Dear Dylan,
I had a vision for you today that is so far off, I can’t even believe I am about to tell you what I envisioned.
Since you have a full day off from school, and your SATs are on Saturday, I mistakenly thought you would use this time to prepare. I expected that you would wake up around 9:00 and, even without brushing your teeth, you would take a practice SAT. Then you would hop in the shower and eat quickly – protein and vitamins – and by 10:15, you’d practice another test. By noon, I envisioned, you would have taken three practice SATs and your brain would be fully prepared to conquer a test that could mean the difference between your dream college and … well, somewhere else.
Then, I thought, you’d have some leftover pizza for lunch and browse through that book I got for you about writing college essays. I imagined that you would do some of your college research about majors, auditions, and requirements to find out what will be required of you when you apply. Then, having been inspired by the book, you would work on your essay for your college applications – and maybe even write a couple of them.
My guess is that, in actuality, you are reading this at around noon, when you finally stumble out of your bed and head for the shower. You have built your entire day around hanging out with your friends instead.
Since I am working this morning, I will be picking up your friends on my way home. And then I will sit on my computer all day long, instead of going anywhere or doing anything. At 3:00, I will drive you and your friends to the plaza, where you will shop and eat and hang out. You will be free to do whatever you want because you have absolutely no responsibilities.
I am sure, by Saturday, you will somehow be magically prepared for the SAT. And I am sure that the six missing assignments I noticed online are actually “already done” and probably even “totally turned in,” as they always are – at least in your mind.
So enjoy your day hanging out with your friends. And the day I envisioned for you…? Well, that was obviously just a dream.
When Dylan was a preschooler, he listed the members of our family in order of intelligence: “Daddy is first,” little Dylan said. “And I am next. Then Shane, and then Mommy.” (Shane was a toddler at the time.)
It was a telling moment in my life, about how I portray myself to my children. They think I’m lacking in intelligence. I have worked hard to overcome that judgment, although I am not certain I have succeeded.
We recently tried out a new indoor swimming pool. The pool had two awesome water slides, a rope swing and a diving board. It also had a separate splash pool with fewer toys and more space for swimming.
After sliding for awhile, we splashed around for awhile in the spacious pool. There were timers running on the wall, rather than normal clocks, although I’m not sure why. So instead of 2:44, the timer would say, “44:21,” meaning 44 minutes past the hour (and 21 seconds).
At one point in the afternoon, I looked up from the water and saw that the two timers were no longer displaying the same time. One timer said, “51:33” and the other timer said, “57:33.”
I had no idea what was going on. It was odd, like one of the timers had suddenly gone kerplooey and was now marking a countdown to some unknown event.
“Hey guys, look!” I said, pointing. “The timers are totally different now! What will we do? How will we know what time it is?”
“Whoa!” someone said. “That’s so weird!” We all watched, perplexed. Or at least, I thought we were all perplexed.
Suddenly, the clocks were back to normal. They were running exactly the same numbers again: “52:40” on both sides.
The boys were trying to tell me something, and everyone was talking at once, so I understood nothing. Someone said, “The four is going to be a nine!” And still, I had no idea what anyone was trying to say.
“See that bright line up there?” Dylan said, clearly irritated with me and pointing to one of the timers. “That’s always going to be there! It’s never going away!”
Okay, I thought. The bright line is so bright that it will never go away.
Still, I had no clue. They had figured out the mystery of the clocks, and I was utterly befuddled.
The boys went back to splashing, and I tried to pretend I understood. I kept glancing at the timers, wondering why they hadn’t been running the same time.
And then, just as suddenly as before, the timers were not the same again. One timer said, “54:09” and the other said “59:09.”
That’s when I saw it: the bright line, the one Dylan had pointed out, was still on and it was perched neatly atop the number four on one of the timers. This line magically transformed the otherwise squarish number four into a squarish number nine.
“Hey look!” I squealed, finally understanding. “The four is a nine because of that bright line up there! And that’s why the timers are different!”
“That’s what I said!” Dylan nearly dunked me under the water. “Did you really not know that?” Clearly, in his eyes, I could not have been more stupid if I’d been born without a brain.
I turned to Shane who, with or without nonverbal learning disorder, usually supported me in my ignorance. “Did you understand, before, what happened to the timers?” I asked him quietly.
He nodded. “Yep.”
And that’s when I knew: I am officially the least intelligent member of my family.
