Dylan got into college.
He’s waiting for a full package to arrive in the mail, and he’s waiting to hear from the other colleges. And he needs to have everything in front of him before he decides. So he still doesn’t know what he’s going to do.
But Dylan got into a college.
The threat of community college is off the table. He now has a place that he can go, should he choose to do so, that will accept him with open arms. Dylan is going to actually go to college.
All the years of my boorish repetition: “You’ll never get into college if you don’t turn in your work.” Well, that’s out the window.
In fact, all of my threats are out the window. “You’ll never get into college if you _______________.” That’s null and void.
He got into college! He got into a pretty good college, too, with a stellar educational program. Students are generally happy there; they smile a lot.
Consistent smiling was a strong criteria when Dylan was choosing colleges. If the students looked miserable, Dylan didn’t want to go there.
So now, at least, Dylan has one choice of a place he can go. He has a place where he can study and grow and, most importantly, get away from Mom and Dad and live independently.
Looking back over the past few years, it is obvious that Dylan actually earned this opportunity. He may not have done everything – or even anything – the way I would have done it. But he certainly did get things done. He kept his GPA up above a 3.0, which is awesome given the severity of his ADHD and teenager-like behaviors. He got awesome SAT scores. And he has a varied and extensive resume of extracurriculars.
Dylan earned the right to go to college. And I am incredibly proud of him.
In the mornings, sometimes I wake up before my alarm. I am a light sleeper, and sometimes it happens.
I always get up before the kids on school days.
Normally, I set my alarm – a pleasant sort of wind chime effect – and when it goes off, I turn it off and get up. Long ago, I learned that the “snooze” button is a nuisance that just disrupts my sleep.
One day, I woke up before my alarm – but not early enough to get back to sleep.
I heard Dylan’s alarm – a screeching, obnoxious BAAAAAAM BAAAAAAAM BAAAAAAAM sound – from all the way down the hall. It was going off half an hour before mine was scheduled to go off.
Five minutes later, I heard Dylan’s alarm again.
Five minutes after that, it went off again.
And five minutes after that. And five minutes after that. And five minutes after that.
From the time I heard it the first time, it went BAAAAAAM BAAAAAAAM BAAAAAAAM every five minutes for 40 minutes. In addition to the sound, he has a bright light set on an alarm in his room, which brilliantly illuminates his entire bedroom.
The brilliant illumination started in the middle of the BAAAAAAM BAAAAAAAM BAAAAAAAM and continued lighting his room for another half an hour.
Dylan is scheduled to be downstairs for breakfast 25 minutes after my alarm goes off. Yet he doesn’t get out of bed until the time he’s supposed to be downstairs.
Since someone turns off the alarm every five minutes, I would assume that Dylan wakes up – many, many times – substantially earlier than he gets out of bed.
Since he is a teenager, he stays up late. Then he sets his alarm a full hour before he needs to get up, so that he can stay in bed until he’s late in the mornings, too.
BAAAAAAM BAAAAAAAM BAAAAAAAM is not a pleasant way to wake. But BAAAAAAM BAAAAAAAM BAAAAAAAM for a whole hour? Every day? That’s just miserable.
And lack of sleep is the absolute worst thing for someone with ADHD. It exacerbates the symptoms, and makes focus nearly impossible. In Dylan’s case, it means he needs to jump around and sing way more than he does when he is completely rested.
I have provided Dylan with documentation about all of this. I have told him, over the years, that the worst thing he can do in the mornings is to disrupt his sleep by setting his alarms early. I have suggested that he get up with the very first alarm, and get directly into the shower.
“Feet on the floor,” I have said. “Once your feet are on the floor, you can get yourself to the shower.”
I have printed out articles from the internet, on neurology and sleep disorders and ADHD. I have provided him with statistics and facts and education on the subject until I can’t provide any more information about disruption of sleep.
And Dylan is almost an adult. He is supposed to be responsible for himself. And he does, usually, eventually, get out of the bed.
With an hour less sleep than he needed, when he technically needs more sleep than most adults do.
And he’s late anyway.
I got stuck behind a school bus.
For some people, this would be a source of frustration. My gut-level response is a sense of disappointment because I won’t be able to drive as quickly on the road as I normally do.
But on this particular day, I was in no rush. And the school bus was on my own street.
In other words, it was our school bus. In fact, it was the same school bus that my boys can ride home from school every day. They can – although they usually stay after school for an activity or make-up work or a walk to the plaza.
Still, I know this bus. Dylan and Shane (supposedly) get off at the second stop. In fact, most of the kids get off at the second stop.
