Shane got into the car and announced, out-of-the-blue, “I have a new date for the dance.”
“You do?” Having been recently dissed by a good friend, I thought he’d never ask out another girl – even though Shane is only 10 and the “dance” isn’t likely to be a hoppin’ event.
“Yeah,” he said. “I asked Lilly if she would go with me and she said sure.”
Lilly has been his friend for two years. She came to his birthday party one year and I could hardly stop staring at her. She is only a little kid, but she is breathtakingly beautiful. She has long, dark hair and gorgeous dark eyes. Her skin is unblemished and her smile is perfect.
“You asked Lilly?” Dylan interrupted. “So let me get this straight. You were going to the dance with somebody else, and then you were just going with your friends, and now you’re going with the best looking girl in your whole class?”
Being in middle school, Dylan notices these things.
“Yeah,” Shane said, utterly non-plussed.
We don’t place a lot of value in external appearance in our home. Or at least, neither Bill nor I take a lot of stock in our own appearance. Bill cares a little more about how the house looks than I do, but overall, the way something or someone looks is not our first concern.
In middle school, of course, the way someone looks is top priority. Dylan started patting down his hair somewhere in the middle of fifth grade. By the end of sixth grade, he had developed something of a style. His current girlfriend, he says, is “the most beautiful girl in her class, and maybe in the whole world.” So it matters more to him now than before.
Shane, on the other hand, has always had a sense of style – but never cared about how anyone looks. Quite honestly, I don’t think he cares how Lilly looks, except that he appreciated that Dylan took note.
I think he likes Lilly because she’s nice to him. She’s nice to everyone, but Shane seems to appreciate it more than most kids.
Shane chooses his friends – and now his dates – based on the quality of their character. I can only hope he’ll continue using that gorgeous gift well into his middle school years.
With four weeks left of 7th grade, Dylan’s grade-and-assignment report is terrifying.
It’s a standard scale of A through F, but they don’t use “F” anymore because of the stigma that the word “failure” implies. They use “E” instead. (The stigma is still there.)
Keeping in mind that Dylan has great athletic capabilities, wants to be an engineer, and sings like an angel, here are Dylan’s grades in the classes where he is allowed to move and make noise:
In PHYS. ED, he has a high B. He got straight A’s but has 3 missing assignments.
In CHORUS, he has a low B. He got all A’s – but is missing 2 assignments and has one irrevocable E. Last week, Dylan forgot to bring a pencil, paper or binder to class.
In ENGINEERING, he has a low A. His projects were all awesome – except for the incredible foamboard house he designed. He forgot to put in doors.
Now, keeping in mind that Dylan can’t think while sitting still for more than four seconds, here are his grades for his non-movement classes:
In SOCIAL STUDIES, he has a low B. He started off with two D’s, then got all A’s. Well… his teacher gave him full credit for assignments that were turned in last week – and due 6 weeks ago.
In SCIENCE, he has an E. His grades are all A’s and C’s, but he has 4 missing assignments. For some reason, Dylan isn’t worried about this failing grade in the slightest.
In ENGLISH, he has a low B. In this class, his assignments drop a grade when his work is late – and all of Dylan’s work is late. But his teacher is persistent, so today he only has one missing assignment.
In ALGEBRA, Dylan has a dangerously low D. He has 7 A’s and 10 E’s. All the E’s are for missing or incomplete work.
Dylan has five years until he goes college. Only four years until he applies. And he still claims that he doesn’t “know” what homework he has, when it’s due, or what he’s supposed to finish for whatever class.
People say things like, “he’ll come around” and “don’t worry.” And I know that it’s not my job to do/find/fix his work for him.
But I am worried. Oh my, I am worried.
Dylan is back on stimulants. His neurologist, who worries substantially more about suicide than grades, prescribed the new stimulant “with trepidation.” She was very clear about the trepidation. He is taking Ritalin now instead of Adderall – and a very, very, very miniscule dose.
On day 2 of his minute dose, Dylan went to all of his teachers, turning in lost work and making arrangements to complete incomplete classwork.
“You did a really great job today,” I said.
“Well, DUH,” he sneered. “I think we know who to thank for that.”
I was stunned. “Who?”
“The doctor, of course,” he said. “I can finally understand what the teachers are saying!”
“Really?” I said. “The pill is helping?”
“DUH,” he said again. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”
I’m not sure when he was trying to tell me that. I thought I’d been listening pretty well.
During the doctor’s visit, unmedicated Dylan rolled around on the table, ripped up the white paper that covers the table, paced around the room and rammed his head into the wall a few times for good measure.
When I mentioned the rebound effect he’d had – the severe depression after school – he said, with dripping sarcasm, “Oh yeah, I wonder why that happened.”
So when the doctor stepped out of the room to take a call I said, “Do you think it’s my fault that you’re depressed after school?”
