Shane wants to be a magician, so he enrolled in a week-long magic camp. This morning, he was showing me a trick he learned.
He fanned out a deck of cards on the floor. Then he waved his hand dramatically over them. “Tell me when to stop,” he said.
“Stop,” I said.
He kept moving his hand until he got to the card he wanted to pick. “This one?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “I told you to stop back here.” I pointed to a card 20 cards away from the one he’d picked.
Shane started to cry.
Shane doesn’t wail or even sob. Tiny tears form in the corners of his eyes and his mouth turns into a slight frown. He sits very still and makes no sound.
It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.
I had no idea what I’d done wrong, but if Shane was crying, something must be seriously bad. Or – and this was also true – Shane might have been hungry because he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. Even when he was a baby, he cried more readily when he was hungry.
“What’s going on?” I asked him. “Why are you crying?”
“I can’t talk when I am crying,” he said.
“Okay,” I told him. “There are two reasons why people cry. One is because you’ve lost something you had. The second reason is because you don’t have something you want. Are you crying because you lost something?”
Shane’s face pinched, his eyes got scrunchy, and he nodded. Visible tears fell and he got up to get a Kleenex.
“Can you write what you have lost?” I asked.
“I think so,” he said.
I gave him paper and a pen. He wrote, in his child-style printing:
Lost
1. the secret of the trick
2. my appricciation for the trick
Then he went to get another Kleenex. And we talked about tricks, and how sometimes they don’t work out the way you want them to work.
“Luckily,” I said, “you are in magic camp this week with a magician! Let’s ask him what you can do if a trick doesn’t work. Because in your show, if a trick doesn’t work, you will need to know what you can do!”
So we went to camp. “Go ask your teacher,” I said.
He went over in the same general area as the teacher, and stood stock still about 20 feet away. “I don’t know what to say,” he muttered. After much prodding, Shane wouldn’t even open his mouth. He was considering crying again.
Finally, I explained the situation to the teacher. “So what can he do if a trick doesn’t work out?” I asked.
And the teacher very kindly said, “Then you just do a different trick.” Then he showed Shane what to do if something doesn’t work out the way he has planned.
I never know what will stick, and what will be forgotten almost instantly. But I am hoping that this will be not just a magic lesson, but a life lesson.
One of my few faithful blog readers told me last week, “I think you worry about too many things.”
And indeed, I agree, I do. I don’t worry (anymore) about world wars, nuclear attacks and the end of the world. I don’t worry (much) about car crashes, kidnappings and murders. I used to worry about these things all the time, as if worrying about them would stave off the inevitable. I’ve spent my summer doing Kirk Martin’s “Anxiety Challenge” and it’s helping some – but it hasn’t yet changed my generally pessimistic personality.
For now, I am practicing this theory: Fear and Faith cannot coexist. This means that as long as I have faith that everything is going to be okay, I can’t be afraid – at least, not simultaneously.
But I still manage to have way more fear than faith on most days. I spend my time flopping back and forth between the two, trying desperately to worry less.
But then, for two days, Shane had a headache.
“My head hurts a lot,” he told me, gripping the back of his head with his left hand.
Knowing that a large percentage of headaches are caused by dehydration I said, “Drink some water.”
He got a huge glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table, still gripping his head. He drank three sips.
“It’s making it worse!” he said.
Shane had never had a headache before – except once the previous week, at the beach. For that one, water helped.
For this one – and the subsequent dozen that followed – water didn’t do a thing to help. So I studied everything I could find on the internet and compared his symptoms to a variety of causes.
He either had a tension headache (very common in children) or a brain bleed. To check, I had Shane sit down in a chair and take deep, slow breaths. He decided the floor would be more comfortable, so he threw himself onto the floor and closed his eyes.
“Mom,” he said, when the timer went off two minutes later, “it felt like the floor was moving and the carpet was spinning and I was on a platform that went like this.” He waved his arms up and down, to show the jerking motion of the imaginary platform.
So now he had a headache and dizziness. I called the doctor.
