Dylan took the SAT test in June, and was excited when the SAT scores arrived.
He had been happy with his first SAT score, which was a full 1,000 points above his best PSAT (practice) score. But he wanted to take it again in June, since the county offered a free voucher for any junior who wanted to take it.
He took the test and said, minutes afterward, “I feel pretty good about it. I think I did even better on the math section than last time.”
Notoriously, Dylan struggles with math – so this was good news. Unfortunately, he was not so happy when his scores came in. His English/reading test scores went up 20 points – but his math scores dropped fifty points, pulling down his overall score.
A few weeks later, I got an email from Dylan’s high school career counselor. It offered us a spot in an upcoming seminar – one that would “explain” how and why the June SAT scores were so disappointing.
WHAT?!? Other people had lower test scores, too?!
I didn’t need to wait for some seminar to find out – I wanted to know now! So I hopped on the internet.
Apparently, the SAT questions change with every test – and with the June test, the math questions were “easier” than the math questions on the prior test.
So they graded on a harder curve.
A whole bunch of kids with excellent math results got horrible math scores. One mom had this to say:
One daughter got 760 getting only 5 wrong in math in March. Her twin missed 6 in math on June 2 test and got 670? 90 point difference in overall SAT scores for just ONE math question? How is that fair or standardized?
Another student was furious.
My first SAT I miss 26 questions and score a 1400. My second SAT I miss 16 questions and score a 1350?!
So I became furious, too. I signed a petition. I posted on Facebook. I fumed around the house. I shared everything I knew with Dylan, who read it with interest.
But … there’s nothing we can do to “fix” the problem. The scores are randomly generated – and also “curved” – by a corporate entity over which we have no control.
And Dylan’s scores are now stored by that same corporate entity, until we give them “permission” to release the scores to colleges.
Dylan’s fate rests in the hands of the admissions offices of those colleges, who may or may not have read the article on the Inside Higher Ed website. And they may or may not think his first score was just “lucky” and his second score was “real.”
I don’t take much stock in SAT scores anyway – but some colleges still do.
What a shame that, for Dylan, so much depends on the College Board. Of course, I emailed them. A week or so later, they responded with a very lengthy explanation of why they were right about a process they call “equating.”
“The equating process adjusts for the variation in difficulty between forms to ensure fairness for all students. And because of the difference between forms, you can’t directly compare the number of questions answered correctly.”
Their email was encrypted, eleven paragraphs long, and said virtually nothing. I think they drafted a form letter to respond to all of the angry parents, hoping that we would be too confused to write again. I wrote again anyway, with a new appreciation for the futility of my effort.
Shane will be taking the ACT, administered by a hopefully less frustrating organization. I only wish I’d thought of it sooner.
After allowing Dylan to drive Shane to the coffee shop, I was a nervous wreck. When I gave them the opportunity to go out together, the offer came out of my mouth before my brain could filter it.
I was terrified, and determined not to run up the road after them or text them to see if they made it to their destination.
Alas, my children know me so well. Twenty minutes after they left, I got a text from Dylan’s phone:
We drove the car off a bridge and we are currently plummeting to our deaths. Love you!
Nooooooooooo!!!!!!!!! (I replied, with five sad faces.) Wait, what bridge?
Idk I just know we fallin. Oh also Shane is drunk and I’m on meth
Well that won’t matter in a few minutes. But my stuff is in that car!
It’s ok I’m sure the police will pull it out when they pull the car out – jeeze this must have been a really tall bridge
indeed! I will miss you darlings! I love you very much!
I love you too!
Hello! (This was followed by a farmer boy icon, which meant that Shane had snatched Dylan’s phone.)
(I sent back a brown goat.)
That was Shane. He wanted to let you know that he said hi – apparently. Welp I think I see the water finally so I’ll see ya in a few decades!
goodbye dear ones. I will see you in the next world.
I smiled nearly the whole time they were gone. Thanks, Dylan, for thinking of me.
While the kids were at camp, I had lots of time to myself. One day, I got an email that said – thanks to a settlement on some Ticketmaster court case – I had earned the right to:
TRADE YOUR VOUCHERS FOR UNFORGETTABLE LIVE CONCERTS NOW!