The only child at the first stop is a little girl who went to kindergarten with Dylan. I remember her long, midnight-black hair and precious, tiny-toothed smile. She was quiet and bright and beautiful, and I secretly hoped that someday Dylan would have the good sense to marry her.
I remember her well because, even on her first day, that little girl would ride the bus all the way to the second stop by herself. Even though it’s only about a quarter-mile, I thought she was so brave to ride alone on that giant school bus.
But on this day when I got behind the bus, and it stopped at that same first stop, I hadn’t seen that one brave girl in a long time. Sure enough, though, she hopped off alone, and waited for the bus to pull away.
As it did, she turned her head to look at me, that same long, midnight-black hair swooping back behind her, And she smiled, shyly, as I drove past. I briefly stopped breathing.
Her smile was dazzling. She looked like she’d stepped off the cover of Seventeen magazine. With her black backpack slung over one shoulder and her quick gaze, my mental snapshot was something you’d find in college catalogs and romance movies.
That little kindergartener is now a beautiful high school senior. In a flash, she went from 5 to 17 – just like Dylan did. After all, they are the same age. But with my kids, I try to forget that flash of time.
I try not to think about sitting outside with my toddler, waiting for Dylan to bound off of the school bus with smudges of paint on his shorts and his latest finger painting in hand. I try not to remember how my boys would jump from the bus and “climb” onto the low-hanging branch of a tree that’s long been cut down. I try to forget the way we would all run together down our long driveway, me worried about their “big” feet causing skinned knees. I even try to forget after-school snacks of berries and milk, back when we shared snacks. At the table.
Most of all, I try to forget how long, long ago all of that took place.
And from now on, I will try harder not to get stuck behind that school bus.
My bias is showing.
Dylan and Shane are taking a class together. Whatever it’s technically called, it is a class that creates the high school morning announcement program. When they were required to pair up and work together, Dylan and Shane were happy to have each other as teammates.
But they were goofing around. They decided on “funny foods” for a category, for example.
Cheese is delicious. But cheese is a dairy food. You should not eat cheese if you are vegan.
While their creativity was awesome, and they were having a great time, there wasn’t much educational value in what they were creating. In fact, early in the year, the teacher emailed me and said that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to air any of Dylan’s and Shane’s pieces.
So I had a talk with both of them, explaining what they needed to do to make their skits more palatable to a wider audience.
And they fixed a lot. But their scripts were turned in late, their filming was done late, and their good time was taking a toll on their grades. I reminded them repeatedly that they needed to get their assignments done and turned in. This is something I never had to say to Shane before he started working with Dylan.
So when an assignment called “characterization” was missing, it reflected poorly – again – on both boys’ online grades. I immediately emailed Dylan.
You are still missing two assignments in Digital Art, and your Guitar 2 homework is still missing. There are THREE Z’s in math! You are even missing another assignment in TV Production. YOU are now affecting Shane’s grades, too!
Dylan had an answer for every item on the list. This was turned in, that was turned in, everything was already done, blah blah blah. But he was stumped about Shane.
How am I affecting Shane’s grades? We’re not doing team stuff anymore.
Uh-oh.
I emailed the teacher. The teacher responded: Both boys had neglected to turn in their individual assignments so both boys had missing work!
“Shane,” I said later, pointing at the online grade book. “What is this?”
“I don’t know,” Shane said. “I guess I forgot to turn that in.”
After seven years of monitoring Dylan’s missing work, I learned that Shane is capable of forgetting, too.
I had to apologize to Dylan for jumping to conclusions. Thankfully, he understood.
Dylan turned in all of his missing work, including the TV Production assignment, and had a clear slate within two days. And Shane turned in his missing work, too.
Even though it was only one assignment, I now know to be more careful when assuming that Dylan is responsible for every missing paper on the planet. And I know that Shane is a fallible human, too.
What I did is not just embarrassing, but bad mothering. So I publicly vow to be more careful in the future.
Applying to college is a daunting task. Not only do students have to do incredibly well for four years, get great SAT scores and have a life of extracurriculars that makes adults look lazy, but then they have to complete the entire application process.
First, there’s the application – which includes at least one essay. Thankfully, the process has been simplified and most colleges will accept an application that has also been submitted elsewhere. In other words, most places don’t require an additional essay.
Some do.
Then there’s the SAT score requests, the transcript requests, the letters of recommendation from the guidance counselor and usually teachers, too. There are interviews to arrange and attend. Then there’s the FAFSA and the CSS Profile for financial aid awards. And this doesn’t even take into account anything done while trying to obtain scholarships.
