I don’t often order from Amazon anymore, since they became a company that ships mostly out of China and can’t be trusted with regard to expiration dates on food, sizes on clothing, or quality on ANY items. In fact, I try not to use Amazon at all.
Given that we are now in a nationwide crisis, I’m sure I will loosen the reigns on my self-imposed “rule” about this. And actually, I recently succumbed to the lure.
This wasn’t a good idea.
I ordered five things. Most importantly, I wanted a specific type of lip balm, which I can’t find in any of my local stores. In order to get the free shipping, I had to find $35 worth of stuff to order. (I canceled my Prime account years ago, when I realized that Amazon was deteriorating.) Looking back, I should have ordered $35 of lip balm.
Five days later, I got a note: “Good news! Your items have shipped!”
In the good old days, my items would have shipped within a few hours of my placing the order. This is no longer the case. First, I wait until someone decides to actually ship my items; then I can start counting the days for my order to arrive.
Several days after that, four things arrived in a HUGE envelope – a DVD for an upcoming road trip (now canceled), and makeup that Shane wanted for his play (indefinitely postponed).
The website said I had to wait an additional week for the lip balm.
Among Shane’s makeup items, the eye shadow cracked, which meant that the other three items were completely covered in black soot when I opened the envelope. I had to contact customer service, who assured me that they would take care of the packaging problem and send me replacements right away.
I told them the DVD would be fine, since it was sealed in plastic.
So they said they would send new makeup, packaged properly.
The next day – the very next day! – I got the exact same huge envelope, with the exact same makeup inside – this time, unbroken. There was no new packaging, and the fact that the eye shadow wasn’t cracked this time was just dumb luck.
Meanwhile, my lips were cracked and sore. Two weeks had passed.
I went on a trip to visit Dylan without the lip balm. While I was gone, Bill told me I got a package from Amazon.
“Finally!” I told him. “It’s lip balm; feel free to open it.”
Bill opened it. It was not lip balm. It was a black-and-white flannel dress, with a matching flannel belt.
“I didn’t order that; it must be a gift!” I said. I called my parents and asked Dylan – but none of them had sent me a gift.
Three days later, I returned home to find the dress and tried it on, still utterly baffled. And still waiting for the lip balm. It had been three weeks.
Like most of Amazon’s stuff, the dress was made in China and didn’t fit. So I looked carefully at the envelope to see who it was from: AmericaRX.
I looked back at my Amazon account. The name of the company sending the lip balm? AmericaRX. They’d sent me a flannel dress instead of lip balm.
I won’t bore you with the details of my conversation with the Amazon rep. Amazon couldn’t replace my lip balm, but they refunded my $5.63.
So I have $30 worth of makeup and a DVD, and a flannel dress.
After waiting three weeks, I bought the lip balm at our local car wash.
It’s scary.
It’s really, really scary.
Except for some people, it’s not. Some people are still out. They are hanging out in stores and restaurants, having parties with their friends. Schools are closed, so they’re playing basketball and tennis and going to the playgrounds with their toddlers. They’re having picnics in the park. They’re swarming the bars and standing oh-so-close.
Dylan sent me a video of a Tennessee gathering in the streets. It looked like New Year’s Eve in Times Square. There were people as far as the eye could see, crammed together and drinking, while the music blared from huge speakers somewhere. I have no idea what it was. But I thought: Do they really think this is a time to party?
I am an ostrich, most of the time. I like to stick my head in the sand and not read the news. I don’t want to hear about Trump’s Tweets or the murder-suicide of a local family. I basically try not to listen.
But in this case, there’s just so much evidence to which we need to pay attention – and there’s only one simple message: STAY HOME.
My kids hate it. My husband, who works in the healthcare system, hates it. And I hate it. But if we would ALL stay home, we could STOP this crisis from killing thousands and thousands of people!
Yet, thousands and thousands of people are still out there, tempting fate. They must be ostriches, too. Or they don’t believe what they read, hear, and see. They don’t believe the irrefutable evidence.
