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.
I’ve spent the vast majority of my life believing no one
really cared what I thought. My parents seemed to care – and, looking back, I
am certain that they did.
They do now.
Recently someone told me that I was still tied to my parents,
more so than most adults. That thought has loomed in the back of my mind like a
lead balloon, thwonking around.
Then I realized, I am still tied to my parents. I am, because
I still believe they are the only ones who care what I think.
Ironically, they are also the ones who gave me the idea that
no one else cared.
“No one really cares what you think,” my mother said – many times. “People only care about themselves.”
This statement emerged whenever I was worried about
something: my new haircut, perhaps, or what I’d said to the stranger standing
next to me in line, or how much money I’d contributed to a local fundraiser.
My mother wanted to make sure I knew that people only
thought about themselves, and that I needn’t worry.
But my takeaway, given my propensity toward insecurity, was that – well, no one really cares about me. And I’ve believed that – with or without her words – since the dawn of time.
Why in a million years would anyone care what I think? I’m just a tiny little cog in a
billion-person wheel that would turn just fine without me. I never doubted that
I was utterly unnecessary on this planet. I never even questioned it.
Then I became a parent.
And suddenly, someone needed me. After a few years, two someones needed me.
They needed me for food and shelter and warmth and comfort.
They needed me for security and love. They needed me for all their basic wants
and needs – and eventually, they turned to me for … words of wisdom.
I tried very hard to know everything for them. Since I felt like I knew nothing, I read books. Oh, did I read books! And the internet was available for those days when I couldn’t find the right book – so I studied that, too. I researched everything I could possibly research.
I researched until one day, after many years, I read a few
words that changed me. They said something akin to this: No matter how much you research, eventually you just have to go with
your gut.
And that’s when I became a better mom.
Around that time, I also started to realize: my kids care what I think.
So I started telling my kids every single thing I’d ever thought. Any day could be my last, so I wanted to make sure my boys knew all of the important things I’d been considering over the course of my several decades of existence.
They may have thought I was trying to control them, but I
was actually just trying to impart whatever knowledge I had, just in case they
needed it.
All of it.
As a result, I’m pretty sure I was a terrible parent. Because
when those teen years hit, both boys decided they’d had enough of my knowledge.
And then – completely out of the blue – someone who is not my son said to me (not in these
words): “I care what you think.”
I was flabbergasted. Someone else cares what I think?
To be honest, it truly never occurred to me that anyone – ever,
anywhere, other than my two forcibly trained children – would care what I think.
The concept has been a major awakening for me.
I am awake. And I am still stunned.
Sometimes I think I have some kind of ailment – something that no one else has, which is maybe why people think I’m a little weird.
I have a real problem with this whole “choosing classes” thing.
I’m not in school. Yet I spend hours and hours and hours looking at course catalogs for both high school (for Shane) and college (for Dylan).
I go through them with great fervor, thinking about each course. Would this be good for my son? Would this fit his schedule at this particular time? What might it entail, and how would my son benefit from learning this subject?
I’d like to say that I stop there, but I don’t. Not only do I create Bible-sized booklets of lists, outlining the options that are clearly already available on the web, but I revamp them and create new formats to make them easily readable for whichever son might be registering for classes.
What’s especially interesting is that these registration time frames only happen twice a year. But I spend weeks, sometimes months, considering the options.
And they aren’t even my options! I am not taking the classes, nor would I want to take the classes. I have no desire to go and sit in a classroom again. I don’t really even want my children to go through this, except that they kinda have to.
So I try to make it as pain-free as possible for them. And I try to make the process fun and interesting and easy, by paring down the courses to fit the path each person has chosen – while still making sure that graduation will come on time and in good stead.
It’s not that I have nothing to do; I have plenty of other things to do. But when registration is over and I have to wait another several months before starting the process again, I do the unthinkable.
I stare at the finished schedule. I read it, and re-read it, and imagine my son in those classes, and just wallow in it, like it’s an ice cream sundae that I’ve created rather than a list.
