Brilliant … But Bouncy

I Told Them That.

I’m starting to feel a bit … angry about the Quaker school. Not that I want to take Dylan out, but I’d like the people to be a bit nicer to my son. I realize he’s not a model citizen, but …

In the past few days, I’ve gotten a complimentary email from Dylan’s Spanish teacher saying how well he behaved in class last week – which was awesome – and a report from the office stating that Dylan has been turned in for “excessive tardiness.”

When I asked Dylan about the “excessive tardiness,” he said that he was talking to his music teacher – which I specifically asked him to do – and then he had to clean up his stuff from algebra and make sure he had all of his work turned in – which I also specifically asked him to do – and then he had to walk from a building on one side of campus to get to his next class on the other side of campus.

And gosh, he couldn’t do all of that in the allotted five minutes.

“Did you tell your teacher that you were doing those things?” I asked Dylan.

“Yeah,” he said.

“What did she say?”

“She asked if I had a note from Ms. B, and I didn’t, so she turned me in to the office.”

So now he has this on his “record” – and I have to step in, again, and make sure his needs are being met. The number one thing that I’ve been advocating for is extra time after class for him to talk to teachers, to make sure he’s doing – and turning in – everything he needs.

And now he’s being “reported” for it.

Then Dylan told me – a few days later – that I need to send in a note to allow him to drink Mountain Dew. The school has allowed me to send iced tea because of the caffeine content, which is somewhat helpful for his brain – and we are using it in place of stimulant medication.

One day, since I knew Dylan was going to need extra help that day, I sent extra caffeine, in the form of a can of Mountain Dew.

“Ms. E was very upset,” Dylan told me. “She said I had to get written permission from my mom and the headmaster before I could drink Mountain Dew again.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “But I put it in your lunchbox myself,” I stammered.

“I know,” he said. “And I told them that. But they still said you have to write them a note.”

If I had the ability, the knowledge, and the patience, I would now be homeschooling my son for the rest of 8th grade.

Instead, I have to email the teachers, again, just like I did in public school.

Can I Go Back to Public School?

Dylan has become a discipline problem at his new school. All of the teachers have emailed me and two of them are incredibly frustrated.

One teacher emailed, “He is consistently coming late to class. Walking in screeching or doing something else of a disruptive manner. Last week, I took the ‘stress’ ball from him because he was throwing it so high that it was banging against the ceiling tile.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve heard from this teacher. But now Dylan is admitting that he has a problem with self-control in the classroom.

“There’s so much talking that it’s impossible to focus,” he whined. “I have to work so hard just to ignore all the noise that I can’t get anything else done!”

Then he dropped the mega-bomb: “I wish I could go back to my old school.”

Fifteen thousand dollars and three months of private school, and he’s begging to go back to public school.

So … I let him go back to public school. For one hour.

I arranged for Dylan to sit in on a geometry class at the public middle school. On a day that he didn’t have school, he got up early and went with me – and Shane – so that he could sit for an hour in public school, and remember how he’s supposed to behave – and why he didn’t want to be there.

But that didn’t happen.

Instead, he came out saying, “It was so fun!”

I thought maybe I’d misheard. After all, this is a boy who cried, in incredible angst, last spring: “Please, just get me OUT of this school!”

So when Dylan said an hour of public school geometry was fun, I inquired further.

“Well first, there were like 40 kids in the class,” he said. “It wasn’t just 26 kids or whatever, it was like 40. And nobody was talking, so I could really pay attention to the teacher. And they only did, like, two worksheets. And everybody did them and we had plenty of time to go over them. In private school they do, like, five worksheets and it just goes way too fast. Please, can I go back to public school?”

“You begged me to go to private school,” I said. “You begged and pleaded and said you hated public school. All you wanted to do was go to private school. You have to be kidding me.”

“Why?” he whimpered. “I can really handle it now and it’s way easier to focus there!”

“We spent $15,000 on private school for you. We spent all of your college savings and Shane’s college savings just to get you into the private school. You begged and pleaded to go to private school. You are NOT going back to public school after three months!”

“But I like it way better,” he said, as if that made a difference.

“If you were in public school,” I assured him, “you would be flunking 8th grade. You would not have teachers who let you turn in your assignments late. You are doing better, but you still had seven zero’s for missing assignments in three different classes!”

“But I wouldn’t do that,” he said. I laughed out loud. I felt queasy, dizzy and a bit faint.

“NO,” I said. “You are going to finish this year at private school. You are going to learn to turn in your assignments on time. You are going to advocate for yourself. And you are going to get through this year.”