Thankfully, we have a governor who is insisting on things closing down. He closed the schools, canceled all large gatherings. He’s ordering a shutdown of the bars and restaurants, starting tonight at 5 p.m. A handful of drive-thru’s will remain open.
I know it’s hard. And it’s scary. But I have pulled my head out of the sand for this.
I want to help, to do my part, to stay home as much as is humanly possible. I don’t want to be part of the problem.
I want to help save the world.
And by trying, I am teaching my kids to do the same.
Today is the last day of school for Shane, at least for awhile.
It’s the last of a lot of things, I think, at least for awhile. I mean, heck, they shut down Disney World.
The governor has declared that there be no gatherings of groups of 250 or more – which means our plans for the weekend no longer exist. The concert Dylan was attending is postponed. The show we were all attending is also postponed.
Activity centers are closed, so my dad won’t have his senior sports activities anymore. All recreation centers are closing, in fact, as are libraries, sports events, theme parks and indoor swimming pools.
Restaurants are staying open, but I can’t imagine how they will fare. As one accustomed to frequenting movies, restaurants and parks, I see only parks in my immediate future.
I wasn’t sure what to do when I realized we’d be hunkering down for a month or so. But in spite of my general food hoarding tendencies, I knew I could use some more eggs and milk.
So I went to Costco last night, not in an urgent-despair mode, but just because I wanted a handful of things. And I got some of them. Pasta, however, was no longer on the shelves. And where was the sliced cheddar? No whitefish salad, either.
A lot of things were no longer on the shelves. In fact, Costco was a madhouse. My mom and I were just trying to make a quick trip, and it became an unforgettable adventure.
The lines for the cashiers started at the front of the store and went down the center aisle, three deep, all the way to the back wall. On the far side of the store, another two lines snaked to the back wall.
The back wall is about a mile from the cashiers.
The aisles were blocked by abandoned grocery carts, reminiscent of an apocalyptic horror movie. Because of the masses of people in line with their loaded carts, it was tough to navigate the store. We squeezed through the people, browsed one aisle, then squeezed back out the way we came to go to the next aisle.
We tried to find pasta but the pasta was gone. As is the case with stores everywhere, the toilet paper and bottled water was gone. Odd foods were gone, like bagels and cakes. Bananas and bread were gone – except Cinnamon Raisin. There was a whole bunch of Cinnamon Raisin bread. Costco should probably stop selling that.
Costco sells more food and drinks than anywhere I’ve ever seen – but the shelves were virtually bare. Empty boxes were strewn about; there were empty wooden crates and platforms in every aisle. And there was an air of desperation. No one smiled.
But I wasn’t feeling desperate. I felt more … intrigued. I am scared, but in a confused way.
It feels like I am preparing for a tsunami to hit – but living 500 miles away from the shore. I know that serious – even catastrophic – trouble is ahead, but I don’t know exactly how it’s going to affect my family.
So I bought my nitrate-free Canadian bacon, red pepper hummus and two-percent milk. When I got home, I ordered a ridiculous amount of cereal online, and another month’s worth of dog food. And then I sat back to wait, along with everyone else, for that tsunami.
Dylan’s college has extended spring break. He will get another week! Unfortunately, Belmont is canceling his Easter break. And there are other changes in store, too.
After his extended spring break, Dylan will be doing classes online until April – as much as possible. He is taking voice lessons and a P.E. class called “Group Games.” I’m not sure how those will be handled.
This is, of course, all thanks to the coronavirus. Colleges are making the same kinds of decisions all over the country.
While I am not in panic mode (yet) – even as a worrier – I think it’s a good idea to have him home. Dylan’s campus was ravaged by the flu in January, and Dylan ended up bedridden for three days, alone, with no one to help. The thought of him lying in that bed again agonizes me.
