Just before dinner, our house was teeming with math.
Dylan’s tutor, an absolute wonder, was working diligently with Dylan to finish his exam review packet. They were sitting quietly at the kitchen table, an occasional question and answer tossed about like murmurs in a Pink Floyd song.
Meanwhile, Shane – who is also in advanced math class – brought in his homework to where I was sitting in the office.
It’s geometry. I see angles of varying sizes. Shane says something about a protractor and I say, “I haven’t used a protractor since 1976, so I’m not sure I can answer your question.”
Luckily, Bill – my mathematically-inclined genius of a husband, came home from work at about this time. He helped out with the protractor.
But it soon became clear that Shane was missing a very important component of measuring angles: the concept of angle – its very definition. He seemed to believe that angles were just two lines – and had nothing to do with the space between the two. So I drew pizzas and “cut” them and made them into “angles” to give him a broader idea.
He didn’t get it. So I got out yarn, and Shane chopped off a piece. I used the yarn and the carpet to explore the concept further. For 10 minutes, I tried to explain the concept of an angle, and measurement, and how you could tell if something was more or less than 90 degrees.
Shane was almost in tears when I was done. “You didn’t have to say all that,” he told me. “It took you 10 minutes just to tell me that one thing!”
Apparently, he understood more than I thought – and in my zeal to explain the greater scheme of things, I bored him to tears.
Shane finished his homework, the tutor left, and we broke for dinner.
Then we checked Edline for Dylan – the computer’s way of sharing grades and assignments with parents and students. He had raised his grade in algebra from 34% (failing) to 62% – a D!
We high-fived and danced around like crazy people. A D! Dylan brought his algebra grade up to a D!
“I never thought I’d be this excited about a D,” he said, still dancing.
“Neither did I,” I said sincerely.
We then took a brief trip through Dylan’s binder trying to find lost work. He made a list of the things he needs to do tomorrow: turn in his forms for SSL hours, talk to his social studies teacher about missing homework, turn in his missing English homework, finish retaking an algebra quiz at lunchtime, talk to his science teacher about his missing lab work, turn in his football paperwork that was due in early December, and bring home his P.E. clothes that he’s been wearing every school day since Thanksgiving.
By the end of this process, he was yelling at me, “You don’t always need to tell me what to do! You act like I would fail if you didn’t tell me what to do!”
Of course, I am only pointing out missing work that he hasn’t been able to notice for himself, but I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I screamed back meaninglessly about how he can make his own lunch, talk to his own teachers, go to his own IEP meetings – blah blah blah – still hoping he will find all that lost work and finish his papers without me reminding him to do it.
But anyway, the high-fiving was over, and we went back to our normal disagreements. Shane’s homework is still on his desk – not in his folder where it should be. So after all that hard work, Shane probably won’t turn in his homework tomorrow.
And Dylan’s SSL form (which has to be turned in tomorrow or he loses credit for enough hours to graduate from high school) is sitting idly on his desk while he eats ice cream, alone at the kitchen table, at an unnervingly slow pace.
And here I sit, typing. Quietly. Not telling them what to do.
The holidays are officially over (although our tree is still, sadly, up and dying in its stand). The kids have gone back to school.
Dylan’s tutor will be coming twice a week. His enormous algebra exam takes place sometime in the next two weeks. I had no idea they gave exams in January – but here it is, upon us. He has a 34% in the class. And, thanks to my lovely email asking his teacher to be kind to my son, I haven’t heard back from her after several subsequent emails. Oddly, I think, she doesn’t want to talk to me. She surely doesn’t want to help Dylan anymore.
Meanwhile, Shane forgot his backpack on Thursday (his first day back to school in two weeks) and today he forgot his instrument for band. I yelled at him all the way home to get his backpack on Thursday, then said nothing about the instrument today. I drove home and got both for him – which won’t happen again, but I feel somewhat responsible for not remembering myself that today was band practice.
After all the time we’ve had off – just having fun, playing Monopoly, going skiing, watching movies and eating pizza – I feel like I’ve been out of a job for several weeks and suddenly have to return to work. It’s funny, because I don’t usually consider raising the kids a job – although I know it is one. It’s just my life.
But with the return to the house to pick up the instrument this morning, I realized that the kids could really do without so much interference on my part. They’d learn more if I weren’t there to pick up the instrument and bring it to school. The teacher might respond to emails if I hadn’t been so blatant about my feelings.
Then again, Dylan would still have a 34% and Shane would have been without an instrument – so where’s the line, exactly, and did I cross it already?
