There are days when I think, I quit. I want to pull my kids out of school, throw them into an RV, and wander aimlessly around the country – just me, and them. (My husband will have to stay home and work, because someone needs to pay the bills.)
It’s the schools that I want to escape – the world of rules, and authority, and being told that my child just doesn’t matter that much to anyone in the school.
For example, I visited Shane’s principal today to ask if Shane could take pictures for the school yearbook. Shane is an awesome photographer, and one of his photos has already been published – a great picture he took of our dog, Xena, which was used in a nationwide, syndicated feature story.
So I thought it would be nice if Shane could contribute his talents to his school. The principal, however, talked about things like “lost instruction time” and the many photos “already taken by a professional.” He said he would think about it and get back to me “sometime next week.”
But it sounded to me as if he’d made up his mind already. And rather than cry, I walked out on the principal, mid-sentence. I went straight to the cafeteria and told Shane that he probably wouldn’t get to take pictures for the yearbook.
Shane said, “I’m fine with that.” And he was.
The principal, who was not pleased by my behavior, followed me into the cafeteria and told us both, “I haven’t made a decision yet.” Then he went back to his office, and I went home and cried for the sheer unfairness of it all.
I had to email the principal and apologize for my rudeness, and the principal suggested starting a photography club next year – a brilliant idea.
But it didn’t keep me from crying all afternoon.
It just seems to me that Dylan, who already gets the vast majority of the attention, also goes full-force into his passions and becomes a superstar at whatever he tries. Not only has he sung solo and in choruses worldwide, but he’s a musical genius, a creative engineer and he excels at every sport he tries. (He doesn’t play sports, but only because he’s too busy because he got the lead in the school play.)
When Dylan was in fifth grade, he created his own Save the Rainforest campaign and raised hundreds of dollars to help protect the Amazon. The principal wasn’t overtly thrilled with the idea, but he arranged for Dylan to present his powerpoint to the entire student body.
Same principal, different son.
Shane is passionate about magic, and learns every trick his little hands can master. He plays the drums – quite well – and he, too, is awesome at every sport he tries. But for Shane, there is no limelight. He is a behind-the-scenes kind of guy, and he’s okay with that. He’s a different person – with a different attitude.
But he really is an excellent photographer. Shane has a knack for capturing the right image in the right moment – something I’ve never been able to do. I take a million pictures and hope one is good. Shane takes one picture, and it’s good.
I’m just so afraid that I’m letting him down, that I’m not doing enough for Shane. But rather than crawl into a hole, I’ve decided to “go bigger.” I’m going to find a photographer, someone who would be willing to spend some time with Shane, maybe teach him a few tricks of the trade.
The heck with school. Maybe Shane will have to take a few days off to explore his passion. And maybe we won’t need that RV after all.
Shane was in his first “huddle” last week.
“A huddle is something the group does when they want to talk about something serious,” Shane said.
The group.
Shane is in fourth grade. I didn’t realize groups started in fourth grade. He’s referring to cliques – the groups that made me feel like a loser for every waking moment of every day from fifth grade until I left for college.
Being an outcast myself, I didn’t know how the group process worked – until Shane told me what the four boys did.
“They had a huddle about me,” he said. “All the boys got in a huddle to decide if they would let me into the group. Nick didn’t want me to be in the group. I could see them in there talking about stuff. And then Andrew and Nick did Rock-Paper-Scissors and Andrew won, so I got into the group.”
I almost vomited. They decided on Shane’s social future with Rock-Paper-Scissors?!
And THAT mentality is what kept me an outcast for my entire young life?
Nick still doesn’t want Shane in the group. I don’t know Nick. But Nick hit Shane in second grade. And as a result, I hate Nick. I’d like to have my own huddle and throw Nick out of the group.
“He’s just a little rough,” Shane told me today.
Luckily, I’m not making the decisions for Shane or his peers. These are tough lessons that have to be learned without my input.
The group built itself during half-hour increments, at recess, over the course of several months, and I realize that it’s not likely to stay congealed for very long. But Shane is happy today, and I’m hopeful that no one in the group – even Nick – will hurt him in the near future.
I’m hopeful.
Without my asking, Shane told me about his first huddle. “We had to decide what to do about this guy in our class who said two curse words. We decided we should go talk to him.”
