Dylan’s report card arrived while he was out of town. Exam grades hadn’t come out online, and we couldn’t know his exam – or final – grades any other way, so we opened it while he was gone.
I carried it into the living room, along with my reading glasses. Then I sat down and opened his report card.
I almost fell off the couch.
Dylan got all A’s and B’s on his exams. He got a C on his computer science project, which was also an “exam” grade, because he didn’t do the second part as per instructed. But he kept his B in Computer Science.
His final grades for the year are astoundingly good: 3 A’s, only one C (in Biology) – and all the rest B’s. In the Honors courses, those B’s are weighted, too, so his weighted GPA will go up. Most importantly, he took challenging classes and got these grades, so the colleges will know that he is willing to challenge himself.
Sometimes I forget that he does better when he’s challenged. Dylan prefers to use his brain. Unfortunately, he finds studying to be incredibly boring. He likes quizzing himself on the computer. But re-reading something once it’s been read? That’s too dull. Boredom is Dylan’s worst enemy.
In fact, when we were looking at his schedule for tenth grade, I asked him if he wanted to make it easier on himself.
“Do you want to drop out of Honors Government and just take regular U.S. Government?” I asked.
“NO!” he adamantly exclaimed. “Why would I want to do that?”
He wants to be challenged. He wants to do well – but he also wants to stay intellectually engaged. So that’s what he’ll be doing in the IBCP program. Next year, his classes include two honors courses and a college-level (AP) class. So he will, indeed, be challenged.
I can’t help but imagine what he might accomplish if he were to – someday – turn in his work on time.
Absolute miracles could happen.
Shane’s 6th grade report card was the same for three quarters: 2 B’s and 5 A’s. His first quarter was straight A’s – so he made honor roll, and had an exceptional performance, all around. Shane enjoyed his first year of middle school, and wasn’t bothered (much) by the social changes. Shane just goes with the flow.
Shane also came home every day from school and announced his homework: “I have two pages of math, a little bit of reading for English, and 25 minutes of practice for instrumental music.” Then he would go upstairs and do that homework, asking for permission to do his reading before bed – and then he would then actually read it before bed.
It was awesome to watch him pull off most everything required by the new school, seven separate classes and teachers, and keeping his friends close, too. He learned very quickly how to use his locker, what to take with him to classes, how to organize his two separate binders (one for morning, one for afternoon). He remembered to turn in almost everything on time and, when he forgot, he remembered the next day.
Shane had interesting experiences with the school bully, who helped and emotionally pulverized him within the course of two days, He worked on the morning show, walked to school with his friends, joined the writer’s club and was in the school band and the school play. He kept a nice, organized balance.
To be honest, I didn’t know this was possible during middle school. My middle school experience was a disaster. Dylan’s middle school experience was a disaster. It was a struggle from day one for both of us.
But for Shane, he’s happy, well-adjusted and having a great time. And he made the honor roll, too.
He should be very proud of himself, but he has remained humble.
Dylan came home from his week away with a suitcase full of incredibly dirty laundry. I asked him to sort it, which he did. And I started washing it.
During the week that he was gone, I’d washed his sheets, pillowcases and comforter. He’d not had the comforter washed for awhile, and it was definitely time. He keeps his room surprisingly clean, so I really didn’t have to do anything else “for” him.
For a week, I did nothing for him.
It was a hard week for me. I am accustomed to doing very, very, very much “for” him. Mostly now I tell him what to do, rather than actually doing it. I consider this an improvement in my behavior.
But when I was doing Dylan’s laundry, I wasn’t the slightest bit bothered. I was happy to do it.
I was not as happy when Dylan announced that the dog had jumped on his bed, then vomited. On Dylan’s comforter. The comforter I’d just washed.
So I berated the dog. Then I got the comforter off of Dylan’s bed, and headed down to the laundry room.
I passed Dylan along the way. “Thanks, Mom,” he said.
“You’re welcome, Son,” I said.
Thanks, Mom.
His words lit me up like a Christmas tree. I felt like washing his comforter every day of the week. I almost wanted the dog to vomit on it again, so I could wash it again, so I could hear those words again.
