Brilliant … But Bouncy

I Went to the Red Box.

I had a promo code for a free Redbox DVD rental, but I had some trouble using it. So I accessed Redbox’s “Live Help.” The following is the conversation I had with Tina.

Me: I rented a DVD but I didn’t find a place to enter my promo code…?

Tina: I apologize for the inconvenience, don’t worry let me help you.  Are you using the app?

Me: No – I rented a DVD already. I couldn’t find anywhere at the box to enter my promo code. I am now home, on a desktop computer.

Tina: You can see that option on the checkout page. ‘USE PROMO CODE”

Me: I didn’t see that option…? Now I have a video, and I don’t know what to do.

Tina: What browser are you using?

Me: I already GOT THE DVD. I was using the Red Box. I am using Chrome now, if it matters.

Tina: I see. Can you try deleting your browsing history and clear cache and cookies?

Me: I don’t think you understand my issue. I HAVE ALREADY RENTED THE DVD. I DID IT AT THE RED BOX. I AM NOT USING MY COMPUTER FOR ANYTHING EXCEPT TALKING TO YOU. Why on earth would I clear my cache and cookies? I WANTED TO USE A PROMO CODE TO RENT A DVD AT THE BOX. I couldn’t find where to ENTER the promo code. I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING ON MY COMPUTER! Do you actually understand my issue?

Tina: I apologize, I thought you are using the website. So you rented it at the box or reservation?

Me: At the box. I drove to the box and picked up a movie. I didn’t see an option to use my promo code. I got the DVD anyway and came home.

Tina: So basically you reserved it online right? You won’t be able to use the code at the box once the transaction went through. 

Me: NO, I DIDN’T RESERVE IT ONLINE. I WENT TO THE RED BOX. I wanted to use the code AT the box. I didn’t see an option to use the code. Is there any way you can help me to use my code for this rental?

Tina: The box could have issues, the reason why you have not seen that option. I know this was really inconvenient, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?

Me: Yes. It would be really great if you could use my promo code for this rental, so that I get the free video that I am supposed to get.

Tina: I apologize, we don’t have the option to add the code once the rental went through. How about offering you a code for the charge would that work for you?

Me: I don’t know what that means, ‘code for the charge.’

Tina: To cover the charge, I will be giving you another code.

Me: And what will I do with that code?

Tina: This is a free rental. This is valid for 45 days. You can use this online.

Me: So I have to rent another DVD, I will not be able to use the code at the box again, and I can’t get the free video I was supposed to get. The reason I rented from Redbox today was because I had a code for a free DVD. Having another code for another video isn’t going to help with this particular situation.

Tina: I totally understand. No worries let me refund the charge for you.

Me: That would be awesome. Do you want my promo code?

Tina: No it’s okay, thank you.

The next day, I got a bill for the rental: $2.12. I think I’ll just pay it.

This is the One.

There never will be another dog like Xena. I know, dogs are all great. But Xena was the greatest. We would never, ever try to replace her.

But the house was so empty without her. So I started scouring the internet for a dog to rescue. I stayed up into the wee hours of the night, searching. Searching. Searching. The only dogs I liked online were the ones who reminded me of Xena.

I went out to the local shelters, but none of those dogs interested me, either. While I didn’t want a dog who looked like Xena, I wanted a dog whose personality was happy and sweet – a dog who loved people. I also wanted – hopefully – a dog who didn’t shed. This proved to be an impossible combination.

One night, I found a poodle-mix on craigslist who looked like a curly version of Xena. I was attracted instantly – in spite of the matted, horrific condition of the poor animal’s fur. I wanted to save it immediately. Unfortunately, the dog wasn’t available. It was a “lost pet” and a courtesy “lost and found” listing for the local animal shelter.

Then I found a dog in a West Virginia shelter – a little brown poodle mix – and I talked to Bill about getting that dog. It was only about an hour’s drive away, and the shelter was closed on Sundays. I planned to head out early on Monday morning, but it snowed and schools were delayed.

Finally, I went out in search of that little brown dog. On the way, I stopped at another shelter – which was closed due to snowy conditions. Then, when I got to my destination, that brown dog was long gone. He’d been adopted more than a week earlier.

