Dylan is going to get two more C’s on his report card this semester.
He doesn’t care. In fact, he seems to think it is dandy.
One of the classes in which he will get a C is called Foundations of Technology. It is the easiest of three options that fulfill the technology requirement for high school graduation. The other choices are Introduction to Engineering and Computer Science Principles.
We’ve only just realized – now that Dylan has dropped out of the IBCP program – that he didn’t even need to take Foundations of Technology. He took Computer Science Principles last year, which would have sufficed as a technology credit – but I thought it would be an IBCP credit, so he had to sign up for Foundations of Technology.
Dylan claims the class is “too easy” and “so dumb” and he thinks it’s beneath him to do well in a class that’s so “ridiculous.” As a result, instead of putting in a little effort and getting solid A’s, Dylan is lucky that he’s not failing the class.
One nifty option, though, is that Dylan can take the class online – which means that, if he gets a C, he could retake the class fairly easily. If he got an A online, it would bring up his GPA.
Since Dylan doesn’t care about his C, I approached his case manager and counselor with the question about retaking the class online.
“If he takes it in the summer, even just the second half, would the new grade replace the C he’s getting now?”
After much ado, the counselor responded with this:
“He has already passed Foundation of tech A with a grade of B. It also seems like he will finish Foundations of tech with a grade of C. Therefore, after this year he will complete his tech credit. Also know that the colleges are mainly interested in the academic grades while the elective grades get smaller attention. Some elite college will even recalculate a student’s GPA using only the academic classes. I believe he should finish this semester out and be done with it.”
I have read a number of college admissions books. I have studied online. I have watched videos by admissions counselors with “tips” for parents and students facing the college years. I grew up on college campuses. I know more about colleges than I do about the public schools in which I teach. So there isn’t much a person can tell me that I have not already heard.
But this was news. Colleges don’t care that Dylan is getting a C in an absurdly easy class?
This seems highly unlikely.
And that’s how I learned that I should not pay attention to the advice of our school guidance counselor. He’s a nice guy, and he probably doesn’t expect much from Dylan, given Dylan’s attitude about school. And I really like everything that the counselor has done for us thus far, with regard to making sure that Dylan has classes that are suitable and scheduled properly around his issues.
But I am not going to follow Dylan’s counselor’s “sage” advice about college any longer – regardless of whether Dylan retakes this class online.
OK, so there’s a chance I overestimated my need to “be a single mom” while Bill was recovering from surgery.
In fact, quite the opposite has happened! I have spent nearly every waking moment in the hospital with my husband, making sure he can get up and around. It has been more like being retired than single motherhood.
Meanwhile, my children have been cared for in the best of ways – by grandparents. This means that they’ve gone off to school in the morning, come home and played video games and watched YouTube until dinnertime, then had people who love them like crazy take them out to dinner! It’s been more like a vacation than anything else.
So when I came home every night, the kids weren’t pleased to see me. They didn’t bother to look up from their computers or their TV screens to say hello. Two days in a row, I’ve been ignored. And even though I’ve pointed out that they’re ignoring me, the kids don’t seem to care.
Of course, I punctuate each evening with a lecture that sends Dylan storming upstairs to do whatever work his teachers have told me he hasn’t completed – as he screams that he DID THAT ALREADY! and that it’s ALREADY DONE! But his teachers send these emails while I’m at the hospital, and they say that Dylan has not completed his work, so… who am I to believe?
Shane barely even says goodnight, but I am here to make sure I can hear him if he wants to say it.
Interestingly, I am exhausted like I’ve been running a marathon, when all I’ve done, really, is sit in a hospital room and read a book.
Thank you, God, for grandparents.
This week, I am pretending to be a single mom. Well, except that I will also be caring for my husband at our house.
Bill is having an elective surgery, which will effectively put him out of commission for important things like mowing the lawn, cooking dinner and fixing the toilet. He will be rendered utterly helpless.
For a guy like Bill, this is a terrifying prospect. He lives to do things and help people. (I prefer to do nothing.)