After some real screaming, I ended the conversation as I so often do:

“You are going to start doing what YOU need to do for YOU,” I said.

Is Carnegie Mellon a Good School?

We got a hand-me-down shirt from my parents with “Carnegie Mellon” emblazoned on the front. It was a little too big for me, and a little too small for Bill.

So I called Dylan in to try it on. It fit him perfectly.

“Is Carnegie Mellon a good school?” he asked.

“One of the best in the country,” I told him.

“Then how did you get this shirt?” he asked, as if I were some slouch.

“Granddad used to work there,” I told him. My dad was a superstar vice president at Carnegie Mellon, if truth be told, for more than a decade.

“Oh,” he said. “Okay, I’ll keep it.” He meant the shirt, not the school, but he only accepted the shirt because the school’s a good one.

“Do you want to know what Carnegie Mellon is famous for?” I asked.

“What?”

“Engineering, drama, music and computers,” I told him.

“Okay!” he exclaimed. “Then I want to go there!”

“That sounds awesome,” I told him. “It’s one of the hardest schools in the world to get into, but we can take a look at it.”

Whichever way Dylan leans, I start leaning with him. When he wanted to go to MIT, I figured it was worth a try. Now, if he wants to go to Carnegie Mellon, it’s worth a try. He’s only in 8th grade, after all, and there’s a chance he could get through high school with an amazing resume, spectacular grades and awesome test scores.

By next year at this time, it should be easier to see how it will all play out. Meanwhile, I am reading a great book about liberal arts colleges that are much lesser known.

I’m learning that there are small colleges across the country that are experiential, offering hands-on learning in place of written tests. There are places that specifically enhance their teaching with semester-long projects, internships and study abroad – and offer substantially fewer classroom-based courses.

There are places that offer a full year of transitional “thinking” classes before students have a choice of subject-based classes. There are also colleges that offer a ton of different subject requirements before students have a choice of major-based classes.

For many parents, this might mean, Yes! My child can get in somewhere! 

But for me, I’m so excited to look at the schools. I want to learn more about them, find out the real deal, get a feel for the campus. I want to wander the country looking at colleges – and can hardly wait (although I will!) to do it.

I don’t care where Dylan ends up going to college – as long as it’s a great fit for him. I just want him to know that there’s more to life – and that there are more choices – than the big-name places, or the big state places that everyone knows.

But we’ve started with Carnegie Mellon – a place that might be an exceptional fit, if he decides to self-advocate and become a champion of his own stuff.

And if he goes to Carnegie Mellon, great. As long as he knows, when he makes a decision, that there are thousands of other choices.

I Don’t Think It’s Anything!

I was sitting at the computer one day, minding my own business, when suddenly I felt like I was spinning.

It felt like a cross between light-headedness and excess gas. I don’t know any other way to explain it. The spinning sensation lasted maybe a second and a half, and then it was over.

I was sitting still, not moving a muscle except in my hands, and there were no noises or other outside influences to cause what had happened. My eyes were probably squinting, since I should wear reading glasses but don’t. And I was sitting with poor posture, as always.

But it was not a seriously bothersome dizziness – just a quick annoyance, like a muscle spasm. It certainly wasn’t something that required a doctor’s care. It wasn’t even something I would normally notice.

I considered all of these factors before shrieking:

“SHANE!”

We’ve been taking Shane to doctors since August, trying to solve the mystery of his regularly occurring dizzy spells.

He came running into the office from the other room. “Yeah?”

“I was just sitting here, and all of a sudden, I felt dizzy!” I told him. “My head went ‘woooooo’ …” I made a whirly motion with my hand. “And then it stopped. Is that what’s been happening to you?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” he said.

“And it’s over in like one second?”

“Yeah, I think. It’s about one second or two,” he said.

“Shane?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think it’s anything!” I said. “It’s just something that can happen – a little feeling that comes and goes once in awhile. I mean, it’s not really bothering you, right?”

“Not really,” he said. “And it’s not happening as much anymore anyway. I was thinking about talking to you about it because it doesn’t happen now like it used to.”

“And it only lasts a really, really short time?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“So let’s just say that it’s nothing, okay?”

“Okay,” he said. “That’s the end of that!” And he bounced out of the room to play.

Then I went into the online scheduling portal, and cancelled all of our upcoming dizziness doctor appointments.

Take Good Care of My Baby.

