Brilliant … But Bouncy

“Hi!” I Said, Trying To Be Festive.

Two days before Christmas is a terrible time to shop. That’s why I try to be finished shopping by Halloween.

But this year, I promised to make a salad. I wanted my salad to be fresh and full of delicious vegetables, so I had to go to the store today. And, since I was shopping anyway, I decided I’d make a few other things as well.

Hoping to find gluten-free lasagna noodles along with my fresh vegetables, I headed out to Trader Joe’s.

I got an unbelievable parking space, considering the crowds. It was a sign of good fortune ahead.

Inside, the store was packed but there was a camaraderie between shoppers, hopping this way and that, helping each other and moving out of each other’s way. I joked with the guy stocking bananas. I heard a man sharing recipe ideas with his fellow shoppers.

I saw a Trader Joe’s staff member lying on the floor with his head on a bottom shelf. As he stood up he said, “The last one!” and gave a bag of something to a customer. Then he bounced off to help someone else.

Moments later, I asked that employee about gluten-free lasagna noodles – but alas, they don’t have them.

He happily raced to show me where I could find gluten-free cookies, though. I think he was auditioning for Employee of the Decade.

At checkout, the Trader Joe’s cashier lamented the lack of gluten-free pasta products and suggested a brand of chickpea pasta. She smiled through the entire checkout process and by the time I left, I was nearly dancing with holiday glee.

Then I went to Giant.

There are a few items Trader Joe’s doesn’t sell, most notably a fried onion delicacy that is normally reserved for green bean casseroles. So I wandered through the grocery store, picking up things here and there, keeping an eye out for the elusive fried onions.

Remembering the staff member at Trader Joe’s, I took a chance and spoke to a young man stocking soup.

“Hi!” I said, trying to be festive. “Do you have any idea where the fried onions might be?”

He looked at me as if I’d disturbed his sleep. “Huh?”

“Fried onions? In a package? Like for casserole?”

“Salads?” he grumbled.

“What?”

“Put ’em on salads?”

“I guess, yes!” I said, still trying.

“Aisle 11,” he harrumphed, turning his back to me.

I looked around. We were in Aisle 10, so Aisle 11 wasn’t hard to find. I walked the fifteen steps to the salad toppings, then stopped and scoured the shelves.

There were no fried onions.

An older woman who looked like she knew how to make green bean casserole stood debating over dressings.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where the fried onions are, would you?”

She looked at me, somewhat startled that I’d spoken. “Oh! I just saw them!”

After much ado, and some confusion on my part, she directed me right to the fried onions.

“I get a dollar off!” I squealed, peeling my coupon and showing her.

“Oh that’s good,” she smiled.

My self check-out experience wasn’t as positive. The machine kept telling me to “Remove your item from the bagging area” and then “Place your item in the bagging area” ad nauseam.

Then I had some trouble with cream cheese and Giant staff was nowhere in sight. Eventually someone appeared, waved a card at my scanner, and then left. I finally figured out what she’d done, and then trudged halfway through the store to get new cream cheese before I left.

And that’s why I shop at Trader Joe’s.

Nobody Else Does This To Me!

Having Dylan home for the holidays was supposed to be wonderful. Instead, we started arguing on the very first day. We argued on the second day, too. And the third.

At the end of every (ridiculously emotional, drawn-out) argument, we both realized that we were only arguing because we were too much alike, and that we both just wanted to hang out peacefully. We just couldn’t seem to make it happen.

The other people in the family weren’t affected. Just me.

By the fifth day, during a particularly emotional moment, Dylan screeched: “Nobody else does this to me!”

Nobody else tells him he should be on time or work on his resume. Nobody else tells him to eat, PLEASE EAT, when he hasn’t had a bite in seven hours. Nobody else tells him to get out of his darkened bedroom after 17 hours. Nobody else tells him what he should be doing next, or reminds him that he hasn’t done what he said he was going to do.

And I was forced to admit: “You’re right.”

Of course nobody else does this to him. Nobody else is his mother.

But I don’t have to be like this. I don’t have to say anything at all. So I wrote him a nice, long letter, reminding him that I’m his mother and that this is how I’ve been with him for 19 years. That this is just who I am, that I like to plan ahead, that I am trying to help.

He hates when I try to help.

I also told him that I would do my best to not badger him, and that he is welcome to live however he likes. I was fine with him sleeping for the first week of his (three-week) visit. But I would also like to see him, to spend time with him, to be with him – preferably without his cell phone in his hands, distracting him, as it always does.

A few days went by, including Dylan’s 19th birthday, and we had a lot of good, upbeat, quality time together. But we also had all that tough stuff to get through.

So when it was his last day to spend at home alone with me, and he still hadn’t done his Christmas shopping, I texted him about – at least – getting Shane’s gift today, since today is Shane’s last day of school before winter break. And, surprisingly, Dylan agreed to go and shop.

