Back in the fall, Dylan auditioned for a music scholarship at Belmont University. He was excited to major in Commercial Music – a choice that is rarely offered at colleges.
Since Dylan sings like an angel, he thought very little about his audition. He had to sing one opera song and two commercial songs. He picked his audition songs rather randomly.
Dylan sounded great on audition day. In fact, he sounded a little too great on those commercial music songs.
The Coordinator of Vocal Studies for Belmont has performed with a dozen different operas, and was one of nine national finalists in a competition sponsored by the Met. And the Coordinator of Vocal Studies was one of the judges on audition day.
He heard Dylan sing that one opera song, and refused Dylan admission to the Commercial Music program.
Not only did Dylan get no scholarship, he also got rejected from the program of his choice. Dylan got an email from the vocal studies coordinator, explaining that Dylan could, instead, enroll in Belmont’s classical music program. (The classical track at Belmont is called Music Performance.)
But Dylan could have studied classical music anywhere. In fact, he had huge scholarships offered to him at other colleges. Dylan wanted to study Commercial Music at Belmont; he didn’t want to study opera.
So Dylan jumped through hoops, made phone calls, and sent pleading emails. Long story short: he chose to enroll in the Music Performance program – the classical track – in the hopes of getting a scholarship from Belmont’s School of Music.
But Dylan never got a music scholarship from Belmont.
He had trained for years, and had many, many scholarships offered to him from other colleges. But all of those scholarships meant that he would study classical music and train to become either a conductor, a music teacher, or an opera singer.
Dylan likes heavy metal. He likes country. He likes electronic dance music. He likes rock and roll, some pop, blues, R&B, and even classical music. Dylan has the most eclectic musical taste of anyone I’ve ever known; and yes, he even likes singing opera.
But that’s not what he wants to do with his life.
So, when preparing to register for classes, we talked a lot with Dylan about his choices. He’s convinced – as we are – that he chose the right college. It is a perfect fit. But is he going to be able to do what he loves, as a career?
Dylan wants to sing. He’d like to do it professionally and help people and make enough money to support a family. All of us agree that it’s a long-shot, but that he’s in the right place to make it happen, if it’s going to happen.
His backup plan is to work in the music industry. There are a ton of jobs in the music industry that Dylan hasn’t yet explored. And the appropriate majors for those industry jobs are all offered at Belmont. There’s Music Business, Entertainment Industry Studies, Music Theory, Songwriting, Music Composition, Audio Engineering, Music Therapy – the list goes on and on.
So while Dylan is figuring out which way to go, he stuck with Music Performance as his choice of major. But he prepared to register for the fall semester by choosing courses that would be suitable for any major.
Now … we just wait.
When Dylan was diagnosed with ADHD, I did one thing well: research.
I had no idea what I was dealing with, so I scoured the internet for everything I could find on ADHD. I went to meetings of the local CHADD chapter. I read every library book I could find, and bought the ones I couldn’t find. I studied Celebrate Calm techniques for years, trying to understand how to function with an ADHD kid in the house. I even signed up Dylan for an ADHD brain study at the National Institutes of Health.
When Shane was diagnosed with OCD, I felt much calmer.
I went straight to the computer. Within ten minutes, I discovered the most effective treatment for OCD, which is – according to all the experts – Exposure and Response Prevention (ERP). Twenty minutes after that, I had a list of all the therapists in the county who provided ERP therapy; three of them even took our insurance. I emailed all three of them (at 11:00 at night) and then waited for a response.
I got one the next day. Two of the three therapists didn’t respond, so we went to the in-network therapist who did respond. As frustrating as it was that the other two didn’t answer, I think this was a sign from God. This therapist was also the only male who took our insurance. He seems to know what he’s doing, and Shane likes him.
But I am not a part of Shane’s treatment.
There is no “Celebrate Calm” for OCD parents. There is an International OCD Foundation, but support groups are not very active. And OCD is something I already understand, since I frequently think the same way Shane does. So I have nothing to do.
