I was driving down the road, with Dylan in the passenger seat, when a groundhog wandered right into the path of my car.
Seeing the animal barely in time, I slammed on the brakes, throwing my arm in front of Dylan to hold him back from the windshield. Yes, we have seatbelts. Yes, he was wearing one.
But an instinct took over – an instinct I didn’t even know I had.
I remember similar incidents in the car when I was younger, and my dad’s arm shoving me back into the seat when we made an abrupt stop.
I was always a bit grateful for that arm.
I watched a movie, The Blind Side, a true story about the young life of Michael Oher, a player in the NFL. In the movie, Michael is involved in a car accident while transporting a young boy. The boy, who was very small and sitting in the passenger seat, would have been crushed by the air bag, except that Michael Oher reached over with his arm and stopped the air bag as it deployed.
It turns out that Michael Oher tested in the 98th percentile for “protective instincts” – something that serves him quite well during football games.
I wasn’t so sure about my “protective instincts” until that groundhog crossed the road.
I remember once, long before the boys were born, I was standing outside with my cat in the evening. Kitty was wandering around in the backyard when she suddenly burst over the top of a hill and raced toward me – followed by a fox.
Without any conscious thought, I stepped between the cat and the fox, and the fox stopped cold two feet from me. It looked at me for a second – just a second – before I started screaming and running at it. Then it ran off.
Somewhere inside me, those protective instincts do lurk. But usually, they just lurk. Usually, I visualize what I would do … but then things happen, and I am never fast enough to do those things.
The boys get hurt, skin their knees, break their nails, bump their heads. So far, it hasn’t mattered that my protective instincts are based mostly in my imagination.
Then, when my arm flew out to stop Dylan from flying into the windshield, I thought, gee, maybe I can do some good after all.
Most interesting, of course, is that Dylan is eight inches taller than I am, and almost the same weight.
But I am still trying to keep him safe.
I told Shane about the synesthesia battery test, which would clarify much about his abilities to combine his senses in ways other people don’t.
“You should take it this weekend,” I said to him while he was playing a video game.
“I don’t understand,” Shane said, “what difference it makes if I have it or not.”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” I said. “I just would like you to take it so that I can better understand how you think. I like learning about how your brain works.”
“But it doesn’t matter if I have it or not, right?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “I just think it’s interesting. But you don’t have to take the test if you don’t want to.”
“Okay,” he said.
And I haven’t heard a word about it since. I haven’t brought it up, either.
This is working well for everyone, I think.
It was my day to relax. My entire schedule consisted of a trip to the library and a brief volunteer job at Dylan’s school.
But this is how it actually went:
Got up early. Dylan got up late. Did not make food for Dylan, as per our agreement for days when he gets downstairs late. (Got up early for no reason.)
Made breakfast and lunch for Shane, who was ready early. Somehow still dropped him off late.
Decided to eat “leisurely breakfast,” but wanted to fill outside bird feeders first. Tripped near the kitchen somehow splattering 200 dried mealworms across 300 feet of house.
Spent half an hour sweeping and picking up mealworms.
Decided to check email before “leisurely breakfast.” Discovered that Dylan was, again, failing several classes. Texted Dylan about this for 20 minutes.
Emailed Dylan’s teachers to determine extent of problem. Emailed Dylan’s case manager as well, since she handles everything so well.
Suddenly realized that I hadn’t eaten breakfast. Shoved bowl of gluten-free cereal into my face. Decided to have “leisurely lunch” instead.
Put in a load of laundry. Promptly forgot about it.
Responded to teachers who had responded to me. Texted Dylan again. (This time he was at lunch.)
Browsed for wild bird seed online. Found it cheap at a tractor supply store near my favorite library.
Suddenly remembered that I needed to go the to library – which is 40 minutes from my house. And now I needed to go to the tractor supply store, too, and be back in time to volunteer at Dylan’s school. Packed up library books and raced out.