When I was younger, I volunteered for the Red Cross. My job was to take a nearly blind woman to the grocery store, and help her put away the groceries when we got back to her apartment. I learned a lot during that very short volunteer job, but one thing stands out in my memory above all else:
She was always alone.
I asked her once about her husband, a man she’d lived with for several decades. “Do you miss him?” I asked. “I bet you think about him all the time.”
“Oh, I suppose,” she said. “He just did so much around here!”
This seemed like a sad response to me. Didn’t she like her husband? Didn’t she miss his laugh and all the stupid stuff he said?
Like my husband, hers was always on the move. He fixed things – small things, big things, all things. He cleaned things, shopped, made meals for the two of them. He just “did so much!”
But honestly, if my husband were actually gone – not just having surgery – I would miss his silly grin more than anything. I would miss the way he gets on my nerves, even though he really gets on my nerves. I would miss hearing his voice and having him sitting next to me in the evenings. He’s a good husband, and he does a lot. But he’s also my friend.
I know some single moms, and it is an incredibly difficult thing. Doing things alone is very hard. But I think what would be most difficult is not having someone to talk to, when you just want to talk.
Bill is a good man, a good provider, and a good role model for his kids. And it is going to be difficult to watch him rendered helpless – because I love him, and I don’t want him to feel helpless. I want him to feel strong and capable and able.
But for now, we have no choice. And living with that is even harder than having so much to do around here.
After posting my last blog entry, I realized that I may have titled it incorrectly, or maybe just put too much emphasis on the word, “proud.”
Even though my kids are the absolute light of my life – and I wouldn’t change one single, thing about them – it isn’t often that they hear me say the words, “I’m proud of you, Son.”
Am I proud? Yes! I am so proud, I could scream it from the rooftops! My kids are brilliant, beautiful, kind-hearted and funny. They are deep-down really, really decent human beings. I am incredibly proud of them, every single day of my life!
I AM PROUD OF MY BOYS!
But I don’t say that – and I am now going to address it with them (thanks to my previous blog post) – and also address it here.
When Dylan was two, and I was a fledgling parent, I read every book on parenting that I could read. I took parenting classes, mommy and me classes, and went to PEP seminars.
At some point during Dylan’s first year of preschool, a speaker came in and talked to us about increasing our child’s self-esteem. Included in this class were tips like, “Always point out specific things that you like about their work. Don’t just say, ‘That’s good.'” These were good tips.
Another thing the speaker said was, “Never tell your child that you’re proud of them. Point out, instead, that they should be proud of themselves. This will reinforce that feeling of pride in their accomplishments, and not make them dependent on you for reassurance.”
Dylan was two.
So I did these things, to the best of my ability. And I’ve done them to the best of my ability for 14 years now. Sometimes I stumbled and said, “I’m so proud of you!” And then followed it up quickly with, “You should be proud of yourself, too!” And I worried about that.
But after my previous blog post titled, “I’m Proud of You, Son,” I have had to rethink the past 14 years. I wonder, truly, if my children know that I am proud of them. I think I overlooked that part of the equation.
Instead of reinforcing how proud they should be of themselves, I may have eliminated a crucial part of successful parenting: letting my children know that I am proud of them.
So starting today, I am going to talk to them about what I learned – and what I apparently didn’t learn – and I’m going to make a concerted effort not to edit my words for the sake of their self-esteem.
When I’m proud, doggone it, I’m just going to be proud.
Dylan has three C’s, a D, two B’s and an A.
Now that he’s been rewarded for doing all those 1.5-hour homework shifts and getting his signature sheets signed at school, there is little we can do to persuade him that studying – or doing homework – or gosh, anything related to school – is worthwhile.
The way he sees it, he got some B’s and A’s last quarter, so his semester grades will be (in his words) “good enough.” If he were to get those semester grades today, he would have four C’s, two B’s and an A.
And the A is in P.E.
I want very much for him to be hit by the lightning bolt that is “reality.” I want it to suddenly occur to him that he needs to put in actual work in order to get good grades. I want him to wake up one morning and say to himself, Ya know, I could do a lot better. I’m a smart kid. Why don’t I act like a smart kid?
