My Yelling Hurt My Baby.

I nearly tiptoed to Dylan’s room today, wanting to make sure he got enough food to eat before he left for work. Dylan has a tendency to race out the door for a 10-hour shift with nothing but a jar of peanuts and a bottle of water.

I knocked quietly and Dylan opened the bedroom door. I started speaking quietly. “I’m sorry to bother you but I am hoping that you will get enough to eat today….”

Within a span of two minutes, I had blown up. I was screeching like a crow. “YOU DIDN’T WASH YOUR WORK CLOTHES YET?!?” Screeeech screeech screeeech…. An awful sound.

A few minutes later, I apologized for my behavior. Again.

Dylan said, “It’s interesting timing because I just realized that I beat myself up now every single time I make a mistake.”

A mistake? He made a mistake?

I didn’t even know what Dylan was talking about: “mistake.” Whatever it was that made me yell, Dylan had not done it on purpose.

I suddenly realized that Dylan wasn’t doing the stupid things he does on purpose. He wasn’t “not caring” about the things I’d asked him to do, which is the way I always see it. Dylan was not being obstinate.

He just made a mistake.

And I screamed at him as if he’d clubbed some frail old woman in the knee.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened. In fact, I’ve been doing this for his entire life. Every time he made a mistake, I yelled at him. Because I truly believed that Dylan – with all his ADHD and quirkiness – was deliberately doing the wrong thing.

I remember the first time I yelled at Dylan. He was tiny – not even two – and I handed him a very fragile Christmas ornament. I said, “Be very careful. Don’t drop it or it will break!” I was trying to show him that I trusted him to take care of something important.

And I swear: Dylan slammed that ornament down on the tile floor like it was his only mission in life to break it.

As it shattered, I exploded too. He had purposefully broken my prized ornament! As I screamed, I could see his tiny face go from its normally smiling position to one of complete confusion.

His eyes got wide; a frown appeared. I’d never seen that face before. It’s the face of a child who’s truly hurt.

Dylan had no idea what he’d done wrong. And since he was so young, I will never know if he broke that ornament on purpose. Heck, maybe he just wanted to see if I was right that it would break.

The only thing I remember is: my yelling hurt my baby.

I picked him up, then, and cuddled him and apologized and said it was okay. I told him we would learn how to clean up the pieces together, and we did. And from that moment on, things that were obvious mistakes – spilled milk, a broken glass, a button off a shirt – those things were received with calm reassurance that it wasn’t the end of the world.

But the rest of Dylan’s mistakes – those where that I thought he should have known better, but he didn’t? Those were met with the horrific, roaring monster that “Mommy” became. For his entire life.

So today – far, far, far too late – that stops. It just stops.

That kind of hurt – the kind I’ve instilled – will never go away. But at least I can stop instilling more pain.

Please, God, help me stop.

I Am Always “Escaped.”

Since there is a pandemic, I am not working. My job was to substitute teach – which I loved – and to teach sick kids who couldn’t regularly attend school.

Since no one is regularly attending school right now, my job is on temporary hold. But I am okay with this. Work is not my favorite thing.

Still, it would be nice to have some purpose. Fortunately, I have a dog. Loki sleeps in my room – something I now wish fervently that I had done with my prior dog – a dog I miss dearly every day.

Even my husband doesn’t sleep in my room, because he wakes me up every time he moves. So having the dog nearby isn’t necessarily my favorite thing either. Fortunately, the dog sleeps on the floor.

Still, he wakes me up every morning. Sometimes it’s 8:00 – which is still better than a regular school day – and sometimes it’s 10:00. Otherwise I would sleep all day long.

I get up and feed the dog. On most days, I then walk the dog. And then I look around aimlessly for something to do. Mostly, I plop myself down on the computer and look at colleges for Shane. Sometimes I research food issues and autoimmune disorders. If I’m feeling really bored, I play SongPop, my favorite – and only – video game addiction.

Since the pandemic, though, even SongPop is dull. It used to be an escape from my everyday life. Now I am always “escaped” from my everyday life.

Some days, I go for a bike ride, or I read a book, or I sit on the porch. But it’s not quite the same, no matter what happens. There are things I can do – like volunteer – but I am choosing to stay home and safe(r).

Last week, Shane had a big day, and he hit the nail on the head. His big day included picking up books at the library, driving practice, and helping a friend walk her foster dog.

Shane said, “I’m going to the library, but I’m not going in the library. And then I’m going to drive, but not on actual roads. Then I’m going to walk dogs, but I’m not walking not my dog.”