He totally made my day.
Dylan says thank you a lot. But he’s not usually out of town for a week, so I don’t usually forget how often he says thank you. So I appreciated it all the more.
The truth is, I don’t mind doing the work. But knowing it’s appreciated makes it almost not work. Having someone say a simple “thank you” while I’m doing a job just makes all the difference in the world.
I put the comforter in the washer and started it up. Then I went into the kitchen, where Bill was emptying the dishwasher.
Hm, I thought, looking at Bill.
“Thank you,” I said.
Shane and I were at a collegiate-level baseball game earlier this week, with family friends.
He and his friend were chatting at the end of the row, while we watched the end of a 16-inning overtime game – the first game of a double-header. By the time the game was over, it was about 9:15 at night. And the second game – the game we came to see – hadn’t even started yet.
Shane doesn’t really care about baseball. He understands the game, I suppose, but what he likes about the games we watch are the between-inning shenanigans. They do a mascot race and musical chairs. They throw t-shirts and burritos into the audience. It’s all about the show for Shane.
So when, at 9:30, I suggested that we go home, I was surprised at Shane’s response.
“Awwww…” he said. “I want to watch the next game!”
I had underestimated the power of having a friend at the game. I, too, was swayed by having his friend’s parents there. We were having a lot of fun, and it was a beautiful night. I was tired, and we both had to get up early the next day.
But I didn’t push. “We can stay until 10:00,” I said.
Shortly thereafter came the burrito toss. For the uninitiated, staff members throw burritos into the audience – which, at 9:30, was rather small. If you catch a burrito, it’s yours to keep – and warm and ready to eat.
Shane caught a burrito. To be fair, he actually grabbed it off the ground after his friend let it slip.
“Give that to your friend,” I told him.
“It’s mine,” Shane said.
“But you don’t even like burritos!” I said. Shane is infamous in our family for eating nothing but bread, cheese and sugar. This burrito was loaded with chicken, rice, cheese, beans and other vegetables.
“I’m going to eat it,” he said.
My jaw dropped. “If you eat that whole burrito,” I said, “we can stay for the rest of the game.”
“Really?” he said. This burrito was huge, even for an adult.
“Sure,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t get past the first bite.
“Okay,” Shane said. Then he opened up the burrito and took a bite. And another bite. And another bite. As long as he kept eating, he was allowed to stay at the game. Meanwhile, I got to stay and watch the game, and talk to my friends, too.
And my cheese-and-bread son ate a full half of that burrito. He ate for nearly an hour, and he actually seemed to like it.
I was tired, but thrilled. It was the second new food he’d tried in one day! At age 12, maybe he’s finally broadening his horizons.
At 10:30, Shane banged his elbow on his chair, and finally admitted to being tired enough to go home. On the way, he admitted that he didn’t like the beans “or the green stuff” (lettuce) – but that the burrito was otherwise okay. He’s going to try one someday with just chicken and rice, the parts he liked best.
I’d say it was an hour well-spent.
After Dylan headed off into the wild blue yonder with his church group, I went home to take a nap. We had all gotten up very early to see him off.
As I tried to sleep, I realized that Dylan hadn’t packed bug repellant. It kept me tossing and turning for awhile until I realized, He wouldn’t wear it anyway. And I tried again to sleep. Someone will loan him some if he needs it, I thought.
I had tried so hard to allow Dylan to pack for his own trip, using a four-page list that I forced him to highlight.
“Yes, I have everything on that list!” he’d told me for the fourth time, when I’d asked to go through his suitcase with him. But I did go through the suitcase – briefly. I didn’t go over the list; I left that to him. He had underwear and clean clothes and socks and tools. I’d hand-selected his toiletries over the course of several weeks. I’d figured he’d be fine, whatever he packed, and that he would learn from his mistakes if he forgot something.
But no insect repellant. It was mentioned twice on that list.
I tried to sleep anyway. Then it hit me like a baseball bat over the head:
Dylan didn’t pack a towel.
“Towel” was most definitely on the list. Dylan was going to work outdoors in the heat of the summer for eight hours a day, and he was going to really want a shower. And when he got out of the shower, he was going to want to get dry.
