Dylan went up to his room after school one evening, closed his door, and turned on some kind of goth metal music – full blast – so that I was a bit irritated downstairs.
I did not go upstairs, or ask him to turn it down. Usually when the music is cranked to that point of obnoxiousness, Dylan is doing homework.
More than an hour went by, and Dylan came downstairs.
“I finished my essay,” he said. “But I can’t turn it in.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not sure if the format is okay. I kind of wrote it in poem format instead of paragraphs. It’s more of a song than an essay. But it’s supposed to be a speech, not really an essay, so it might be okay.”
“A speech? Is it due tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But I need to ask the teacher if it’s okay.”
“You need to turn it in now,” I said. “And then ask the teacher if the format is okay.”
“I am going to ask the teacher first,” Dylan said. “I don’t want her to grade it if it’s totally wrong.”
“Whatever, Dylan,” I said. “Do you have to read it in class? I mean, if it’s a speech?”
“Yeah,” he said. “And I don’t know how I’m going to do that either.”
“Do you want to read it to me? Maybe I can tell you if it will work. Do you have a rubric?”
“No,” he said. “But here, I’ll read it to you.”
Dylan read it to me.
I started to cry.
It was a deeply personal, powerful, moving work filled with deep, painful angst.
“That’s really good, Dylan,” I choked. “I can’t imagine she wouldn’t accept that.”
“Well, I’ll ask her,” he said.
She accepted it in its original form.
For several days, I didn’t hear about him reading his speech in class. I wasn’t sure if everyone read their speeches aloud, or if Dylan had ever even submitted it.
Then, from school one day, Dylan texted me: “I was voted most recommended for the oratorical contest in AP Lang because of my speech.”
“OMG!!!!” I texted back, breaking my cardinal rule about too many exclamation points. “I was just wondering about your speech. I am so proud of you!!!”
He texted back: “But should I do the contest?”
Dylan actually didn’t know if it was a good idea to take his now-award-winning speech to the next level.
“OMG YES!!!!”
I hope that Dylan understands that all the exclamation points were positive feedback – that he earned something wonderful here, and that he has an opportunity to step out of his normal realm into an unexpected limelight, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
“It’s just really weird,” he said. “It’s just not, like, something I ever expected to do.”
Dylan was recognized for something other than music.
But three days have passed, and Dylan still hasn’t remembered to tell his teacher that he will be in the competition.
I am picking him up early from school today, and we are not leaving the school grounds until he does.
Dylan turned in nearly every assignment on time this quarter – and then he just stopped.
If it had been a football game, Dylan would have carried the football 98 yards. Then, for some reason, he put down the ball and took a nap.
During the final week of the quarter, Dylan did almost nothing. He figured he was “mostly caught up,” so he didn’t do anything that was due during the last week, and he didn’t work on the very few assignments that were MIA.
For example, Dylan had two pages of math to do. “He learned how to do the first half of both pages today,” the math teacher told me. “They are due by the end of the day on Friday.”
I passed along this information to Dylan. “I don’t have to do them today,” Dylan whined. “They’re not due until Friday!”
So Tuesday came and went. On Wednesday I suggested that he do his math homework. “You have a field trip on Friday,” I said. “So why don’t you get it in by Thursday?”
“It’s not due until Friday!” he shrieked at me. “I don’t need your deadlines when I know perfectly well when it’s due!”
As if he’d always known when everything was due.
So Thursday came, and Dylan went to hang out with friends after school. Then he went out to sing at an open mic night. In between the two, he did absolutely no homework. But he implied that he might turn in his math homework on Friday morning: “Can you drive me to school tomorrow? I want to get there early so I can turn in my math before the field trip.”
“Sure, Son,” we said. And Bill drove him to school early.
At 3:15 in the afternoon, Dylan called me: “I am so mad right now!” he seethed. Then he told me the story of how he had worked all day on his math homework, and he had worked on it on the bus both ways! And when he finally turned it in as the school day ended…
“It didn’t even change my grade!” he wailed. “I’m getting a C in my on-level math class!”
Gee, I thought. Maybe if you had turned in the homework earlier, you would have had time to do more to change your grade.
But he didn’t. He waited until the last possible second. And – in case that wasn’t bad enough – when he turned in the homework on Friday afternoon, at the last possible second, the homework was only half done. He did ONE of the two pages.
So Dylan is getting the lowest grade he’s ever gotten in math, and it’s happening during the one quarter when he turned in almost everything on time.
What was the problem?