Everything feels that way right now – almost normal, but not quite.

Shane and I went to the grocery store last night, late. We go late so that we can avoid the majority of the people who shop. The store was fairly empty and we were running through, grabbing stuff, when I came around a corner and nearly bumped into someone.

“Excuse me,” I said, my voice muffled by my mask.

As soon as I spoke, I froze. I talked to someone, I thought. I wasn’t thinking. I wanted to yell after him, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to speak!” I didn’t want any of my germs somehow spewing through the mask in his direction.

We made a quick exit to the empty parking lot, and unloaded the cart. Then we got into the car and slathered ourselves in hand sanitizer. When we got home, we unloaded the car, put the groceries away, and then slathered again. It was almost normal, but not quite.

Maybe next month, we’ll go to a store again.

No One Bothered To Train Dylan.

While Shane is in his second week of school, Dylan is now in his second week as a pizza delivery driver.

Yep. He got a job delivering pizzas. He’s got some experience, having done “door dashing,” but this is his first real delivery job.

Day 1: Dylan went to work on time, and discovered that the other delivery driver thought it was sufficient to wear his mask on his chin. Dylan stayed four feet back, or as far away as he could, while wearing his mask securely over his nose and mouth.

Dylan accidentally gave away one pizza because he’d never heard the term “cash delivery.” None of us can quite understand why the pizza place is accepting cash deliveries, but we really can’t understand why no one told their brand new delivery driver about them.

Day 2: Dylan went back to work and discovered that the people in the kitchen also aren’t wearing masks. This time, he stayed way out of everyone’s way. Still no one bothered training him about delivery practices. No one told him how to distinguish between “paid” and “unpaid.” Fortunately, he didn’t lose any pizzas to “cash” deliveries on Day 2.

Day 3: Someone stole $80 worth of food from Dylan – this time a “cash” delivery that, everyone (including Dylan and the customer) thought was pre-paid. Customers gave him no tip because it was “already on the card.” Dylan nearly got fired.

Still no one bothered to train Dylan. Their favorite line seems to be, “You know how to do this, right?” But he does not know. Everyone is frustrated by this, no one more so than Dylan.

Still no one in the store seems to care about wearing their masks. Except Dylan.

Day 4: Customer who “stole” $80 worth of food called before Dylan’s shift began, wanting to know why their payment hadn’t gone through online. Dylan’s integrity and sanity was restored in one phone call. Best of all, Dylan was tipped $20 on the order.

The manager, who hired Dylan, finally stopped by for a few minutes during Dylan’s shift. People seem to behave better when he’s around. Dylan finally asked the manager about getting paid. He learned that he might actually be paid for his work, as long as he emails the manager to get a W-2 form.

No one is quite sure how long this job will last. I love these pizza people but I’m not sure how much longer I can handle having my son go completely untrained in a mask-free, untamed environment.

Dylan suggested, between Days 2 and 4, that maybe he’s just not right for this kind of job. He loves the driving, and enjoys delivery work. “But I just don’t really trust my coworkers,” he said.

There’s a reason this boy is in college. He is very bright.

He Went Back “To School.”

Today is the first day of school for Shane.

Everything is virtual for the entire semester. Thank you, Governor of Maryland and public school system, for keeping our children – and our teachers – safe and healthy.

We picked up Shane’s Chromebook last week, and we’d checked out his schedule then, too.

So today, Shane was ready to go. He got up, showered, ate breakfast, and was relaxing in his room when I found him for his First Day photo. Then he wandered down the hall with his Chromebook two minutes before his first class.

I was excited to see a bright smile on his teacher’s face as he logged in – and just before Shane threw me out of the room.

Later, I found out that the teacher I saw – the one teacher I saw – was actually the interpreter for deaf and hard-of-hearing students. Sigh. I technically didn’t “see” any of his teachers at all – and who knows if his first period teacher was even smiling?

I didn’t hear from Shane for an hour. By second period, I figured he didn’t need my help, so I took the dog for a walk. I didn’t have pockets, so I left my phone at home.

I came home to this text message:

I’m having some serious connection problems can someone help

Thinking, as usual, that I’m a terrible mother for leaving my son, I raced upstairs. Shane wasn’t where I’d left him!

I found him in his bedroom, sitting in a spider-web chair that he loves (but that seems tremendously uncomfortable).

“Are you okay?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t too late to be helpful.

Shane didn’t move his eyes from the screen. (He wants to always be paying attention.) “It’s fine now,” he said, barely moving his lips.

“Okay, well let me know if I can do anything,” I whispered.