In fact, after Shane’s first therapy session, Shane said that my job is to NOT reassure him whenever he feels like he needs reassurance.
What kind of job is that for a mom?
In other words, one day Shane opened up and told me he needed me. A few days later, he started therapy and I had to back off.
This isn’t the type of hands-on care with which I am comfortable. Dylan may not have needed reassurance, but he sure did need help. For 18 years, I’ve been helping and helping and helping!
Shane needs nothing more than a ride to therapy.
I am realizing – slowly and sadly – that Shane’s OCD briefly gave me an opportunity to feel needed, to delve into a disorder again so I could “help” him. But I can’t help.
Or rather, I can help – by doing nothing.
So I read a book – a memoir about OCD called Because We Are Bad, by Lily Bailey. And then I asked Shane questions – mostly: “Does this happen to you?”
What I’ve learned is that OCD experiences vary widely. But it is the debilitation factor that makes people with OCD seek help. Maybe I have obsessive thoughts, but I have found a way to conquer my compulsions.
And that’s a good thing.
For Shane, I think, we’ve caught his OCD before it becomes so debilitating that he could become dysfunctional. And after reading Because We Are Bad, I think the “early” catch is entirely thanks to Shane telling us about his issues.
Author Lily Bailey chose to keep her OCD a secret. She wanted to appear “perfect,” but her thoughts and compulsions nearly drove her mad.
I’ve heard that we are only as sick as our secrets, so I am thrilled that Shane was able to talk to us – even if it means I have absolutely nothing to do.
With a week to go before college orientation, Dylan still hadn’t done a lot of the stuff on his pre-orientation checklist. Fortunately, he had done a lot of stuff on the list, which turned out to be more essential than any of us could have realized.
On the day that I insisted that Dylan finish his checklist – because he wasn’t going to be home any other day prior to orientation – Dylan had an attitude. He wanted another “day off” to “relax” and there were no more “days off” to be had.
So he spent all day grouching around the house at me, even though I spent my morning shuffling back and forth to the high school for Shane’s benefit, then preparing for our ten-hour trip to Dylan’s upcoming orientation.
Meanwhile, Dylan spent hours trying to register his bicycle. He had questions, so he tried calling and then emailing, and got no answers. After an hour, his bike still wasn’t any closer to registered than it had been previously.
While he was waiting to hear back, Dylan tried to figure out the financial aid requirements. This was way harder than either of us realized and we gave up promptly.
Then Dylan started tearing the house apart, looking for the class schedule he’d prepared for fall registration. He’d spent hours – a full month earlier – creating that schedule. It was the most important thing he’s done for college, but he lost his list of classes. He had read through all the core requirements and major requirements, checking out the online registration system, and deciding which classes he wanted. He’d even chosen alternates in case those classes were full.
Then he simply lost the piece of paper. In fact, he lost all the related papers I’d printed out, too, highlighting the core requirements and those of various majors. Of course Dylan had no idea what classes he’d decided to take, let alone what alternates he’d chosen.
While he was still perplexed by the lost paper, he heard back from the bicycle registration people. So he started registering his bike again. Unfortunately, after another half an hour and some time in the garage with his bicycle, he discovered that the serial number didn’t fit into the appropriate box – which held only nine of the ten digits.
And that was the end of the line for Dylan. In spite of the two hours he’d wasted not quite registering his bicycle, he decided to leave his bicycle at home.
Hours later, as Dylan was bashing his head against the wall because he’d have to re-do all that course registration work, I hopped on my computer and reprinted the list of classes that he’d chosen a month earlier.
Just in case he misplaced his earlier work, I’d cut-and-pasted Dylan’s class choices from the college website into a Word document. I didn’t even remember doing it.
Dylan hadn’t even looked in his designated folder on my computer.
