In order to keep current with his contract, Dylan is trying to get all of his work done during school. He is not actually doing it – but he is trying.
As a result, Dylan has been doing his math homework while his teacher is walking around checking to see if his homework is done. As a result, Dylan gets lots of E’s on homework – half credit – which brings down his quarter grade by 10%.
This has been going on for three quarters. He got so many E’s in math last quarter that he ended up with a C. Other than homework, his math grades are fairly good. (They have not always been fairly good, especially in math, so I am thrilled about the upward trend.)
Now it is the fourth quarter, and I have been getting emails from his teacher, outlining the homework for the week, so that I have a record of what’s due – and can share that with him. He can no longer say, “I don’t know what the homework is,” because his math teacher emails me directly.
But he is still doing his homework at – or really, after – the last possible second. This means, of course, that he is still getting E’s because it’s not actually done.
So I have started asking Dylan to show me his completed homework. I said, “Hey, I need to know that it’s done. Show me that it’s done.”
The first time I asked, he moaned and complained and whined. Then he took it out and did it. Then he showed me.
This was the desired result.
The homework was actually done and, when she checked it the next day, Dylan got an A. But after four days of showing me his homework, and getting A’s, he started to complain that he shouldn’t be treated like a little kid, that he shouldn’t have to show me his work, that his teacher should be the only one who checks it.
Dylan even complained to his teacher because he thought it was her idea for me to check his homework. (She had agreed that it was a good idea, since it seemed to be working, but it was definitely my idea.)
And since Dylan is 17, I agree. It is his responsibility, so it would be nice if he would actually be responsible and do the work.
I said, “Okay, Dylan, for the next week, you show me your finished homework without my asking for it. And after a week, if you show me every night, I will stop checking it.”
But on Day 1 of the New Plan, Dylan didn’t show me his homework.
And the very next day, this is the email I got from the teacher:
“The homework from last night was about half done (he was trying to do it under his desk while I was walking around checking it).”
I simply don’t know where to go from here. If he won’t do it without me checking it, and he won’t do it for himself, the logical conclusion is that Dylan actually wants to get E’s on homework.
On the same day that I posted Shane’s somewhat losing record on my blog, and without Shane ever reading that post, Shane went to the Friday night table tennis league.
He won four matches out of four.
I stand corrected.
Shane is playing table tennis every week. While his lessons have temporarily subsided, he still goes and plays.
For several weeks, Shane didn’t win a single match. He would kind of freak himself out, worrying about winning, and then – of course – he wouldn’t win. After a few weeks, he finally won a match – and after that, he realized he could win.
Since then, he’s been winning more and more. Most of the people he plays are close to his level – some much better, but most of his matches are competitive. He often wins two and loses three, but he has yet to win all five matches.
It’s painful to watch.
Shane is a very good player. He gets the ball back sometimes when no one should get the ball back. But he is very much a beginning player, and he still has some things to learn. Mostly he needs more practice.
But he thinks he should be better than he is. He beats himself up for not being better faster.
I think he’s doing great. I am watching him and wondering what happened to my little baby who, only a few months ago, couldn’t beat me. And now I can barely get a few points from him on one of his “off” days. So he’s really very good.
But I can see it in his face, when he decides he is afraid he is going to lose.
There’s a shift in his eyes, a lack of confidence. It appears even though there’s no outward reason for it. Suddenly he’ll just be down on himself.
Shane doesn’t seem to know that there’s a shift. I’ve tried to explain some of the psychology of sports, but he is unaware that it’s even happening.
It is not painful to watch Shane lose. Everyone loses once in awhile, even the very best players.
It is painful to watch Shane give up on himself. It is agonizing, in fact. It is the worst part of the parental experience to watch my child’s pain and do absolutely nothing to stop it.
And it’s even more agonizing to know that the reason for that pain is inside my child’s head. If he doesn’t acknowledge it, or know it exists, he can’t know how to stop it.
I minored in psychology in college. I read enough self-help books to have earned an honorary degree in something psychological. And I’ve been in a sufficient amount of therapy myself to know that self-esteem can take over an entire life and ruin it. I also know that low self-esteem does absolutely no good, and is useless to propel one into action. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.
So even though the blips of low self-esteem rarely happen except during ping pong, I know it’s going to be hard to overcome.
But Shane is 14, and he hasn’t learned any of that yet. He doesn’t even know he has an element of low self-esteem. He’s a pretty happy kid, all in all, and doesn’t let other people bring him down.
When it comes to ping pong, though, he can beat up himself pretty bad. And he doesn’t even know that he’s doing it.
All of it, I’m sure, is somehow my fault – which adds to the agony of watching.
Of course I would never, ever stop.
Dylan forgot to go on his field trip.
“How could you not GO?” I texted the next day.