I went back downstairs, defeated.

The next “class” was lunch.

Last week, I was excited to make Shane’s lunch during school – but Shane said, “I’ve been making my own breakfast and lunch for six months. Why don’t I see if I can just make my own lunches?”

In other words, Shane doesn’t want me to make food for him. So I didn’t. I encouraged him to eat on the porch, rather than in front of a TV or computer screen – which he did.

With his phone.

Then he went back “to school,” where he had the same teacher for both of his afternoon classes. Fortunately he already knows (and loves) the teacher, so he had a somewhat fun afternoon.

As always, Shane has zero friends in his classes. Since middle school, when they started switching classes, Shane’s friends have somehow always been in other classes. And every year, he makes a new friend or two – then those friends aren’t in his classes the following semester.

It’s a conundrum.

Still – Shane likes his teachers, and he’s happy with Day 1 of his new virtual schedule.

Truly, during a pandemic with the whole world upside down, this is the best it can be.

I Am On That Table.

Generally, I am afraid.

I am afraid people won’t like me. I have an offbeat sense of humor and a lot of what I say is misinterpreted, no matter how hard I try. I am honest but I am weird, and most people would prefer that I just act more “mainstream.”

But I can’t. My personality type is not only introverted, but also rather lost in a dreamland of non-reality.

So most people just don’t get me.

My intentions are always pure. I do my best to be kind and loving and considerate, because that’s The Golden Rule.

Still, I am afraid people will stomp on my heart. Sometimes I am blindsided by people who don’t understand me, who consider me to be hurtful or rude. It happens often – sometimes in my own house – and I am always surprised.

Because my intent is always to be genuine and helpful.

I share frequently from a vulnerable place inside myself that most people are loathe to share. I believe with everything I am that being honest and open is the only way to be.

Somehow, though, I can come across as callous and hurtful.

When email was invented, I was elated. I could finally edit what I said before I said it, so I could sound less brash. Writing a blog is even better: I write, read, re-read, edit, re-write, and then post. I make sure that what I say is exactly what I intended to say.

I try to limit myself to sharing how I feel. I try to not blame or judge other people, because that’s not my place. I’ve learned that nearly every ounce of my being is ruled by fear. I want to put all the people I love into a little bubble – especially now – and keep them all safe.

Over and over, I discover that faith and fear cannot coexist. But I have to keep learning, and keep rediscovering that faith works. It’s a tough lesson for me.

So I write about my fear. Knowing that many people have similar feelings, I think I am being helpful. I open myself up with a vulnerability that few people are willing to admit they even have – let alone discuss.

I write about my life, my trepidations. My blog is a place where I throw myself, wide open and naked, onto a table for all the world to see. While I hope that readers will empathize, that’s not always going to be the case.

Sometimes I am on that table, instead, to be dissected and pulverized.

Last week, I wrote about my fears. I am scared for my fellow softball players; I am scared for my family. I am not judging anyone else’s decisions, nor am I trying to control them. I desperately want everyone to be okay during a time where everything is, quite simply, not okay.

I am devastated that I can’t be a part of the fun stuff, a part of the world. Where I live, thanks to COVID, I don’t congregate. There is currently no safe way to gather. This terrifies me, and it breaks my heart.

Yet somehow, in my last blog, my intentions were misconstrued. I offended people by highlighting things about their choices that worried me. And for that offense, I am deeply sorry.

But I thought they knew – even if no one else did – that I would never speak negatively about them. I thought they understood that I love them unconditionally. I admire them. I cherish them to the depths of my very soul.

The people I offended have been my rocks when I had nowhere to stand, and they have been my soul when I was searching inside myself. They are the people who made me believe in goodness and light.

They are the people who – I thought – got me. And like everything else in my current world, this belief has now crumbled.

Like most people, I just want to be loved for who I am. But here I sit, wide open again, afraid to ask even to be forgiven.

It’s my blog; it’s my life; it’s my fear. This summer has threatened to choke the very life out of me. It’s been almost impossible to write. But I pull myself out of bed every day.

And I write, essentially, for myself. My blog averages 16 readers per post; I’m not in it for the fame. But I’m also never – not ever – trying to hurt anyone.

It’s not who I am.

I’m not perfect. I have to live with myself every day. And it’s hard. But I hope to learn and grow, even though I am old. I keep learning and learning, but I can never quite catch up to the rest of the world and its perceived but elusive serenity.

Maybe this is where faith steps in – again.

I Will Hold My Breath For Two Weeks.

I feel like my world is falling apart.