Only then did I recognize the error of my ways. So I texted him:

I am reminding you to shop because you forgot to shop and now you are going to shop. Does this mean I was right to remind you, or am I being a bother again?

Dylan responded:

I was actually thinking earlier today that I should shop either today or tomorrow. I didn’t forget.

Several minutes went by. There were about two hours left before Dylan was supposed to pick up Shane at school and take him out for ice cream (also arranged by me). Fifteen minutes later, the badgering started.

I just want you to be back in time to pick up Shane from school.

and (several more minutes later)

You really only have two hours to shop and eat lunch today. Is that going to be enough time?

Then I stopped badgering. ANOTHER fifteen minutes went by, and then Dylan left – taking my car – and went shopping.

I am sad to admit it, but I think it will be okay when Dylan goes back to college. I love him so, so much. And he is much happier without me.

You’re Not Okay?

After three weeks without any therapy, and another two weeks to go before his “follow-up” session, I asked Shane, “How are you doing without therapy?”

This is something I actually have to ask, because OCD isn’t something that shows itself, in his case. It’s either really bothering him, or it isn’t – but with Shane, I would never know if he were bothered.

He held up his hand and shook it, making a “meh” motion.

“You’re not okay?” I asked. “Do you want me to get you another session sooner? I can do that!” I wasn’t taking any chances.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”

“Maybe? Okay! Well, let me know. Would you like to go next week? I could probably get you an appointment by next week.”

“Let me think about it,” Shane said.

“Okay, but let me know as soon as you decide.” I didn’t want to wait a minute if Shane needed help. That’s my job, as Mom.

Three days went by.

“Do you want me to make another therapy appointment?” I asked one day, rather out-of-the-blue.

“I’m okay,” he said.

And that was the end of that. We waited, instead, for his one-month follow-up appointment.

Maybe I Am Now That Old.

One day, I was in the driver’s seat, sitting in a parking lot, and I leaned over to get something out of the glove compartment. I still had my seatbelt on and leaned as far as I could to my right, but I could barely reach. I am short.

So I leaned way, waaaaay over, my ribs shoved into the arm rest as I leaned, and suddenly I felt a kind of pop – which was quite painful – right in that rib area.

My first thought was, I think I cracked a rib!

And instantaneously I thought, I can’t be old enough to crack a rib while in a sitting position!

But maybe I am.

Maybe I am now that old. Maybe my bones are so old and brittle that I actually have a broken rib. (I don’t know if it’s actually broken; I do know that healing a rib doesn’t require a doctor’s oversight.)

Maybe I’m so old that my whole body will start to fall apart, and there won’t be anything I can do about it. Maybe my diet and my doctor will help keep me healthy into my later years, but maybe my body will fall apart anyway. Maybe I’ll just be sitting in my car and I’ll break a rib. Maybe I’ll trip over a crack in the sidewalk and break my leg. Maybe I’ll fall down in the kitchen and end up with a broken tailbone. Maybe I’ll twist my wrist the wrong way when I’m typing and break my wrist.

Maybe my bones – which are being supplemented with calcium EVERY day – are just too old to stay solid and do what they’re supposed to do. And maybe my muscles are getting slack from hours on the computer and a non-existent gym membership. Maybe winter’s cold is an excuse for not walking more, or maybe there’s no excuse at all.

Maybe my ailing body will cause me to do less; maybe my healthy-enough body will force me to do more. Which way am I going to go?

I know I’m too old to have any more children and, to be honest, I was awfully old when I was chasing around preschoolers. I remember thinking, “I’m too old for this” on many, many occasions.

And I certainly haven’t taken great care of myself, but I would like to do better in the future.

The question is: will I want to do better enough… to get up and go do better?

I don’t know.

While my ribs are healing, I think I will think about it.

That’s What I Want to Do More Than Anything!

Dylan’s meeting with the Digital Musicianship professor was brief.

“Basically he asked if I knew what music was,” Dylan told me later. “And I said yeah, and he said I could take the class.”

“Well that sounds easy,” I said.

“It was! And this is even better than I thought!” Dylan said. “After I take this class, I’m eligible to take the best class on campus and I didn’t even know it existed!”

“What class is that?”

“Music Composition for Film,” he said. “And that’s what I want to do more than anything!” Dylan has said for years that if he can’t be a world-famous singer, he wants to write music for movies. He’d be phenomenal at that, in fact.

I wondered why I remembered seeing the class as an option, sometime long ago…. So I looked it up, and finally found it in an unlikely place.

Music Composition for Film is offered as part of the Commercial Music program – the same program from which Dylan was rejected about a year ago.

He was rejected because he sang too well, because he was classically trained. And the professor in charge of the classical performance major said, generally, You can’t do what you want to do; you should do what I want you to do, because you’re a really good classical singer.