After all the neurological tests – which I recognized from Dylan’s frequent visits to the neurologist – the doctor said, “Well, I don’t see anything to worry about. The dizziness could be an unrelated ear issue, since he doesn’t have any fever or vomiting. I don’t see any inflammation of the brain. Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer for you. Since you already have a relationship with your neurologist, you might want to do a phone consult, just to get her thoughts.”
The pediatrician told Shane to keep a “headache log,” which he meticulously did for the next two days. It included time of day, what activity he was doing, and how much pain he felt.
Shane read the log to me at the end of Day 2, after nine more headaches.
Along with his list of headache occurrences and severity of pain, he listed the following activities: Nexus (his tablet), Wii, Nexus, computer, Nexus, Nexus.
More than half of his headaches had happened during or after he was playing video games.
So now he’s been off of video games for two days, and he hasn’t had a single headache. He is still occasionally dizzy – but only with his eyes closed. I’m hopeful that it is, indeed, just an ear imbalance issue, which runs in our family.
I’ve just got to have faith.
For the coming school year, Dylan will be getting out of school at 3:15, and Shane will be getting out at 3:30.
But they will be 25 miles apart.
If I pick up Shane first, Dylan will have to wait for almost an hour for me to arrive. But if I pick up Shane first, no one would get home before 5:00 – every day. If I pick up Dylan first, we can be home by (hopefully) 4:15.
It seems unfair to ask my 10-year-old to just stand there after school (in the heat, sun, rain, sleet and/or snow) until I get there. I hear what you are thinking. Why doesn’t Shane take the bus home?
Well, that does seem like a great idea – except that three years ago, we took Shane out of his “home” school (from which he could have taken a bus) and put him into a different school, which requires us to shuttle him back and forth to school every day. There is simply no bus transportation from his school to our house.
But, because Shane’s school has the GT (Gifted & Talented) program, they do have a bus to Shane’s former school. Shane may still have to wait a few minutes there – but hopefully, the bus and I would arrive at almost the same time, and Shane would be comfortable, dry and with kids his own age until then.
So I called Shane’s school to find out how to get Shane onto the GT bus.
“You have to call the transportation depot,” said the school’s summer secretary. “We can’t get involved in bus activity.”
So I called the bus depot. The bus lady told me, “If your child is not in the magnet program, he can’t ride that bus.”
I explained my situation in much greater detail than she required. I went on and on and on. Then I pleaded, “Isn’t there some way we can get him onto that bus?”
She put me on hold for a long, long, long time. So long, in fact, that I got distracted and wrote an entire email to Shane’s principal, reminding him that I am interested in setting up a magic program for Shane after school in the fall. About the time I hit “send,” the bus lady returned to the phone.
“We don’t encourage ride-hopping,” she said, “and we can’t encourage him to do regular ride-alongs.”
I had no idea what she was saying to me.
“I don’t understand what you are saying to me,” I said.
“We can’t encourage him to ride that bus,” she said, “but if he gets on it ….” She stopped without completing her thought.
At first, I was a complete moron. “So what should I do?” I asked.
She sighed. “We can’t encourage him to ride that bus.”
“Right, but how can I …?”
Then I understood.
So, that’s one resolved logistical nightmare. We can move on now, to number two – whatever it may be.
Dylan got accepted into the private school.
He still wants to go, and we still think it’s a good idea, even if it’s only for one year. So now what?
Now we scramble to find money. We try to figure out how to get both kids picked up from school at 3:30, when their schools are 25 miles apart. We sign the enrollment contract, hand-deliver Dylan’s IEP, write a big check.
Basically, we take one panic-stricken step at a time.
I’ve already applied for half a dozen jobs, in addition to the teaching job I’ve already taken with the public schools. I feel like my time has just been shortened by 3 hours a day (because it has) but I need to work more hours than ever before. The money is going to be tough, but we are going to get by.
We have promised ourselves that we would not touch Shane’s college savings. We don’t have much saved for either boy, so we are hoping this private school somehow leads Dylan to a major scholarship in a few years.
Dylan is brilliant, but the beatings he’s taken in middle school have crushed his self-esteem. Not only were the kids harsh, but even the teachers could be downright cruel.