Then I write blogs about those choices, in case anyone else cares what my kids are planning to take. I’m not even sure my own kids care.
But wow, I really care. I love this process. I have no idea why, or what it means, or how on earth I could be so utterly obsessed.
As I said, I think I have a problem.
One night Bill said, “Did you see Dylan’s band picture?”
“What band picture?” I asked.
A lot of time passed while Bill fiddled with his phone. Eventually, he held out a photo for me to see.
There, in the photo, was Dylan – and his band – all dressed in black, looking serious. The Instagram caption read, “See us live…”
I texted Dylan immediately: WHAT?!? YOUR BAND HAS A GIG?!?
Sure enough, his band had a gig.
Dylan’s first gig with his first band was fast approaching – and I was not going to be there. I was not going to see my baby sing, for the first time ever. He was 500 miles from home, singing with a band I didn’t know, in a record store I’d never visited, in a town full of aspiring musicians on a lively Saturday night.
I couldn’t take it.
I imagined him there, dressed like a rock star, singing 10 songs I’d never heard. I imagined me sitting in front of my TV – 500 miles away, wishing someone would have live-streamed the event.
I tried to change my flight – since I’d been planning to visit him a few days later anyway. It was my “special” time to visit him – but I’d chosen the dates rather randomly. To change my flight and fly down for his gig would cost $500.
I tossed and turned and fidgeted and whined. I wanted to see Dylan sing!
Suddenly it hit me: I could drive to Nashville. It would take a little longer but I could do it!
I texted Dylan again: I’m thinking about driving up for the weekend instead of the following week
He texted back: up to you
Hm. It was up to me, but maybe he didn’t want his mother standing in the front row with a camera while he performed. Maybe he wanted to do this on his own, as he’d done so much else in the past six months.
I texted again: I’d be happy to see the band but if you don’t want me there tell me now
He texted back immediately: I want you to be there
And that was that. I was going to Nashville to see my baby sing.
Shane recently chose classes for his junior year of high school.
Because I am utterly obsessed with choosing classes (and may have to go back to school when both of my kids graduate just to have the ability to continue choosing classes), I “helped” Shane.
We have a four-year tentative schedule that we keep in “his” drawer, outlining all of his classes. It makes it easy to see what he needs to graduate, what aspirations he might have for graduation, and what his transcript will look like from the viewpoint of a college admissions officer.
Shane decided not to do the POS program, the IBCP program, the IB program, or any other “organized” program. He wanted to take classes that he enjoys, while still having a rigorous schedule.
Shane’s four-year schedule includes five AP classes. For the uninitiated, these are college-level classes taken during high school. Most colleges will accept AP courses as college credits, as long as a student gets a passing grade on the final AP exam. Shane is taking one of those AP classes now, and he actually enjoys it.
One day, though, I remembered someone saying something during the awards ceremony last year – the year that Dylan graduated. It was something about kids who took a certain number of AP courses….
I went back and watched the online video that another parent had kindly posted on YouTube. I scrolled through until I got to a specific section and – sure enough! – there it was!
A student can receive a special award for being an AP Scholar if he takes six AP courses during high school.
Shane was already planning to take five.
So, as he was bolting up the stairs one day to hide out in his room, I asked, “Hey, do you want to be an AP Scholar?”
He stopped bolting and leaned over the stair railing. “I don’t know. Someone was just talking about that at school. What is it?”
“You get an award for taking a certain number of AP classes.”
“How many AP classes do I need?”
“Six.”
“How many do I have?”
“Five.”
“Okay,” Shane said. “I’ll do it.”
So I looked at his schedule again, thought about the various options, and scoured the web for courses, even though I know them practically by heart. Then I printed out those options so that Shane could see what looked feasible – and how he could pull it off without changing much.
He ended up moving a social studies class to senior year, and squeezing in AP Computer Science during his junior year – which will make next year tough, but not impossible.