This was our first hint that Dylan wasn’t going to get a perfect education in the School of Music. And he has, since transferred out of the school altogether, and taken up Music Business.

But Dylan can hardly wait to take the music composition for film class – and then, hopefully, he’ll be able to find an internship in the same field.

So, after nearly a full month of trying to register him for classes, Dylan’s schedule is – hopefully finally – set for the spring semester.

Is It History?

In case anyone thought it might be over… no. Dylan’s course registration took yet another turn.

I was sitting around, being outraged by text book prices (which are, of course, outrageous), when I thought, I could probably find these books online for way cheaper!

In fact, I can find these books online for cheaper – sometimes. The one book that was particularly bothersome was Dylan’s book for The Theatre Experience – the exact same class I’d convinced him to take when he was trying to reschedule his Entertainment Industries class to take “another section,” as instructed by the generic email.

The book for The Theatre Experience cost $78 in its cheapest form – and had to be the most up-to-date version, meaning we couldn’t buy any of the thousands of used texts available because the newest version had just been published in 2019.

For $78, I thought, this had better be the best textbook on the planet. To make sure, I clicked on the digital sample online, to see what the book was like.

It was history.

Or at least, it looked like history to me. As I was browsing, I saw things like “Theatre in the Renaissance” and “Asian Theatre.” I nearly gagged. I kept thinking about Dylan saying, “Is it history?” when he registered, somewhat unhappily, for the class. Dylan really doesn’t enjoy history.

Nearly in the same breath, I started looking for options. There were three classes available at the same time as the theatre class – two of which he would love, but only one that would fulfill any kind of requirement. Not coincidentally, the requirement was a history class.

So I shuffled some things around in my head, and made an additional list of about 16 classes he could take if he just shuffled his schedule.

And then I took my lists to Dylan.

“You can still take Theatre,” I said. “I just wanted to warn you that it’s a history class with a $78 text book.”

Dylan’s eyes were lit up as he stared at one option on the first page – the one option that did not fulfill a requirement, but could be taken as an elective and possibly count toward his minor.

The class is called Digital Musicianship 1.

It’s the kind of class that Dylan has been trying to teach himself for six years. It’s explores digital music techniques and technology, among other topics. But it has one drawback: there was a prerequisite.

“You have to take this other one-credit class, or get permission from the instructor,” I told him.

“I’ll get permission,” Dylan said, without blinking. He went straight to the computer and sent an email.

Three days later, Dylan was enrolled in Digital Musicianship 1.

Please Sign Up For Another Section.

After weeks of preparation and revision, Dylan’s schedule was finally done. He’d registered for classes; he’d gotten classes he needed and didn’t hate. He even got a schedule that allowed him to sleep in.

The day after registration, which was also the final day of registration for freshmen, Dylan got a note.

Dear Student,

You are currently signed up for CEI 1220 with Mark Volman, but due to your major and the content covered in the course, you need to take a session with a different professor. Please sign up for another section instead.

Dylan texted me a screenshot of that email, with these words:

i want to die

Not only would Dylan be losing the professor who founded the Turtles, but he would also be losing his finished schedule.

At the very least, Dylan had to give up Sociology in order to take the new section of the class for his major. He was also justifiably angry that there was no mention of this requirement in the course catalog.

And now, everything was full. Every section of Sociology was full. Every backup class from his list was full. There were no available math or science classes, except one section of Computer Science.

what about computer science? you’re going to need it anyway

i mean yeah i guess if thats all i can do

He plunked in the registration number for Computer Science. An error message popped up: You are prohibited from taking this class due to requisite or testing requirements.

From all the studying I’d done, I remembered that Dylan’s SAT math score was too high to allow him to take Computer Science. But I didn’t go into that with him right then, because he still had to do something about his schedule.

He searched. I searched. We scoured the web for a class he might need that was not only at 8 a.m. But all the classes were full.

Or so it seemed.

I tried a different tack: I looked at the options for fine arts classes that were not related to music. Since Dylan so prefers music classes, he had not even considered any other fine arts options.

One of the classes was called, The Theatre Experience. It wasn’t a history class, and instead explored the creation of a show from start to finish. Since Dylan had done theater productions for six years in a row, I’d been afraid he might be bored with it – and hadn’t even mentioned it to him.

Before I said anything, I checked: there were spaces available! Best of all, it was at the exact same time as his prior class had been, so he wouldn’t have to switch anything else around.

omg do you want to take theatre?

maybe – what is it – is it like history of theatre or

fine arts requirement: ‘Designed to provide students with a basic understanding of the process of theatrical production from conception to execution to evaluation.’

okay yeah that sounds good

Dylan registered for The Theatre Experience.

So once again, he had a schedule.