When I handed him the reprinted list, he didn’t say, “Wow thanks, Mom!” There was no sigh of relief. Instead he said, “How was I supposed to know you had a list on your computer?!”
My guess is, there will be no list when he tries to register for the second semester. In fact, he’ll be lucky to remember to register at all. And if class registration is far away from his dorm, Dylan won’t be able to get there at all, because he won’t have his bicycle.
I’m glad I won’t be there next time. Mr. I-Can-Do-Everything might have to actually Do Something.
Years ago, I had desk lamps all over my apartment. I’d picked them up from people who didn’t need them, probably mostly from my parents, and used them as table lamps because I was too poor to get table lamps of my own.
Then I got married. Bill had at least one desk lamp, too, which he used – surprisingly – on his desk. Bill also had some table lamps, and then my sister gave me some table lamps, and my parents gave me some more table lamps. And we furnished our house with all the lamps we could need!
But we really didn’t need any desk lamps. Our desks were well-lit by sunshine, and computers need less light than typewriters do, so I got rid of all of our desk lamps. I freecycled most of them, meaning – I gave them away.
Then Dylan had his college orientation, and we visited a sample room in his dorm. His bed is going to be lofted, and his desk will be under his bed.
It’s dark under his bed. Not pitch black, by any stretch, but dark enough that it might be nice if he had – you guessed it – a desk lamp.
So I started shopping online for desk lamps. This is not an easy task, since they now come with USB ports and clip-on devices. They have extra long cords, for those who have few electrical outlets, and battery-operated desk lamps for those who have no electrical outlets at all. Some of the reviews of the desk lamps imply that the USB chargers stop working after a month or two of use. Other reviews claim having four USB chargers is the best thing.
Desk lamps range in price from about $5 to around $200.
I was losing my mind. I spent a whole day shopping online before whining to Facebook friends. I kept searching, after friends gave me tips. And then – after a long Friday – I decided to order a bunch of new sandals for my summer wardrobe instead.
Saturday morning, I took the dog out to a yard sale that I found online. It was a 20-minute drive, and turned out to be in a townhome development. The “multi-family” sale actually encompassed only two families, and there were only two tables of sale items.
I went all the way to the other side of town for THIS?!?
I parked anyway, since I had the dog, and walked about half a mile to the yard sale. I didn’t expect to find anything I needed but there – right in the center of one of the two tables – sat a desk lamp.
It was silver, no USB cords, and no light bulb. And amidst all of the $20 pottery and $10 wall hangings, the desk lamp was marked with a little post-it note that said, FREE.
“Does this work?” I asked the yard sale guy.
“It works fine,” he said. “My wife just doesn’t like it.”
“Does it use regular light bulbs?”
“Yep, LED or any kind of regular-sized light bulb.”
“And it’s free?”
“Sure,” he said. “Enjoy.”
So I walked the desk lamp – and my dog – half a mile back to my car.
Two weeks later, Bill needed a lamp to work on something, so he turned on Dylan’s desk lamp and used it for light. It’s July, but five minutes later, I started checking to see if we’d inadvertently turned on the heat. The “free” lamp was putting out so much heat, I thought it might catch on fire before Bill finished his work.
We threw away the free desk lamp, and I bought him one online.
Sigh.
Addendum to the refrigerator story:
We tried for several hours to find someone from Front Air Delivery who would actually help us with our problem: the refrigerator had been left in the garage, rather than installed, thanks to a hasty delivery person who didn’t think he was being paid enough to move the whole refrigerator into the actual kitchen.
I learned this: Front Air Delivery has absolutely NO online presence. While we have a phone number – ironically in Tennessee, where Dylan will be attending college – we have no way to verify that this company actually exists.
Also this: calling any of the numbers for Home Depot delivery or Front Air Delivery resulted in a recorded message that seemed to be helpful, but did nothing but route and re-route the caller to different recorded messages.
Interestingly, the delivery person claimed that we were at fault because we “refused to sign required paperwork” acknowledging the fine job of the delivery person. That delivery person never presented me with paperwork.