And then I want him to pop downstairs for breakfast with a smile on his face and a song in his heart, grab his coffee and run out the door – on time – for the bus.
When he comes home from school, I want him to say, “Hi Mom! I’m going to get a little work done on my tech project before I start reading my new book for English. Oh, and I got an A on my Spanish test! Adios!” And then I want him to head off to hang upside down on the couch, like he used to do when doing homework, and finish those things he’s supposed to finish – plus be a little ahead on the other things.
And then, somewhere along the line, I want him to turn to me and say, “Ya know, Mom? It sure is a lot easier getting A’s and B’s in school than I thought it would be. All I had to do was decide to do it!”
I swear, I wouldn’t say I told you so. I would just smile and nod and say, “I’m proud of you, Son.”
However, I do not believe that this will ever happen. It’s just a distant wish.
It’s a long story, but sometimes I blame myself for not doing more for Dylan when I was giving birth – for not having a C-section sooner, for not getting him out faster. Sometimes I think, It’s my fault that he’s got ADHD.
Then I look at Bill.
This weekend, Bill had the kids – without me – for three days. It started with Shane’s instrumental music field trip to Busch Gardens, and continued to North Carolina to see Dylan’s online BFF. It was a short trip, but I would not be attending – so Bill was on his own.
To say that I took care of the “details” beforehand would be a gross understatement.
I mapped out the routes, found the hotels, and made the reservations. I studied the restaurants and activities in the area and compiled a detailed page with addresses and phone numbers for Bill to take on his trip.
Most important – and most confusing – was preparing for Shane and Bill to meet at an amusement park. Shane was taking a school bus to the park at 4 a.m. and Bill was driving to meet Shane – somewhere – at 4 p.m. I coordinated everything for the 12 hours in between. I made sure that Shane had his park clothes packed, and his band clothing and equipment ready. I prepared portable breakfast and lunch, and gave him supplies for the park.
I printed a map of Busch Gardens, located lockers, and went over the details with Shane so that he wouldn’t leave all of his belongings on the bus. At the last minute, I gave Shane an extra $10 in case online reports were wrong (they were) about how much lockers cost at Busch Gardens. I went over the details with Shane again, making sure he knew how important it was to hang onto his phone – securely, so it didn’t get tossed out on a ride – so he could get in touch with his dad later.
The only detail I could not work out was where, exactly Bill and Shane would meet – because the school didn’t yet know the exact location.
And it took repeated emails to Shane’s teacher, but I secured her cell phone number so that, if everything went completely wrong and Shane lost his cell phone or locked it irrevocably in a locker, Bill would have an emergency contact number so they wouldn’t all leave Shane at the park.
Then I printed out detailed instructions on what Bill should do – with the teacher’s cell number in large, bold print – and gave him the school’s package about the trip, too. I even drove Shane to the bus at 4 a.m., so that Bill could sleep in – and then drive safely to his destination.
And he did. Bill called me three times to tell me how much fun they were having. During call three, I cautiously asked, “Did you ask the teacher where you’re going to meet Shane?”
Flustered, Bill shrieked, “No! I just got here! And do you have that number? I left it in the car.”
I found the number, texted the teacher, got the information, and sent it to Bill, who had left my six pages of instructions in the car.
Four hours went by, and Bill called me, adrenaline-rushed, as he was leaving the park.
I almost didn’t ask. But… “Did you get Shane’s stuff out of his locker?”
Bill gasped, “No! I forgot all about it!” And he hung up.
Ten minutes later he called back.
“That’s why we keep you around!” he told me. Because doing everything for him beforehand was insufficient.
Dylan doesn’t get his ADHD from me.
I have been sick for a week. I’m definitely getting better, but I haven’t been out and about much.
As a result, I didn’t make my annual trek to Pittsburgh this year – which makes me sad. But I also didn’t chaperone Shane’s trip to Busch Gardens today, which makes me even sadder.
This morning, I drove Shane to his chartered bus at school at 4:00 in the morning. It was the least I could do, allowing my husband and Dylan to sleep in – so that they could be up and ready for their big day, too.
