Brilliant … But Bouncy

For a Moment, I Wanted to Cry.

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.

But the Water is Turned Off.

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.

Spanish 3 Killed All of His Spirit.

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.

I Can’t Stand This Thought.

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.

I Would Like Him To Have a 504 Plan.

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.

We Offer A Large Variety of Courses Each Year.

Dear High School,

I didn’t hear back from you about deleting the IBCP Video Production offerings from the course catalog. I would like to explain my concern.

Both of my kids wanted to take part in the IBCP Video Production program. Dylan was redirected toward Computer Science – which was a fine choice for Dylan. But for Shane, there are no other IBCP options.

Shane is planning to major in film in college. While I know that there’s a chance that he’ll change those ambitions, we are going to be searching for colleges in California and touring the best film schools in the country. If he really wants to have a career in film, this is the best way for him to do it.

When colleges look at individual transcripts, they know what different high schools offer. They will see Shane’s transcript and – because it is still listed on the high school website – colleges will assume that Video Production was actually offered as part of the IBCP program.

It will be impossible to explain why Shane’s schedule instead includes classes like Culinary Arts and Theater. It will look like Shane simply didn’t want to challenge himself with the IBCP option.

Shane’s high school obviously does not offer the Video Production program. Yet the IBCP Video Production program is still outlined in the course catalog.

Before the colleges see Shane’s transcript, I think it’s important that the Broadcast Media pathway – the one that doesn’t exist – is either REMOVED or OFFERED. Leaving it in limbo for seven years – which is what it has been since Dylan first expressed an interest in the program – seems like a very unfortunate decision for Shane, if not for the rest of the students who want to follow that pathway in the future.

Please let me know how you will proceed, so that I know what to expect with Shane’s college search.

Thank you.

After emailing our school’s IB coordinator, I received the following response:

I have been asked me to respond to your questions regarding the IBCP Program.  Students in the Broadcast Media pathway participate in our Journalism Program.  The course sequence is determined by county CTE programs that the county offers.  We offer a large variety of courses each year in our course bulletin.  Ultimately student enrollment determines if a class will run or not.  Thus, courses may be in the bulletin and may not run due to low enrollment.  This varies from year to year.

That was it. THAT was what she had to say in response to my plea.

Fortunately, our high school is spectacularly wonderful and supportive. The vice principal, who also received the above note from me, took charge and started removing Broadcast Media options from the course catalog and school website. She stepped up.

In other words, my begging was met with prompt, professional responsiveness in the most efficient way possible.

I get the feeling that Shane would have had no support whatsoever from the IB coordinator.

In Fact, It Was a Disaster.

When I was young, my family held occasional “family meetings.” With three children, my parents probably determined that this was a good way to discuss things that all of us needed to hear. It was fairly democratic, in that we were often allowed to speak.

I remember having family meetings about washing dishes, keeping our rooms clean, moving to a new house, and the all-important, once-in-a-lifetime family meeting: “We’re getting a dog.”

So it was natural when, as my kids started growing up, Bill and I decided to have family meetings of our own. Most of them have centered around vacations, school, and video games. None of them compared to our most recent family meeting.

This time, we had a family meeting to discuss the fact that the kids rarely do anything around the house unless they are asked to do something. In fact, I would almost use the word “never” to describe how often Dylan or Shane steps up and fixes, cleans, or helps with something without being asked.

Bill, as CEO at his company, is always tasked with opening the meeting. He talked for several minutes saying absolutely nothing, which was obvious by the way the rest of the family waited impatiently to hear his point.

Bill tried to focus on encouraging everyone to reach his full potential, but that’s not what came across. Then he showed a video about the temperature of boiling water which, somehow, related to success.

No one understood anything Bill was saying.

I jumped in and tried to explain that we really just needed the boys to do more things around the house, like …

… throwing away their own garbage instead of leaving it on the counter;

… emptying the dishwasher if it’s clean, instead of putting dirty dishes in the sink and walking away; and

… doing laundry instead of asking me to buy new underwear.

I just wanted the boys to do some of the things we’ve been doing for them for the past 18 years.

But that didn’t go over well, either. In fact, it was a disaster.

Dylan claimed that he already knew how to do everything, and that if only he could get a decent list of what exactly needed to be done, that list would be done forthwith. And Shane – who asked to be excused while Dylan was still arguing with Bill – said he didn’t really understand why a list was a bad idea.

I explained that, if Dylan had a list of 25 things to do, he would do them all. Then he would buy a beanbag chair, leave the oversized beanbag box in the middle of the kitchen floor for three months, then sit on the chair, throw his socks on the window sill and say, “What’s wrong? I did that whole list!”

Shane said, “Ohhhhh… I think I finally understand what you’re saying! Can I tell Dylan?”

“Sure,” I said. “He might even listen to you.”

So Shane repeated the story to Dylan, who said he also finally understood. Then Dylan got up and left the room – leaving Bill seething, wondering why the boys didn’t realize how close they were to “success” even after he’d shown that inspirational boiling-water video.

Sometimes, family meetings don’t go as planned.

The next day, Dylan was home alone all day and Shane came home after school. I got home at dinnertime.

When I arrived, I found a sink-load of dirty dishes and a full, clean dishwasher. No one had even thought to empty it.

And They Are Thanking ME.

In anticipation of Dylan’s college life beginning, I received an email from the school. It said:

Thank you for encouraging and supporting your student in the decision to attend Belmont University. We are grateful for your trust in our faculty and staff to provide an academically challenging education that empowers your student and others to engage and transform the world with disciplined intelligence, compassion, courage and faith.

I breezed through the paragraph, then went back and read it again. And again. And again. In spite of my newly recognized OCD, I wasn’t re-reading because I didn’t understand it. I was re-reading because I think the second line is one of the best written sentences I have ever read in my life.

They are grateful for my trust. That alone was enough to make me feel warm and fuzzy toward them.

But what am I trusting faculty and staff to do? I am trusting them to provide a challenging education that empowers my son – and his soon-to-be friends – to transform the world. My son is going to change the world! There is hope! The obscene dollars we are pumping into his education are going to be not only worthwhile, but they are going to allow him to do what we always knew he could do! He and his friends are going to transform the world!

But how? How, you wonder, can that be done? How are they going to learn how to change the world in only four years? It seems impossible! But no… it’s not. They are going to use disciplined intelligence – not just plain intelligence, but a disciplined, more productive kind! And in case that turns out to be insufficient, they will add compassion – the stuff of the angels – and courage – the stuff of heroes.

And if all of that won’t do it, then there will be faith, without which nothing could ever change – not the world, not education, not the college, not my son.

We’re going to have some faith that this beautiful, positive transformation will happen.

And they are thanking me.

Often, I am sarcastic in tone, and I usually detest professionally presented emails. But in this case, I am totally not sarcastic. In fact, I think I am in love with this college and, especially, the person who wrote that note.

Whoever that might be.