I keep saying, I’m going to step back and let my kids make their own mistakes, fall on their own faces. But it’s so HARD to let them fall on their faces, when I’m standing right there, willing and able to help.
I don’t want to be one of those parents who does everything for their kids. I want them to learn things as they go. I want them to make their own choices and even their own errors in judgment.
I know about allowing kids to have their own consequences to their own actions. I’ve read all the right books. I know what I’m supposed to do. And maybe – just maybe – in 2014, I’ll be better able to do it.
But probably not.
After one day back at school, we had a snow day. Dylan came home with a huge packet for algebra, to help him review for a looming exam. I mentioned it several times, but his attitude was that he should wait for his tutor before he even started it.
It’s due the day AFTER his tutor arrives, and it’s several pages. Thus started the discourse – including a bonus reward if he can bring up his grade to a B by the end of the year – trying to teach Dylan that it’s a good idea to actually WORK on something, to PRACTICE, to make something happen.
“I don’t know if I can even do it,” he wailed. “I’ve got a negative failing grade right now and I don’t even know if I can bring it up!”
“Dylan,” I said, “like everything else, you have to do it one step at a time. You can’t move a mountain if you stand and stare at the mountain. You move one rock.”
He stared at me.
“Well I just wish we could have the tutor here twice a week,” he said.
I picked up the phone. “We can have the tutor here twice a week!” I said.
“Don’t call him NOW!” Dylan responded. Obviously, he had additional wishes.
“You have to work at this, Dylan,” I said. “You have to actually work to make it happen. If you want to change your grade, you’re going to have to do real work. I’m talking about one to two hours of algebra every night.”
“I don’t have enough algebra to work on for an hour every night!”
I sighed. “I bought you two algebra books, and you haven’t opened either one of them. They’ve been sitting here for four months. They are for practice. One of them supposedly explains algebra for people who think like you do. But you wouldn’t know because you haven’t even opened the book.”
I pointed to his desk, where one of the algebra books was suffocating under a pile of papers from last quarter. Nothing had been touched on that desk for months.
Dylan changed his tactic. “Well I need my calculator for some of these problems and I can’t find my charger!”
“I didn’t lose your charger,” I said. “That calculator cost $140, so you can owe me that if you can’t charge it.”
“But I didn’t lose it!” he wailed again.
We went back and forth for awhile before I finally walked away.
Hours went by. Dylan played video games and texted his friends. Finally, there was a silence – and I went in to give him almond milk – a drink that is supposed to help him focus.
I found him playing video games again.
“I thought you were doing algebra,” I said. “I brought you this drink to help you focus.”
“I wanted to go outside,” he said. “Plus I don’t even know how I could do a whole hour of algebra right now.”
I called his dad at work, before I exploded. “You HAVE to talk to him,” I said, “or I’m going to kill him.”
He talked to him. Dylan sat down and worked on algebra for 45 minutes.
Then he went outside and played, which is all he wants to do. And in all of my great wisdom, what I want most is for him to be happy. I can’t fight the excuses when I know he’s barely 13 and already worried sick about getting into MIT.
He should be playing in the snow.
We went skiing yesterday. Shane’s method of skiing is to get to the top of the hill and then fly straight down the hill at lightning speed.
After a few runs desperately trying to catch up with him, I asked him to try zig-zagging down the hill instead. He zigged once or twice, then bolted down the hill with me chasing behind again.
“So, Shane,” I said on the lift. “Dylan wants to go on a blue hill.” (This is a slightly more difficult hill to traverse than green, which is the novice level we’d been skiing all day.)
“I don’t really want to go on a blue one,” Shane said.
“That’s fine with me,” I said. “But I want you to know that I will not take you on a blue one ever if you don’t show me that you have some ability to control your skiing. When you race down the hill like you do, I see that you can’t control your speed or your turns.”
“I can go slow and do zig-zags,” he said. “I just don’t want to.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “But if I don’t see you go slower and do some turns, I will believe that you just can’t control your skis.”
We got off the lift. Shane zig-zagged the entire way down the hill, like a pro. He slowed himself to a stop a few times, and looked over at me before proceeding down the hill, still zigging and zagging. Near the bottom, he raced down – still beating the rest of the family to the lift line.
I arrived with my ski poles in the air. “That was AWESOME!” I said. “Shane, you really did it! You looked like a pro out there!”
Shane was nonplussed. On the way up the lift, though, I talked and talked about what a great job he did with his ski control.
Finally he said, “Well I told you I could do it. I just don’t like to.”