And Dylan – who isn’t the least bit concerned for himself – has Reactive Airways Disease. That means that a disease that attacks his lungs – like, say, COVID-19 – would be more deadly for Dylan than most people.
This terrifies me. I remember Dylan standing at the foot of my bed in the middle of the night – a three-foot-tall toddler in the dark. He was trying to wake me up, to say “Mommy?” but it came out in a clogged, raspy gasp – and he couldn’t form an actual word.
Dylan couldn’t breathe.
I called 9-1-1 and we raced him to the hospital. He had a cold.
So I’m in no hurry for Dylan to contract this particular virus, even if Dylan thinks – and declares loudly – “I will be fine!”
In early April, Dylan and the rest of the Belmont students are scheduled to return to campus. This, I think, is nuts. I’m pretty sure Belmont thinks it’s nuts, too, because why would you send the kids back to school when the epidemic will be at full-force?
Shane, of course, is being fairly careful. The OCD is amazingly helpful in this situation. Shane’s hands are raw from all the washing, and they were like that months ago.
But he’s still in public school, and the school district is “monitoring” the situation – which, given our current numbers, is probably wise.
For now, they are thoroughly cleaning the schools. One school district closed for a whole day, just to clean up. How is that helpful? The virus only lives for two hours on an inanimate object. Every night, the virus dies all by itself. And the teachers had to do the cleaning!
In addition, Shane’s spring break is coming – but the Grand Gesture college road trip that I’d planned for Shane is now indefinitely postponed. We were traveling through Nashville to pick up Dylan during his Easter break – who now won’t be able to travel with us. And how would Shane get a feel for the colleges if there are no students on the campuses?
So the world is shutting down, temporarily I hope. And we’re taking it one step at a time. I am worried, but trying not to be a crazy person.
We’re washing our hands like crazy people, maybe. And I have enough vitamins, supplements, medications, bottled water, food and dog food to easily last two months.
To be fair, I always have that much crap in my house. But now, I might actually use it.
I drove to Nashville on my own. Bill and Shane didn’t want to make the trip to see Dylan’s band, since 22 hours of driving in three days is a rather long jaunt. Plus, I’d been planning on spending some special time with my college-bound son anyway, and I wanted to spend some of that time with him alone.
Traveling alone is fun. Sure, it can be tedious, and driving can be a bore – but I was able to stop whenever I wanted, eat whatever I wanted, and listen to books on tape that only I liked – for all 22 hours.
Best of all, though, is that I arrived in time to spend time with Dylan. We had a late lunch (for him) since he’d gotten out of bed at 2 p.m. And we had a nice, long talk over our grilled cheese sandwiches.
Then he had to get ready to perform, which was overwhelmingly exciting – for me. Dylan took it in stride – changed his shirt and brushed his hair, probably at my insistence – and then wandered over to the record store for mic check.
I was not allowed at mic check.
But when I arrived in the tiny venue, with no seating and standing room only for about 50 people, Dylan and his band were belting out a song. I was afraid they’d started early, but they hadn’t. They finished quickly and disappeared “backstage.” Dylan’s friend and I waited for about 10 minutes, until the band finally emerged and went on.
It was my baby’s first gig. And since it happened on Homecoming night – the biggest basketball game and dance of the year – a whopping seven people were in the crowd.
And oh MY. It was loud. They sang about half an hour’s worth of music, all of which I filmed and put on YouTube for anyone who really, really, really likes metal.
I am not particularly a fan of metal.
But it was so much fun watching Dylan. Listening to Dylan. Even with ear plugs in – which were essential – I could hear that booming voice. While I longed for the days of Willy Wonka and Frank Sinatra, Dylan was obviously having a blast.
It transported me right back to when I was his age – a teenage groupie, hanging out in my boyfriend’s garage to hear his band practice. I thought I was the coolest girl on the planet – which is interesting, thinking back, because not only was I not cool, but I’m not sure how I determined that I was cool just because I was sitting there watching – but I felt exactly that cool again, at the age of 55, watching Dylan’s band blow the roof off the place.