Because this is the weekend that Dylan is rewarded for all of his efforts in school since January.
He’s gotten substantially more than 200 teacher signatures on his “signature sheet,” which means he’s had to talk to every teacher after every class except P.E., virtually every day. In addition, he’s had to do five, 1.5-hour shifts of homework every week. He did it all – and his grades reflect his efforts, although not as much as I might hope.
Regardless, this weekend, Dylan gets to go to North Carolina to see his online friend who lives there. And given the circumstances of Shane’s field trip, Shane is going with them – because I was supposed to be in Pittsburgh. Bill and Dylan and Shane are all currently at Busch Gardens, on their way to North Carolina.
I am left utterly alone in this sprawling, quiet house.
Some people would be thrilled with this turn of events, I’m sure – having a whole weekend to do whatever I want, no worries about the house or food or what the kids are doing… But me? I am sitting here texting everyone. I am lonely.
I keep thinking that this is what the house will be like in a few years, when both kids have left home. As I was brushing my teeth (at 4:00 a.m., and again at 10:00), I realized I really don’t have any reason to brush my teeth. I probably won’t even leave the house today. In fact, I really have no reason to get out of bed.
Well, I do have a dog. Thank God for the dog. She needed someone to feed her and let her outside to use the facilities. Of course, the dog is ten – so she will probably not be here by the time the kids go to college.
I suppose I can enjoy a bit of solitude.
But it is nicer being needed.
Dylan has a new job. He’s been begging for a job for years. He loves to work, even if it’s just volunteer work. Over the years, he has had his own petsitting business, sung at a nursing home, and worked as a scarer at a local Halloween trail. He’s done odd jobs for my parents, too: shoveling their driveway, weeding the sidewalk, etc.
Dylan now has a real job. He had to fill out tax forms and sign up with an online payment company. Dylan is not allowed to broadcast the venue, but – since music is his biggest passion in life – he is working at an outdoor concert venue this summer.
It is work, but he is happy. After spending several hours on his feet, reading and re-reading people’s ticket stubs and showing them to their seats, then waiting for the entire venue to clear out, he climbed into the car, exhausted.
He still doesn’t drive, so someone has to take him to/from his job – which is fine.
Anyway, he climbed into the car, exhausted.
“How was it?”
“It was fine,” he said. “I’m really tired, but it was fine.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
“Inside the pavilion,” he said. “I looked at people’s tickets all night. I got pretty good at it, too. I started being able to remember their faces because the same people would, like, leave and then come back.”
“You checked their tickets anyway, right?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
There was a bit of silence while he rested for a moment.
“And you know what?” Dylan asked.
“What?”
“After six hours, I made almost as much money as I made shoveling my grandparents’ driveway for ten minutes!”
I laughed.
“There is a chance,” I said, “that your grandparents slightly overpaid you.”
When Dylan was small, he smiled all the time. He smiled at six weeks old, and just never stopped. He was lit up like a Christmas tree all the way till he hit middle school, when he discovered that life wasn’t always as glorious as he wanted it to be.
So I have no shortage of pictures of Dylan smiling as a child. But one photo stands out in my mind, because I had to make him smile.
He was almost two years old, and I had dressed him in his best Christmas sweater to get a photo for all of our friends and relatives.
But when it came time to take the photo, Dylan just stood there and looked at me. He sat down on the floor. He walked around a little, but mostly, he just didn’t do anything. He wasn’t exploring and laughing, like he usually did. And it’s not easy to force a non-smiling toddler to smile.
I tried every trick I knew. I wiggled and danced. I waved toys around. I made funny sounds. I jumped up and down. But nothing happened.
Dylan simply would not smile.
For a moment, I forgot I was talking to a toddler. “Dylan,” I said. “You always smile. Why aren’t you smiling? Don’t you want to smile for the picture? Do you know how to smile? Here, look! I will smile and show you.” I smiled.
Dylan didn’t even speak well at this age, so he didn’t respond to this attempt, either.
Finally, I got a picture of him almost smiling. The corners of his mouth turned up briefly, and I used that photo for every Christmas card.