On the very next run, he skipped all the zigging and zagging and went straight, blowing past all the other skiers and beating his family down the hill by about five minutes.
So, on the next run, I acquiesced. “So I guess you are just going to go fast down the hill,” I said, trying not to think about broken legs and such.
“I guess,” Shane said.
“Do you like that?” I asked, genuinely curious. “I mean, is it fun just zooming down the hill with the wind whipping you in the face and all?”
“Of course I like it,” he said. “Why else would I be doing it?”
Shane is not a demonstrative, emotional sort. He doesn’t smile a lot. He doesn’t let on when he really enjoys something.
So this is a surprise. My baby enjoys racing down the mountain at lightning speeds. He has the skill necessary to do it, in spite of his inexperience, and he’s smart enough not to try racing down the more difficult hills yet.
Skiing is fun. But giving Shane a chance to express himself in new ways is absolutely thrilling.
He’s bold, and a risk-taker. He’s athletic, yet practical. And he enjoys speed – something I never expected from a boy who, as a baby, spent so much time with his face on the floor and his diaper in the air.
I guess it’s all about opportunity.
A few weeks ago, we had “game night” at our friends’ house – a wonderful family of four which, like us, includes two brilliant children. The night was stupendous. We played some fun games and, because the company was so good, there was lots of laughter.
“Why can’t we get some good games?” asked Dylan on the way home. “They have good games!”
“We have good games, too,” I told him. “Sometimes it’s just more fun playing with more people.”
Dylan complained about our board game selection – which is huge – for weeks. When asked if he wanted to play anything, it never seemed like a good enough idea. That family actually gave Dylan some great games for his birthday, and he sincerely enjoyed those. He seemed to believe that if it came from them, it was better.
Then Shane got Monopoly for Christmas. We had Junior Monopoly, which was fun, but real Monopoly came with the option to buy houses and hotels, to create a business empire, and to – quite literally – monopolize the board.
The kids can’t get enough of this Monopoly. Shane asked me yesterday – before breakfast – if he could buy Mediterranean Avenue from me. Dylan asks every few hours if we can play Monopoly some more. They spend great chunks of time sitting at the table, studying their properties.
It’s awesome.
Dylan, as in life, has also monopolized the board. He has four houses and a hotel on St. Charles Place, and those of us who are nearly broke can’t pay if we land on it. I’m ready to mortgage several properties just to keep the game going.
Shane just sold Park Place to Dylan – who already owned Boardwalk – for $1000 plus North Carolina Avenue. If Dylan doesn’t knock us out of the game on St. Charles Place, we will certainly be panicked on the dark blue side of the board.
We’re having a blast. It’s interesting to me how they’ve taken to it so easily. I loved Junior Monopoly for its simplicity. I’ve held off for years on this version, happily riding ferris wheels and bumper cars instead.
But it’s obvious now that the boys are businessmen at heart. I’m on my own in the amusement park.
Dylan got hermit crabs for Christmas – a whole slew of them, five in fact, with a crabitat and lots to learn. The moment I woke up this morning, I found Dylan staring at his crabs with lots of questions.
An hour passed, then another, as Dylan and I made crabitat adjustments and got to know the little critters.
Shane popped in for a minute or two, then disappeared again. For hours, he entertained himself. He studied some magic tricks, looked at some of his gifts, read some books. He got himself ready for the day, never complaining that it was 10 a.m. and he still hadn’t had breakfast.
In fact, he didn’t complain about anything. He didn’t complain about being left alone for so long. He didn’t complain about having nothing to do. He didn’t complain about being lonely. He didn’t even complain when he couldn’t figure out how to use his gifts.
I didn’t even know he’d looked at his gifts until tonight, when I stepped on one as I put him to bed. I had no idea what he was doing – nor did I ask. Occasionally, I yelled, “Shane? Are you okay?” But for the most part, I totally ignored him.
In the back of my brain, I know that Shane’s independence is going to take him far. His ability to keep himself entertained without getting bored or lonely is a big plus.
But I feel so bad about it! I want more than anything to just be there for him. I want him to have a sense of security, that if he falls, I’ll catch him. If he has a question, I’ll answer it. If he needs affection, I’ll hold him.
And yet, I am not there. I am not standing next to him when he has a question, because I am often doing something else – frequently something to do with Dylan. It’s not that I enjoy Dylan’s company more, although I certainly do love that time very much. It’s not that I find Shane’s companionship lacking in any way.
In fact, I absolutely love spending time with Shane. It’s a treasure.