I keep thinking about his algebra teacher, when Dylan would finally take a chance and raise his hand to ask a question. She consistently humiliated him in front of the whole class: “Well if you would just pay ATTENTION, you would know the answer to that!”
So we’re putting him in a pleasant place, with kind teachers and an atmosphere of caring. The hope is that Dylan will recognize the real person he is – the kind, sensitive soul who can hold his head up high because he’ll have little successes every day – both academically and socially.
And then, the hope is, he’ll be able to carry that attitude into high school – whether public or private – because he’ll know that it’s okay to be who he is, and how he is – and that no one in any high school (or anywhere else in the world) can take that away from him.
So it’s worth looking for jobs, juggling transportation and scrambling for money… as long as it works out in the long run.
I was trying to explain this to one of my friends today, and she said, “It’s a good investment.”
She said it better than I could. We’re investing in Dylan’s future.
One panic-stricken step at a time.
One thing I find interesting thing about the last ten years is … how Shane handles Dylan.
Dylan is a strong personality. Whether or not I caused it by offering Dylan too much attention in his first three years, even at 13, he demands attention. He talks louder than everyone else in the room. He interrupts all the time. He can be downright obnoxious when he wants something. And the fact that he is constantly on the move – even when he’s sitting still – often requires more than one instructional comment.
For example, “For the 4,000th time, please don’t bounce the ball off of the wall.”
And, “You are kicking me. Please stop.”
And, “Can you stop tapping that pencil so I can hear what your father is saying?”
And, “Please stop sitting on your brother.”
So there’s Shane. You can often find Shane directly under Dylan. In a headlock, perhaps. Or upside down with Dylan dangling him by the feet. Or on Dylan’s back, but somehow under Dylan’s physical control.
When I tell Dylan to “stop” these behaviors, Shane will yell, as if he’s on an amusement park ride, “No, Mom! I asked him to do this!”
They play together beautifully. Even with Dylan emerging into the teen years, Shane is his confidante. They are buddies, pals, playmates and – in the deepest sense – true friends.
It’s a beautiful thing.
From almost the time he was born, Shane idolized Dylan. I have a great picture of the two of them, where Dylan is beaming for the camera – and Shane is staring at Dylan’s smiling face.
It’s just how it is.
I don’t know how it happened, but I think two things helped. First, before Shane was even old enough to walk, I read Siblings Without Rivalry, and studied it in great detail. It said something like, “If the kids aren’t in serious imminent danger, and no one is in danger of going to the hospital, let them work out their problems on their own.”
I can remember watching the boys wrestling when Dylan was 6 and Shane was 3. Shane got hurt. It wasn’t a bad injury – just a bump or a scratch. He sort of cried – not wailed, but he was sad.
I just remember thinking, Will someone need a hospital?
I wanted very badly to help him. I wanted to scoop him up in my arms, and carry him away, scolding Dylan for his carelessness. But I didn’t.
No one needed a hospital.
“Work it out, guys,” I said.
I pretended to be disinterested.
Shane cried a little louder. Then – oddly – Dylan apologized. And they’ve been working it out ever since.
A lot of the good in their relationship is because of their differences. Shane is laid back, doesn’t really seem to care what they do, as long as he occasionally gets to choose. Dylan often likes doing whatever Shane picks. And they’ve invented their own games that require both boys to make cards, or game boards, or full-blown amusement park rides.
They kind of create their own world sometimes.
Shane doesn’t imitate Dylan often, and is finally coming into his own, becoming his own person. So I guess it’s okay that Dylan can be demanding, and steal the attention.
As long as it’s okay with Shane, it’s going to be okay with me.
Even if, sometimes, it’s really hard to sit back and watch.
For Dylan’s whole life, there was one private school that grasped and held our attention.
When Dylan was a toddler, we walked him to the school campus and fed their horses, letting him carefully touch their noses with his little hand. When Shane was born, we took him “to the horses,” too.
I met the headmaster one day, on our walk, and told them that we were just too poor to go to that school. She encouraged us to apply anyway, since financial aid was available. I loved the idea – but didn’t know how eligible we would be.