Realized I hadn’t eaten lunch. Grabbed a nut bar and a bottle of water for the ride.
Drove nearly an hour to tractor supply store. Ended up with $95 of bird seed.
Decided to treat myself to “leisurely lunch” of spicy Thai food. Unsuccessfully dialed Thai restaurant. “The call you have made did not go through. Please try again later.”
Drove eight miles back to library. Parking lot was empty. Walked to library door anyway. Sign read: “Library Closed for Professional Development Day.”
Called Thai place again, now an emergency. Picked up Thai food for “leisurely lunch.” Forgot to ask for “spicy.”
Got home with barely ten minutes to eat. Shoved bland Thai food into my face. Decided to have “leisurely dinner” instead.
Drove to Dylan’s school to volunteer. Stopped in office to get key. Office lady said, “Oh! There are three of you today!” There are only supposed to be two people. I was third, so I went home instead. (No library, no volunteer job. Daily schedule officially trashed.)
Welcomed Shane home from school.
Emailed Dylan’s teachers and case manager again. With their help, figured out how to solve all of Dylan’s problems. Got incredibly excited to tell Dylan all about it.
Drove back to Dylan’s school to pick him up after his homework club. Started to tell him about all the emails and solutions.
Tried to talk while Dylan argued with every word I said, wouldn’t let me finish a sentence, and screamed at me for trying to help him when he obviously has it all under control!
Never told Dylan about any of the emails or solutions.
Browsed the internet for hotel rooms in North Carolina. Found nothing good.
Decided to have leftover gluten-free pizza for dinner. Covered mushy cheese pizza with paper towel to microwave. Paper towel stuck to the cheese, ruining pizza.
So much for my “leisurely dinner.”
Rewashed load of laundry from morning. Went to bed.
Thank God, I have to work tomorrow.
Yesterday, Bill, Dylan, Shane and I went to a Southern Rock Festival at a local amphitheater.
Bill and I like the music. For the uninitiated, Southern Rock is just a lot of guitars with a fairly steady beat. Most of the Southern Rock groups got famous sometime during the 1970’s, and there haven’t been a ton of new Southern Rock bands born since. So the average age of the typical Southern Rock fan is about 58.
To make matters a bit more interesting, the culture was not one to which the kids had previously been exposed. It’s sort of a “God-bless-America-and-do-it-loud!” crowd.
We were at the concert for about ten minutes when Shane turned to me and said, “I feel like I am four years old and totally surrounded by old people!”
I looked around. The lawn was covered in long-haired and/or balding men with beer bellies and tattoos. Wrinkly women were sporting cowboy hats, cutoff jeans – and heels. The rebel flag had been transformed into an item of clothing on more than one occasion, and nearly everyone was smoking.
There wasn’t a single child in sight.
“Sorry, Shane,” I said. “I didn’t really think about that.” We spent half an hour buying ear plugs for him, as a sort of consolation prize.
A few hours went by. We had seats inside the pavilion (in case of rain) so we sat and watched a few bands. Because of the extremely loud music, Shane texted me to say: “Each band is playing for about an hour. We should be home by 5:00.”
I laughed. While Dylan likes all kinds of music, Shane wasn’t really enjoying it, so he was calculating his escape already.
“I’m not sure it works like that,” I texted back. “Do you want to go for a walk?”
Shane and I went off to lie in a remote patch of grass and stare at the sky. We spent lots of time just hanging out together.
“I’ve lost count of three things,” Shane said. “The number of shirtless people I’ve seen, the number of beers I’ve seen, and the number of profanities I’ve heard.”
He didn’t complain, but he did talk a lot about what time he might be able to go home. He calculated and re-calculated. He wondered aloud if he would have any time to watch a video when he got home. He obviously wasn’t a huge fan of Southern Rock, or the venue.
We even left before the final band (although Bill and Dylan stayed) so that Shane could have a little time to himself.
So it came as a huge surprise when Shane got home, took a shower, watched a video, and somehow reflected enough to come up with a bold, personal revelation.