So the group is trying to make the world a better place. I’m proud that Shane is a part of it.
Dylan wants to go to the graveyard after school with his new friends.
“Gee Dylan,” I said, “I think I would need some more details before I agree to something like that. Where is this graveyard? I don’t know of any graveyards near your school, and I don’t like the idea of you walking on busy, six-lane roads with no sidewalks. How are you going to get there?”
He texted for a day or two, then answered me.
“Well it turns out,” he said, “that we’re all just going to ride the bus home with Mabel. And she lives right next to the graveyard, so we’ll just walk there from the bus stop.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good idea,” I told him. “I don’t know her, and I don’t know her parents and I don’t even know if they’ll be home when you get there.”
“It doesn’t matter because we’re not going in her house; we’re just going to the graveyard,” Dylan told me.
“I don’t even know where she lives, Dylan,” I said. “It does not sound like a good idea.”
“BUT…” Dylan said, and launched into a raft of reasons why it certainly would be a good idea.
“The answer is no,” I said with finality.
The finality, unfortunately, was followed by three hours of excuses, whining, complaints and accusations. Sometime in the midst, Bill came home and backed up my original “no” with his own, lower-voiced and more wordy “no.”
Then Dylan really went off – talking about how I have to be right all the time, and how I don’t trust him to make his own decisions, and how I am the only parent who won’t let her child go to the graveyard after school tomorrow.
I don’t know Dylan’s new group of friends. One of them has purple hair, but that’s all I know. Another one was Dylan’s first girlfriend (a two-week relationship) who played a giraffe in their second-grade play. It’s possible that the other parents are working and aren’t home after school, so the other kids have no restrictions.
After talking with Bill, we decided it would be a good idea to lay out some guidelines as to what kinds of things would always be a “no.” We called in the teenager.
“If there is no adult supervision,” I said, “the answer will always be no.”
He stormed away, without hearing the rest of the “always no” options. I yelled to him.
“Dylan, would you prefer that Daddy and I get a divorce so that I have to work all the time and no one is here after school, so that you can do whatever you want?”
“No,” Dylan called back. “I don’t want you to get a divorce. I would just like it if you were gone.” He meant me, the MOM, the doer-of-all-evil, the nay-sayer, the disciplinarian.
“I would just like it if you were gone.”
They say not to take it personally when a teenager lashes out.
But wow.
There is a truce, of sorts, between my teenage son and me.
Dylan has a great heart and is capable of thinking for himself. He’s growing up, and separation from Mom is an essential part of that. I don’t want to keep him under my wing forever. After all, isn’t that the point of parenting – to teach him how to fly all by himself?
My insistence that I be told everything comes from a deep-seated need to control everything. And not only do I not need to be in control of everything, I simply can’t be in control of everything.
I realized that my worries were fairly limited. So I made a list of (hopefully) all of them:
- shoplifting or stealing
- smoking cigarettes
- sniffing/inhaling legal products
- any kind of legal or illegal drugs
- non-consensual sexual activities
- unprotected sex
- cutting or otherwise harming yourself
- gambling
- feeling like you want to hurt yourself
- feeling like you want to hurt someone else
- doing anything you know is wrong
- any other kind of immoral behavior
Then I gave this list to Dylan.
I said, “You don’t have to talk to me, but I want you to be safe and happy. And I don’t expect you to do any of these things, because I think you’re a good kid and you know right from wrong. So if, at the end of the day, you have not done any of these things, just give me a ‘thumbs-up.’ And if you have done any of these things, give me a ‘thumbs-down’ and we will need to talk. Can you agree to that?”
Dylan agreed. I told him I am still there for him if he needs me. Then I asked him if he wanted me to drive him to school in the morning and he said, “No, I’m doing fine.”
And this morning, for the third day in a row, he got up, made himself breakfast, packed himself a lunch, and made it to the bus right on time.
For weeks now, Dylan has been saying, “I don’t want to talk to you.”
I’ve been reading books. I’m simultaneously reading How to Talk So Kids Will Listen, The Five Love Languages of Teenagers and Enter at Your Own Risk! 8 Secrets for Parenting Through the Middle School Years. Bill and I even went to see Kirk Martin again – my fourth time – to get some new insights into the teenage years.