Dylan went away for the weekend – for the first time – with his church group, and without either of his parents. I picked him up early from school, forced him to do homework before he left, and drove him to the church.

“Dylan!” yelled a girl from across the parking lot. “Hi, Dylan!” yelled a boy.

It was obvious that I was the only one who wasn’t enjoying the moment. Kids were running back and forth in little clusters. Two adults were throwing suitcases in the back of a huge van. Everyone was smiling.

It was hard not to smile, but I managed it.

I chatted with a chaperone, hoping for sympathy. “It’s his first time being away from home for this long,” I told her.

“For two days?” she said. She almost laughed, but then thought better of it.

“You have to sign in!” someone yelled, and we headed inside. Dylan signed his name and got his bus number (2 out of 2). He found his roommates – two boys he’d requested by name weeks earlier. He’d written, “…if he’s going” next to one name.

After dropping off his stuff and signing in, there wasn’t much else to do until the bus was leaving – 45 minutes later. So the kids were talking, hanging out, all excited to be together.

I said, “I’ll just go inside with you for five minutes.” I wasn’t quite willing to let him go yet – and I had tons of time before I had to pick up Shane from basketball practice.

“There really isn’t much for you to do in there,” Dylan said.

“That’s okay,” I told him. “I just like to watch you with your friends.” I didn’t tell him that I still see him, at will, as a three-year-old – and love watching him, all grown up, every bit as much as I did then.

It doesn’t help that this church is the home of his preschool, where I watched him every day for two years, beaming as he came out the door with a giant fingerpainting, or learning to make himself swing on the playground swingset.

So I went inside, to watch him with his friends. I was the only adult inside not going on the trip. I stood there for maybe 24 seconds.

“You’re right,” I told Dylan. “There isn’t much for me to do in here.”

“Yeah,” he said.

I hugged him one more time. “You have a great time!” I said.

“I think I will,” he said.

I flashed him the I love you sign and headed out the door. Going back to my car, the ancient song, “Take Good Care of My Baby” popped uncontrollably into my head and tears came to my eyes.

I do wonder how I will ever survive the days my boys leave for college.

On the second night, I texted Dylan: “Hope u had a spectacular day! Luv u.”

Half an hour later, he texted back: “I did! Love ya too.”

He had a spectacular day!  And that is all that matters.

I Just Listen to the Voice.

On the way home from teacher conferences, Dylan and I were talking about how he processes information. As background, his psychological educational testing showed that his processing speed was in the 9th percentile among 9-year-olds.

In other words, he processes information very, very slowly. And it causes him to do most of his classwork very, very slowly. In fact, his last algebra test took him two full periods and one lunch period to finish.

So I asked him about what happens when he reads.

“Do you see pictures or do you see words when you read?” I asked him.

“No,” he said.

“What do you mean ‘no,’?”

“Yes?” he queried.

“Which one is it? When you read, do pictures form in your head as you go? Or do you just see the words going by in your brain, like they do on the page?”

“Neither one,” he said.

This floored me. I didn’t know what to think.

When I read, I see words. When I talk, I see words. When I sing, I see words. I see pictures, too, sometimes – but mostly I read my own thoughts.

Meanwhile, Bill sees pictures – and almost never sees words. He gets the gist of things – but almost always forgets the details because he remembers life via the pictures he creates in his head.

“So,” I asked Dylan, “when you read, how do you know what you’re reading?”

“I just listen to the voice,” he said.

Oh no, I thought.

“Oh no,” I said. “You process audially.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means, NO WONDER you are having trouble in school! The teacher is talking, and your voice is talking, and you can’t listen to them both at the same time. So you only hear half of what is said, and the other half of the time, you are too busy processing to hear what’s being said!”

The entire school system is based on visual processing. It starts in kindergarten: shapes, colors, letters, numbers. See the letter; hear the sound. See the number; count to it.

The older Dylan gets, the more he is expected to absorb the visual cues. Read the instructions on the worksheet. The homework assignment is on the blackboard. The equation on the Promethean board. Use the map for social studies.

It all makes sense now. No wonder he does so well in hands-on classes. He can work and listen at the same time. But when he’s expected to just sit and listen, he can only hear half of what is said – because he processes audially.

He’s not blind, I realize. He can see.

But he doesn’t process visually. He doesn’t see pictures. He can’t memorize things unless he hears them over and over again. It’s why he’s so good at singing – and why he remembers the words so easily. It’s why he can do every line in a play, no matter which character, but he doesn’t know to turn in his work.

So now I know.

What on earth can we do about it?