To be fair, everyone’s world has fallen apart – at least a little. But I just got some great news that is, for me, awful news.

In fact, I got awful/great news twice.

I found out that many of my senior softball friends are planning to play softball this fall. They are gearing up for a short, but intense, season. Our teams are comprised mostly of men aged 60 and up. Some of these guys are 80+.

Playing sports, to me, is a glorious team effort, where we high-five each other and yell in each other’s faces with both anguish and glee. It is a jumping-up-and-down, try-not-to-run-over-anyone-at-the-plate kind of experience.

We can’t play that kind of game right now. We can’t even safely stand near one another, for fear of killing our friends.

My former softball coach died of coronavirus. Next spring, I expect to read a roster of deaths the same length as a full softball team. And some of those deaths will be from playing fall ball.

I also recently learned that my beloved extended family – the cousins and aunts and uncles who form my most solid base of “family,” – are planning to hold an event that will put everyone I love together in one place. Everyone is older than me (55), and three of them are over the age of 90.

This frightens me. But the worst part is that they will be inviting hundreds of complete strangers into the fray. They are having a yard sale. People will come – with and without masks – and stand two feet away from them, and they will talk and spew and exchange money and probably shake hands. They will break bread together in the most literal way, and they will do it for two solid days with only a short break to rest in between.

I’ve been to this yard sale annually for ten years, but I will not be a part of this endeavor.

Instead, when it is all over, 250 miles away, I will hold my breath for two weeks. I’ll wait and see if they all escape without coronavirus. I’ll wait to see if everyone lives.

In my hometown, an immensely populated area, our county has recently declined to 105 cases per day. Where my yard-sale family lives, the number of cases has recently risen to 100 new cases per day. And while my family canceled the same yard sale in May – when there were only 14 new cases per day – they are forging ahead with the same event just as their area experiences a 700% increase in COVID cases.

I’m so scared – for them, and to live without them. I’ve been hopeful that this virus would eliminate only those people I didn’t know. (I am a selfish sort.) But already, that’s not been the case.

While my two mature, responsible teenagers stay home from school and talk to their friends only on Instagram and Facetime, my teammates and family have decided they’re tired of waiting for this pandemic to pass.

They’ve decided it’s time, right now, to risk their lives.

The way I see it, we have to work together. We have to hang in there for a few more months, and be responsible, and get this under control before we go back to doing fun things.

But I can’t make decisions for everybody.

Loki Has Never Been Happier.

I can’t help but notice that there is one member of my family who is actually rather ecstatic about the pandemic, and he doesn’t even know it exists.

Our dog, Loki, has never been happier.

Today I got a haircut. Dylan and Bill were both out, but Shane was still home. In five months, I’m not sure Loki’s been left completely alone. Someone is always in the house with him, being part of his pack.

Six months ago, this was not the case. A haircut would have been something I would have “squeezed in” between work and picking up Shane at play rehearsal. Today it was the highlight – and only activity – of my day.

When I came home, Loki greeted me like I’d been gone for a week.

Loki knows that, lately, when we go somewhere we generally take him with us. He goes on walks. He goes for rides in the car (to the library). Sometimes he even rides with us to pick up take-out or ice cream. He’s even gotten two doggie sundaes in five months!

Sometimes Loki goes on vacation for the day. It’s not quite doggie daycare; he pretends he’s a therapy dog. We loan him out like a good book – but only to people we love. My parents have created a second home for him, and he loves it even more at their house. (They pay even more attention to him than we do.)

When he’s home, Loki bonds with us. We spend hours with this dog, letting him cuddle up next to us at all hours of the day and night. He’s fed with great regularity, and we’re all very well-rested. There’s no shortage to his exercise, and we even play games with him.

The games are mental stimulation – not just for Loki, but for us.

I wonder if, someday, we’ll go back to our fast-paced approach to life. Perhaps in six months, or a year, we’ll be working and schooling and running errands. A haircut will be squeezed in again, and we’ll sometimes go out for entertainment.

Will we then leave the house without so much as a glance at our dog? I wonder if we’ll go back to flinging a treat across the floor and high-tailing it out to the car before we notice his sad eyes. I wonder if he’ll wonder, in the future, what changed.

Quite honestly, I hope the pendulum doesn’t swing back quite that far. I’ve enjoyed spending time with my dog. I’ve enjoyed lying around with few responsibilities and nothing but time on my hands. Yes, I’m bored. But I’ve rediscovered the simple pleasures – one of which is my dog.

The difference, I think, is that he hasn’t changed anything at all. Loki has been right here, wanting to be with us, then and now.