We were doing okay, or so I thought. I allowed room for independence and growth – while still drawing the line when the cell phone came to the dinner table. I thought we were doing pretty well.
Then last night happened. I was downstairs and the kids were in the shower. Suddenly I realized, It’s too quiet! I raced upstairs as Shane was opening the bathroom door and I heard Dylan say, “Do you have any questions about that?”
I looked at my baby’s face, as Shane walked slowly out of the bathroom. Something serious had transpired.
“What were you and Dylan talking about?” I asked Shane, genuinely concerned.
“Nothing,” said Shane, for the very first time in his life.
“Nothing?” I repeated. “You were obviously talking about something!”
Shane stammered, “He told me not to tell anybody. It’s a secret.”
Normally, I would be thrilled that the boys were so close that they could share secrets. But Dylan is in a stage where nothing is off-limits, and Shane is too young to understand a lot of what Dylan says and does.
I went back to Dylan and asked him to tell me the secret.
“No,” Dylan said. When pressed, he cried, stomped his feet and had a mini-meltdown. “I don’t want to TALK to you!” he yelled – as he had many times in the past few weeks. All I can think, when he says that, is What have I done to ruin our friendship?
It’s a thought that, thanks to the ex-30-year friend, hasn’t left my thoughts for weeks.
“You ALWAYS have to know EVERYTHING!” Dylan screamed at me. “Why can’t you just let me have MY LIFE?”
“Fine,” I said, and stormed into the laundry room. I started throwing laundry – Dylan’s laundry – into the washer. Then I stormed back and said, “You want me out of your life. You don’t want to talk to me. That’s fine. But I don’t need to do things for you, either. You can do your own laundry from now on.”
“I can do that,” he said.
“And tomorrow, you can make your own breakfast, make your own lunch, and catch the bus to get to school. I’m not getting out of bed at 6:30 to drive you to school if you won’t even talk to me.”
“That’s fine,” he said.
I did put his pills on the counter, in the hopes that he’d remember to take them. They were back on the kitchen table this morning. The peanut butter was sitting on the counter, along with an empty plastic bag.
And Dylan was gone.
Yesterday was Shane’s last day of “Intro to Acting” class, and they did a little show for parents. Shane adores this class. Emphasis is on imagination and knowing the character and story line, rather than on stage technique.
Of course, I signed up Shane for acting hoping that he would learn to speak louder and more clearly – but that’s apparently not the goal.
It’s always a real delight for me to see Shane’s performances, because there’s no judgment by anyone. There are no right or wrong answers, or actions, or ways to perform. No one tells Shane his ways are odd – even if they are. Instead, he is actually quite funny.
Best of all is the way he sees himself. Last night he told me, “I’m kind of like the class clown in there. I just say whatever I am thinking and people just laugh.”
People laugh with him in this class, rather than condemning him for being different. His self-esteem skyrockets – and his ideas can be very, very different than the norm.
I remember when Shane was younger and we were playing a game, much like charades. Shane was supposed to act out the picture on his card, and we were supposed to guess the word.
Shane got down onto the floor, curled himself tightly into a ball with his head down, put his fist on his head and put up one finger.
We were all flummoxed.
After many failed guesses, we learned that Shane’s word was “apple.” Many people would mime the act of eating an apple, but not Shane. He became an apple. Similar things happen every week in his class, but rather than feeling frustrated, he is praised for his creativity. It not only increases his self-esteem – but it encourages him to be more open with what he is thinking.
And how he thinks is of great interest to me. It’s often difficult to understand what he’s trying to say, but well worth the effort when I finally do. He has a lot to say – sometimes much deeper than I’d ever expect, and sometimes so innocent in his childlike wonder, it almost breaks my heart.
It’s always an adventure.
I am doing a poor job with my new listening skills.
Yesterday, I had some quality alone time with Dylan – in the car, as usual. We were on our way to see a movie together. He started texting before we got out of the driveway.
I tried making a little joke. “Who are you texting now?” I asked.
“Why does it matter who I’m texting?” said my teenager, clearly annoyed.
“I just wanted to practice my new listening skills!” I said. “I’m ready!”
He didn’t say anything. Dylan didn’t even look at me.