“I think I took my day for granted,” Shane told me. “I wish I had enjoyed more of the time listening to music instead of thinking so much about when I would be going home.”
He’s pretty wise for such a young fellow.
Here it is, fourth quarter, and Dylan is finally – after three years of agony – keeping up in English.
The secret?
The secret is his teacher.
In a clear case of going above and beyond the call of duty, Dylan’s teacher is emailing his case manager every, single week, detailing what’s due, what’s upcoming, and what he needs to do to keep up his grades. And she has been talking to him after class, updating him on where he should be on projects, what he should have turned in already, and when things are due in the near future.
It doesn’t hurt that she also directed the spring musical, in which Dylan had a leading role. If he had failed English – and he almost did – he would have had to give up that role.
Whew.
So he’s been saved by yet another adult going out of her way to make sure Dylan knows things that he should, by all rights and expectations, know on his own.
Still, if it’s working – and it is – I’m not going to change it. And if his teacher is willing to do this for him – and she is – I’m thrilled. So after getting a B in the third quarter, Dylan is happier than ever in English class. He’s getting the work done in a timely fashion. He seems to know what’s coming. It’s going amazingly well.
I wouldn’t change a thing. If she were willing to keep going on his behalf, she could teach Dylan for the rest of his high school career.
Except it’s not my choice. And it simply can’t happen.
Dylan’s English teacher is pregnant – with twins. She is leaving in just a few weeks for maternity leave. I’d been hoping that she’d hold out until summer, just for Dylan. But her babies are due soon, and it’s time for her to get some much-needed rest.
I’m wishing her all the best. But Dylan will have to – again – fend for himself.
I just hope he can do it.
When Shane was a toddler, he would put his face on the floor and his diaper up in the air, and just stay that way.
He didn’t seem unhappy, or particularly tired. He just wasn’t nearly as much of a “mover” as his older brother. So we watched Shane with curiosity, and never worried about it. In fact, it was quite cute.
Later, Shane became a head-banger. It took me awhile to realize that when Shane started banging his head against a wall, or the floor, or hitting his head with his hand … that meant he was tired. He didn’t yawn and cry like some kids do. Just wham! wham! wham! on the wall with his poor, soft, baby head.
He probably banged his little brain around for two months before I put “head banging” and “exhaustion” together.
When he was barely old enough to grasp, Shane carried around a golf ball for “security.” He didn’t use a pacifier. He just picked up a golf ball one day, and didn’t put it down except to eat and sleep. And even then, it stayed with him in his crib.
After the head-banging discovery, we gave him a soft plush ball to sleep with instead. He barely noticed it, and still carried around the golf ball during his waking hours.
Shane didn’t cry a lot, even as a baby. But when he did cry, his bottom lip would protrude and his giant blue eyes were the saddest things I’d ever seen.
Shane’s anxiety started to show when he was about three, after he’d put down the golf ball. He was laid back as a child, but occasionally he’d get upset, or confused, or just nervous. He didn’t cry, or scream, or complain, or even whine.
He took the index finger of his right hand and, with it, gently petted his left hand.
This went on for years. In fact, I didn’t realize it had stopped until he was in elementary school. I started to tell his teacher about it, since most adults didn’t even notice his quiet pacification method. Then I realized that I hadn’t seen him do that in a very long time.
In fact, Shane just didn’t get anxious much anymore. He didn’t sleep with anything, or carry anything around to pacify him. He didn’t whine, or complain, or cry, or mope, or even sulk. He didn’t get moody or angry.
When something frustrated him – and when something frustrates Shane today – his eyes well up with tears and he walks away. Sometimes he gets a snack and comes back, refreshed. Sometimes he never talks about it again. Sometimes it takes days, and then he talks about it. But he always deals with whatever issue is bothering him – until it’s not bothering him anymore.
I’ve learned a lot from Shane about how to be content. I always thought he was just born that way.