“No!” he said. “But do you really think I’m only that way at home?”
Ah, I thought, the light bulb going off over my head.
“So you are depressed all day long?” I asked my super-smiley, always enthusiastic, bouncy baby boy.
“Of course I am!” he declared with no smile.
“And you feel like that even without the drugs?”
“Yup.”
So gee, he may as well be back on stimulants.
And next week, the dose goes up ever-so-slightly. “With trepidation.”
This morning on the drive to school, after months of looking forward to it, Dylan said he didn’t want to go to his youth group at church.
“It’s boring and I don’t have any friends there,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “It’s boring. This doesn’t have anything to do with your getting a new girlfriend and not having one at church anymore?”
“No,” he said, “but the girl from church totally stopped talking to me and doesn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore.” Then he got out of the car and slammed the door without even saying “bye.”
Hm, I thought. The term ‘totally stopped talking to me’ sounds familiar. Dylan has used that term at least ten times in the past few months. His best friend and girlfriend “just totally stopped talking to me” back in February. Since then, he has said the same thing about at least five of his “friends.”
I have no idea if this is normal behavior. Since Dylan is my first child, I don’t know if kids just randomly stop talking to other kids for no reason – or if my son is doing something really terrifying to scare them away – or if it’s something in between.
I remember middle school as being an agonizing ball of confusion. I liked a lot of the other kids, but I sincerely believed that most of them didn’t like me.
This is a glorious trait that I carry with me to this day. I’ll be talking with a friend, and will suddenly believe that I’m boring them – and therefore end the conversation abruptly and head for the hills.
With my closest friends, I can say, “Am I boring you?” and some will even say, “yes” without offending me. But for many, I suppose my running away doesn’t make a lot of sense.
Dylan, on the other hand, is likely to miss the cues if he’s bothering someone. But he’s not a terribly bothersome person – unless someone who constantly bounces and sings is “bothersome.”
So I have no idea what’s going on. Obviously, I need social help of my own. I did not succeed socially in middle school – not in any way. So I don’t know if Dylan is doing something to irritate all of these people, or if middle schoolers just bop around changing friends like they change clothes.
I’m open for advice on this one. I just don’t know what’s normal.
Months ago, Shane asked quietly, “How do you ask a girl out?”
Shane is 10. He explained that a school dance was coming up in May, and he wanted to ask his friend – who we’ll call Cindy – to go with him.
“If she’s your friend,” I said, “you can just ask her anytime, like part of the conversation.”
He thought about it for weeks, finally got up his nerve, and asked Cindy to the dance (which was three months away). She said she would be happy to go to the dance with him.
With the dance now looming and three months passed, nothing had changed – until one day at school when Jake, too, asked Cindy to the dance.
Shane had tears in his eyes when he told me, “I have some sad news.”
Cindy decided to go to the dance with Jake – leaving Shane in the cold.
Shane had no idea what to do, or how to handle a form of rejection that was delivered with care and kindness – from someone he still considers to be one of his best friends.
The adults who have heard this story are furious with Cindy – but Shane isn’t. As hurt as he is, and as much as this has likely ruined his ability to ask out girls for the rest of his life, he doesn’t see that Cindy did anything wrong.
“She’s still one of my best friends,” Shane said.
Cindy is also one of Shane’s seven (of eight total) friends chosen as a patrol – so let’s just add this to the Shane rejection pile, along with the GT program that refused him entry and the host of friends chosen as patrols without him.
There is only so much rejection a person can take.
Shane seems to be handling it quite well. He hasn’t crawled into a hole, or changed his activities, or sobbed about any of it. In fact, I’m a little worried about where his sadness goes. He doesn’t seem to be internalizing it – or maybe he is but I can’t tell. Shane has never been particularly vivacious.
I’m not sure I can handle any more rejection for him, though. The GT program – okay. The patrols – okay. But a trusted friend stabbing a knife through his heart? NOT okay.
So, like always, I sit and watch it happen – and wish I could do something to help. And, like always, there is absolutely not one single thing that I can do. It is the heartbreak of motherhood – loving him so much that his pain is my pain.
But his joy will also be my joy. Someday.
In addition to Dylan’s multitude of challenges, he also has many gifts – one of which is a spectacular singing voice. And he’s got a great memory for lines and lyrics.
As a result, Dylan has the male lead in the middle school musical, Once Upon a Mattress. It is the story of “The Princess and The Pea,” in musical form. Dylan plays Prince Dauntless, a flop-of-a-fellow whose overbearing mother, the queen, makes his arranged marriage all but impossible.
At the dress rehearsal, Shane and I went to the school to film the show.
The stage crew was testing microphones. “Dylan,” a voice called, “just talk normally until we get your level.”
Dylan said, “Hi, um… I’m Prince Dauntless.” He was in full dress, gold crown shimmering in the spotlight.