He failed more than one quiz. He never studied. And when he did turn in his homework, even though it was technically ‘on time,’ it was turned in the day after it was due, so he only got half credit. And he was almost never prepared for his progress checks, meaning that he couldn’t show evidence that he’d been working on his math.
More than once, his teacher emailed me to tell me that Dylan was working on yesterday’s homework in class, and not doing his classwork when it was sitting right in front of him.
Dylan’s answer to all this?
“I can get it all done in 10 minutes.”
I guess he underestimated the time.
Dylan lost his electronics for the whole weekend – the only time this year.
This is my most recent communication with Shane’s middle school vice principals, who don’t even know me. (Teachers probably hate me, but I no longer care.)
My son, Shane, is taking Honors Geometry with Ms. X. He is doing very well in spite of a possible math-related learning disorder, and has an 89% in the class. Unfortunately, he has a “missing” homework assignment that was due on March 14, which may be holding him back from having an A for the quarter.
Shane rarely forgets to turn in his homework and, in this case, he didn’t forget. He went on a field trip on March 13, and he never got the homework assignment.
Last week, Shane asked Ms. X about that missing assignment. She told him that she had given it to him already, and that if he could find it and complete it, he could turn it in. She didn’t tell him what the homework assignment was, or how he could find it without going through the hundreds of papers in his math binder. And she refused to give him a new copy.
Worse, Shane says she never gave it to him. He is very quiet, and we are working hard to teach him how to self-advocate, but he has a memory like a steel trap. If he had been given an extra homework assignment, he would have done it on March 14. Still, he dug through all of his papers, looking for something that wasn’t already done, to no avail. He couldn’t find the paper because he never got the paper, so he is at a loss as to what to do.
I have emailed Ms. X twice about this – both before AND after Shane talked to her – but have not heard anything back (at all). That is why I am emailing you.
The difference between the assignment being marked as ‘zero’ versus marked as ‘excused’ would mean a world of difference to Shane. He was quite willing to do the work – but he never got the work to do. I would sincerely appreciate your looking into this matter with Ms. X and, hopefully, getting it resolved before the third quarter grades are finalized. I’m not sure how the grades are calculated, or even if it will bring him up to an A, but it seems terribly unfair not to give him the chance.
Within two hours, the vice principal called the teacher who, it turns out, had NOT been getting my emails. The teacher called me at home and was incredibly nice, considering that I had just emailed her boss.
She said that Shane hadn’t even told her that he didn’t have the paper, or asked her how to find one, so she had no idea that he didn’t have a copy. She said, “I’d be happy to give him a new one anytime!”
So this morning, Shane went in and got the new homework assignment, and finished it on the spot so that he could get it in before the end of the quarter.
The teachers may hate me, but I love them.
With the third quarter coming to an end, I can say with certainty that Dylan is finally doing what he’s supposed to do. It only took 11 years.
He checks daily to make sure his work is turned in, and he gets it done – and turned in – on time. If missing work pops up online, he finds out what it is and gets it done. Most of the time, his “missing” work is a test he only partially finished. Sometimes it’s an assignment he did, but forgot to turn in.
As a result, his grades are good. His grades are so good, in fact, that Dylan has been invited to apply for the National Honor Society.
Only a few weeks ago, Shane was invited to apply – and ignored the invitation. It was heartbreaking to discover, since Shane gets so little recognition for his accomplishments.
But I knew that Dylan had been doing quite well this year, so I asked Dylan specifically: “Were you invited?”
“Yeah,” Dylan said. “But I don’t know what it is.”
I get the feeling that the National Honor Society doesn’t do a very good job with their marketing.
So Dylan and I looked it up on the school website, and found out that there are a few things that are required of members. In Dylan’s case, he would need to do 15 hours of tutoring and 10 additional hours of student service learning. He would also need to assist with a group project, and do a project of his own.
“I could do that,” Dylan said. “I don’t want to do it, but if it helps me get into college….”
Dylan would not enjoy tutoring. Unlike his older and younger brother, he doesn’t have a lot of patience for teaching. In fact, he gets rather frustrated with anyone who doesn’t understand his way of thinking – which, since he is gifted, can be quite challenging for some (including me).
Dylan would not enjoy the individual project. He would love the group project, but given that he has trouble with finishing an independent reading book over a long period of time, I can’t imagine that he would do well with planning a project and carrying it out, step by step, over any length of time.
But Dylan would also need to apply for membership. He would be evaluated not just on his grades, but on his leadership abilities and involvement in the school community. Before they are even allowed to join (and tutor and do projects), students are expected to be leaders.