But thinking back now, about the golf ball and the head-banging and the peculiar way he “sat” face-down on the floor … I’m just not so sure.
I think maybe he taught himself how to be content.
After hearing about Shane’s possible synesthesia – the “condition” that allows him to apply colors to the letters of the alphabet – I decided to do a simple test.
I asked him, “What color is the letter ‘A’?”
Shane said, “Green.”
I typed “A – green” into a new document. I scrolled down and typed, B.
“What color is the letter ‘B’?”
“Blue.”
I typed “B – blue.”
We went through every letter, with Shane giving me the letter’s color. It was kind of a fun game. Many of the letters were the same color – some were blue and some were dark blue, for example. There weren’t 26 different colors. So after the test, I didn’t think much about it.
I waited more than a month. I never said another word about it to Shane.
Then, almost on a whim, with the original document still sitting on my computer desktop, I said, “Hey Shane, what color is the letter ‘A’?”
“Green,” he said.
“What color is the letter ‘B’?”
“Blue,” Shane said.
At first, I thought he had memorized the colors – but then I realized that I’d only asked him once. I never mentioned it again, and he didn’t have access to the document on my computer.
So we went through the rest of the alphabet.
Shane’s colors didn’t vary for 20 out of 26 letters.
According to the little I’ve read about it, that is substantially more synesthesia ability than most people have. Three of his letters – Q, R and T – were drastically different from the first time, but the other two were almost the same color. I found it interesting that he had two that were ‘pinkish red’ the first time and, the second time, one was pink and one was red.
So, according to the test, he does have some synesthesia. Next up: the Synesthesia Battery test on the internet.
Just for fun.
Several months ago, I started paying my kids to do the dusting and vacuuming in the house. Once a week, they tackle a floor. Dylan prefers vacuuming, and Shane prefers dusting, so it’s worked out well for everyone. Both kids are very thorough, and do a great job.
It’s worked out especially well for me.
In spite of the correct order for proper cleaning, sometimes Dylan vacuums before Shane dusts. One day, Dylan was doing just that, when I heard the vacuum turn off.
“Shane!” Dylan yelled. “You need to clean up all of this crap in the middle of the floor so I can vacuum! There’s stuff everywhere!”
There was stuff everywhere. I had been asking Shane for days to clean up the mess.
“Okay,” Shane said, running into the room where Dylan was vacuuming. He cleaned up the bulk of the toys from the middle of the floor.
The vacuum turned on again. Five minutes later, it went off.
“Shane!” Dylan yelled. “That one room isn’t the only room you were supposed to clean up! There are toys everywhere in here! There’s no way I can vacuum around this mess.”
Shane raced into the other room calling, “What toys? Where?” Then he saw his additional cleaning opportunity, and took care of it immediately.
I was sitting calmly in the other room, chuckling.
Dylan sounded just like a parent. I was so proud.
There’s something about vacation that lingers with me, even after the vacation is over: judgment.
I am not a perfect parent. So I judge myself:
I am probably a terrible parent. I keep thinking I’m doing everything right, but then – when I look back – I realize that I didn’t do much right on the way to this moment, so I am probably not doing anything right now, either. I have been reading books on parenting since before my kids were born, and I barely remember anything from any of them. And when I do remember what I learned, it’s usually because I realize that I’m not utilizing that knowledge.
In addition to judging myself, I judge everyone else. And I keep doing this, long after vacation. During vacation, though, there are just so many people to judge!
Going to Disney World is like walking out of reality into clouds. In spite of my family’s ability to argue with one another endlessly at home, this all floats away when we arrive at Disney World. Not only are the rides a spectacular joy, but the service is from staff that’s all bubbly smiles and overflowing kindness. During this particular trip, another hotel guest did MY laundry! It was an unbelievable random act of kindness – but it’s just that kind of place.