I hardly paused to breathe before repeating everything I’d said in my text two days earlier, then topping it off with, “I just want to know who is more important than me!”
He got a bit defensive. It wasn’t really a surprise. I’d started to lose it.
Things came out of my mouth like, “You never talk to me!” and “I just don’t understand what happened to you!” and “Really? You won’t say ANYthing to me?” and “NOTHING?!”
Dylan said nothing at all. I’m not sure, by that point, that anything coming out of his mouth would have made any difference. I completely lost it.
By the time we got to the movie theater, I was stomping around like an angry toddler. I did things like slamming the car door and ordering him to “TAKE YOUR WATER BOTTLE” which was already in his hand.
“Hurry up; we’re late!” I yelled at him, as we walked at least half a mile more than we needed to, because I’d parked in the wrong place.
At one point, just before we got to the theater, I turned on my heel – he was walking 10 yards behind me – and snarled, “I could just see this movie tomorrow by myself!”
“I know,” he said. “I’d like to see it.”
So we went to the movie. We had a nice time. We came out of it okay, but I am now wary of my own abilities to do anything right.
Sometimes, really, I think I have a psychological disorder. But I will keep trying.
The family was in the car for more than three hours yesterday, and Dylan texted the whole time. We got home and he texted for another hour. It’s like there’s glue on his fingers, causing them to be constantly stuck to the cell phone keyboard.
I finally bellowed, “THAT’S IT! You have 10 minutes and then NO MORE TEXTING TODAY!”
Bill and I know that Dylan’s behavior is normal. We know it’s the same issue that kept our parents screaming at us while we sat in the kitchen, tied to a corded phone, mumbling and giggling.
This is what people at this age do.
But I wasn’t prepared for the text that Dylan sent me after my bellow:
Mom, I dont think you know what im talking about when i text. I have saved two peoples lives by texting. Ive had almost my only communication to my friends by texting. Ive stopped 4 people from cutting from texting. And relieved the depression of 6 people by texting. I have had people to talk to when im sad or angry. They understand me because they are going through what im going through. I feel safe and happy when im texting. And when you tell me that im being obnoxious and rude and “ignoring you” by doing it, it makes me feel awful for feeling that way.
I read this, then sat still, stunned.
What a sad commentary on what kids deal with today. My son is saving lives. He is helping his friends. He is there for them, in a dramatic way. What he is doing matters. And in his world, it matters more than anything in my world.
I want him to be able to talk to his friends – and now, even more so. I don’t want to hold him back from his blossoming social life, or from his fitting role as human angel. So it took me awhile to think about what really bothers me about his texting. Finally, I wrote back:
U r right. I dont know. Because u dont tell me. U dont share these things with me anymore ever. U may be doing wonderful things. I have no doubt that u r. But u dont talk to me about what is going on with u. U dont talk to me about what is going on with ur friends. And its got to be a lot for u to handle on ur own.
Yes, I am hurt that u ignore me when u r texting but I think its important to have friends and be in contact with them as often as u need to be. I guess what I am saying is that I would be a lot more ok with the amount of texting if, sometimes, u would also share ur life with me. Not just ur grades and playing board games, but real stuff that goes on with u. U should also feel safe with me. And I am not perfect but I am working very hard at being a good listener and not just telling u what to do all the time. If u would give me a chance to listen, I could. I am not asking u to share secrets or tell on ur friends. I just wish u would try sometimes to still talk to me too.
And there it was – the crux of the issue. I want him to expand his world, but I want him to know I am there for him, too.
I didn’t get a response to my (labor of love) text. But that’s okay, because I know he heard me. I was speaking his language.
I haven’t spent much time with the kids this week. I sunk into a brief depression while they were at school (for two days) and then chauffeured them around carefully and cheerfully when they got home.
I’m not quite over being viciously attacked by my friend, but I decided that the best revenge was to get on with my happy life, and let her live hers.
Then our basement flooded with raw sewage. That was a nice distraction.
The good news is that Bill stayed home from work to take care of the raw sewage. (I told you he treats me like a queen and he can fix things!) Then, because he was home early, he drove Shane to his acting class.
Shane loves his class. Sometimes, though, I think he loves it because he goes to California Tortilla before class to eat dinner and drink soda. There isn’t a lot of soda-drinking at home. Plus, the machine at Cal Tort has special features that allow him to add flavoring to a wide variety of soft drinks.