Yet, he’d gone off for a week with no towel.
I gave up on my nap, and I texted him. “You didn’t pack a towel,” I said.
I didn’t hear back from him for several minutes. So I texted again. “Tell your team leader and maybe you’ll be able to stop somewhere and get one.”
I still didn’t hear back from him. He wasn’t out of cell range after only 20 minutes in the van.
“Hello?” I texted again, 15 minutes later. “my msg? towel?”
“Okay,” he finally texted back.
And other than another short text conversation during which he answered almost none of my questions, I didn’t hear from him for two days.
It was not an easy task for him to call from Appalachia, but he called on Tuesday night. By then, the only thing that mattered to me was that he was happy, safe and healthy.
Of course, that’s the only thing that ever matters to me – but I manage to worry about a lot of inane details.
So I did remember to ask: “Did you get a towel?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We stopped at Walmart and I got one.”
(Whew.)
Best of all, he’s safe, healthy and happy. I couldn’t ask for anything more.
Dylan left for a week. He went to West Virginia with a huge church group of teens (and adults) for a week. He’s going to work on projects that will help needy families in the Appalachians. Dylan is going to have an absolutely phenomenal time, which is why I was so excited for him to go.
The house is very, very, very quiet.
The trip is seven hours long, and the destination has no cell phone coverage. I don’t know if I’ll hear from Dylan at all this week.
There is a payphone available, and we gave Dylan a phone card. I begged and pleaded for him to call, and he said he’d try to call every day. But he emphasized the word “try” – which tells me that I might be facing another China-type experience.
Three years ago, Dylan sang with a chorus in China. Because he was only 12 years old, we all went to China with him. But we were on the “family” bus while Dylan was on the “chorus” bus, so we weren’t with him much.
We were only a few hundred yards away from him most of the time, but he was only able to communicate through chaperones – or he could talk to us at meal times. I knew it wasn’t easy for Dylan to write letters, so I made it as easy as possible for him to stay in touch with us.
So I wrote little phrases on orange pieces of paper. I told Dylan he didn’t have to write anything, but that he could just choose a phrase that described the way he felt. He didn’t have to do much – just pick a phrase on an orange paper and hand it to his chaperone, who would give it to me.
The orange papers said things like “I love you” and “I am okay” and “I didn’t get any sleep last night” and “I want to go home” and “the food sucks” and “the food is wonderful” and “China is awesome.”
Then I asked Dylan to give me one orange piece of paper per day. I made sure he had easy access to those papers. I didn’t care which one he picked. I just wanted him to stay in touch. I went all the way around the world so we could stay in touch, and I made it exceptionally easy to do so.
But after two days in China, I still didn’t have a single orange paper. Then, at the tourist-ridden Chinese circus, I wrote a note on a napkin and passed it to Dylan, who sat two rows in front of me. My napkin said, “I NEED AN ORANGE PAPER.”
Dylan turned around and looked at me, and shrugged.
The next day, he finally delivered an orange piece of paper. It said, “I feel OK.” And that was the only – and last – piece of orange paper I got during 10 days in China.
I mentioned this to Dylan, as he headed out for the no-cell-coverage area in West Virginia.
“Mom,” he said. “I was in like sixth grade then.” Dylan implied that he wasn’t going to leave me hanging for another week.
But here I hang.
I am like a fish out of water now, gasping and flopping around aimlessly, with no hope of finding a safe haven. I don’t have a thing to do, except stare at the phone. I carry it around the house with me like an oxygen machine.
In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, I wait for it to ring.
Dylan is getting ready to go away for a week, as part of the Appalachia Service Project. He will be 7 hours away, working with other teens to help families in need.
He is leaving in two days.
I have spent the past two months getting ready. I have been faithfully reading the emails from those who have gone before him. I have scoured the packing list, and made sure he has – in the house – everything he needs. I bought a pump for his air mattress, a foam mattress in case he preferred that, four pairs of sleep shorts, a tool belt for his tools, work gloves, safety goggles, five pairs of cool-fiber work socks and steel-toed shoes in case he’s running a jackhammer and decides to sheer off one of his toes.