By association – somehow – just being there made me cool. And all those geeks at the Homecoming game, well, they missed out.
After the show, another band played, and I watched Dylan and his college friends bounce around in a makeshift mosh pit, as if they were part of a 10,000-person crowd.
It was awesome.
Dylan is having a rough time in Sociology – a really, really rough time.
Unlike Dylan, his professor is exceptionally detail-oriented. She has provided enough detail on his syllabus to make it eight pages, including “tips” like “bring a pencil” and “use the bathroom before class.”
For Dylan, who prefers getting the gist of things and moving on… he can hardly see straight, trying to read this syllabus. He can’t figure out what’s due when, or what’s essential homework versus what’s just a suggestion.
In addition, she’s provided dozens of “extra” handouts and links (many broken) so that students can learn more about the concepts they’re exploring in the class. These aren’t for the test – they’re just for “fun.”
For Dylan, these extras are just confusing. Why are they there if he doesn’t really need them? His head has been reeling all semester.
After missing two homework assignments (“I really just didn’t see them!”) and getting D’s on his first two exams (“Why is it so hard for me?”) – Dylan had an epiphany.
Dylan started doing the things he should have done right out of the gate: he got his student support services documents, he texted the members of his Sociology project group, he got a mini-syllabus (from me) with the extraneous crap deleted.
Then he texted me: “What else can I do?”
This was not a whine. It meant – “I’m on a roll! What else can I do?” He was doing everything he could to put his life back together and be hopeful, even in Sociology.
I asked Dylan about his change of heart – his mature, adult response to this horrible situation.
He texted back: “My worry depletes rapidly when I do the next right thing instead of worrying about the last wrong thing.”
WOW, I thought. That is an utterly brilliant statement.
I told Dylan it was brilliant. I said that I thought that would make a great bumper sticker, and that seriously everyone should hear it. But Dylan (correctly) pointed out that it’s much too long for a bumper sticker.
Then my sister said she wanted to use it as wallpaper for her daughter’s wall. And I said, “I think I will have t-shirts made!”
Then I remembered: My next door neighbor makes t-shirts.
So, I went out and had Dylan’s entire quotation emblazoned onto t-shirts for my whole family. And when Dylan arrived home for spring break, I gave him one.
“Did I really say it just like this?” he asked.
“Verbatim,” I said.
“If I’d known you were going to make t-shirts,” he said, “I would have been more concise.”
Fortunately, I put the inscription on the backs of the shirts, and Dylan has long hair. Under his hair is the crux of the quote:
Do the next right thing instead of worrying about the last wrong thing.
It’s a motto by which I will try to live.
Shane is having trouble in math.
I don’t mean, really, Shane is having trouble with math. He is good at math, and doing okay with the concepts. He gets it. He knows how to study. But he’s having trouble in math – in the classroom, in the room itself.
His teacher isn’t teaching.
Shane told me a month ago that his teacher puts up problems on the board and “mumbles some stuff” and then he sits down and tells them all to do their homework.
But they don’t know how to do their homework, because five minutes at the board isn’t exactly “explanatory” and certainly isn’t sufficient for students who know nothing about what’s being presented.
New concepts come and go, and Shane does his best to figure it out. He spends lunchtimes with his former math teacher – the one who actually teaches her students – and she teaches Shane how to do all the things he should have learned in math class.
So… I’ve started seeking “help” for Shane, at his request.
A month ago, I followed the conventional methods: I contacted the counselor and begged for another teacher. The counselor assured me that there would be no switching classes due to teacher preference. When I explained that another teacher was teaching Shane at lunchtime, the counselor seemed fine with that. She said it was expected that all math teachers would “back up” other math teachers.
The counselor suggested that I contact the math resource person – the head of the department – so I wrote a detailed email to him. He never responded.
Finally, yesterday I wrote to the principal. The principal talked to Shane and emailed me to say that the math teacher would be calling me.