I had a vague recollection of putting my name out there, eons ago, so that a “Ticketmaster settlement” could be shared with me, whenever it came to fruition. I didn’t think it would be in the form of free concerts, but hey – that sounded good!
I discovered that I had not one or two “vouchers,” but seventeen vouchers, each good for two tickets to any eligible event. So I was eligible to get 34 free tickets!
I spent almost an hour searching through the “eligible events.” The concerts near us may have been good for the kids, but the venue is far from home and not a particularly nice place to see a concert. Plus, Dylan works – a lot – and he works at a concert venue. So he’s already seeing a ton of concerts this summer.
So I started searching out of our area – at places where we might be traveling through for college visits or vacations. And sure enough, eventually, I found one: a concert we could see on our way home from vacation. All four of us would enjoy it, and we wouldn’t be able to see that group at any other time or place – at least not anytime soon.
So I thought, hey, I have seventeen vouchers! I will use two of them for tickets to this great concert, and we will get to see this great group for free! Plus we can extend our vacation by one day, which the kids will love.
I clicked, “Redeem Voucher.” The website very happily put me on hold for a second … (Searching for Tickets…) and then it provided me with all of my options for that event:
FAST LANE ACCESS
PREMIER PARKING
VIP CLUB ACCESS
RESERVED LAWN ACCESS
LAWN CHAIR RENTAL
OVERSIZED VEHICLE PARKING
Every single one of these great options had one caveat:
THIS IS NOT A CONCERT TICKET.
I went and checked another “eligible event,” just in case.
VIP CLUB UPGRADE
PREMIER PARKING
LOUNGE ACCESS
And again, there was the warning attached to each one:
THIS IS NOT A CONCERT TICKET.
In other words, for my “settlement,” all I can get is a lawn chair rental or a place to park my oversized vehicle outside the venue.
I can’t actually get any concert tickets.
Like I said, I had lots of time on my hands during camp week. But geez, what a waste.
In order to be sure that Shane went to high school with a slew of friends and plenty of stuff to do, I encouraged him to join the school marching band. He has been a percussionist since elementary school.
I should have known, last summer when I forced him to take lessons, that he wasn’t terribly enthused. But I thought marching about on a football field with 50 of your closest friends sounded like great fun. It made me wish I played the drums.
Shane went to practice faithfully in May and June, every Wednesday. When I asked him how practice was, he said, “fine,” and then talked about the other percussionists (who are not very nice to him) and about the new drums he was playing (which he didn’t really enjoy) and about the upcoming activities (which didn’t appeal to him).
I ignored all of the signs.
“It will get better,” I said.
“You’ll like it more when you’re with the whole band,” I said.
“You’ll like it when you’re marching,” I said.
I paid $300 for equipment, transportation, a uniform and fees. “You’re sure you want to be in marching band, right?” I asked jovially before hitting the PAY button.
“I guess,” he said.
After practice one day he said, “I wish I could practice at home, but I don’t know how to set up the drums.”
I emailed his band teacher, who suggested that he take home the actual drum set. So, while Shane was at camp, I picked up his drums. I was so excited about giving him his own drums to practice.
They were heavy. And we had a little trouble setting them up. But we did it, then left him alone to practice. After about twenty minutes, he stopped playing.
We went upstairs and found Shane. To put it mildly, he was rather unhappy. Even he didn’t know what was wrong. But in the course of a short conversation, he said he was concerned about marching band. He didn’t even know what was bothering him so deeply.
“Make a list of pros and cons,” I suggested – as my dad, years earlier, had suggested to me. “It will help you see what’s bothering you about marching band and put it into perspective. Then you can make a mature, informed decision about what you need to do.”
Shane’s list of “pros” was four points, one of which wasn’t even accurate. (They do not provide free food at band camp.) “It might get better” was his strongest “pro.”
His list of “cons,” though, was massive – 11 very strong, heartfelt points, not the least of which was: “I don’t really like to play the drums.”
But the most telling “con” was: “I’m never excited to go.” I asked him specifically about that.
“Well, I always want it to be Tuesday or Friday so I can play table tennis,” Shane said. “But I am never excited when it’s Wednesday.”
Shane doesn’t like marching band, I realized. It’s just not his thing.
“Gee Shane,” I said, looking up from his list. “You might want to quit.”