In almost four years of blogging, I have never once written a post that would – or even could – intentionally hurt anyone.
Once I wrote about being chased down the highway by an angry biker – so that post might be the exception, although I believe the angry biker would not have been offended by his portrayal.
But I am not a malicious person.
Over the years, this do-the-right-thing attitude has gotten me into trouble. I trust people who are not trustworthy. People take advantage of me. They lie to me. They step all over me.
But I stay honest and open in my blog anyway.
It is a blog that I pour my personal insecurities into, where I admit my faults and fears as a parent. I write it because I love my kids. I am fascinated by my kids. I think parenting is the hardest job on earth, and my kids have such interesting idiosyncrasies that I want to capture them all while we are on this journey together.
Sure, I have issues. I am not perfect. And when my issues involve another person, I always go to that person directly and try to work it out. If someone or something is bothering me, I do my best to politely figure out a way to solve the problem.
This does not always work. Still, I try to keep the communication lines open and follow The Golden Rule:
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
If my blog ever offends someone, I would hope that they would come to me and have a rational, adult conversation. But there are adults in this world who never get to the point of acting like adults.
Still, I try. And even when the mature thing eludes me, I take responsibility for whatever I did wrong as soon as I know I’ve messed up.
I live my life by these simple principles. I live my whole life trying to make the world a better place. I really try.
Not everyone likes me; that is abundantly clear. It’s also okay. If everyone liked everyone, there would be no diversity or meaningful relationships in the world. One of the things I love best about this world – especially in this country – is that we are free to choose our paths in life.
And we can choose with whom to walk those paths.
I am blessed beyond compare to have a wonderful, loving family and friends – real, true friends. There are people on whom I could call day or night, with any challenge, and they would be there for me.
I did nothing to deserve this; I simply thank God for them.
And for those people who will never, ever make it into my small, blessed circle: I thank God for them, too. Because without malicious people, I wouldn’t truly appreciate what a wonderful life I have.
The following is an email I wrote to the Special Education Coordinator AND the Principal of Dylan’s high school, just a few minutes after he finished his No-Computer-Accommodation AP Test:
After the many, many panicked emails I sent this week, I wanted to send a follow-up now that Dylan is done with his test (without the computer accommodation).
Dylan has not written with a pencil, other than a sentence or two, since second grade (when he was only writing a sentence or two!) – and today he had an extended-time test, four pencils, and three essays to write. We worked together last night to prepare, and I tried to keep my sheer panic out of the conversation. (I don’t think Dylan knew how scared I was.) He made a pile of differently sized pencils, a variety of fidgets, gum and coffee… and he practiced multiple choice questions for hours in case he bombed all three essays.
I told him not to worry – that he’d matured a lot since second grade – and that handwriting doesn’t count (even if it does). This morning, Dylan – who does not often get nervous – was very anxious, but confident that he’d done all he could do to prepare.
When Dylan finished the AP test, he texted me and said – (and I quote) – “the test went great.” Not “awful” or “okay” or even “good.” He said it went GREAT. While I don’t have the details, I’m thrilled that he felt GREAT about it, and that he proved to himself that he could do something that he originally thought he couldn’t do. He wrote THREE COLLEGE-LEVEL ESSAYS with a pencil!
I don’t know what his score will be, but I know he did his best. It turned out to be a tremendous learning experience and a self-esteem boost.
I also know that I inundated you both with my fearful-Mom emails, and that you did the absolute best you could under trying circumstances. I’m so mad at the College Board that I’m considering having my younger son take the ACT instead! But I want you to know that I was never angry with you – so if the emails came across as angry, I do apologize. I was frustrated with College Board, who did nothing to help or answer my questions.
But YOU answered ALL of my questions. And you did a lot for Dylan (while also working with me), so that he will have his accommodations by the next AP test. And I think you are both absolutely wonderful for ALL you do on behalf of these kids. We’re really lucky to have you at our high school.
Thanks for your patience with me. And thanks so much for doing so much!
Dylan’s principal not only wrote back – but she said she’d checked on Dylan before and after the test, and even asked the exam proctor how he did – and said that he was positive and upbeat through the entire experience.
She has 1,500 kids in that school, and she took time out of her busy day to pay attention to mine. There are few reasons for gratitude with regard to Dylan and high school, but the staff at that high school is on the top of my list.
And Dylan? He was positive and upbeat! He says he wrote three of the best essays he’s ever written in his life – with a pencil.