Unfortunately, when Bill finally gave up on Front Air Delivery and walked into our local Home Depot store, he was greeted with disdain by workers who read these comments, and thought we were at fault. But the Home Depot people told Bill that they would have someone come to our house and move the refrigerator into our kitchen, free of charge, on Friday.
Friday came. Friday went.
At about 3:00, having called Home Depot a few times with varying results, Bill found a woman named Cheryl.
Cheryl changed everything. She read the notes written by the delivery person, and started to attack Bill – but by the end of his telling of the saga, Cheryl was stunned.
“No he did not,” she repeated.
At the end of the story, she snapped to life. First she put Bill on hold for a long time. Then she returned.
“I will have someone out there tomorrow morning between 8:00 and 10:00,” she said. “They will move your old refrigerator and install the new one for you.”
Bill was thrilled. But Cheryl wasn’t done. “And for your troubles,” she said, “I am giving you $100 off the price of the refrigerator. I will call you when I come in at 11:00 to make sure that everything was done to your satisfaction, and get that refund started.”
And on Saturday morning, midway between 8:00 and 10:00, two men from Home Depot showed up in our driveway. They were polite, professional, and hardworking. They did everything Cheryl said they would do, refusing even a monetary tip, and they went on their way.
Cheryl called just after 11:00, like she said she would. When Bill asked what he could ever do for her, Cheryl told Bill, “It’s hot out there. Someday you can bring me a Slurpee.”
She made everything okay again.
Graduation Day 2019:
Dylan had little interest in attending his own ceremony, but his parents, brother, aunt and grandparents all wanted to see him graduate. So we got up at dawn, went all the way into downtown Washington, DC during rush hour, and found our seats in the balcony – where most parents were seated – and near the stage.
It was a fiasco getting there, which kept me distracted from feeling anything like “sadness” on a very cloudy morning.
When they played the graduation march, nearly 300 kids streamed into their seating area, traveling from somewhere outside the arena to fill half the floor of a very large auditorium. Dressed in black gowns with orange trim, the procession was organized and neat. Finding Dylan among them was not easy, but I did. And for a moment, I wanted to cry.
While I listened to the speakers, I mostly stared at Dylan, sitting amongst the graduates, relatively attuned to what was going on around him. I imagined that he was thinking about all the years he’d spent with the kids who surrounded him; he probably wasn’t.
The principal mentioned him by name – just his first name, because everyone knew. She thanked him for the wonderful music he gave to them all. I gasped a little, realizing he’d been recognized for the thing he loves most.
I watched people walk across the stage whose names I recognized from Dylan’s kindergarten class, “Emily P” and “Emily A” and “Aliyah W” – whose last names I never knew but who, in kindergarten, had to be identified by initial because of the popularity of their first names.
None of them were five years old anymore.
When Dylan walked across the stage, I was too busy filming to pay much attention. When I watched the video, I noticed that he didn’t get the roars of approval that went to the popular kids – the ones who bullied Dylan in middle school, the ones whose lives probably began and ended in the past six years.
But Dylan’s family and friends cheered as loudly as we could.
The ceremony was just that: a ritual observance. Later that evening, we had a more intimate celebration: a nice dinner where the whole family was loving and kind and funny and sweet. It was a beautiful celebration.
It was impossible not to cry then.
It is impossible to believe that Dylan has graduated from high school. It’s certainly a reality, but it’s just a moment – one, singular moment – in a lifetime of great days, great times, great things Dylan has done and will do.
This summer, I am desperately trying to take each moment one at a time and not be overwhelmed by the inevitable loss. So far, I am failing miserably, frustrating Dylan with my inability to keep it together. But – if nothing else – Graduation Day was one beautiful, treasured moment.
We ordered a new refrigerator. Weeks of research showed that there are no reputable refrigerator brands, so we just picked one and ordered it from Home Depot.