The relief on Shane’s face, the relief in his whole body, was palpable. He worried about the money; he worried about my reaction; and he worried he was disappointing the rest of the band. He wanted everyone else to be happy, and he had been willing to march – no matter what – even though it was crushing his spirit.
“Don’t worry about anyone but you,” I said. “And from now on, let’s work on communicating about how you really feel.”
When this year’s AP scores posted online, we were all on a hayride near a dairy farm in rural Pennsylvania. School was the furthest thing from my mind.
But Dylan remembered. Yes. Dylan remembered.
Dylan’s AP test was a particular spectacle this year, because it’s the one that caused two weeks’ worth of agony for the special ed coordinator, the school principal, Dylan’s case manager, and his two parents. We spent hours faxing and talking on the phone with the College Board – because this was the AP test that Dylan had to take without the accommodation of a computer.
His college-level essays were all handwritten in typical, kindergarten-esque, Dylan-ish fashion.
To say I was “concerned” that he would fail would be an enormous understatement. Many blogs in late April and early May will attest to that. But when I was on the hayride, school was not even a blip on my radar. I was having farm fun with the boys.
So when Dylan announced that he was checking his test scores, just after we stepped off the wagon, my stomach clenched. This AP test is the one that will give him credit in an English class – a “$10,000 class” we called it. And this AP test is the one that didn’t allow him the opportunity to use a computer to compose two lengthy essays.
He needed a score of 4 or 5 to get college credit for the class. On his prior AP test (a computer programming test that was done on – duh – a computer), Dylan had only gotten a 3. We weren’t exactly anticipating the current AP test results.
Dylan looked a bit queasy when he looked up from his phone, having gotten his answer.
“What did you get?” I cracked.
Dylan held up four fingers.
“I got a 4,” he said. “I got a 4!”
He passed. He did well. Dylan’s got his first college credit – and he did it without even using a computer!
He got a 4. Hallelujah!
I was driving through a crowded parking lot when I was forced to stop. There was a driverless car in front of me, with the driver-side door open, blocking my path.
I had to wait for the driver to return to his/her car if I wanted to move forward. I wasn’t in a terrific hurry and, since the door was open, I assumed it wouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes.
I had enough time to consider my options, and probably too much time to think and get increasingly frustrated. But a few minutes later, a woman got into the driver’s seat, closed her door … and just sat there.
Next to the car was an area where she could have pulled over to the side, and I could have moved forward. But she didn’t move.
And behind my car was an area where I could have backed up and gotten out of her way. But I didn’t move.
I was reminded very distinctly of my favorite Dr. Seuss story: The Zax. In the story, two Zax are traveling by foot when they run smack into each other. Neither one will step to the side so that the other may pass.
And while I knew that the Zax never did budge, I also knew one of us was going to budge.
Normally, I would move. In fact, I would have backed up and gotten out of the woman’s way if only I hadn’t been so upset by the fact that the car was left right in the middle of the lot so that no other cars could pass. I felt like I needed to make a point, and that I should wait for her to move first.
At the same time, I realized that for my entire life, I’ve been moving out of other people’s way. I’ve spent so much time saying, “excuse me” and “I’m sorry” while stepping aside that I think my quota of apologies is entirely used up. So when I realized that this car was in my way, for a change I decided to stand my ground.
After about a minute of not moving, the woman got out of her car and walked over to my car.
“Is there a space you could pull into, so that I could get by?” she said – in the sweetest and kindest possible way. She was nearly apologizing for asking me to move, even though I was the one who had been waiting for her.
“You want me to move,” I growled, already throwing my car into reverse. “Or you could have moved so that I could have gotten through!”
I could see from her astonishment that this possibility had never crossed her simple mind. “But I need to go this way!” she said, still trying to be sweet. But I was already backing up, getting out of her way, and I wasn’t going to argue about whose “way” was most important.
I thought about my kids. What would I have done if they’d been in the car? Would I have showed them that it’s important to stand up for oneself? Or would I have backed up as soon as she got into her car, so that we could all go back to things that actually matter?
I honestly don’t know if I would have changed anything at all.
But I do have a new clarity, now, on why the Zax never moved a single inch.
Well. The kids are at camp. Now what?
I have nothing to do. I have nothing to think about. I can start planning our next vacation, I suppose, since – for now – the kids will be coming home soon.