Regardless of the score he gets, I am so proud I could burst.
Dylan’s make-up AP test is today.
The test requires him to write several college-level essays, which he’s been doing as “practice” in his AP class for two months. Dylan took a multitude of practice tests on the computer, and got 4’s and 5’s on his practice tests – which is the exact score he needs to get college credit for this class at most colleges.
But for his actual AP test, the one that matters, the one that will decide whether he has to retake the class in college, the one that decides whether or not he pays $10,000 for the class or takes it for free…
For THAT AP test, Dylan is using a pencil. Several pencils. In fact, he will be writing college-level essays with his kindergarten handwriting and awkward pencil grip because he can’t use a computer to take his test.
The College Board – the organization in charge of both the test and his accommodations – simply won’t allow it.
I had no idea that the testing isn’t done on the computer. EVERYTHING is done on the computer, in the whole world!
But for Dylan, who needs that computer more than anything, it is an “emergency” accommodation.
I called College Board two days before the test.
“You just have to wait,” they said.
“It can take up to seven weeks to approve,” they said.
“I don’t know what you can do,” they said.
“There’s nothing we can do about it,” they said.
“There’s really no one else you can talk to,” they said.
Eventually, like I do after most bureaucratic phone conversations, I hung up on the College Board representative.
They expected me to say, “Oh well, I guess you guys are doing the best you can.” But I stayed on the line until I went from rational explanation to begging and crying to exploding.
The next day, Bill called College Board. He got the same answer, but he was much nicer. When Bill hung up, he believed he had done some good.
He hadn’t.
Nor had the special ed coordinator who submitted 20 pages of documentation and called them twice, or the AP test coordinator, or the high school principal who found herself involved, too.
So yesterday, I spent hours studying dysgraphia – Dylan’s ailment that makes it impossible for him to write – and re-learned remedial intervention strategies.
Then I studied his specific AP exam: What does he need to do to pass?
I found out that he could bomb the essays as long as he gets a great score on the multiple choice. I found out that he won’t be graded on handwriting. I found out about all three essays, and then later – from Dylan – I found out where his struggles have been during practice at school with the computer.
We combined all of our worldly knowledge and prepared him with shortened pencils and fidget erasers and a hair tie and gum and lots and lots of multiple choice practice.
We both woke up in the pitch black night, exhausted, stressed and incapable of sleep.
In the morning, Dylan dressed like his teacher told him to dress – in a sweatshirt and pants on an 80-degree day – and he took his vitamins and ate plenty of animal protein and got his coffee and I drove him to school.
He didn’t know the room number of the test, so we called the school during the drive.
Then I left him there after being awake all night after nightmares about a test that isn’t even mine to take.
Since Dylan first decided he wanted to drive, a lot has happened.
At first, he was determined and frustrated and wanted to drive NOW. He was barely 15 years old, and considered driving to be the most fun he’d ever had.
“I already know how to drive my go cart!” he wailed. “It’s practically the same thing!”
That resulted in us asking him to please slow down, and learn what he needed to learn.
So he took the Driver’s Ed course (required) and enjoyed sitting in the classroom, listening to retired police officers. Interestingly, he stopped asking to drive. In fact, I was afraid his required course would expire without him taking the (also required) three behind-the-wheel sessions.
Many months later, Dylan got his learner’s permit. Blog readers will remember that he slept through his first permit test, and had to set up a new appointment. Once he got there, though, he aced the test pretty quickly.
It took another several months for Dylan to set up appointments for his behind-the-wheel sessions. Finally, he completed those. By that time, he had driven with his parents and his grandparents about a hundred times. He learned how to drive around town, deal with rain and snow on the roads, and keep up his speed – as safely as possible – on the highway.
His only mishap happened during a college visit when we were looking for our hotel and found, instead, a giant hospital complex. While making a three-point turn in the pitch-black autumn night, Dylan hit a two-foot-tall stone wall that even I didn’t see in the rearview mirror. All things considered, this was a minor issue.
It’s been 22 months since Dylan took that classroom Driver’s Ed course. He’s gone from being determined and frustrated and begging to drive… to being respectful and careful and quite mature about the act of driving. He considers it a privilege – HE considers it a privilege – and takes the responsibility of driving very seriously.
On Thursday, at the age of 17 and a half, Dylan finally got his driver’s license. He passed the test on his first try, with only two points subtracted for not remembering what street signs he’d just passed. (ADHD…?)
