I have been writing this blog for three years, and I have had a lot of supportive comments, mostly from my dear family members who love me. At one point, I thought I might quit writing, because so few people read my blog – but everyone encouraged me to keep going.
One person, in particular, pointed out the blog’s usefulness as a memory saver – and suggested that I continue for my own sake, since it will give me some recollection and perspective later in life.
In fact, it does give me some perspective. It helps me see when I’ve been a good parent, and it helps me see when I’ve not done my best. It reminds me that there is always something to work on, as a parent, and that I can always improve.
I try to keep my blog posts focused on me – even when my kids are driving me crazy. I try to learn from my mistakes, and theirs. I do my best not to attack anyone, other than myself, since I am the only person who can do anything about me.
So when I got the following comment on my “About the Author” page, unrelated to any specific blog post, I was temporarily gutted.
It said:
“You really need to stop blaming everyone else for your incompetences as a parent.
Also, shouldn’t you think more about your child than to air all his dirty laundry online? He’s old enough to be embarrassed and understand what your doing.”
My children both support my blog, and are very careful to tell me when they don’t want something online – so I wasn’t even bothered by that part of the comment. It was the first line that got me:
“You really need to stop blaming everyone else for your incompetences as a parent.”
First, “incompetences” is not a word. But I understood the gist.
I need to stop blaming everyone else…? Who did I blame? I wish she’d put the comment on a specific post, so I would have had some idea.
I frequently admit my incompetencies – and in fact, I work on them daily. I don’t think I blame other people for my faults. I do my best not to blame other people. And every night, I look back on my day and think about what I could have done better.
I often have to get out of my bed, go find Dylan, and apologize. But not for my blog.
I admit, though, that one of my biggest faults is being judgmental – and I have already unfairly judged the person who wrote this comment. I have judged her based on the fact that she said her name was ‘Nancy,’ but her email says her name is ‘Tori.’ I have judged her to be very, very immature, even though I don’t know her age.
And I admit that I get a perverse pleasure in noticing that she doesn’t know how to spell “incompetencies.”
In addition, she has used the wrong form of “you’re” in her last sentence. She said, “… what your doing.”
If I were going to criticize someone so randomly and loudly on their website, I would make sure that I spelled everything right.
But I wouldn’t criticize someone so randomly and loudly on their website. It’s that whole Golden Rule thing.
Lately it seems like God is testing me, to see if I will continue blogging in spite of the nay-sayers around me.
Yes, God. I will.
The end of the year is always a bit crazy for Dylan. I don’t know how or why, and I certainly have tried everything humanly possible to change it, but Dylan is always behind in his school work.
He described his perception of school a few weeks ago in a way that made real sense to my non-ADHD mind. I thought it was very astute.
I am paraphrasing, of course, but Dylan said he had finally figured out the real problem. He described school work like this:
I sit down in class and they hand me a paper, so I start working. Then about halfway through finishing that paper, they hand me two more papers. I look up and everybody else is on their phone because they’re already done with the first paper. So now I have three papers, so I try to get some of the new papers done, even though I’m not done with the first one.
I work and work and I think I’m doing really well, until the bell rings and I realize that everybody else is done and I haven’t finished any of the three papers. So I shove them all into my binder to finish later, and I go to my next class.
In my next class, I suddenly remember that I didn’t finish the paper from yesterday, so I pull it out and try to finish it really quick before class starts. But then class starts and the teacher asks for the homework, which I also forgot, so I get a zero on the homework, even though I’m trying to finish it, and before I can even get yesterday’s classwork done, I get three more pages of work. So I start doing that, too.
And that’s how it goes all day, every day. By the time I’m caught up with all the work from yesterday, today’s class is over and I have all of that work left to do, plus homework. And if I have a quiz, I can’t finish the quiz in time and I have to go back at lunchtime and finish it. And that’s not even counting all the big projects. So I think I’m just really slow.
After all these years, this description is the first one that really made sense to me. Dylan admitted that it was hard for him to keep up.
Knowing one’s limitations is more than half the battle.
Hopefully, someday, knowing the problem will translate into his own search for a solution.
Personally, I am exhausted from offering so many, many solutions. But I really, really feel for him.
I would love to keep writing about my kids. In fact, I would love to be having those regular revelations that keep me writing about my kids.
But lately, I have not been having revelations about anything – except myself. My kids are living it, though, right along with me.
I have been learning about my autoimmune disorder, which has been attacking my thyroid for decades. I didn’t know what it was, and I didn’t care, because I was too busy paying attention to my kids.
But I want my kids to have a mom. And I have this autoimmune thing. And it is likely to kill me if I don’t do something about it soon.
Ridiculous as it sounds now, it never occurred to me that an autoimmune disorder would kill me. Then I found out about the connection between the liver and the thyroid. Then I found books on how to reverse the disorder.
Then a dear friend died of a similar autoimmune disorder, and she was exactly my age.