Instead, I am thinking about the future. I am thinking about how bored I am going to be. I am thinking that I will have to physically restrain myself from texting one or both of them – at least for the first five years.I am thinking that I will not have anything interesting in my life, ever again, until grandchildren come. And then I will be fighting with the mother of the poor child because it’s bad enough that I don’t see my own son, but now my grandchild, too!
I have already frequented little league games where I don’t know a single child on either team. What’s to keep me from becoming a foster mom or, heaven forbid, adopting another child? I mean, well – what’s to stop me other than my husband?
And my husband – holy moly. What the heck am I supposed to do with him for the next 30 years or so? What will we talk about if the kids aren’t around? How will we ever plan anything? What will there be to coordinate? We certainly aren’t going to hold deep, meaningful conversations as we watch the sun set. He never sits down long enough for that. Plus, our yard is laced with mosquitoes.
The way I see it, when both kids are gone – in four, already-way-too-short years – I will have two choices.
- I will adopt dogs. I will adopt so many dogs, there will never be a dull moment in the house. I will rescue them from shelters and rescues and treat them as well (if not better) than I ever treated my kids.
- I will teach. I will teach one-on-one, at homes, and I will tutor and I will be the busiest doggone substitute teacher this county has ever had. I will teach five days a week, 260 days a year. I will make sure those students know that someone, even if it’s only a lowly substitute, cares about them.
I only see one problem with both of those solutions to what will be ailing me in five years:
The dogs and the students … won’t ever be my children.
In my youth, my dream was to work on Sesame Street, which is filmed in New York City. Unfortunately, I didn’t want to live in New York City.
But I did live in Pittsburgh, where Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood was filmed.
I lived in Pittsburgh as a preschooler, in the very first years of Mister Rogers. My mom said that I was watching it once, and Mister Rogers was talking about how kids can’t get flushed down the toilet. It seemed to her like a pretty ridiculous concept.
“Are you worried about that, Kirsten?” she asked me. And I turned to her, very seriously, and nodded.
If I remember correctly, I was terrified of being flushed down that toilet. I can remember, too, thinking that I’d be sucked down the drain with the bathtub water.
Children have minds that are open to spectacular concepts – both good and bad. I honestly believed that anything was possible. I watched Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie and often tried – desperately – to create that kind of magic in my own life.
After watching Mr. Ed, I believed that animals could talk – and spent years trying to get them to talk to me.
Later, when I watched Fonzie on Happy Days, I was sure I could get change to fall out of vending machines if I just hit the machine the right way.
I believed that my stuffed animals came alive at night, and danced and played. I’m still not sure it’s not true. I may be old now, but sometimes I still believe in magic.
When I was a teenager, I became jaded. I didn’t do well in school. I had to take a summer school class at a school in downtown Pittsburgh, next door to the WQED studios, where Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood filmed.
After summer school one day, I was sitting on a stone wall, waiting for my ride, when I saw a familiar face – a man wearing a cardigan sweater – driving out of the studio lot. He saw me sitting on the wall – my hardened teenage self – and without so much as a flinch, broke into a wide smile and waved at me.
Mister Rogers waved at me. I meekly, and quickly, waved back. I probably didn’t smile.
And as my preschool self ran smack into my teenage self, I started to cry, right there on that wall, because all of my teenage angst had been suddenly comforted by an old friend from my preschool days – the same man who told me it was safe to sit on a toilet, and take a bath.
Mister Rogers smiled at me. He didn’t care how tough I was.
Ten years later, with a degree in Communications and another degree in Early Childhood Education, I went back to WQED to see if, maybe, Mister Rogers Neighborhood needed an intern. I would have worked there unpaid.
That’s the day I officially met Mister Rogers in person – a man I could never simply call “Fred” because of my undying respect for him. My stomach flipped and I could barely speak.
But like my parents taught me, I shook his hand. I said, “Nice to meet you.”
He said, “It’s so nice to meet you.”
My interview was with a producer, and he didn’t need an intern – even someone who worked for free. But it was a day I will never forget, like that day on the wall outside of the studio.
I cried when he died. I cried when writing this. And I cried at the new movie, Won’t You Be My Neighbor?
I loved him.
The kids are “bored” already, and couldn’t think of “anything” to do except to watch YouTube videos on their phones. Shane asked me for a list of possibilities, so that he could have ideas readily available the next time he is “bored.”