The math teacher called me. We talked. I told him Shane wasn’t understanding anything he said in class. He told me that Shane was doing fine. He said that Shane is welcome to come in at lunch and see him if he needs help.
Shane, of course, learns nothing from this math teacher.
“He came to see me one morning,” said the math teacher. “And he hasn’t come to see me since.”
Oh, surprise! He didn’t LEARN anything from you. Why would he go back?
“He doesn’t understand you,” I said.
I wanted to say: You are not helping him because you are not teaching him because you don’t care about your students and you don’t know how to teach!
Instead, I told the math teacher that Shane is seeing another teacher at lunch, because she is actually teaching the material. He understands her. Shane’s current math teacher assured me that Shane is doing fine.
Shane is getting a B in the non-honors math class. This is not “fine” for Shane.
I texted Dylan, who has had this teacher three times. Dylan said, “I just taught myself how to do it. That’s literally all you can do.”
After all that, Shane is no further ahead than he was at the beginning of the semester, begging for a different teacher – one who teaches.
So today, I will send out a follow-up email. And then I will wait again.
Meanwhile, I will worry that all I am doing is aggravating the teacher who can’t teach, and that he will take it out on Shane. But I simply can’t sit back and do nothing – not with Shane pleading for help.
So, here we go again.
The current mania among parents on the Belmont Parents Facebook page is about the coronavirus.
I understand the panic. But I also really try to learn the facts – and that helps me to define when to panic. I listen to NPR if I feel inclined to think about newsworthy topics. And when something intrigues me enough, I look it up online, on reputable web pages, and figure out what I need to know.
So when one panicked mom wanted to drive 10 hours to pick up her son for spring break just so he wouldn’t have to ride on an airplane, she posted on the parents page.
“Am I crazy?” she said.
Most parents said – in some variation: “I totally understand! But he is probably safe on the plane if he follows simple precautions.”
A lot of people pointed out the panic that the media was creating. I tossed in a link to the CDC website as part of my answer to her panic, so she could learn for herself what she needed to know.
But one man fought me – personally – saying that panic was justified, screaming: “This is 20 times more deadly than the flu!”
I am sorry I did it, but I responded: “It is, for now, more deadly – but that’s because it hasn’t run its course and it is new. The percentage of deaths as it spreads is actually going DOWN as more people get it and learn to fight it. Look up the swine flu and other pandemics – the media is definitely blowing this out of proportion.”
The man shot back his answer; his ignorance absolutely floored me: “Your bodies don’t learn to fight something when you get it the first time. Not sure how you think that works. It’s not being blown out of proportion.”
Hm. I thought. ‘Your bodies DON’T learn to fight something when you get it the first time?!?’ How many times does it take? Does a virus have to hit a hundred times, waiting for your body to figure out how to fight it? And wouldn’t that mean we would all die from our first cold?
I took biology; I know how it works. I don’t know why this man doesn’t. Doesn’t everybody have to take biology?
Meanwhile, I think: don’t panic. READ. The coronavirus is deadly – sometimes. Lots of things are deadly sometimes. The media would have us believe that the coronavirus is the end of the world.
The news today – literally, TODAY, is that the coronavirus is more deadly than the flu. There’s a 3.4 percent fatality rate. It’s harder to catch – but more deadly because it is new. As a population, we’re still learning how to kick this thing. And most people – 96.6% – who get it will kick it.
Not coincidentally, the same article says that “the pace of infections in China is continuing to drop by the day.“
I’m not unconcerned. Dylan is supposed to study in Italy in exactly two months – but because of the coronavirus, he probably won’t be able to go. I’ve told him that if they cancel it, he’s probably safer.
But I’ve also told him to keep taking his daily vitamins, to boost his immune system with Vitamins C and D. I’ve told him – and Shane – to keep washing their hands (which in Shane’s case is silly) and to make sure they keep their hands away from their faces when they’re out. The best defense against any virus is a strong immune system.