So when 6th grade was rolling around, and against my better judgment, I wandered into the school’s Open House. I listened to the teachers talking about their openness with students. I listened to the students talking about how much freedom they had, and how they were encouraged to do more, and be more, than they’d been encouraged in public school.
By the time the Open House was over, I was in tears. I knew we couldn’t afford the school – it cost more than $25,000/year – and I literally cried to the admissions staff person at the desk. Tears were pouring out of my eyes. I felt like a total idiot, but the school seemed so perfect for Dylan.
“Apply anyway,” she told me. “We do have financial aid. And we’ll wave the application fee, so you really have nothing to lose.”
And then Dylan attended the school for a “shadow” day, and loved it so much, he said he wanted to go there more than anything in the world. He was even willing to spend the extra hour per day there – and happy about it. He loved being in this school.
So we applied. We went through the laborious process of begging for money through an online application system that practically guaranteed that we wouldn’t get any aid. We make enough money that people think we have money. But we spend it all on vacations and extracurriculars and restaurants, so we don’t actually have any money.
My application included a detailed exploration of Shane’s vision therapy ($24,000 not covered by insurance) and Dylan’s ADHD testing ($2200 not covered by insurance) and all the many, many reasons we really couldn’t afford the school.
Then we waited. And waited. We needed to know if we were getting any financial aid – and how much – to see if we would be able to afford to give Dylan the quality education he deserved, instead of sending him to public middle school.
We waited a few weeks, and finally, the letter came. It said (more or less), “Thank you for applying, but we don’t have a space for your son here.”
In other words, they didn’t have a space for someone who couldn’t afford to pay full tuition. My husband later ran into someone on the private school’s board who told him that the school was in deep financial trouble, and that they couldn’t afford to take on students who couldn’t pay full tuition.
To say that I was angry about wasting four months of my time and dreams on this school, based on a false promise of possible financial aid, would be an understatement of tremendous proportions.
I stayed up nights, screaming at that admissions woman in my head: “APPLY ANYWAY! you said! WHY would you SAY THAT when I was standing there IN TEARS, telling you that I had NO MONEY?!”
After weeks of agonizing over the injustice of it all, I finally wrote her a letter, putting my sentiments in much clearer and kinder terms.
Then I printed out the letter, burned it, and sent Dylan to public middle school.
Dylan’s Gifted and Talented (GT) program ended after 5th grade, so I spent the entire year exploring middle school options.
These are the same options I will be exploring for Shane starting this fall. This time, though, we already know what the options are.
First, there is the option of GT for public middle schoolers. If a student is lucky (and smart) enough to be accepted into the GT program for middle school, he has to take a bus ride of nearly an hour – both ways – to attend the program. One of the schools is so far south, it’s almost at the Washington, D.C. line. The other school is the same distance north, and a much better option in my opinion, because I would rather drive away from rush hour traffic.
The northern school has a strong emphasis on writing. Dylan does not excel in writing, especially thanks to what is called “developmental coordination disorder” or – possibly – dysgraphia.
My understanding of this disorder is that for every word Dylan tries to get from his brain onto the paper, 7,000 other things are jumping around, distracting him, so that it takes every ounce of concentration he can muster to get the word onto the piece of paper. It is sheer agony for him to write.
He can – and does – type easier than he writes. But it is still not an enjoyable experience for him. So we nixed the GT programs without even applying.
Then we explored the GT/LD program for middle school, which – in my opinion – was a perfect fit for Dylan. We went in for a visit, to see what it was like.
The classroom was full of long-haired boys (only one girl) who were jumping around, talking and laughing – and all obviously quite intelligent. Their discussion of the book Hoot, which happened to be taking place during the day we observed, was beyond any book discussion I’d had, even in college.
Dylan would have fit right in. The option was to mainstream the GT/LD kids for most of their classes – P.E., art, music, science and social studies – and stay in their own classroom for language arts and math. It sounded perfect.
“Those are the bad kids,” Dylan told me. “I don’t want to be in a classroom full of bad kids.”