Two days later, he drove the car to Starbucks. Three days later, he went to visit friends and then drove himself to his own church meeting.
We have talked with Dylan a lot about expectations, and that using the car carries a ton of responsibility to do what he says he’s going to do.
And so far, he’s doing exactly that – and being careful to ask about everything. In fact, he’s acting a lot like an adult.
It’s like a miracle.
Dylan’s pleas for independence have finally had a sort of temporary resolution. We’ve allowed him to move into the basement.
This doesn’t sound like a privilege, except that it is a 1,300-square-foot apartment with wall-to-wall carpeting, a huge bedroom, a full bath and an equipped kitchen with full-sized appliances. It’s warm and bright, unlike most basement apartments. In fact, it’s the kind of place someone could rightfully rent fresh out of college.
Dylan is getting a glimpse of what that’s going to be like. It’s supposed to give him a chance to do his work “for myself,” although I expect nothing to change.
On Day 1, he complained about his giant new home.
“We really have to do something about the air,” he said. “It’s just not right. I feel like I’m getting sick.”
“No one has ever complained about the air down there before,” I told him. “There’s brand new carpet down there, and even the paint is new! This is the cleanest air you’ve ever breathed!”
We gave him Cold-EEZE and orange juice, which he didn’t use.
On Day 2, he said he felt a little bit better. “I left the window open,” he said. “It really helped.”
Hm. I thought. Dylan also got sick at the top of Pikes Peak, and didn’t recover for two weeks.
I remembered, quite suddenly, that Dylan coughed for the first six years of his life from – apparently – nothing. By age 8, we’d learned – finally – that he had Reactive Airways Disease. He’s always been sensitive to some really strange things.
And then I asked my friend – who understands about sensitivities – about my suspicions.
“VOC’s,” she said, without having to think at all. “Volatile Organic Compounds.”
Sure enough, like most carpets installed in this country, our beautiful, brand new, wall-to-wall carpeting is emitting toxins. And Dylan, whose respiratory system is sensitive to a whole slew of things, is reacting very badly to it.
I looked up “new carpet allergy” on the internet, and found a bunch of things. The most helpful article I found was called “Carpeting Presents Complex Health Issues.”
There’s more to it, but that pretty much sums it up. The only suggestion they have is to allow cross-ventilation for as much of the day as possible. Unfortunately, that basement has one huge window and a door – and several teeny windows that don’t open. Cross-ventilation just can’t happen.
I won’t force Dylan to stay downstairs. I don’t want to take away his “privilege,” but I also don’t want him to suffer.
We’ll see what he wants to do.
Today is Dylan’s scheduled AP test for Language and Composition.
Conveniently, if he passes this test with a decent score, it will mean he won’t have to take at least one writing-intensive class in college. Given the fact that Dylan has a lot of trouble with writing, this would be wonderful.
Since he can use it to get college credit, it is the most important test he will take all year, other then the SAT. It’s a huge deal, and we’ve been registered for it for six months. Dylan has been preparing in class for more than a month, writing practice essays and giving it all he’s got.
Unfortunately, Dylan won’t be taking the AP test today.
Why would Dylan miss the most important test of the year?
Well, yesterday, I got an email about all of the many outlawed items – food, backpacks, cell phones, computers – that should not be taken into the AP testing area.
Dylan has used a computer for writing since third grade, so I emailed the teacher in charge: “Will Dylan get a school computer, or should he bring his own laptop?” I asked.
“He will not be provided, nor may he bring a computer to the testing setting,” she emailed back. She pointed out that, while he had extended time, he was not allowed special access to a computer for his writing needs.
I almost vomited.
Dylan is an excellent writer – as long as he’s using a computer. His handwriting hasn’t improved since preschool, though, and he struggles dearly with writing things down. His brain moves way too fast for his hand, so he learned to type in second grade. It’s the only way he can keep up with his own thoughts.
But it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t be allowed to use a computer for his AP test. It wasn’t an issue in his prior AP test, because everything was multiple choice. (Dylan can certainly darken a circle.) But Language and Composition includes a LOT of writing.
This news hit my email inbox at 2:45 yesterday – less than 17 hours before the test. It usually takes a minimum of seven weeks to approve an accommodation.
I freaked out. I emailed everybody. I blathered on about blind people who needed braille being just like Dylan needing a computer. I called Dylan – and Bill – and screamed in their ears. (This was not helpful.) Then I jumped in the car, even though it was well past last period, and headed for the high school, picking up Dylan along the way.