This could prove to be a problem. The school website describes members of the National Honor Society like this:
“Student leaders should be resourceful, problem solvers, promoters of school activities, idea-contributors, and dependable.”
Dylan is a leader, yes, but not in the classic sense of the word. He definitely exhibits leadership qualities – but in high school, he prefers to do his own thing. He has great ideas, and is an amazing problem solver. But again, he didn’t choose to use those abilities in school.
And dependability? Well… he’s getting there.
Dylan was invited to apply, but he’s not a shoo-in. And he’s not sure he wants to do the work that’s required of him if he is accepted.
“You can definitely do it, but I don’t know if you should bother,” I told him. “Even though you have the grades, maybe the National Honor Society just isn’t your thing.”
“It’s really not,” Dylan said.
But hey, he was finally invited to apply. And that’s what matters.
I went to see one of those “faith-based dramas” last week.
For the uninitiated, faith-based dramas are the movies that are kinda sappy like Hallmark movies, but are allowed to mention God in a way that doesn’t require profanity. When the Game Stands Tall is one of my favorites, because I can watch any kind of football movie. But I also really enjoyed the one I saw last week: I Can Only Imagine.
The movie is based on the true backstory for a Christian song I’d never heard. The song, not coincidentally, is called “I Can Only Imagine.” It was a hit on the Christian charts back in 1999 – two decades before the movie was made.
In one scene in the movie, the main character has a revelation, looks at the sky and says, “Okay, God.” And then he writes the song.
Hm, I thought, while watching the movie. I used to have revelations like that all the time. I wonder what happened?
For a few seconds, I remembered how I’d felt truly connected to God for many years. I remembered shooting stars that changed my life, hearing answers to my prayers from friends and sometimes strangers, and listening to songs on the radio that were so obviously meant for only me.
In fact, when I was in high school, I used to “talk” to God using the radio. I would ask a question and then turn on the radio, and follow whatever guidance I got. Most of the time, the guidance was clearer than the sky on a bright July day.
And I lived like that for a long, long time.
But recently, I fell out of the “habit” of asking God for guidance. I’ve been too busy thinking I know everything already, too busy making plans because I also know what’s best for everyone else. When it comes right down to it, I say many prayers of thanks, but I’ve just been too busy lately doing stuff to ask for much guidance.
All of this occurred to me during the 14-second clip at the movie theater.
Then, I pretty much forgot about it. I left the theater and got something to eat. I texted my parents and my kids on my cell phone. I drove around for awhile, killing time while I allowed the kids to have the house to themselves (at their request). Finally, I started driving home.
As I drove, I remembered that moment in the theater, and I wondered again what happened to my personal connection with God. I didn’t feel entirely disconnected, but I didn’t feel totally connected, either.
Almost as a joke I thought, I wonder if God would play that movie song for me on the radio. I didn’t say the words out loud, and I sure didn’t expect anything to happen. But I turned on the radio and flipped to the Christian radio station, just in case.
And exactly at that moment, just starting to play, was the song, “I Can Only Imagine.”
Just like that, God was back.
Spring break is ending. So this is it: the end of the third quarter.
Those of you who have been painstakingly reading my blog just because, at this point, you can’t seem to quit, will recognize that this is the MILLIONTH end of a quarter that we’ve stumbled toward in the Hawkins household.
But THIS one is different.
I hate to totally ignore Shane, because he has consistently gotten all A’s and B’s, and I should absolutely recognize him for that incredible work. He gives it all he’s got, follows the rules, and pulls himself up when he needs to do so. Best of all, he knows what’s due, and when, and he gets it done – and in.
Way to go, Shane!
But Dylan’s ADHD (and his attitude) have kept him in Total Struggle Mode for the past 11 years. So the end of every quarter usually comes with complete panic, Dylan staying after school for hours desperately trying to catch up, and screaming anxiety at every turn for at least two weeks.
Just … not this time. There are only five days left in the quarter, and Dylan is completely caught up.
He’s caught up because he’s been caught up all quarter long.
He’s been following his contract, and hasn’t lost his electronics even once. (I did threaten him once or twice, but he always already had a note from his teacher, saying that the missing assignment was turned in.)
Dylan has finished quizzes late, since he gets “time and a half” according to his IEP. And he has been doing his homework assignments in a rather haphazard fashion sometimes. And his long-term projects have probably suffered from procrastination. His grades might suffer because he’s not prioritizing school.
But all quarter long, he has kept on top of his assignments, and turned them in – without MY help.
I breathed a little easier this quarter. As panicked as I was a few times, Dylan knew everything before I did. He got the work done. He turned it in.
It really was that simple.