He’d never met those kids before. But he already knew the stereotype, the judgmentalism and the cruelties he’d be facing as part of that group. So we didn’t apply for that, either.
Then, there were the three magnet programs in public school: aerospace, computer technology and performing arts. These middle schools were further “downcounty,” meaning that the populations were more urban (with more issues) than I would have liked.
But Dylan was a singing superstar, and loved the idea of going to the school with the greatest choral teacher in any middle school, anywhere. The chorus had won numerous awards – and Dylan would have fit right in.
So he applied, and was accepted into the performing arts school.
But none of his friends were going to that school. So he didn’t go there, either.
Had we known then that his friends were going to desert him in middle school anyway, we would have maybe reconsidered his decision. To be honest, I don’t think it would have made much difference where he went to middle school. It was going to be a disaster anyway.
But we did apply to one other private school, just in case.
We’ve actually done this whole private school thing before … sort of. Twice.
In 3rd grade, Dylan suffered through a year with a teacher who could have easily been the spokesperson for the Really Bad Teacher Association. We were warned about her by other parents, but gave her the benefit of the doubt.
She didn’t show up for Back to School day, so none of the parents could meet her before the school year began.
Two weeks after third grade started, Dylan reported that the not-yet-met teacher was keeping him inside during recess to finish his morning work.
So I made a point of meeting the teacher to explain how badly Dylan needed recess. I met her in the hallway, only briefly, during the third week of school. And I explained Dylan’s special needs.
“Has he been diagnosed with anything?” she snapped. “I’m not giving him any special treatment if he hasn’t been diagnosed with anything.”
That was our first interaction. I spent every day of 3rd grade either emailing the teacher, stopping into the school, giving Dylan a “mental health day” or fighting with the principal to get him into a different class.
That’s when we started the IEP process… and the first private school search.
We found a spectacular school for grades K-8. We stopped in to visit, and saw kids sitting on their knees in their chairs, waving their hands to answer questions. Class pets and artwork were everywhere. Students were engaged and active. Best of all, the school offered ten minutes of recess between every class, and kids went outside to learn – often.
Dylan would have loved going to school there.
We applied for financial aid, since the price tag was – well, like college tuition. One year for one kid (sorry, Shane, no private school for you!) was going to cost us about $28,000. I just checked online today, and the same school’s tuition is now $32,470 – per kid, per year.
Where do people get this money?
I needed a job. I have a teaching certificate, so I applied immediately to teach at the school. But with only one year prior teaching experience and no formal teaching in our county, the administration kindly told me to first, get some experience substituting for the school, then apply again.
So while our financial aid package was being processed, I read up on the school and found an article by a journalist whose children had gone to that exact school for a few years – but then they had to put them back into public school because they couldn’t continue to pay the hefty tuition.
It had never occurred to me that we might have to take Dylan back out of private school. But with Dylan only in 3rd grade, that was a distinct possibility.
Soon after, a letter was released to all applicants: the financial aid pool had run out for the year. Anyone who was dependent on financial aid for school acceptance was allowed to take back their application, and get their $100 application fee back.
We jumped at the chance, saving $100 – and thousands thereafter.
Then, as a great bonus, Dylan was accepted into the GT program in public school – getting away from his miserable principal (who retired after the following year amidst a stream of controversy) and far, far away from the teacher who treated him like garbage.
Two years later, when the GT program ended, we were looking for private schools again.
With Shane home (FINALLY!), I am realizing why things were so incredibly … different when he was gone.
When Shane was gone, there was no one for Dylan to strangle, wrestle, or tackle. There was no one for Dylan to humor, entertain, prod or cajole. There was no one for Dylan with whom to be utterly goofy and absurd – and no one who laughed at repetitive jokes about dry-witted, slightly obscene YouTube videos.
But most importantly, when Shane was gone, there was no one for Dylan to interrupt. We held normal, one-on-one conversations, almost like adults. Dylan was capable of waiting until I was done talking before he spoke.
With Shane back, he interrupts me, while I’m talking to Shane. He interrupts Shane, when he’s talking (to anyone). And he interrupts anyone else in the room, if it means being able to say what’s on his mind immediately.