A couple of hours later, I was holding Dylan – who was, of course, still a baby – and I realized he felt warmer than usual.
In fact, he was burning up. He had a fever, and was sick for several days.
And I was trying to force him to smile.
I’ve never forgotten that, because I felt like an abusive parent. How could I not know he was sick?
Then … it happened again – last week. Dylan was 16, though, so he could talk. And he said, repeatedly, “Mom, I am sick.”
“Go to school,” I said.
“Do your work,” I said.
“Call me if you need me,” I said.
Then I left him to fend for himself. He did need me, and I drove away. I forced him to wander around, sick, until he actually got a fever. Then I patted his head and got him some water and did all the things I should have done for him in the first place. And I wished I were a better mom.
Two days later, I got sick. I woke up miserable, achy and scratchy, yet fever-free. I canceled my day and went back to sleep, because that’s what sick people should do.
But Dylan had to go to school, because his mom made him do it – just like she made him smile for the camera, all those years ago.
Dylan wasn’t awake when the bus drove past the house.
He wasn’t awake ten minutes later, either, when Shane came downstairs. Shane said, “Should I wake him up?”
“I don’t know what you should do,” I told Shane. “I told Dylan I wouldn’t wake him up for school anymore this semester.”
“I’m going to wake him up,” Shane said.
“I don’t know anything about it,” I said.
Twenty seconds later, Dylan was downstairs, disheveled and anxious. “Mom, can you drive me to school if I get ready really fast?”
“If you are ready when I take Shane,” I said, “I’ll drive you.”
Dylan disappeared for awhile. Then he came back down, still disheveled and anxious.
“Mom, I really don’t feel good,” he said. “My head hurts and I just feel really awful.”
“Right,” I said. “Get back upstairs and get dressed. We need to go in seven minutes.”
“But I feel awful,” he said. “My head really hurts.”
“You need to drink more water,” I told him. “Now go. Get ready!”
Dylan got in the car, just in time. He didn’t look good. In fact, he was almost shaking. He couldn’t eat his breakfast-to-go, and said he was nauseous, too.
“You look like my mother did once,” I told him. “She didn’t have any tea one morning, and she was totally sick. She was nauseous and had a headache. Maybe you’re having caffeine withdrawal.”
“But this never happened before,” Dylan whined. “I drink coffee every day!”
“You didn’t drink Monster yesterday, did you?” (In spite of my urgings against it, sometimes Dylan drinks these horrific chemically caffeinated drinks.)
“Ironically, I did have some Monster yesterday,” Dylan admitted. “Just half a can that somebody gave me.”
I handed him his coffee. “Drink this during P.E.,” I said. “You don’t have to participate.”
“Really?” he said, visibly relieved. He loves P.E. (I should have known right then.)
I scrawled a note for the nurse to excuse him from P.E., which happened to be first period. Then I drove off. He called me a few minutes later, to tell me he had to go to P.E. instead of sitting in the nurse’s office, but that he didn’t have to participate.
“Drink your coffee,” I said. “And go back to the nurse and call me if you need me to pick you up later.”
Two hours later, Dylan texted me: “I’m cold.”
Dylan was wearing a muscle shirt and shorts, which he often wore even in the winter. Dylan never gets cold.
“It’s 85 degrees out,” I said. “But I am driving right by your school during lunch. Can you meet me outside? I’ll bring you a hoodie.”
“YES.”
He was actually grateful to get the hoodie. (I really, really, should have known then.)
“Now go do your work,” I told him. “And I’ll pick you up after homework club.”
At 4:00, I found him on a bench and dragged him home. He didn’t talk much. He said he was better after the coffee, but not much. I chided him for not doing enough work at school, and told him he’d have to finish when he got home.
At home, he wouldn’t get out of the car. Twenty minutes went by. I assumed he was texting friends.
“It’s a hundred degrees in the garage, Dylan!” I said. “Get out of the car!”
He dragged himself inside, and fell asleep on the floor in the office, next to his desk.
Dylan had a fever of 101 degrees.