Anyway, with Shane and Bill gone, I picked up Dylan after school.
Well, I picked up Dylan after his play rehearsal, and after his trip to the grocery store with his friends. He actually wanted to go to the grocery store with his friends.
By then, it was so late that Dylan and I went out to dinner.
So – finally – I spent some time with a kid. And oh, what quality time! We talked and laughed and had a marvelous time. It only lasted maybe 37 minutes, and then Dylan went back to texting, but those 37 minutes were true bliss.
He talked about school. He talked about morning show. He talked about rehearsal. He shared jokes with me, and I shared them with him. It seems simple, but given that there has been so much grunting lately in place of talking, this was a wonderful evening.
Gotta love How to Talk So Kids Will Listen. I blame the book for every positive moment since I started to re-read it. I even found a new book – one I don’t own (yet) – that I think I’d best read, too: How to Talk So TEENS Will Listen and Listen So Teens Will Talk. How perfect!
We LAUGHED today. A lot.
What an incredible blessing.
Yesterday, from out of the blue, someone stabbed me with the statement that I consistently crush my sons’ inspirations. “You stomp on their joy and dreams,” she told me.
This came from someone I’ve known for 30 years – but who has never even met my children. She’s never seen me with them. She’s never even read my blog! (Which is good, for today anyway.) She also has no husband, or children, of her own, so she has no idea how painful mother-cutting comments can be.
As a matter of fact, I lost touch with her for more than a decade, during which time I got married, had my babies and became a wonderfully supportive, kind, caring, loving mom.
It’s who I am. It’s what I do. It’s everything to me.
Yet, thanks to my own insecurities, I spent the entire day doubting myself. Maybe, I thought, she knows something I don’t.
She said (and again I quote), “I think you are unhappy and unsatisfied with your life at a deep level and project your misery onto others.”
This is a sickness, I realize. How could I doubt my very core? This woman lives 400 miles away and has only seen me for two hours in 20 years. She may have known me when I was 20, but she has absolutely no idea who I am now if she can claim that I am a dream-crusher carelessly tossing misery onto my kids.
Am I unhappy? NO. Emphatically, NO – I am actually incredibly happy. I adore my life. I’m quite possibly the luckiest person in the world! And I think my kids see that I feel this way, day in and day out. We have a gorgeous life. We talk about God. We live with God. I don’t want to get all preachy, but it’s impossible to live with God in gratitude and be miserable at the same time.
Unsatisfied? Another emphatic NO. How could I be even remotely unsatisfied? I have an exciting, fulfilling life. I am a writer, a teacher, a softball player and a dog fanatic. I have a husband who treats me like a queen, who is funny and brilliant and knows how to fix broken things. I have two challenging and incredible boys who teach me something new every day. I treasure the moments we spend together, and I add as much joy to their lives as I can. I listen to them intently to find out what they love, then I nurture their passions to the extreme.
For example, Shane wants to be a magician. As a career. He spends his days flipping cards around in fancy ways and practicing sleight-of-hand tricks he’s learned from one of his gazillion magic books. He’s been doing this for two years. He is going to be a great magician. Why would I squash that? It’s not a lucrative career move, but if that’s what he wants to do, he should do it.
And Dylan wanted to go to MIT and be a world-class engineer. I know that MIT is notoriously the hardest college in the world to get into – but did I squash that dream? NO. I told him to work really hard and get good grades and he could go to MIT.
Then, a few weeks ago, when he decided to give up MIT and become a disc jockey instead – I supported that, too. He’s already got a gig lined up in April with a friend of mine, who happens to be a DJ.
So, do I project my misery onto others? NO.
Except today, because I am miserable, thinking that this woman I loved for so long has no idea who I am. So I am projecting my misery onto all the folks who are reading this and thinking, gee, where’s all the funny stuff about brilliant and bouncy kids?
Well, it will be back in a day or two, I’m sure. Just as soon as I remove the boulder from my gut and crawl out of the sudden and dramatic hole I’ve been pushed into.
Which will happen at my insistence as soon as the kids get home from school. They, thankfully, don’t even know this happened. I wouldn’t want to project any misery onto them, not even for a second.