The biggest hassle for us was waiting for the transcripts and recommendation letters to be mailed. Dylan applied to colleges in August, so he got emails and phone calls regularly for several weeks, reminding him to submit his transcript.
I emailed his counselor five times. She assured me that “automated” emails were nothing to worry about, and that those transcripts would be mailed soon.
“Two weeks,” she said. “At most.”
Six weeks after Dylan requested transcripts, I was panicked. I emailed her again, having no idea that she didn’t send out the transcripts herself.
A few of his friends applied in August, when Dylan did, and they have already gotten acceptance letters. Can you tell me if there is a specific hold-up for Dylan’s transcripts?
Two days later, she wrote back:
I just talked with our registrar to see if we could figure out what is going on. She said that Dylan needs to go into the school software and indicate that he wishes to request transcripts, along with indicating that they’re early action. She said there are colleges listed in there, but they all say “regular application” (not early). She said she sent him an email about this.
The registrar had not emailed Dylan about anything. And Dylan isn’t applying anywhere “early action.” He simply finished his applications early.
I picked up the phone and called the registrar. Until then, I had no idea there even was a registrar.
Long story short: Dylan had not gone into the school’s software and clicked on the “request transcript” button. He had submitted all the papers and requested everything he needed to request in person, but he didn’t go into the computer and click “request.”
So the registrar, who had the appropriate paperwork sitting on her desk for six weeks, did nothing at all. In fact, she’d still be doing nothing at all, except for my phone call.
A few days later, upon realizing that the registrar didn’t reach out to anyone for anything, I noticed that the teachers’ letters of recommendation were marked in the school software as “requested” but not “sent.”
Having learned from previous experience, I emailed the registrar immediately.
I got one sentence in return:
You’ll have to speak with the individual teachers about the letters.
I was apparently expected to know this.
Eventually, I got a call from the resource person in the counseling office, who is in charge of everything. I now know that the teachers send out their recommendations separately, and that it requires several forms of various colors to request the transcript, and that if things aren’t done online, they aren’t done at all.
I am looking forward to doing this again with Shane, now that I have mastered the experience.
Before the school year started, I received no less than a dozen emails about training and school safety. Thanks to school shootings and the ever-increasing, highly magnified violence, public schools now feel obligated to do something. And the “something” that they’ve decided to do is: everything.
In addition to beefing up security at the entrances to schools and all over school campuses, and installing surveillance cameras into the elementary schools, and screening all visitors through sex offender databases, our public schools are requiring teachers and school staff to prepare to change the entire world.
Teachers are not only required to do compliance training, which goes into depth on handling everything from bullying to abuse to suicide prevention – but they are now required to teach “personal body safety lessons” for all students. “Streamlined reporting” will supposedly ensure that any suspicious behavior will be reported to the authorities who – somehow – will fix everything. Not only are employees going to be re-fingerprinted and undergo more background checks than they’ve already had, but they will also be responsible for teaching students how to take care of themselves.
Teachers and staff are now responsible for controlling/preventing bullying, harassment, cyber-bullying, gender identity issues, teen dating guidelines, suicide starting at the age of 11, mental illnesses, behavioral threats, all forms of discrimination and all kinds of addiction.
Considered essential by the public school system, staff and teachers are not only expected to be above-board, but they also have to make sure all of the kids in the schools are 100% healthy and happy, at all times, so that nobody ever gets hurt.
How did this become the job of the teacher?
I still believe that parents are responsible for their own children. Without good parenting, there is no chance for kids. And there are never any perfect kids – including mine – because parents are human beings, doing the best they can with what they’ve got. But shouldn’t they be responsible for these things?
Unfortunately, many parents aren’t gifted with knowing what to do, or how to do it, when it comes to raising children. Too many parents beat their children out of frustration. They have no idea what else to do. Too many parents ignore the questions their children ask, or lie when their kids need honest answers. Too many kids can’t trust their parents for support. As a result, parents can’t trust their teenagers to do the right things.
Too many parents are too preoccupied with themselves to do anything at all with their own children. And the thing that children crave the most is calm, happy time with their parents.
So many kids go to school seeking solace from an agonizing home life. Not only are their parents a mess, but there’s no food on the table. Sometimes there’s no table. Sometimes there’s no food for weeks.
And so many, many kids, struggling at home, walk into school desperate for acceptance, with no idea how to get the love or attention they so desperately need.