Not one to give up, and hoping for a sign from God (as if the closed shelter and missing dog weren’t enough), I kept driving to shelters. I stopped at five different animal shelters, with absolutely no luck.

On my way back home, I remembered how much Shane had wanted to go with me, just in case. But he had school. My estimated arrival time at home was when he’d be getting out of school, so I texted him.

“Do you want to go with me to the local shelter?” I asked. “I can pick you up after school.”

“Sure,” he texted back.

So, after driving hundreds of miles, I picked up Shane, and we wandered into our local shelter. We were just looking at all the cute dogs. We rounded the corner and went into the “puppy” section, and there was a pitifully shaved dog who – in spite of his outward appearance – seemed excited to see us. He was also excited to look outside. He wanted to be petted. He wanted to get out of his little cage. But he was happy, happy, happy.

I thought, “This is the one.”

Shane thought differently. I explained, though, that the dog’s personality would be more obvious if we could take him out of his cage. So we did.

First, we had to put in an application, meet with an adoption counselor, and get all the members of our family together to meet the dog. Which we did – even though we weren’t really looking.

When the adoption counselor showed me his unshaved photo – the way he looked when he arrived two weeks prior – I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the moppet dog with the matted fur from the craigslist “lost and found.”

And when that dog came into the room to meet us, with his pitiful shaved self, it was love all around. So we completed our application, and got ourselves a new dog.

He’s not a replacement for our beloved Xena. But he is a new light in our home, so it is a little less dark now.

But This Year, We Just Smiled.

Dylan’s last IEP meeting was somewhat anti-climatic.

It’s been twelve years. Twelve years of worrying about him. Twelve years of wondering why he didn’t like school, and trying to change his mind. Twelve years of fretting over what to do about his misery and his attitude. Twelve years of considering – and visiting and applying to – private schools, with a year of attendance. Twelve years of researching possible solutions, and researching the “usual” outcomes for kids with ADHD. Twelve years of considering medication, trying dozens of pills, and finally settling on helpful supplements and coffee to get him through.

And it’s been twelve years of discussing his progress, or lack thereof, in annual meetings. We set goals, considered outcomes, studied our options. Dylan had a battery of tests that took us from the simple, one-page “504” (whatever that means) to the 18-page Individualized Education Plan, announcing that Dylan had – not quite a disability but – an “other health impairment” that could result in his not succeeding in school.

Every year, we talked about what Dylan was doing in class, and then we set goals. Every year, we mentioned disorganization and lack of attention to details. Every year, we discussed Dylan’s apparent inability to complete his work on time. Every year, we made one goal a priority: Dylan should complete and turn in his work on time. After 267 different aims to achieve that goal, it still hasn’t quite been met.

We spoke with everyone from principals and guidance counselors to special ed coordinators, psychologists and case managers. Nearly every administrative person in every school building has known Dylan’s name – and considered, at least briefly, his issues – and possible solutions.

Every year, Bill took a few hours away from work to be there for the meeting. Every year, I filled out my parental report and attended with my usual file folder full of paperwork. Every year, Dylan attended – briefly at first, then for longer periods of time as he got older. Every year, teachers attended and told us how bright Dylan is, how much potential he has, and how he needs to find a way to focus better, to pay attention more in class.

And this year was no exception. Everyone knows he’s been accepted into college. We’ve come a long way since our first meeting, when we had to prepare for an all-out battle with the dementia-addled elementary school principal. In high school, the special ed team has been delightful – spectacular even – in every way. This year, I wished I’d purchased something meaningful for Dylan’s case manager: a car maybe, or a house. She deserves so much for all she’s done for Dylan in the past four years.

But this year, we just smiled and chatted and reviewed and said, “okay!” And then we all went our separate ways. Bill and I went home – and so did Dylan, since his half-day was complete. We didn’t worry a lot about anything that was said, since we’d heard everything before. We didn’t tell Dylan what he needed to do, since he’d heard it all before.

We just went home. We turned the page to the next chapter, silently and without much fanfare. Because that’s the best way to do it, for everyone.

My heart is a little bit broken, knowing that there will be no more need for the services of a special ed team in Dylan’s future. At the same time, Dylan’s graduation from special education is such a huge, positive step forward that it’s hard to be sad.

I guess I just wanted to be needed for a little bit longer.

Is It In Your Ski Bag?