School was closed. But because they are awesome, the staff bent over backwards to help.
Dylan found his case manager, who explained in “Dylan lingo” what had happened – and why she couldn’t fix it. (This helped him, because he had no idea what was going on.)
Meanwhile, the principal called me into a conference room and listened while I whined and squealed. The head of special education came in to meet with us. He was wonderfully calm, and shook my hand.
He talked; I listened.
Then the special education chair went to work – more than an hour after school had closed. He made phone calls, filled out forms, texted and called me, and asked Dylan what he wanted to do.
The gist: Dylan could take the test without the computer accommodation now, or he could wait a week and hope to have the computer accommodation then.
Dylan chose the lesser of two evils, and decided to wait. And the case manager deserves all the credit for our having any choice at all.
So now, we wait.
Shane’s play was this past weekend – three shows, double cast, all wonderful. They did a production called, Legally Blonde, The Musical.
Shane played Kyle, the UPS guy. He had a handful of lines, and a slew of bit parts that kept him on stage nearly the entire time. And Shane played his bit parts with true enthusiasm. He was constantly engaged in the situation. If he was in the background and supposed to be surprised, he was really surprised. His eyes got big and round and he stayed surprised until the scene was over.
His facial expressions were priceless. And he stayed in character – whatever character – for every scene.
And he played Kyle with style. He made a grand entrance, complete with music, and perfectly acted like the “cool, hot guy” he played.
Near the end of the play, Kyle takes a fall that – when done by Shane – was quite literally a leap into the air and flop to the ground, with an accompanying shriek. When we played the scene in slow motion later, Shane was three feet off the ground before gravity took over.
It was awesome.
But the highlight, for me, was during a party scene. The theme was “Jamaican Me Crazy,” as announced by another cast member, and Shane was a stereotypical Jamaican. He came out in long, black dreadlocks with a yellow, red and green hat, which was adorably funny.
He led a conga line of a dozen people – and Shane was singing.
He sang lead on an entire song, in character and with a new, deep voice that hit every note. When I figured out what was going on – since Shane had kept this performance a secret from me for five long months – tears of pride started rolling down my cheeks.
Not only was he singing, but he was dancing. In addition to having a beautiful singing voice, he has always had great dance moves. He led that Jamaican party like a superstar.
Shane did a wonderful job. (Sometimes a mom can’t be humble.)
To top it off, Dylan sang the National Anthem on Sunday at a local baseball game – making my weekend complete.
My Mother’s Day was perfect.
I took Shane to his ping pong league last week. It might have been my last time.
Shane still enjoys ping pong, and he has every intention of playing in the league on a weekly basis. But I will likely not be invited back.
When I was there, Shane won his first two matches. He played well, and beat two people who, he says, usually play better than he does. But Shane was on a winning streak, and having a great time.
After the second match, he said, “Next I have to play Julian, and he’s way better than me.”
“No he’s not,” I said. He was already being dragged away to play against Julian.
“You have to believe you can beat him before you can beat him!” I called after him, trying to teach him a valuable lesson about sports psychology.
But I wasn’t quick enough. Shane was gone without knowing what I was talking about.
From my vantage point, the match was a lost cause from the beginning. Shane seemed as though he was just randomly hitting the ball into the net, or off the table, without much thought or strategy. He was moving very fast and his eyes showed a touch of fear.
Shane lost the third match.
“I don’t know what I did wrong,” Shane said, sitting down.
“I know what you did wrong!” I said. “You went into that match believing he was better than you!” And then I gave Shane the five-minute lecture about sports psychology that I hadn’t finished before the match.
By the time I was done, Shane had tears in his eyes. He lost the next two matches, too.
I felt awful. I didn’t know what had happened. He had seemed so happy and then, suddenly, he was miserable. I didn’t see the connection between what I’d done and what happened to him – even though, looking back, it was so very obvious.
On the way home, I forced the issue – making it all worse – by asking what I’d said that was so devastating to him.
“Just because I say I don’t know what I did wrong,” Shane said, “it doesn’t mean you have to tell me.”
Ah.
The light bulb went on over my head. It was one of those moments when I realized, quite unexpectedly, that I needed to just shut up sometimes.
I spent the next few days begging for another chance, hoping that Shane would let me take him to ping pong another day.
But I’m not sure I deserve the opportunity.