So where am I when Shane is spending all that time alone? I’m usually watching him from afar, letting him know that I’m there if he needs me, and hoping that I’m doing the right thing often enough so that when he grows up, he’ll still have a safe place to fall.
He doesn’t seem hurt by his alone time. Sometimes, he actually prefers it. He’ll tell me he doesn’t want to play a game, or do a puzzle, or read a book together. He just doesn’t need me as much as I think he should.
Which is probably why I feel so bad about all that time that he’s alone. My baby is growing up without me – and as okay as that is, it’s still sad to be the mom and realize that I’m just not all that necessary.
But it really is okay. Right?
So it’s Christmas. Shane performed as a puppeteer in the family service, and Dylan sang Panis Angelicus at the candlelight service. They both did fantastic jobs.
It is constantly amazing how, when they do something they like, the boys are superstars. They have no trouble being motivated. No one has to ask them to pay attention. They don’t require constant prodding. I say, “Time to go!” and we go.
I know school is an issue. I loved school, and wanted to be a teacher. But my boys don’t love school. They don’t hate it, but they certainly don’t look forward to it. They like the social aspects (the only parts I did not like) and would have all-day recess if given the option to do so.
So when it’s Christmas – I mean winter break and I want to read The Moffats to them, or I ask them to work on their homework – even if it’s just P.E. homework – they act like I’ve asked them to read War and Peace. Today I had to beg to read to them and when we got through half a chapter, I asked if we could stop there and they raced off as if being let loose from a cage.
The good news is, they went back to being creative – filmmaking, mostly, and making up games to play together. They’re being brotherly and having fun and doing generally wonderful things. I have two absolutely amazingly beautiful, sensitive, sweet boys who are kind and smart and funny and adorable. And what did I do to deserve them? Nothing.
So this Christmas, I can honestly say I am blessed beyond my wildest dreams. Of course, I knew that yesterday, too. But today, I’m allowed to say it without fear of retribution.
Merry Christmas, everybody.
I come from a long line of Christians, but I am not a big religious advocate. I started taking my kids to church a few years ago, when I realized that they could have another social circle and, hopefully, some positive influences.
Shane, particularly, has become a bit of a Bible thumper. He spent years listening to a wonderful Christian radio program, Adventures in Odyssey, and is a strong believer in the power of God. So when he asked this weekend if he could be part of the church’s Living Nativity, I didn’t see any reason to hold him back. I’ve been hoping he’ll make a good friend at church. And I figured he liked seeing the animals anyway – this year, a donkey and three sheep.
Shane was a fabulous shepherd. He wrapped a sash around his head like a headband and chose a real wooden walking stick as a staff. Waiting for his turn on “stage,” he and some other boys used the staffs like swords and created drum rhythms on the brick walls. But when the show started, Shane took his role very seriously, kneeling up front by the manger. The donkey took a liking to Shane, and I have numerous pictures of Shane’s furry friend trying to nibble his hair during the birthday of baby Jesus.
Meanwhile Dylan, who had been rehearsing a song for Christmas Eve, put on a shepherd’s costume without even asking. He just jumped in with a staff and became a shepherd for the evening’s remaining shows. The boys had an absolutely phenomenal time.
They had such a good time, they asked if they could do it again the following evening. It was 60 degrees outside, and Bill and I wanted to take the boys through the highly commercialized Santa-and-friends drive-through lights, preferably with the top down on the convertible so we could see every one of the 100,000 lights in the 3.5-mile drive.
The boys were given the final say in what to do that evening, knowing that it’s only four days until Christmas and that the lights won’t be there for much longer.
“But we won’t get to do the Living Nativity again for a whole year,” said Dylan.
“And we can celebrate Jesus, which is the true meaning of Christmas really,” said Shane.
“Yeah,” Dylan said, “why can’t we celebrate Jesus?”
They went back and did the Living Nativity for the second night. They were shepherds again, keeping watch over their flocks, kneeling to the baby king, having the time of their lives. I’m not sure when I’ve ever seen them both so happy. I don’t really understand the appeal, but who am I to question it?
They were happy.
I was hoping to see that happiness on Christmas morning, with all its fine, fun presents and glittery paper. But having seen it for two evenings straight – and for such a positive purpose – I think it will be fine no matter what.
Dear Algebra Teacher,
Dylan and I had a long talk last night about algebra. We talked about getting him a tutor, and how he had to spend his birthday lunch retaking an algebra test. He was in tears – but not because he had to spend his birthday doing algebra.