And now, with the end of the quarter coming in just a handful of days, he’s planning to go on a field trip on Friday. He’s meeting with teachers during his spare time. And he’s making sure – every day – that he won’t end this quarter with missing work or incomplete assessments.
In fact, Dylan is going to end this quarter without any problem.
So as the next quarter starts, I can actually breathe.
Spring break is emotionally tough for me this year.
I keep thinking about it being Dylan’s last year, and that we didn’t plan anything, and that I barely see him when we’re at home.
I had planned an elaborate and detailed road trip, but the weather didn’t cooperate. So I canceled the road trip and decided just to have fun from home.
So we went horseback riding on Weekday 1 of spring break. It was the only thing from our road trip that I was really sorry we’d be missing. So we hopped in the car.
Within five minutes, Dylan and I were arguing. He had his earphones in, and could barely hear me. We grumped at each other for the entire 45-minute trip. I was astounded that I thought we could spend four days in the car together.
Dylan and I had gone horseback riding on a prior college road trip, and it was awesome. Shane had never been horseback riding before.
So we went and rode some horses through the woods. Both boys were great with their horses, and we all enjoyed the ride. Afterward, the kids played with a potbellied pig and a cat – both rescue animals on the horse farm. And while riding was fun, their interaction with the animals afterward may have been the best part.
On Weekday 2, I was tired from all the horseback riding (and driving) so our big adventure was a bit smaller. We went out for ice cream – but not just any ice cream. We tried a new place where they made the ice cream right in front of us by freezing it with liquid nitrogen. So we got to do a little experimenting with our ice cream.
By Weekday 3, I was exhausted. I was so glad we weren’t on a 900-mile road trip! I planned nothing.
Shane came downstairs and asked, first thing, “So, what are we doing today?”
“I have absolutely no plans,” I told him. “And I am happy with that.”
Shane wasn’t as happy. So I arranged for the two boys to have the house to themselves all evening, to do whatever they wanted to do. And then they had a “sleepover” in the room usually reserved for video games and instrumental music practice.
Today is Weekday 4. Shane is going out with his friend, and Dylan is having a friend over. Beyond chauffeuring kids, I am thrilled to do absolutely nothing today.
I am glad we didn’t go anywhere for spring break. I’ve had enough.
On Saturday, for the first time, our entire family attended a protest march. We walked in the nation’s capital, as part of March For Our Lives.
All four of us strongly believe that banning assault weapons and having stronger gun laws would save lives in this country. And we went with other people – friends and grandparents – who also supported the cause. In fact, we went with hundreds of thousands of other people.
It was an intense day, with emotions running high on stage and in the audience. We got off of the subway and headed to the rally spot, an experience that Shane and Dylan had never had.
We walked into the street, holding our handmade signs proudly and high. As the kids stared wide-eyed at the other activists, reading other handmade signs and seeing so many people supporting the same cause, we kept walking. We walked until the crowds got thicker and we had to walk more slowly. We walked until we couldn’t walk at all. So we stopped, and we waited.
We couldn’t see the stage, but we could almost see a giant screen broadcasting the rally. Shane had joked about taking selfies with Miley Cyrus, but when she came on stage, he didn’t know it was her until the end of her song. We weren’t able to see what was going on, but we were able to feel it.
We listened while the teenagers who organized the march – and some pre-teens, too – called for stronger laws. They taught my kids, who really didn’t know, that there were elections every two years, not just every four years. They reminded my kids, and everyone else’s, that they will have a voice, that they will have a vote, and that all they have to do is register in order to make their voices heard.
Shane asked twice how long we would be there, and Bill had issues with his leg going numb, so the two of them swam back through the hordes of people until they could sit down. It was a long day.
Dylan and I stayed until the end of the rally. We were there for what has been called the loudest silence in history. We stood for six minutes in the midst of 800,000 noiseless people, crying for the loss of lives and holding up two fingers, high in the air, begging for peace.
Later I told Dylan that I’d always wished I could have been old enough in the sixties to use that peace symbol more regularly. After March For Our Lives, I realized that holding up that peace sign takes a lot more arm muscle than I’d realized.
“I know,” Dylan said. “My arm was tired, too, but I didn’t care. I just kept holding it up.”
The entire experience was far too profound for a simple blog post, but there is something about protesting as a family that makes me not only proud, but hopeful.
I am, sincerely, hopeful that this march – that the marches that took place all over the world – will produce some change.
And if they don’t, at least my children now know what it’s like to be part of history – and what they need to do next to keep that hope alive.
Spring break is upon us.