So the schools have taken it upon themselves to require all staff not just to keep these children safe from harm – which is impossible even in the best of schools – but to identify and report all problems to the authorities. If this actually happens the way administrations demand, how could the authorities do anything except file report after report after report about kids’ home lives?
I just can’t imagine being expected to do any more than everything I can possibly do.
Which, of course, I would do anyway.
Dylan had his first audition for (hopefully) a college music scholarship.
College scholarships have been the goal for Dylan since he started singing. He didn’t actually know that was the goal until his voice teacher started saying, “You’ve got to keep your eyes on the prize.”
The “prize” is a scholarship. So the audition was supposed to be a time when Dylan most needed to sing as perfectly as possible.
He woke up four hours before the audition and went straight into the bathroom. He was coughing and spitting. He’d felt a bit under the weather the day before but on Audition Day, he was sick. I mean, he could barely breathe without choking on mucus. He blew his nose for almost an hour and it didn’t make a difference.
But he’d traveled hours to audition, and there was no option. He had to sing.
Several months ago, Dylan’s voice teacher suggested that he go to a lesson when he was sick. The voice teacher had shown Dylan a few tricks to use when he was ill, ways to help his voice even during a bad cold. So there was no need to text the teacher for tricks and tips.
He had to sing.
And so he did. I dropped him off and went to a local drug store for Dayquil. I’d love to say this was my idea, but we never use cold medications – so my mom had to suggest it. I’m not sure I ever would have considered it otherwise.
Dylan got dressed in his shirt and tie. He went to the welcome meeting, and I snuck in with the Dayquil, which he drank quickly. In less than half an hour, Dylan was actually smiling. He wasn’t congestion-free, but he was no longer in severe agony.
Then he had about 20 minutes to warm up and practice.
“This is the one chance I have,” he said after a few attempts at singing, “and I can’t sing at all!”
“Have some more water,” I said. “Keep practicing. The more you practice now, the better you will sound at the audition. Just do the best you can.”
“But there are so many notes I just can’t hit!” he wailed. “I can hit them every other day, but not today.”
“Then concentrate on the notes that you can hit,” I told him.
His accompanist joined him and I left the room. Dylan practiced his two songs to the best of his ability.
Then he sang them again for the audition, to the best of his ability.
I snuck to a spot on the floor, outside the audition room door, and recorded him. He sounded incredible. His first song was absolutely perfect. He was straining in his second song but, because he refused to use the “excuse” of being sick, so it just sounded like the song was a touch too high for his range.
Sadly, they will never know that his range is substantially higher than what he shared.
But this was only the first school, and he has other auditions scheduled. He doesn’t even know if he’s been accepted anywhere yet.
Still, it would have been nice for him to sing well and be well during his first attempt.
At our beloved fall festival, there comes a time during the spectacular hayride when the driver yells, “Do you want to go the easy way, or do you want to go the hard way?”
Ahead is a fork in the road, and a sign designating two paths. One is supposedly “easy” and the other, in a darkened part of the forest, is supposedly “hard.”
No matter what answer the hay-riders give, the driver always goes the “hard” way. It’s a Halloween-themed hayride, and the “hard” way is supposed to be scarier.
One day, when the boys were discussing that very ride, Shane said, “Really, why would anyone ever choose the hard way?”
“Maybe they like a good challenge,” I suggested. “Isn’t it a good thing to challenge yourself?”
“NO,” Dylan chimed in. “Why would you challenge yourself if you didn’t have to?”
Shane said, “Yeah, like if somebody is offering you $100 to do nothing, or if he’s offering you $100 to do work for an hour, everybody would take the $100 to do nothing!”
“But then the work would still need to be done,” I said.
Dylan said, “You would have $100 so you could pay somebody to do the work!”
“But then you don’t have $100 anymore,” I said. “And you don’t have the feeling of self-satisfaction that you get when you do the work yourself. Don’t you enjoy the feeling you get when you do the work yourself?”
There was no sound from the backseat, except distant crickets.
Finally someone spoke: “No, it’s just hard.”
About an hour later, I was driving Dylan to work. He’s had a part-time job for two summers now, as an usher at a local concert venue.
Unsolicited he said, “I don’t want to go to work. But I need money, so I am going to work. So I guess I do want to go.”
“Welcome to the American dream,” I said.
I didn’t mention the hard way.
I don’t like doctors. No offense to them as people, but as professionals, I prefer to stay far away from them.
Unfortunately, my health was not … well, just not quite right. I had a virtual physical (body scan) years ago, so I knew I had a thyroid problem. So I started diagnosing myself with the internet. I actually did a pretty good job, and I learned a lot. But when I wasn’t really better after four years of self-treatment, I finally went to the doctor.