I bought him three new pairs of jeans, since the kids need to wear jeans for their work. When I realized he was going to trash his brand new jeans, I gave him old jeans that didn’t fit. Then my mother went out and bought him several brand new pairs of jeans, too, that were slightly less expensive so we’d feel better about him trashing them.
Then we gathered together a whole slew of old t-shirts from Dylan’s parents and grandparents, that can be tarred and stained without care. I pulled out ear plugs and a sleeping bag and necessary toiletries, along with cases and suitcases and bags. Bill charged up a portable phone charger, even though there’s no cell signal where he’s going, so he can take pictures while he’s gone. I got him books from the library, an inhaler from the pharmacy, and gave him my favorite visor and told him he could trash it.
I started doing all the laundry in the house, so he would have sufficient clothing for the trip. I wrote his name on everything: hammer, screwdriver, tool belt, water jug, all six work gloves. I wrote Hawkins so many times I started to forget that the word had meaning. The emails kept coming, and I kept sharing them with him – in the hopes that he would get excited for his trip.
Meanwhile, Dylan sat on the floor and texted. He played the piano. He sprawled on his bed for hours.
Dylan has been anointed “student music leader” because of his angelic singing voice. He needs to lead the group in song – three different songs. Dylan hasn’t yet learned the songs.
I asked him to do a few things: put your sleeping bag, pillow and air mattress into a bag. (He did this after the third request.) Label the bag. (It’s been three days and he still hasn’t done this.) Help with the laundry. (He’s done this. He folds like a professional!) Pick out the clothes you want to wear in the evenings. (He has not done this.) Read through the packing list and check off what you still need to pack. (He has not done this.) Get everything into a suitcase that fits. (Thanks to me, he is now on his third suitcase, but it is only half packed.)
I keep saying, “Dylan, you are going to be away for a whole week. You are going to have a space of six feet in which to maneuver. You need to make sure you have everything you need in one place. You need to take care of this. You need to pack.”
Instead, he sits there. He Snap-chats. He watches YouTube videos. He goofs around with his brother.
And tomorrow, Dylan’s suitcase goes into the truck – whether complete, or completely empty.
There was a moment during exam week when I thought, I absolutely cannot deal with Dylan anymore. He was being incredibly obnoxious, spinning and spouting gibberish and mimicking and throwing himself on the floor and making sounds that made absolutely no sense. He was acting like a spoiled toddler, but in Size Large.
He not only wouldn’t do what I asked; he also would purposefully refuse to budge even an inch – or even speak when spoken to. He tested every boundary ever set.
I thought, Maybe he’s sick. When Dylan is sick, his behavior is much worse than normal.
I don’t know what to do with him. My frustration was so great that I briefly considered hitting him, as if adding violence would solve anything. But I remained relatively calm.
At the end of a long week, and a particularly bad shopping trip during which Dylan was throwing a ball across the store while the preschoolers in the store were behaving well, we had a family meeting. Bill, Shane, Dylan and I discussed what it means to be respectful, and how to earn respect.
The meeting didn’t go well, but all parties were actively engaged.
Coincidentally, the family meeting took place the day after Dylan’s last day of school. He slept a lot over the weekend. He ate well. He did his own thing. There was no pressure. No deadlines, nothing due. No school.
No anxiety.
ADHD and anxiety go hand-in-hand – a simple fact that I’d forgotten. In the midst of my frustration, I pulled out a book that a friend got for me: ADD and ADHD Teenagers. There was a whole slew of stuff in there about anxiety.
Suddenly, I saw the connection. I recognized that his anxiety was – in a way – making him act sick. He wasn’t capable of functioning normally. He needed to find a way to calm himself – say, studying and focusing on getting through each exam. But he didn’t do that. So he just spun out of control.
There are no final exams anymore in high school. But there will be plenty of other stressors during his lifetime.
I can only hope that he learns to deal with them as they arrive, and that he actually matures in the process.