Last year, we went to Disney World during the break. It’s hard not to go to Disney World when you can stay for free at a Disney World hotel, thanks to your husband’s job.
Next year is Dylan’s last spring break before college. It seems unlikely that we will do anything except look at colleges with Dylan, and allow him to make his final decision.
So this year, I didn’t know what to do. I constantly feel like I am running out of time, like they’re almost gone, like there isn’t enough time. I know the whole world is going to change when Dylan leaves – and that my world will never be the same.
Shane’s world will never be the same either, but at least he will be a teenager and have more important things to do than wish Dylan were home. On the other hand, I will not have more important things to do.
So, in my panic, I planned a spring break trip. We want to save money for college, so I planned a very small, rather local trip – a road trip. The entire thing spanned a whopping 900 miles in four days.
I planned some great activities, and some bizarre activities, and some just-plain-off-the-beaten-path activities. I scoured the web for hours and hours and hours. Finally, I had the trip together, and announced to the children that we would be doing a trip that would be full of surprises.
“A trip?” Dylan said. “Why do we have to go somewhere? I wanted to hang out with my friends! I wanted to go to a concert! Why would I want to just sit in a car?”
I sighed. Later, I asked Shane – who was rather excited – if he would mind going on the trip without Dylan.
“It wouldn’t be as fun,” Shane said.
He was right, of course, but also … I had planned this road trip for both boys, so that they would be sure to have a great time for those few days, and still have plenty of time at home afterward. And finally, they agreed that they would both go.
But as the time drew nearer, I checked the weather. It was a terrible forecast. The entire four-day trip was plagued by rain and near-freezing temperatures. I’d planned some great outdoor activities, and some mediocre indoor activities. But the outdoor adventures were the best – and the weather was not cooperating.
The only way to do this trip was to do it … another time.
So I canceled the hotels, canceled the activities, canceled my excitement at the thought of spending those four days sharing some cool stuff with the boys.
So now spring break is upon us, and none of us has anything to do.
It is not my job to worry about Dylan’s SAT test. The entire time I was worrying, I was thinking how much nicer it would have been if Dylan had spent a little time thinking about his SAT test – instead of me.
A week ago, his voice coach casually mentioned that it was time for Dylan to start taking charge of his own things – choosing his own songs for lessons, practicing on his own time, keeping his own schedule.
“Brilliant!” I exclaimed, waving my arms at Dylan. “That would be wonderful!”
Dylan said, with all the conviction in the world, “I WOULD take charge of my own stuff if only you didn’t do everything FOR me!”
The SAT test was four days later. Dylan hadn’t studied, printed his ticket, or found out where/when the test was taking place. He didn’t even have his two sharpened number-two pencils.
But I didn’t do anything for him. I told him to look at the website, to find out what to expect from the test. I told him to print out his ticket. I told him to prepare his snacks.
Most important, I told him to find out about his extended time. WE – meaning the school and I – had already requested (and been approved for) extended time for Dylan. Because of his IEP, he gets time-and-a-half to complete tests.
The process of requesting extended time can take up to three months. Dylan, of course, did not do this himself.
In addition, he hadn’t completed any of the tasks he was supposed to do – for school or for music. I made a list of all the things he was supposed to have completed, but hadn’t, and I set the list aside. I told him there would be a list if he didn’t do some things himself before the SAT test was over – but I didn’t ask him to do anything.
And sure enough, he didn’t do any of them.
Nine hours before the test, he still hadn’t looked at the website for “what to expect.”
“What do you think you can expect, then?” I asked.
“I’ll wait in line and then go in and take the test,” he said.
While I had prepared weeks in advance, especially to make sure he’d be in the right place to have “extended time,” Dylan didn’t know about the rules, the cell phone ban, the timing, or even if he could chew gum. (He needs gum for testing.)
In fact, Dylan barely got ready to leave the house for the SAT. When it was time to go, he had a banana and coffee (from me). Somehow, he still didn’t have his two sharpened number-two pencils.
So I stood in the kitchen silently. I didn’t gesture, but I looked at the pencils.
HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO STOP DOING THINGS FOR HIM IF HE REALLY DOESN’T DO THEM HIMSELF?!
On the way out the door to take the SAT test, after allowing him to get ready “by himself” (and knowing full well that he would have had no snacks, water or coffee if I hadn’t gotten them ready for him), he was heading to the car with his pile.
“I want to go back to elementary school,” Dylan said.
I laughed. “Me, too,” I told him – meaning, I’d like to go back to my elementary school days, too.
The statement came after Dylan spent almost 15 minutes doing “everything” for himself.