He said some things that really concern me. I think the biggest concern is that he believes that you don’t think he’s trying – and he’s starting to believe that HE is a failure because he can’t succeed in algebra.
You haven’t known Dylan for very long, and you saw him at the beginning of the year on medication and relatively able to keep up with the class. When he started trying new medication, though, his ADHD symptoms flared up with a vengeance. Having watched him since he was born, I can tell you that he has a very real, very classic case of ADHD. His processing speed is in the 9th percentile, meaning that when he hears something, it takes an incredible amount of time for what he hears to become actual information in his brain.
So when Dylan is in class, even if it doesn’t look like he’s paying attention, he is struggling with every fiber of his being to pay attention. Sometimes he looks completely spaced out – which is when he is most overwhelmed with trying to process. Because of the processing speed issue, he can’t digest information fast enough – which means he is likely getting only about a third of the information that is being transmitted.
Dylan is incredibly bright, and his sheer intelligence has pulled him through for years. But I can promise you that when he looks as though he’s not trying, his brain is working overtime, desperately trying to focus.
When he raises his hand and asks a question, he is trying with all his might to understand. It can be very frustrating, as a parent and as a teacher, to say something three times and have Dylan STILL respond with “What did you say?” But I can promise you that he IS trying, he IS doing his absolute best and he IS still failing.
So when you say to him, “This is easy!” or “You should be paying closer attention!” – the only thing he hears is, You are a failure because you don’t understand this. His self-esteem is plummeting every, single day that he hears comments like this from his teachers. He has ADHD. He CAN’T do any better. But he is really, really trying.
We are all trying. And I know it’s frustrating. He spent more than two hours on his math homework last night, having no idea what he was doing and giving it everything he had. And because he is how he is, he may not even turn in his math today. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to do better. It doesn’t mean that he’s a rebellious teenager. It means he has ADHD.
Please know that some of your words, and the way you are treating him, are sincerely and deeply hurting him. He’s giving it all he’s got, even if he’s failing. That doesn’t mean he’s a failure in life, or that he doesn’t want to do better. It means he has a learning disability and he needs support and encouragement and positive reinforcement when he does something right.
It took me years of dealing with Dylan to learn this – and lots of outside help, too. And it is HARD to encourage someone who has so much potential and doesn’t seem able to do such simple things. But please, in the coming months, please try not to be so hard on him. We will keep working with him, together, and maybe he will come out of this better and stronger – regardless of his grades. Thanks much,
Kirsten
When I was a little girl, I wanted a pony. Horses are beautiful and I thought a pony, which is just a small horse, would be a great pet.
My cousins, who lived on a farm, had a pony named Rusty. When we visited, my cousin Billy would lead Rusty around the yard with me sitting proudly atop like a princess. Later, I would break out my copy of Misty of Chincoteague and imagine I was the girl who could tame the wild pony.
Oddly, I never did get a pony.
Now Dylan wants a go-kart. He wants one with every fiber of his being, and he’s found them online (used and in terrible condition) for about $300. A good go-kart is $1000 and would probably be ridden half a dozen times before it broke and/or got ignored in favor of some girl, or some other new hobby.
But, sadly for Dylan, we gave him our ten-year-old, used lawn tractor for his birthday. We took the blade mechanisms off, and told him he can take it apart and rebuild the engine any way he wants, so that he can race the lawn mower in the summer.
I was a little worried about giving this gift, so I tasked my husband with figuring out how to enhance the engine. I took the kids out of town for a whole weekend. Three days later, Bill had done exactly nothing – leaving me with no new parts to wrap. Just an old mower.
So I was a bit anxious about giving Dylan an old lawn tractor for his birthday when he really wanted a go-kart. I spent half an hour with a spool of yarn, winding it around the house and out to the shed, so he would have a fun way to discover his gift.
Dylan opened the shed, sat on the tractor and said, “So I got something that I already had.”
This was not exactly the reaction I’d been hoping for.
Half an hour later, Dylan was sobbing for no apparent reason. He swore it had nothing to do with the tractor and, instead, had to do with the overwhelming issue of not being a kid anymore.
Welcome to the world of adulthood, I thought. This is where you get what you get, not always what you want. You can no longer wish for something and have it magically appear. It’s a place where you can’t stop time, or turn back the clock, or grab hold of what you used to have – because usually whatever you had is now gone.
With adulthood comes more responsibility, more work, less time for play. But it also comes with the wisdom – hopefully – of being grateful for what you have, because whatever you have – like it or not – is all you really need.
I never would have learned this from getting a pony.