And it guarantees that Shane can (if he follows his own plan) be an AP Scholar and get that award when he graduates.
Better yet, he can take six classes for practically free in high school, so I can pay for fewer of those same classes when he goes to college.
Win-win!
Shane is now a full-fledged teenager. He grunts at me instead of talking. This is different than his social qualms. It’s just with me.When I ask him a direct question, the answer is often “mmm” or “urg.” And when I don’t ask a question, I don’t even get a grunt.
I told him that trying to have a conversation with him felt – to me – like I was asking him to rip off one of his legs and hand it to me. He’s not always – but often – that uncommunicative.
It feels as though Shane is angry with his parents.
Back in the day, when I was a teenager, I was angry with my parents. In fact, I dragged out my adolescence and corresponding anger for about ten years. From my perspective, my parents hadn’t done anything right from the time I was about 10 until I was almost 30.
I want to make one thing perfectly clear: I was not a deprived child. I had a roof over my head every night. In spite of what my parents tell me now, I do not recall being poor and I definitely never went hungry.
When high school rolled around, I had everything I wanted or needed, including the ever-popular Jordache jeans with a tiger-style comb sticking out of the back pocket. I even had platform shoes.
My parents – those non-Jordache-wearing, non-comb-sporting old people (in their 30’s) – well, they were losers. They didn’t know anything about anything. And I most certainly knew everything.
At the time, I just wanted to get away from my parents. And I wanted to be away from them ALL. THE. TIME.
My parents loved me. They adored me, in fact, for no apparent reason. Even during those awful years, while I was pulling away with all of my might to become independent, if anyone had asked me I probably would have acknowledged it: “Yes,” I would have said, “I know they love me. But what does that have to do with anything?”
Later in life – much, much later – a friend was talking about her childhood using terms I didn’t recognize. She said words like “unsafe” and “fear.” At the time, I didn’t comprehend there were real families that were unstable. I didn’t know there were kids who were scared, even at home.
I never had that feeling.
So – much, much later – I realized that I’d had the two most important things in life: security and love. And I suddenly noticed that my parents weren’t nearly the idiots I thought they were.
But it took me a long time to notice.
When Bill and I started a family, our plan was to offer security and love. We were not perfect by any stretch, and there was far more yelling in my own house than there had been when I was growing up. But it was honest yelling, and while we may (still) disagree too loudly, we also have kept the communication lines open.
Except for Shane, who never yelled. And now, he says very little. On a good day, he’ll forget and he’ll chat about stuff and it will be just like it was back in the day – about a year ago. We’ll talk like we’re friends.
And then the grunting will start again, and my feelings will be hurt again.
Someday, though, maybe ten years from now, Shane will look back on his childhood and realize that we aren’t complete idiots and that we, too, provided him with security and love.
I just hope he gets there sooner than I did.
One morning, while it was still dark outside – like it is every morning before high school in the winter – Shane got up before his alarm went off.
Ugh, he thought, I really don’t want to get up yet. But he got up anyway.
He dragged himself down the hall and into the bathroom. As he does every day, he showered and washed his hair. He got dry. Then he went back down the hall to his bedroom.
When he arrived, his digital clock read 1:00 a.m.
Upon hearing this story, I assumed Shane’s clock was malfunctioning. “Oh no!” I exclaimed. “Did the electricity go out?”
“No,” he said. “It really was 1:00 in the morning. I just woke up before my alarm and went and got a shower.”
“You mean you got out of bed in the middle of the night, got a whole shower and washed your hair, and then found out it was the middle of the night?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t know why I thought it was time to get up. I remember walking down the hall and everything, but I don’t remember getting out of bed.”
Shane has a propensity toward sleepwalking, I think. In fact, this may have been our first example.
One night when Shane and I were in California, Shane had only been asleep for a few minutes when I accidentally bumped something and the noise woke him up. Shane rolled over, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “4-3-3-8-9. I’m pretty sure that’s the number. 4-3-3-8-9. Okay? I’m pretty sure.”