On the way out the door for school, on the morning of his third week of Ski Club, Shane turned to me. He said quickly, “I lost my ski helmet, so I’ll just wear yours this week.”

“You did WHAT?!?” I shrieked. “You lost your hundred-dollar ski helmet?! AND your brand new $40 goggles that were attached to your helmet?”

“I didn’t know they cost that much,” he mumbled.

“And you think you can just wear MINE?! No,” I said, in complete denial. “You did not lose your ski helmet. And you sure aren’t telling me this at 7:00 in the morning on your way out the door to go skiing!”

“Well I thought I could find it,” Shane said.

“Is it in your ski bag?”

“That’s the first place I looked,” he said.

I instructed Shane to look everywhere imaginable. We went out to the garage together and browsed through stuff. We checked two cars, the basement, the bedrooms, the closets, the mud room. We checked everywhere.

Finally, Shane went to school with my helmet and goggles. Meanwhile, I contacted the lost and found at the resort where, we assumed, he’d left his helmet. I found a photo of it, emailed it, and filed an online report. I even emailed the resort directly with the photo, to make sure they knew which helmet we were seeking. Then I spent another hour scouring the house, looking for the helmet.

The kids had a half-day of school, so they came home between school and their ski trip. I was in the other room when I heard Shane tell Dylan, “I found my helmet.”

“You did WHAT?!?” I shrieked. “You FOUND your helmet?!?”

“Oh yeah,” Shane said.

“Where was it?!” I was literally screaming.

“It was in my ski bag,” he said. “I checked there like five times, but I never saw it. And then I went to get something out of my bag, and I just found it in there.”

Sigh.

I contacted the resort, un-filed my claim, emailed my apologies for my desperate pleas to find a now-found helmet.

I did not apologize to Shane. And he didn’t apologize to me.

Sometimes, this is just the way it is.

Goggy! Goggy!

When we moved into our current home, our next door neighbor was a retired couple. They were sweet and quiet and, many years later, they downsized and moved away.

The house was sold to a couple who have so many kids, I can’t count them all. I know there are at least four, and one of them was still in the womb when they moved in. Instead of a lovely garden outside, now there is a swing set, a trampoline, a huge swimming pool, and – oddly – a refrigerator. There are balls and toys littering the yard. They also own 200 cars, all of which completely blanket the street and their driveway at night.

Okay, 200 cars might be an exaggeration. But they do have lots of kids.

Yesterday, I came home and two of their children were racing up and down the driveway, a five-year-old boy on a scooter and a younger girl yelling, “Goggy! Goggy!”

When I looked for a goggy, sure enough, the tiny person was chasing an even tinier dog.

It’s a cute dog. It’s actually the kind of dog I might want, if I decide to get another dog. It’s brown with wavy hair and looks nothing like my dog, Xena, who is no longer with us.

In less than the time it took me to register the word “dog” in my brain, I wanted to cry. But it wasn’t just the new puppy reminding me of my loss. I saw the little boy on the scooter and the little girl running after that dog and without forming the words, my brain tossed out the idea: Not mine anymore.

I looked down my own long, empty driveway. There are no scooters, no balls left outside, no puppy chasing the children. There’s no one playing basketball under the rusty hoop, no one romping through the yard, no one squealing with delight for no apparent reason. Our trampoline is covered in leaves and debris, and no one can be bothered to clean it off, even for a few minutes of fun.

My kids are grown; they’re leaving home. They spend their afternoons without me, preferring the company of friends in a chat room to board games with their old mom. They’re heading for a new life, one that doesn’t include me, one that doesn’t include running and romping and jumping.

And in case that were insufficient reason to be melancholy, eleven years ago, we got a dog. My boys ran and played with that dog in the yard nearly every day – rain, snow or sun – until their little legs were too tired to continue. We took her for car rides, walks up the street, hikes in the woods. We took her camping and boating. We took her to the store, the library and school. She rode with us to two different elementary schools, a middle school, and a high school.

She was even show-and-tell at Shane’s preschool.

And now Shane is in high school. Dylan is on his way to college. And our beloved family pet is just gone. For me, those days are over. My time as “Mom” is dwindling down, and my neighbors are just starting up.

They have no idea how fast it will go, even if they try to hang on with every fiber of their being.