Why did I go to the doctor? Because I wanted to stay alive for my children. And I was getting the real feeling that I wouldn’t necessarily survive to the ripe old age of 100. So I went to the doctor.
From the internet and many, many library books, I knew that conventional thyroid medication often just makes the symptoms worse. I was interested in treating the underlying cause.
“I don’t want any pills,” I told her. “I want you to prescribe something called desiccated thyroid medication. I’ve already done all the research, and I don’t want to take synthetic hormones. They don’t work.”
The doctor was incredibly patient with my diagnosis (which had never been confirmed by anyone other than me). Unfortunately, she was not as patient with my treatment decision.
“If you want something natural,” she told me, “you need integrative medicine. The only kind of medication I will prescribe is synthetic.” So, after a brief exam which was supposed to be followed by blood work and more tests, I found another doctor.
This time, I went to a doctor of integrative medicine. The new doctor did an exam, an EKG, and took nine vials of blood. I filled out 30 pages of paperwork about my history and symptoms, and he ran a battery of tests. Then I went back later for the results.
They were not good.
They were not bad, though. Everything he found is potentially reversible, even my thyroid issue. But I have an autoimmune disease called Hashimoto’s. I have leaky gut syndrome. I am severely anemic and deficient in Vitamin D to such an extent that he gave me a Vitamin D shot right in the office. My adrenal glands have stopped working, which may explain my chronic fatigue syndrome. And if I don’t change my diet – like, today – my PRE-pre-diabetic condition could easily develop into diabetes.
Basically, the food that I eat is killing me.
To be fair, much of the American population suffers from the same stuff. But everyone is not quite so willing or eager to change.
I want to live. And I’d like to live to see my grandchildren.
So my diet needs to change – in a very extreme way. For the next several months – maybe years – I can eat virtually nothing other than meat and vegetables. An occasional handful of nuts or a piece of fruit won’t hurt. In addition, I will be taking so many all-natural powders and supplements that I will have to carry a bag of them with me everywhere I go.
But I am going to do it. In spite of the fact that I may never eat with my kids again, I may be able to watch them grow up. I might even get a chance to watch my grandchildren grow up. Who knows?
I am willing to try. Prayers for my success are gratefully accepted.
For some of Dylan’s college applications, he is required to have an in-person interview with college admissions staff. So when Dylan started applying to colleges, he also started making interview appointments.
One of these appointments happened mid-August, and we drove all the way to campus – and back – in one day. None of the colleges that require an interview are nearby. So it was a long day of driving.
Fortunately, for whatever reason, Dylan and I get along beautifully in the car. While we are constantly butting heads at home, we rarely have an argument when we are on a college road trip. And if we do have an argument, it usually is short-lived.
This trip was no exception. We were in the car together for twelve hours, with the exception of quick breaks and the interview itself. We had one argument that lasted maybe 15 minutes. For the rest of the time, we had nice conversation and lots of music.
Dylan doesn’t like to go anywhere or do anything without music. So driving is especially exciting for him, since he can listen to his own music for hours. On road trips, he actually creates playlists that he builds for my enjoyment. He uses his Spotify account (his favorite thing in the world) and creates whole playlists. Dylan knows that there are certain types of music I enjoy more than others, and he chooses those songs for me.
And, even though I often don’t know the songs, I truly enjoy them.
I think Dylan could create a playlist for anyone, even if he’s only known them for a short time. For his family members, he could create play lists that perfectly match our personalities. It makes me think – again – that Dylan’s career doesn’t have to be limited to performing.
On the way to the college, we did a mock interview, so that Dylan could prepare his answers to some common interview questions. One of the things I asked him was, “What do you like to do academically? What are your favorite subjects?”
Dylan was thoughtful for a second. Academics are not his strong suit. But his answer went something like this:
“I would say that my favorite class was TV Production. I originally took it because I thought it would be fun, first thing in the morning, to work on a show. But I really loved the class. I liked all the aspects of creating the show, and I liked learning to use the equipment. I also got to play music for the whole school, and I got to choose the music. I could take requests and play what people wanted to hear, and I really enjoyed having the chance to share music with the whole school.”
While Dylan could be a disc jockey, he could also keep learning what’s behind-the-scenes – on radio, for TV, or at a performance venue. He seems to have a knack and an interest in choosing things to entertain other people. Unlike when I was a teenager (and only wanted to hear what I wanted to hear), Dylan wants to share his love of music with the world.
It’s a beautiful thing.