Still, I look around at all the other moms, and see just what they are doing wrong. There are moms who are scolding kids who are too young to understand what they did. There are moms who are hovering over kids who obviously just need to be left alone. There are moms who are feeding their kids fried food and sugar, so their kids will grow up to be unhealthy. There are moms who are forcing their kids to eat healthy foods on vacation, so their kids are going to resent the fact that they never got a Dole Whip, cotton candy, or a Mickey waffle.
Then there are moms who are on their cell phones – endlessly on their cell phones – while their children stare, wide-eyed, at the amazing world around them. While the mom is busily texting or playing Temple Run or reading emails or Snap-Chatting, their children are having a once-in-a-lifetime experience, whispering and pointing and laughing. And mom is missing it – minute by precious minute – because she’s too busy staring at the little box in her hand to spend this amazing quality time with her children.
This is the thing that bothers me most. I want to scream: “PUT DOWN YOUR PHONE!”
Time. Goes. TOO. FAST!
I spent my vacation practically drinking the air around my children, even with my angry teenager (who was actually awesome during the entire vacation). Every waking moment – crammed though it was with stuff to do – was spent taking mental pictures of my kids’ smiles, listening to their jokes, playing line games with them, hugging them whenever possible, and soaking in who they are.
Because soon, they will be gone.
I blinked, and my infant was in kindergarten. I blinked again, and I had two kids old enough to make macaroni and cheese. I blinked again and they both ran faster than me. I blinked again and they were making their own beds, putting themselves to sleep, and spending more time with their friends than with me.
I am afraid to blink again, especially during vacation.
When Dylan told me he didn’t want to take IB classes – even though he only needed to take two of them – I was relieved.
I am still relieved. I am just now realizing that I expected to be disappointed. And I’m not disappointed.
Dylan has always thought rather abstractly. He was mature beyond his years as a toddler with regard to empathy, kindness, and philosophical concepts. Physically, he was far behind his peers – but he’s always been just a bit more worldly – in his head, at least – than many of his peers.
What I’ve learned is that a lot of gifted kids are this way. And Dylan is definitely gifted.
But the college admissions people aren’t going to know that. They’re going to see an application from an IB school – which is relatively rare – without any IB classes on the transcript. The International Baccalaureate program is known for finding those gifted thinkers, those problem-solvers, those philosophical students who want to delve into their own abstractions.
Dylan won’t have any of those classes on his college application.
So the college admissions folks will look for AP classes, since many gifted kids are gifted in a different way. Rather than being high-level, abstract thinkers, they are organized and efficient at memorizing huge amounts of detail. They can master a college-level class in high school because they absorb information at a rapid rate, and can process that information, flip it around, and spit it back in five different formats.
Dylan will only have one of those on his college application: the computer science class he took for the IBCP program, which he is not going to complete. He will have a C in the AP class, if all goes well. We don’t know yet if he’ll even pass the AP test, giving him credit for having taken the class.
I don’t even want Dylan to take any more AP classes. They just don’t fit his learning style. (Shane may be another case entirely.)
I am a little sad that Dylan won’t be taking the IB classes. I think he would have enjoyed them; they might have reminded him of his happy days in the GT program, where all the kids were eager to share deep-level thoughts about a variety of subjects, and Dylan fit right in, having something to add to answer every question.
Hopefully, he’ll have that chance in college – when his brain has developed a bit more, and when he’s more ready to tackle those classes.
I think the right college will see past the lack of AP and IB classes on his transcript. While he’s taking a host of interesting classes, they aren’t college-level. And his grades are (so far) poorest in his Honors courses.
Dylan has a whole slew of extracurricular activities and accomplishments to add to the mix that will be his transcript. But I doubt that a college with 35,000 students and 20,000 applications will see past Dylan’s test scores and GPA, or even notice his extracurriculars.
But I think the right college will find him, and nurture his gifts. I think they’ll look past his “easy” class choices – which are not at all easy for him – and get to know the person behind the transcript, who is bursting with genius and talent of a very special kind.
I think that place is out there, just waiting for him.
And I think, when they find each other, Dylan will rise to the occasion beautifully.