I was in the audience, tears already glistening in my eyes at my beloved child’s voice.
“I have an overprotective mother,” Dylan said.
My jaw dropped. Why is he talking about me? I wondered.
“Well, to say that she’s overprotective would be an understatement,” he said.
Why is he suddenly blurting out all this personal stuff? I shrieked in my head. Is it just because he can get away with it?
He continued, “As a matter of fact, I hope she’s not listening because then I’ll probably get a five-minute lecture from her. Because my mother talks all the time. She never, ever stops talking.”
My jaw was on the floor.
The voice called again, “Okay, Dylan, thanks.”
Dylan hopped off the stage and started to run out.
“Thanks a lot, Dylan!” I yelled after him, hoping to invoke laughter from the other parents. But no one even breathed in my direction.
It wasn’t until midway through the rehearsal that I realized what had happened. I watched the queen on stage, ranting and raving as Dylan stood idly beside her. The realization knocked the breath out of me.
Dylan wasn’t talking about me, I thought. Prince Dauntless was talking about his mother, the queen.
On our way home, I asked Shane about the mic-check experience: “Did you know Dylan was talking about the queen?”
“Yeah,” said Shane.
“At first, I thought he was talking about me,” I said, guffawing at the error of my ways.
Shane didn’t laugh.
Finally he said, “But it could have been about you. I mean, you do talk a lot and you probably would give Dylan a long lecture if he said that stuff.”
Shane paused, to see how I would react to his minor attack on my character.
“Yes, it could have been about me,” I said, still laughing. “It definitely could have been about me.”
Which is not really funny. Not funny at all.
Dylan and I were riding in the car, discussing his friend who had invited him to a birthday party.
“I guess he’s talking to me again,” Dylan said when he got the invitation.
“So,” I asked him on our way to buy a birthday present, “do you think his friendship has anything to do with your being off medication?”
“I dunno,” he said. “Just one day he told me he wasn’t going to talk to me anymore. He said I was annoying and he didn’t talk to me for like three months.”
This happens frequently in Dylan’s world. Then, for whatever reason, the friends come back.
I can’t tell if this is typical of middle school, or if Dylan is just completely unaware of the people around him.
I remember when Dylan first went on medication in fourth grade. He was playing basketball with the guys at recess every day. A few days after he started taking pills he said, “I noticed that people throw me the ball more now.”
I still can’t determine if this was a result of Dylan being aware that he was getting the ball more often, or if he was just more aware of the game itself. Or if the guys had noticed that Dylan was more on task, and they actually trusted him more.
Now, in seventh grade and completely off med’s again, I asked him flat-out: “Do you feel any different now that you’re not taking anything?”
“I feel more brain-dead,” he said.
That was a shock. I expected him to say he felt more alive, more like himself, more the person he wanted to be. For all those months, Dylan said he didn’t want to take a pill. He said things like, “You don’t want me to be who I am. You just want me to take a pill.” He spat the word “pill” at me.
But now he says he feels brain-dead.
“We’re going to the neurologist soon,” I told him. “Do you want to try another stimulant?”
“I guess,” he said.
“If you really want to try another stimulant, we can,” I told him. “I just need to know what you want me to fight for.”
“I said ‘I guess,'” he repeated, probably not wanting to admit – any more than I do – that it’s our best option.
So I am going back to researching – to the book I adore, Straight Talk About Psychiatric Medications for Kids, and the saved email messages from the GT/LD group that I got back in October, recommending a variety of medications.
We are starting over, again, to see if there is some miracle pill that will allow my child to focus on things that don’t interest him – so as to someday graduate from college and do a job that does interest him.
I don’t feel delighted by this option. I don’t feel hopeful. I don’t feel like it’s a good – or a bad – choice.
I am simply taking the next step – again. And while I probably should be praying, I am instead holding my breath to see what will happen.
Dylan is scheduled to go back to the neurologist next week.
We’ve been going to the neurologist for years to get medication. Now, there is no medication. So why are we going back?
Are we planning to try a new medication? Should we just sit and tell her what’s going on, then explain that we’re just going to let him fail in school so that he doesn’t kill himself before he turns 18? Or should we see if any new ADHD medications have been invented in the past few months?
Should we try a different stimulant, a lower dosage, a higher dosage, a different non-stimulant? Or should we find a new doctor? Should we go to one of the fly-by-nights we interviewed years ago, who wrote us a prescription without even examining our 10-year-old?
Or should we put Dylan on a constant regimine of coffee and other caffeinated beverages, since that’s how his dad stays focused? And what if that works? Are we willing to risk the heart problems, high blood pressure, anxiety, irritability and digestive disorders that come with it? (Apparently, my husband thinks it is worth the risk to his body – but would he think it is worth the risk to his son?)