“I’m sorry. I really didn’t know I was supposed to go.”
The field trip was a trip to a local college fair. All juniors were invited to go, as I learned from the email of daily announcements.
“Get a form!” I squealed. “You’ve got to go!”
I get excited when Dylan has an opportunity for a field trip, because he doesn’t have to sit still. I am even more excited about anything that has to do with colleges. So for me, this was a double-whammy-wonderful trip.
But three days later, Dylan still had not picked up the permission slip. Since I was volunteering at the school, I picked up the form myself.
“I got your form,” I told him. “You have to register online, print out the bar code, and take it back to the school.”
“Wait, what?” he said. “I don’t understand.”
“Why don’t you go on the website and find out what to do?”
“What website?”
“The one listed on the form.”
“What form?”
“The field trip form,” I said, visibly frustrated. “The one I got for you because you kept forgetting to get it?”
“Oh, right.” He looked briefly at the paper. “This is just a regular form. You need to sign it.”
“Yes,” I said. “But you also need to register online.”
“Okay.”
Three days later, he still hadn’t registered online.
Meanwhile, I had researched the college fair. I found out what colleges were going to be represented, and even contacted Dylan’s favorite college to see if I could get a representative to appear. (No.)
I made a list of those colleges for Dylan to use at the fair. Then I color-coded the list with red, green and orange to show which colleges he should definitely see, which ones he should avoid, and which ones he might want to reconsider from his previous college searches.
When I was done with that, I went back through the list and crossed out the colleges he’s already seen and didn’t like, so that he wouldn’t waste his time with them, either.
“Dylan, did you ever register for this conference?” I asked one day, while perusing the website.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Why did I need to do that again?”
“So you can go on the field trip,” I said. “It’s really easy and I’m on the website right now. You just have to type in your name and print out a bar code. LOOK.” And I typed in his name and printed out the bar code.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Put that with your field trip form and money,” I said.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Sitting over … Oh forget it. I’m going to be at the school in the morning. Do you want me just to take it in?”
“Sure,” he said. “That would be great.”
“Fine,” I spat. “I did everything else for this field trip. I might as well turn in your form, too.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he said.
The next day, I took in the completed permission forms, payment for the transportation, and the bar code, and gave it all to the career counselor at Dylan’s school.
Two weeks went by. I told Dylan to mark the date on the calendar. Apparently, he forgot.
An announcement was broadcast during school: “All students going to the Junior Class College Fair please meet in the front hallway.”
Dylan barely looked up. He had absolutely no idea that he was scheduled to go on that field trip.
I wonder why.
The end-of-quarter grades are in.
Thanks to Shane’s last-minute effort to complete his two “missing” homework assignments, he has straight A’s! His A in an honors math class gives him a GPA that’s actually above 4.0 for the first time (ever).
In order to keep these grades for the semester, Shane needs, at least, all B’s for the next quarter. I am totally thrilled, and so proud of all his hard work.
When I tell him this, Shane says things like, “I just do whatever the teachers tell me to do.”
As if that were the most normal thing ever for an 8th grader.
Shane is odd in a way that is very conducive to good grades.
Dylan, who turned in almost everything on time, has two A’s, a B (in Piano class), and four C’s. It is his junior year of high school and his GPA for this semester means more than it ever has meant. These grades are the ones the colleges look at most closely, to see if he is ready to study at a college level.
But even if Dylan gets straight A’s in the fourth quarter, he will have – at best – four more B’s on his transcript. If he gets more C’s in the fourth quarter, he may not get into college.
He did so much better getting the work in. He still didn’t study. He still dropped out of the race during the home stretch. And he still turned in many, many assignments late – just not late enough to lose his electronics privileges.
I am no longer worried about high school for Dylan. He will do what he’s going to do.
Now I worry that he’ll get to college, and do what he’s always done, and lose several thousand dollars learning that it doesn’t work at college. He can’t succeed there with these habits so ingrained here.
I think, He has a learning disorder. It is nearly impossible for someone with this learning disorder to turn in his work.
But it’s not.
Dylan has been given so many tools to succeed in school, for so many years. Everything we’ve shown him, and everything his school has taught him, is specifically geared toward helping him succeed in spite of ADHD.
It seems as though he just doesn’t want to use them. He doesn’t want reminders. He doesn’t want to talk to teachers. He doesn’t remember to take coffee to school, eat meat in the morning, or chew gum during tests. His fidget toys are all lost. He doesn’t exercise or sleep enough.
Yet he says, “I’m not going to do this in college, Mom.”
I am so proud of his changes and what he’s accomplished. The fact that he is planning to graduate from high school instead of dropping out is a small miracle.
But I am tremendously concerned that he will do this in college.
And then what will be the point of having tried so hard for so long?
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.
