go.”
I didn’t believe her. To be fair, I had no idea what she was talking about. How can I let him go? I thought. I just got him!
But she was right. And what she was saying is a lot deeper than the weather – and can help me in every aspect of my parenting.
I need to let go when they are learning to tie their shoes, to wash their hair, to button their shirts. I need to let go when they make poor decisions, when they forget things, when they choose things I don’t like. I need to let go when they argue – with each other, and with me. I need to let go when they moan and groan and complain because I did something they don’t like.
And for heaven’s sake, I need to let go of the weather.
Last night, I told Dylan that I’ve missed him in the mornings. I do. He’s been getting up early, while I sleep, and making his own breakfast and lunch. He’s been leaving for the bus without so much as a “good morning,” let alone a “goodbye.”
But last night, after just a mention of my missing him, he asked if I could come downstairs in the morning. I jumped at the chance. I made him eggs with cheese and faux bacon. I threw a slice of banana bread on his plate and a handful of ripe, organic strawberries.
“This is the best breakfast I’ve ever seen,” he said.
It was possibly the greatest compliment I’ve ever received.
I guess there are going to be moments when Dylan is Dylan again – basically just a nice person to have around. He has always been a kind person. He had empathy for other people when he was born, and he’s such an enthusiastic, optimistic person in his soul. It’s been hard to watch middle school squash that light – but sometimes it comes back.
This morning was wonderful. He was bright and funny and a true joy.
He even complimented the breakfast again. “Usually when I eat breakfast, I save my favorite for last. But today I want to save everything for last!”
I am no cook. And I don’t expect that he’ll ever compliment anything I do, ever again. But it sure did make my day to spend the morning with him, knowing he felt well-nourished and happy.
I wish I could do more for him, but he needs me to back off instead – and let him do what he needs to do. So I will.
And I will also – cautiously – enjoy today.