Shane had a mega-setback at the end of the year in math class. At the end of the school year, students usually get a preview of the following year’s math class. Shane will be taking Algebra 1 next year – a class that Dylan took twice, partially thanks to a very poor teacher in 7th grade.
And next year, Shane might get that same teacher. There are, however, several other options. I had already had a few conversations with the vice principal about Shane’s issues in math – and mostly about his teacher, who rarely did what she said she would do. So over the weekend, I wrote the following (edited) email to that same vice principal:
In the fall, when the other six of his teachers were praising his independence and abilities, Shane’s math teacher said, ‘Shane doesn’t ask for what he wants.’ Meanwhile at home, Shane told me that no matter how long he had his hand up in math class, his teacher would say, ‘I’ll be right there’ – and then never get there.
In the past month of math, Shane has gotten a C, a D, and 2 E’s on quizzes and tests in math. I told Shane to retake whatever tests he could – not so much because of his grade dropping, but because he was obviously missing a key mathematical concept.
Shane asked his teacher if he could retake the tests, and she said she would set it up. A week went by – as usual – and she didn’t set up anything. So Shane asked if he could stay after school – but his teacher said she wasn’t going to be staying after school. She said he could retake the test at lunchtime.
Four more lunchtimes went by – again – and the end of the year was HERE. I told Shane that he had to retake those tests TODAY, since it had been two weeks and it was his last chance. So Shane reminded his teacher, one last time.
Her final retort after two weeks of waiting? She said that Shane’s grade was a B and that he couldn’t bring up his grade to an A, so he wouldn’t be allowed to retake anything.
Shane is very bright, and probably only needed five minutes of help. But he simply couldn’t get that five minutes with this teacher. I don’t know many of the Algebra 1 teachers, but I am sincerely hoping that this email will help you steer him into an algebra class with a GOOD teacher, who knows he exists and answers his questions and gives him the attention he needs.
I don’t know that this email will do any good. But after a year of being ignored, Shane deserved – at the very least – an attempt at success next year. So now we are on to summer vacation – finally – and I can sit back, relax, and try not to panic about algebra for a few months.
But next year, Shane will be in Algebra 1 and Dylan will be in Algebra 2.
Perhaps I should just hire a tutor now.
Today is the last day of exams. Dylan got up and downstairs (almost on time) and headed off to the bus with his canned espresso and a pencil. This, apparently, is all he needs.
This week was a nightmare – but only for me. I listened to Dylan say he was studying, but after the first exam, I saw no evidence of that. I turned the reigns over to Bill, who thinks like Dylan does anyway. Bill quizzed Dylan several times over the course of the week, and made sure that Dylan was on the right track. From what Bill told me, Dylan was on the right track. He knew a lot about a lot.
But my anxiety got the best of me. Nearly every time I opened my mouth, Dylan argued with what I said. It didn’t seem to matter what I said. If I said he needed to study, he told me he’d studied for hours. If I told him he needed to eat, he’d tell me he wasn’t hungry. Often, he was able to tell me how everything was my fault – from his exhaustion to his hunger to the way he combed his hair.
I spent some time lecturing him on the values of “accepting and apologizing” rather than “denying and deflecting.” He didn’t hear any of it.
So (by Thursday) I stopped telling him what he needed to do.
Dylan did a ton of spinning and screeching and bouncing and cackling. He imitated me when I spoke by repeating back what I’d said. He yelled and then told me to stop yelling back. He was so loud, I was sure the people down the block could hear him. Gibberish spewed from him constantly. He spent a lot of the week doing things that seemed appropriate for a two-year-old, but not a fifteen-year-old.
He drove me crazy. I have read whole books on how a parent can “allow” crazy thoughts – but that a kid is just being a kid, and can’t actually “drive” the parent anywhere. I tried to remember that, this week particularly. But it was very, very hard.
I chalked it up to anxiety. But I have no hope that it’s going to stop now that exams are over.
I don’t even care anymore what grades he got. I am just glad exam week is over.
Best of all, it’s permanent. There are no more exams in the county after this year. There’s no more “33% of your grade depends on these two hours.” There will be tests, sure, but all of them with the same weight.
I hope it quells all the anxiety around here. I could use the rest.