Delivery was scheduled for yesterday. I got a 30-minute warning and removed the food from our old fridge, preparing for the new arrival.
The delivery guy walked in, took one look behind our old refrigerator, and said, “Oh no. You no haf de walf on de wall. De water walf no can be in de basement.”
Our water shut-off valve was in the basement.
I know this because Bill spent 20 minutes showing me where to find it, and how to work it. Bill had turned off the water two days prior.
“The water’s already shut off,” I said.
The delivery guy went into a dissertation on company policies, the dangers of a leaking water line, and how he could not guarantee his installation unless the “walf” was installed in the proper place.
We called Bill. Then the delivery company called Bill. The delivery guy and the company were in agreement: there would be no refrigerator installed unless a plumber came to our home and relocated the water valve to its proper place behind the refrigerator.
But Bill knows things. He is a true DIY kind of guy.
Bill called from work in near-hysterics. “I’m not paying a plumber a thousand dollars just to reroute a valve! Push the fridge out. I’m going to teach you how to disconnect the water line!”
“Okay,” I said, locating the little tube behind the refrigerator.
“Oh no,” said the delivery man. “You get water everywhere if you do that! You end up with de flood all over de kitchen!”
“But the water is turned off,” I told the delivery guy, with Bill still on the phone.
The delivery guy shook his head ominously. “Not to de whole house!”
“I’m coming home to do it myself,” Bill shrieked. “It’s one turn of a bolt!”
The delivery guy shook his head again. “I can no wait. I have eight-to-ten other deliveries to do.”
“Oh my God,” Bill said. “Tell him just to leave the refrigerator in the kitchen and I’ll hook it up myself when I get there.”
“Oh no,” said the delivery guy. “I’ve been here too long. I can’t bring inside the refrigerator. I have to make other deliveries.”
“You can’t even bring it inside?” I wailed. “You’ve been standing here doing nothing for 20 minutes and you’re telling me it’s too late now?”
“I can leave in the garage for you,” he said. “I will come back and move it next Tuesday.”
I looked around at the food on the counter, suddenly enraged.
“But it will only take you five minutes to move it now!” I wailed.
“No,” he said. “It could take longer. I might have to take off de doors to move.”
I screamed some more, to no avail. “Just leave it in the garage,” I said.
Half an hour later, Bill disconnected the water line. It took 40 seconds.
Not one drop of water fell.
We spent the next two hours on the phone trying to get someone to move the refrigerator from the garage to the kitchen. The delivery guy wrote “owners refused to sign paperwork when accepting delivery” on his report. No one asked me to sign anything. And our time on the phone was futile.
At nightfall, Bill drove to our local Home Depot store. Bypassing the delivery company, Home Depot offered to move our new refrigerator into our kitchen. They’ve even promised to connect the water line.
We’ll see.
After struggling mightily in Honors Spanish 3 early in the school year, Shane eeked out a B in the class. He was thrilled – and more than ready to quit.
Shane’s teacher, who worked with him to bring his grade up from a C in the fall, went on maternity leave in January – and Shane thrived with the substitute. Sometimes he even got A’s – but he didn’t ever feel comfortable.
Shane’s teacher came back for one week at the end of the year, and sent me this note after school ended:
Hello, I just returned from maternity leave and I was so happy to see that Shane did well while I was gone. I’m happy to report that he earned a B for both Quarter 4 and Semester 2 in Spanish 3. I’m proud of him and see that he has made growth in his writing in Spanish and in his vocabulary.
I hope he will take what he has learned about himself as a learner and the language skills he acquired this year as he continues with Spanish next year. I encourage him to spend some time over the summer doing some things to brush up on his Spanish so that he doesn’t lose what he has gained and so that he can continue to catch up on vocabulary he didn’t learn in middle school…. Hope you all have a great summer!
Unfortunately, Shane had already given up. I wrote this response to Shane’s teacher:
Thanks for all your efforts with Shane. He was so gung-ho at the beginning of the year, ready to learn and speak Spanish. He wanted so badly to be able to speak the language.