So I’ve been learning what to do about it – mostly, what to eat – and trying to get ridiculous amounts of rest. I am supposed to sleep for 12 hours a day. I take a ton of very natural vitamins, and I am finding out what my body can, and can’t, tolerate.
I am doing well with food and vitamins. I am not doing well with rest. I can sleep when Shane goes to college.
Still, I am doing what I can. My kids are being subjected to smoothies every morning, because I have discovered that drinking a smoothie loaded with produce makes me feel like a million bucks.
They do not want to drink the smoothies, but they do.
I am not exercising. I am still playing softball, as long as it’s not raining, and I am in better health now than I was six months ago.
My kids are not exercising, either. P.E. class is a time when Shane spends most of his hour in line waiting for a turn to kick the ball.
For Dylan, it’s like a death sentence to sit still. For Shane, getting no exercise makes him despondent. The difference in all of us on a “regular” day and all of us with a shot of endorphins is enormous. It’s the difference between a rainy Sunday and a cool, sunny day at Disney World.
We desperately need to move. So I walk the dog, and I beg Shane to go with me. Neither of us wants to go, but we always feel better when we do.
My days, dull though they may seem, have been spectacular adventures of self-discovery. I have an addictive personality but, for some reason, I have never gotten addicted to anything healthy. I just don’t like healthy things.
But I can force down a smoothie every morning. I can walk more often. I can help my kids do the same.
So that’s where I am today. And that’s why I don’t feel like writing blogs. I guess, for now, I feel like I don’t have anything interesting to say.
But I will keep writing, because this is my record of my life. Sometimes life is just boring.
The day after Dylan’s AP test, I got an email from College Board.
“Please be advised that a decision has been made regarding your request for accommodations. A copy of the decision letter can be accessed at…”
Blah blah blah.
To me, it was like a cruel joke. Someone was waiting for Dylan to finish the test, waiting for the full impact of his suffering to take its toll.
After all of my phone calls to various College Board representatives, after emails to the principal and special ed coordinator, after their phone calls to College Board, nothing was done in time to get Dylan the computer he needed for the AP test. We had pushed so hard for so long, to no avail.
Sure, we were lucky. Dylan thinks he did fine without the computer. But did he? What will the person grading the test think, when s/he can’t read Dylan’s handwriting?
So knowing that he could have had those accommodations, if only the test had been offered two days later, was just a kick in the gut.
To my husband, though, it was a sign that his phone call to College Board had been effective.
“That rep must have gone right down that hall and asked for a rush on those accommodations!” he said gleefully. My husband truly believed that his phone call to College Board, made 24 hours before the test, had actually had the desired effect.
He didn’t go on and on about it. My husband just jumped to the conclusion that he’d done some good. That he’d made a difference. That his little chat with the customer service representative – probably the same customer service representative with whom we’d all chatted – was the phone call that made the difference.
When I got off the phone (for the third time), I had finally succumbed to the belief that nothing I could do or say would change anything at College Board. My personal impact on that organization was – and always will be – absolutely nothing.
I have no impact at all.
But my husband truly believed that after he got off the phone, the customer service representative stood up from his chair, walked down the hall, maybe even went into a different building, and found the person responsible for Dylan’s accommodations – then explained the urgent nature of the situation, causing the College Board to actually rush its decision.
And that’s why the accommodations came in so quickly, he thinks.
I am fascinated by the way he thinks. Optimism is not something I understand.
Still, in this case particularly, I’d rather be him.
On the school’s email list, I got the following email from another middle school parent:
I was hoping we had some word on the Summer School activities at the middle school this summer. Last year was the first time in the 13 years I have been in this area that we did not offer any summer courses for students. I sent my son to another middle school for Math Prep and to the community college for other classes. I sit on the PTA board and despite asking a lot, we have not gotten any information on how the middle school is handling sign up for this summer or if there will be classes. Does anyone have plans on sending their student to a different school who is offering Summer Courses?
My gut-level instinct was to write back with the following response:
The warm weather has just begun and you are already looking to the public school system to keep your child confined indoors for ANOTHER three months? Does your child really need to take more math preparation classes? Does he have incredibly special needs? Because if he doesn’t, you are dooming him to suffer for the entirety of summer when he should be outdoors swimming and riding bikes and playing in the sunshine!
Worse yet, your child is only a few short years away from leaving home and never coming back. He may or may not be headed to college – but he will definitely want to get away from you as soon as is humanly possible. Maybe you are afraid to leave him alone all day while you go off to work. Okay, I get that. But don’t you see the value in allowing him the freedom to enjoy SOME unsupervised time? Unless your child is a juvenile delinquent and can’t be trusted, WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO HIM? It’s like sending him to prison for the summer! Has it ever occurred to you to just hang out with him this summer instead?
It was my gut instinct to write back, to defend this child’s well-being, to do something – anything – to keep her from doing this awful thing to her own flesh and blood.
I wrote it, but I didn’t send it. Instead, I plunked it into a blog post and kept my mouth shut.
Parents are allowed to do whatever they think is best for their kids. I just totally disagree with this one.
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.