Well… if we believe that the body can learn to fight a virus.
Even when we get it the first time.
California was warm and beautiful and offered a lot of options for kids wanting to study film. But it’s THREE THOUSAND MILES AWAY FROM HOME, and I really don’t know that film is Shane’s true passion.
So I started planning Shane’s next college road trip before we even left for California. But when we got home, I went a little nuts.
I took our southern-based 1,600-mile trip and added in some fantastic film schools – in upstate New York, which was slightly out of our way.
Then I discovered that Dylan is going to have a short break for Easter – and we were going to see him anyway, on our southern road trip. We have to pick up some of his stuff, to make his move-out easier in May.
So why not take Dylan with us for a few days? We can send him back to school on a plane when he’s done.
And from upstate New York to Nashville, we go right through the college-laden state of Ohio! So I added on a bunch of schools there.
I revamped our little getaway into a serious road trip. We are going north, then west, then south, then north again – in an enormous circle that includes 15 colleges, two museums, a safari, zip lining, horseback riding, and the World of Coca Cola. If we can manage it, we might have lunch with a friend or two. We’ll be driving right past about 10 of them.
It is a grand gesture to keep my son within driving distance.
And of course, I really like to plan road trips.
But if Shane can’t find a college he likes over spring break – at least as much as the one he liked in California – then I will have to give up on new colleges and hope he just uses common sense.
And there’s a chance Shane won’t get accepted by that college in California.
But if he does, I will just have to start planning several 6,000-mile road trips to visit him in California.
Shane is struggling to find things that spark his passion.
I realize that all teenagers go through this, in some form or another. But it doesn’t make it any easier to stand by and do nothing while Shane sits around – well, doing nothing, too.
I make lists. Unlike Dylan, Shane enjoys the lists I make – usually. So I make long, elaborate lists of “choices.” For example, one list included a teen volleyball clinic, camp for future leaders, and a volunteer opportunity for teens who wanted to help feed the homeless. Another list included international thespians, theater critics, key club and best buddies.
Shane didn’t want to do anything on either list – or any of the subsequent lists I provided. He finally tried something called “Weekend Zone” where teens get together once a week to hang out in a gym – but he was miserable, and never went back after his first visit.
Eventually – after our trip to California, when he was feeling more amenable – he said he would like to try a local teen improv group.
I was thrilled. And so … he went!
I walked in with him on his first day, at his okay. I hung around – but stood way back, so no one would see me with a teenager. Teenagers are not supposed to be anywhere near their parents. And when Shane went in, he did so without looking at me.
But while I was waiting, I saw a few other teenagers milling about. I could tell that they were … awkward, I guess. They were the kinds of kids that looked like they were wildly entertaining, and also the kinds of kids who spent a lot of time alone during high school.
Judging just from appearance, I always thought these kinds of kids were intellectuals. Maybe because they looked so much like Shane’s friends from elementary and middle school.
I figured Shane would fit in just fine. And he did. He liked his first class but when I asked him about it he said, “Everybody there is weird.”
Hm.
He liked his second class. And his third class.
But after his third class, he asked me point-blank: “Are you sure you didn’t sign me up for a special ed class?”
“No!” I shrieked. “Are they really that weird?”
“Yes!” Shane said. He imitated one guy who walked around waving his arms wildly through the whole class, and said that most of them just seem a little “off.”
“I definitely didn’t sign you up for a special ed class,” I told him. “But there is a chance that some special ed kids are in the class. Do you want to keep going?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I like the class. I just didn’t want to be in a special ed class without you telling me about it.”
As if.
“I wouldn’t do that to you. Maybe they’re just being themselves? In high school, people aren’t really allowed to just be themselves. Maybe this is a place where they can just be who they are.”
I hoped this would ring true for him, too.
The good news: he likes the class. He wants to keep going.
The bad news: there’s only one teen improv class in the entire metropolitan area. So he’s stuck right where he is, with the weird kids.