Shane will say something like, “Remember that time when we — ”
And Dylan will burst in with, “Animals are elastic!” or some such nonsense, usually in an exceptionally high-pitched squeal, as if he’s uncontrollably compelled to fill the air with his voice.
Then I will ignore Shane and say, “Dylan! Shane was talking!”
And Dylan – also ignoring, rather than apologizing to Shane – will say, “But animals are elastic, you know why?”
And I will say, “No, I do not know why. I do not care why. I wanted to hear what Shane had to say, and then I would be happy to hear what you have to say. Go ahead, Shane.”
“I don’t know what I was going to say,” Shane will say.
Dylan’s mission – if it was this – to grab back any shred of attention that might have been aimed at Shane will have been accomplished.
So I will try to remind Shane: “You said, ‘Remember that time when we…’.”
Shane will shrug.
A dead silence will ensue for maybe 8 seconds before Dylan will burst back into the conversation.
“Hey Shane,” Dylan will say, “do you want to know why animals are elastic?”
“Sure,” Shane will say. And then they will talk and laugh and carry on until the next time Shane tries to tell me something.
And I will sit there seething.
This happens 800 times every single day. I worry about Shane, that he’s not getting enough attention. Sometimes Shane repeats something multiple times, and no one even realizes he’s talking. His dad is the worst culprit. Bill almost never hears Shane speak, even if he’s looking right at him.
We know Bill has ADHD, too. But he’s not the only culprit.
Last week Shane said to me, “This is the third time I’ve said this, and you still haven’t heard me!” I’m not sure (now) what Shane said three times, but I sure did tune in for that fourth time!
And I worry about Dylan. I worry that whatever is compelling him to interrupt constantly is the same thing that is going to cause him to lose friends later in life. I wonder if he’ll ever have any self-control.
And then I think back on those four days, where Dylan – alone with us – was truly fun to have around. He was easy to talk with, mature, responsible, polite and kind. He was an absolute delight.
So I don’t know, really, why the dynamic changes so much with Shane around. I do know that everyone is happier having Shane here, so I guess we will learn more as we go.
I just wish it were possible to have both the good, mature Dylan along with the crazy, fun Dylan – and the ability to hold a rational conversation with both of them.
So I talked to Alex’s mom – a lot – about the school.
As legacies, her children could go to the private school tuition-free.
“So why don’t your kids go there?” I asked.
“How would I work?” she said, without hestiation. Her kids don’t go there because Alex’s mom works, and she would have to give up her job to shuttle the kids back and forth to school.
It is a 45-minute drive, one way. That’s three hours a day of driving. She just doesn’t want to make the trip.
Her daughter, Alison, who is now graduating from high school, went to the school for a year. She lived with her grandmother (the school’s founder) during the week, and enjoyed the school – but not the living arrangements.
Alison was Dylan’s age when she went to the school. She had the same experience as Dylan – a horrific public middle school experience.
So Alison went to the private school – and liked it – but because she lived with her grandmother, Alison ached to be at home.
“I can’t separate her living situation from the school situation,” Alex’s mom told me. “It was very intertwined for us. She liked the school. She didn’t have any problems at all with the school. But she wanted to come home.”
Alex’s mom is possibly the most honest person on the planet. She is a very God-loving woman, who actually lives by principles of kindness. Unlike much of the modern world, this woman believes that it’s all about God and love – and she lives that.
So when she says her daughter liked the school, I believe her.
She also said that if Shane ends up at the private school for middle school, “it would be a no-brainer.” Alex would go there, too.
That’s something we’ll have to consider later.
She recommended, too, that I talk to the administrators about working for the school. Given my background in marketing and education, I am hoping to help with the school’s marketing efforts.
If (Alex’s mom says “when”) Dylan gets accepted, I’ll see if I can get some tuition help from the school by working for them. And of course, I still have my public school job to help pay that private school tuition.
It’s going to be work. The drive, the money … a lot of work. I am taking it one day at a time.
Our “dream school” suddenly feels like … reality.