Unfortunately, one year in Spanish 3 killed all of his spirit. He studied hard, got a B, and decided that he would never be able to speak Spanish. We were on vacation when you sent this email, and we ran into someone who could only speak Spanish. We needed to ask her if there was dairy in the scrambled egg batter. Shane didn’t know the word for butter, or eggs, although he did know the word for milk.
He said, “I really thought after three years, I’d be able to say something. But the only thing I could say was ‘help.'” And “help” – like most of the words Shane knows best – Shane learned from watching Dora the Explorer in preschool.
His teacher responded, and I felt bad for her. It’s not her fault that Shane didn’t want to give his efforts to speaking Spanish. And why the schools can’t teach as well as Dora is also a mystery.
I wished his teacher well with future students, but sometimes I think things are just not meant to be.
I know that learning a new language is hard, and that it can be done with great effort, studying and – most importantly – practice. Shane just didn’t want it that much.
And while it is sad, I can understand Shane’s frustration. I took Spanish for two years in high school and another two years in college. And everything I know, I learned from Sesame Street and Dora the Explorer, too.
First, I think my life is going to end. Dylan is going to college – my little baby is leaving home – and I think, I can’t survive this. And I picture him two feet high and toddling toward me, running at full speed in his wobbly way, with that huge smile on his face as he knocks me over with his immense hug.
No, I absolutely will not survive his leaving.
Just as I begin to feel sad, I remember: Dylan needs to go. He needs to learn and grow – to do and feel and be. He needs to be himself, without us, without a fallback, without turning to his parents for every tiny decision. He needs to become responsible, healthy, and adult – not just in age, but in temperament.
But I can’t stand this thought; it is too much to bear. I want the baby back. I want to brush that mop of unruly red hair, put Dylan in tiny moccasins and a Youth XS tie-dye, and take him to the petting zoo to feed the goats.
Then this thought is too much to bear: Dylan is too old for petting zoos.
I know better! Dylan still loves petting zoos. He thinks goats are great. And he will go with me, every year, to feed the goats at our local Halloween stomping grounds.
But this year, he won’t be home for Halloween. Shane and I will feed the goats without Dylan for the first time in 15 years.
My only redeeming thought is this: Shane is still here. I get to be with Shane, to spend time with him, to treat Shane in the special way I treated Dylan before Shane was born.
Shane gets three years now; Dylan got three years then.
But these three years won’t be spent doing finger-painting or collecting acorns or riding tricycles. No, Shane is a bit too old for the things I did with Dylan during his special time.
Instead, Shane and I will watch movies, play board games, and sit on our respective computers while he plays video games and I plan our upcoming travel. Shane and I will go and visit colleges.
In three lightning-quick years, Shane will be leaving home, too. And that is the last thought I have before I stop thinking altogether.
Dear Special Ed Coordinator,
I will make a long story short: my son, Shane, has just been diagnosed with OCD. While he is not completely incapacitated, Shane is having a lot of trouble with reading. By that I mean, he struggles to get through a single paragraph and comprehend its meaning – sometimes re-reading the same paragraph over and over and over again, which can make his homework nearly impossible.
I know we’re getting into June, but I am hopeful that we can have a very brief meeting before the school year ends. While Shane has (just last week) started therapy for his OCD, I would like him to have a 504 that gives him the option of extra time. He could progress by leaps and bounds over the summer, but he is taking several Honors courses and an AP class next year (10th grade). If he falls behind at the beginning of the year, he will have a very tough time catching up. So I would like him to have the 504 in place before the year starts, just in case.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been involved in constructing a 504, so I don’t remember how long it takes to develop. Please let me know your thoughts. Thank you.
PS – Please note that while I will miss you and the wonderful Special Ed team since Dylan is finally graduating, that is not my reasoning for providing Shane with a 504.