Indoor ideas:
READ
do summer homework
jigsaw puzzle
fingerpainting
write a book
write a poem
write a song
write a short story
write a play
READ
do a puppet show
do an exercise video
create a walking stick
juggle
run your drone camera
take nature photos
take indoor photos
learn a language
break a world record
start a collection
sort one of your collections
sort/organize stuff
play the zither
play the steel drum
play the electronic drum kit
practice your song for marching band
learn to play a new board game
play solitaire with real cards
play cards
walk the dog
walk just for yourself
create art (pipe cleaners, collage, coloring)
get a pen pal and write letters
READ
Play:
catch (baseball, football, any ball)
kickball
racquetball
tennis
badminton
basketball
Other Outdoor Ideas:
bike ride
trampoline
hose/sprinkler
climb a tree
make mud pies
go to the playground
skateboard/skate park
wade in a stream
Other Places to Go:
nature parks
hiking paths
roller skating
ice skating
rec center (ping pong, pool, basketball)
museum
library
swimming pool
Six Flags
craft store
mall
out for lunch
out for dessert
I created this list in about ten minutes, but I thought it might be helpful for other parents. Coincidentally, these are mostly things I did as a child, long before YouTube was invented.
We spent our week visiting dentists and orthodontists. Dylan had his first cavity filled this week. He went in with pain, and they discovered the cavity – but the dentist said the pain was probably caused by his wisdom teeth coming in sideways.
We switched orthodontists between children. I lost all respect for Dylan’s orthodontist. And thanks to Shane’s orthodontist, we are learning a tremendous amount about what should have happened after Dylan’s braces came off – two years ago.
For example, Dylan’s orthodontist told Dylan three times that he was going to be getting his braces off within three months. I was sitting there, listening, so I know what was said. And then – three times! – at our next appointment, Dylan said, “Am I getting them off in a few months?” and the orthodontist said, “Oh no, I never would have said that.”
But he did say that.
Dylan wore his braces for a full two years, and that was fine. But why tell him a year prior that he’s going to get them off early?
Dylan’s orthodontist did other things, too, that just made me think he wasn’t really thinking clearly.
So finding Shane’s orthodontist, who is a ray of sunshine in the orthodonture world, was a miracle for us. As a result, as we’ve gone through braces with Shane, we are learning things we only wished we had learned earlier.
For example, with regard to retainers, there was a huge difference in treatment decisions.
Dylan’s orthodontist glued a metal wire behind Dylan’s bottom teeth and said, “Leave it there as long as you can.”
Shane’s orthodontist, while talking to another patient, espoused the horrors of leave-in retainers. “I have seen so many adults come in with serious problems because they had one of those retainers,” she said. “And only four teeth are kept in line anyway.”
We had Dylan’s leave-in retainer taken out immediately, but it was too late. At least one of Dylan’s bottom teeth had already moved out of alignment.
With regard to wisdom teeth, Shane’s orthodontist recommended that we schedule a consultation with an oral surgeon six months after braces, to check on the status of Shane’s wisdom teeth.
What about Dylan? I thought. Dylan’s orthodontist said only, “Dylan will probably have to have his wisdom teeth out someday.” He didn’t tell us when or how to learn more.
So Dylan is about two years late for his first oral surgeon consult. Fortunately, ADHD has a developmental component: Dylan’s teeth came in later than most kids’ teeth, so he’s not as far behind as he could have been.
The oral surgeon requested an x-ray from Dylan’s orthodontist, so we finally got one. Two years late.
“Oh yeah,” Dylan’s orthodontist said. “Get them out as soon as possible.”
Shane, however, is prepared. We have an oral surgeon lined up, and an appointment time selected for his first consult. Plus, Shane’s orthodontist already took the x-ray which will be forwarded to the surgeon at my request.
Speaking of which, we asked Dylan’s orthodontist to send a copy of his new x-ray to the dentist before Dylan got his cavity filled. Dylan’s orthodontist had two days to send it, but it wasn’t done when we got there.
I called the office and got a cryptic, “We’ll try to email it over.”
Mere moments later, the dentist asked for a copy of Shane’s latest x-ray, so I called Shane’s orthodontist.
“It will be there in ten minutes,” she said.
And it was.