Then he went back to sleep.
I texted the number to his phone. I didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about, but I wasn’t going to forget it!
In the morning, Shane had no idea why I had texted him a number. He had no recollection of the conversation but he’d appeared wide awake.
“I don’t know why I would pick that number,” he said. “Part of the first 100 digits of pi is 4-3-3-8, but the 9 is wrong.” (In his spare time, Shane has been memorizing the first 100 digits of pi. Apparently he’s even doing it when he’s unconscious.)
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Shane is holding conversations in his sleep and showering in the middle of the night. I still remember one very special night when Shane was a toddler.
Every night, I would tiptoe into my boys’ rooms and kiss each of them on the head. Then I’d whisper – as quietly as I could – “I love you.” And I’d tiptoe back out. Sometimes a boy would roll or move a little after the kiss, but mostly they stayed still.
But one evening during my routine, just as I kissed baby Shane on the head, his eyes popped open.
He was staring right at me; neither of us moved.
Then he smiled his huge, baby grin and said, “I yuv you!” And he rolled over and went back to sleep.
It was the first time my baby ever told me he loved me. And he was probably asleep when he said it.
Dylan got sick.
At college.
He texted me. He needed a mom. He needed permission to stay home from school and rest. He needed a stupid TV (for the first time since he’s been there) to allow him time to rest. He needed to rest his brain and his body and sleep, sleep, sleep.
So we texted back and forth, him feeling awful and me reassuring him that he could miss a couple of classes.
I sent him to the health clinic on campus, thinking they could – at least – make sure he didn’t have an infection or something requiring antibiotics. He crawled out of bed and dragged himself across campus.
They tested him and said he had no flu and a fever of 99 degrees. Dylan’s pediatrician doesn’t even consider 99 a fever. In fact, his body temperature runs a little high so I’m not sure he had a fever at all.
But then, the next day, he was worse. He could barely lift his head. He texted me (i feel insanely feverish and weak and i’m shivering like crazy) and sent a link to the song “Agony,” from a musical he saw on a school field trip years ago.
Dylan was really, really sick.
I decided to take drastic action: I sent him some acetaminophen.
I found a lovely new service called “Instacart,” where you can “instantly” have your “cart” delivered from the store to your residence. (I’ve included the link so that if you want to discover it, too, you can get $10 off your order. I don’t normally do this on my blog but it’s actually that awesome.)
I sent Dylan fresh, organic strawberries – his favorite food. I sent him yogurt – easy to swallow – and chicken noodle soup in a microwavable cup. I sent him Gatorade in his favorite flavors and gummy vitamins loaded with Vitamin C and D. And, finally, I sent him the acetaminophen caplets – something I never would have given him at home unless it was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
When everything arrived, his roommate kindly went down – and back up – four flights of stairs to deliver everything to Dylan’s bed. My Instacart order arrived in less than 90 minutes.
Dylan texted me: thank you for getting all this i really don’t know what to do with all of it but i’m already drinking the gatorade
and later: i just only ate an applesauce and half a yogurt
Then, finally, Dylan took an acetaminophen caplet. Since he rarely takes any kind of medication, he only took one – then he texted me again: the medicine is helping i can tell. still don’t feel good but i don’t feel like i’d rather die than be awake anymore. i’m eating some chicken noodle soup.
Dylan was feeling better.
He was no longer writhing in agony in his dorm bed. He could rest comfortably, not worry about getting to the cafeteria, have plenty to drink to keep him hydrated – and take another acetaminophen caplet if he needed one.
Instacart was a wonderful find – so wonderful, in fact, that – two days later – I ordered $117 worth of crap from Costco and had it delivered to my own house, even though I was perfectly capable of going to the store myself.
That’s when I knew I would have to use it sparingly.
The next day, I got the best text ever: thank you so much for taking care of me i know i’ve already said that but seriously you helped me so much
That’s my job, Son. (And that text is what makes my job the best one in the world.)