Dylan was still angry, as was I, about losing Mark Volman. But what he really wanted, he said, was Introduction to Sociology. He said he was looking forward to that class. And he wasn’t keen on public relations, although it would have fulfilled the same requirement for him.

Astoundingly, when writing this blog post, I stumbled upon an opening in the Sociology class he wanted – one available slot – that fit in place of his public relations class.

So now, Dylan is taking his long-lost Sociology class, too.

Sigh.

Have You Read Through Page 359?

Over Thanksgiving break, Dylan and I were ordering his new text books for the spring semester, when he started to complain.

“I don’t even know why we’re doing this,” he said. “I don’t think I need to buy all these books. Sometimes I don’t even have to open them.”

“What do you mean, you don’t have to open them? How do you read them?”

“Well for some of my classes, I don’t have to read them.”

“Of course you have to read them,” I said. “Why would you have a book for a class if you didn’t have to read it?”

“Well most of my professors told us not to even carry the book to class! I just left them in my room for the whole semester.”

“Yeah, but you have to read for homework, right?”

“Not really,” Dylan said. “Sometimes they’ll tell us to read a few pages but most of the time, it’s just assignments and stuff.”

“What are you talking about, Dylan? You have to read your text books. Wait – can we find your syllabus online?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, and showed me how to find his syllabus for Introduction to the Bible.

“Here,” I said, pointing. “According to this, you were supposed to read the first 82 pages by the end of September. What do you think these numbers are? All these … look. ‘Pages 1 to 82, pages 251 to 302…’ Why do you think there are page numbers on your syllabus? By Thanksgiving, you were supposed to be done reading through page 359! Have you read through page 359?”

“Well he didn’t say any of that to the class,” Dylan said.

“Dylan, it’s college! He didn’t say it because he wrote it out for you, very clearly, on this syllabus that he gave you at the beginning of the class! Every assignment you had is on this syllabus! How many other books did you not read?”

“I read what my professors told me to read,” he said.

From what I can gather, Dylan didn’t even open at least two of his five text books.

His grades, however, don’t show it. He’s getting A’s and B’s, and he didn’t even know he had to read his text books.

This, I believe, is where being intellectually gifted has saved him – again.

But I sure hope he doesn’t depend on that giftedness next semester. I think, instead, he should read his text books.

We went ahead and bought them, just in case.

Today, That Didn’t Happen.

Since Dylan has been at college, Shane and I have a routine – that we actually follow. It works like clockwork.

Shane does his thing; I do mine. We meet downstairs for breakfast, which I serve to him (because I am happy to put that cereal in a bowl and put a piece of fruit next to it). While he eats, I make his lunch (because I am happy to throw crackers into his lunchbox). And then we leave, on or near 7:07 a.m., which gets us to school just in front of the school traffic back-up.

Shane is often the first or second person in class, which is how he likes it. And I get home before 8:00, which means I can get ready for work, or walk the dog, or whatever – all before 9 a.m.

But today, that didn’t happen.

Today, I did my thing – but Shane’s door was closed tight, and no lights were on. Since he wakes himself – and should, at the ripe old age of nearly 16 – I went downstairs. I made his breakfast, which sat on the table. I made his lunch, which sat on the counter. I took care of the dog, and I waited.

I debated waking up Shane, since I had done it for Dylan on many occasions. But I had woken up Shane before – just once, maybe a year ago – and I’d told him that I wasn’t going to do it again.

Shane is responsible for getting himself out the door on time.

So at 7:07, I crawled back into bed.

Two minutes later, there were thumping sounds. The dog was with me; Bill was at work. Obviously, Shane had slept through his alarm – and was now up.

A minute later, he appeared in my room, breathing fast: “I was supposed to be gone by now!”

“Slow down your breathing,” I said. “And go get ready. You may have to skip your shower.”

So he did his thing; I put his a portable breakfast into the car, and waited. He came downstairs with his homework, grabbed his lunchbox, and threw his backpack, shoes and socks into the car.

We left the house at 7:20. When Dylan was home, we often left even later than that – which no one enjoyed.

“Eat,” I said, in the car, after his shoes were on. And he ate. Silently.

Somehow, we slid in between waves of traffic. We drove quickly.

I spoke a bit about how sleeping in was fairly normal for teenagers – i.e., people who go to bed later than they should, and have to be up early for school. I didn’t yell. I tried not to lecture. I suggested a back-up alarm for the future.

But we didn’t have a lot of time to talk about it anyway. We ended up in a backup, but not a long one, and Shane got to school with five full minutes to spare.

I pulled away from the school as the first bell was ringing.

When I got home, I had a text from Shane: 2nd person in class

He sent a little thumbs-up emoticon with his text.

I thumbs-upped back.

Somehow, he slept in, woke himself, and still got to school on time.

I thanked God, and then took a little nap myself. Not lecturing, not yelling, and not being in complete control is absolutely exhausting.