I keep thinking we should try a different stimulant – something without such a huge crash. But then I remember Dylan, wailing and moaning and face-planting himself on the floor in despair.
And I think, no. No stimulants.
I don’t even know why we’re going in, except that we love our neurologist and we really need help. I just can’t even fathom what she’ll be able to do for us. I should go in with a plan, a thought, a hope. But I have none.
I don’t want to see him fail. But more importantly, I want to see him happy.
So now what?
We checked Dylan’s grades at the mid-way point of the final quarter of 7th grade. He has 100% in Engineering and Chorus – and 98% in P.E. We are so proud. All of that without medication!
Unfortunately, he has 3 D’s – in algebra, social studies and science – and Dylan is failing English. He’s also accomplished all of that without medication.
Most of these grades can be remedied by Dylan simply turning in his work. He completes some of it, but he rarely turns in anything. He claims that he doesn’t know which things need to be turned in, and which things don’t need to be turned in.
For algebra specifically, he is missing eight assignments. He has had math homework four days a week since the second grade. And yet, he claims that he didn’t know that there was homework for those eight days.
When Dylan gets home from school, he goes straight to the couch, plays on his iPad, listens to his iPod, and texts his friends all afternoon. This happens every day, without fail.
“Are you sure you don’t have homework?” I ask him.
“I don’t think I have any homework,” he says.
“Did you ask your teachers after class, just to be sure?” (This is a strategy we developed last month, so that Dylan would know for sure if he has homework. He’s supposed to ask his four core teachers every day if he has any homework or missing assignments.)
“Oh, I forgot to do that today,” he says, “because (insert lame excuse here).”
For about a week, I was able to check up on him. Then I forgot, or we got busy, or something happened, and now he just forgets regularly. He doesn’t use his agenda book. He doesn’t use the voice recorder we got him. He doesn’t write down anything.
Our next trick is a pen that records classes on the end of the pen. The special ed coordinator is going to learn how to use them, and Dylan will get one for school next year. It sounds like a miracle.
It also sounds like a long time away. And it sounds like another cool gadget that will keep Dylan interested for a few weeks, until he comes up with another excuse as to why he can’t use it to record what needs to be done for homework – or why he “forgot” to turn it on during class.
We took away Dylan’s video game privileges last week, when we learned that he was missing some assignments. He still hasn’t bothered to turn in those assignments – and now there are a dozen more.
So we took away his phone, too.
Now he’s furious with us for the consequences of his actions – and I spent the morning at school, talking to the algebra teacher (who is no longer allowing homework to be turned in late – but will make an exception this once) and talking to the special ed coordinator (who will hopefully be getting that pen for him).
There are no other options. With medication out, and every natural cure already tried and failed, I am lost.
We’ve recently learned that the caramel color found in most maple syrup is a carcinogen. So we’ve moved on to natural maple syrup.
With its natural sugars, it’s more like a fruit than a candy. Shane doesn’t love the syrup, but he eats it. Dylan, however, says the new syrup tastes like vomit and he’d rather have nothing on his pancakes.
“Fine with me,” I said.
“Isn’t there anything except this syrup that I can put on my pancakes?” he moaned.
“No,” I said. Then I went to the grocery store and discovered a natural strawberry syrup. Dylan loves strawberries, so I bought it.
“Ew!” he wailed. “It’s terrible!”
So we went back to nothing on his pancakes. And this morning, we were having leftover chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. I made a pile of three pancakes and sliced a banana on each one for added sweetness. It looked like a TV commercial for IHOP.
Dylan came downstairs for breakfast.
“I don’t want bananas on my pancakes,” he said.
“Dylan,” I said, “I worked very hard to make a nice breakfast for you. The only thing you can say right now is ‘thanks, Mom!’ Everything else is inappropriate.”
“But I just really didn’t want …”
“I don’t care if you didn’t want bananas. I was trying to do something nice for you and if you don’t like it, keep it to yourself.”
I left the room and came back a few minutes later.
Dylan was shoveling pancakes with bananas into his face. “This really isn’t bad,” he said with his mouth full, “except for the chocolate chips.”
“What?!” I said. “You’re complaining about the chocolate chips?”
“Well they’re all hard or something,” he said. “They’re just not right.”
I paused, only briefly, before continuing to argue with him about how to respond to the morning’s breakfast.
That pause was the moment that I realized: No matter what I say, no matter what I do, he’s going to be rude, and dislike anything I do for him. And nothing is going to be good enough.
But I can’t stop trying.
I truly wish I could stop trying. Life would be so much more pleasant if I just didn’t care about his well-being. But I can’t.
So next time, I’ll make sure the pancakes don’t have chocolate chips in them. I’ll add fruit, probably. Maybe I’ll add strawberries instead of bananas – a risky move, I know.
And I’ll hope against all rational thought, that he’ll sit down to eat and say, “Thanks, Mom. This is delicious!”
