school attendance

Tuesdays and Thursdays

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach2 Comments

And here we are again. The cab driver has come and gone and Maddie’s still in bed. She went to sleep on time. I even thought she had an incentive: She wants to stay up to watch The Flash tonight, and I said she could as long as she did a great job today. Her very first opportunity to prove herself has passed. And she failed.

I woke her up in the usual manner, stayed there and chatted for a few minutes, put everything she needed to get dressed on her bed, and went upstairs to make her breakfast and lunch. On my second visit to her room, I told her it was my last warning for her to get up. She would need to get going or the deal was off. She nodded and said, “Don’t close the door.” I assumed that meant she was heading to the bathroom shortly.

Just before pickup time, I returned to her room after packing her lunch and water bottle into her backpack. She was still cocoon-wrapped in her blanket.

And then it happened. I lost it. I couldn’t be nice and patient anymore. I’m done. I’m out. I grabbed her blanket, yanked it off her, and yelled, “Maddie! What are you doing?!”

“Lying in bed,” she answered dryly. Duh.

I don’t remember what I said after that, but I know I was yelling. My patience and kindness aren’t readily available today. For some reason I haven’t been sleeping well for a few weeks, and I’m feeling it. Last night I took melatonin, which usually works, and slept on the couch where nobody would disturb me, but somehow our puppy ended up in my space and, although he’s normally a good sleeper, last night he woke me up a couple times. I’m desperate for a good night’s sleep. It’s like the days of having an infant.

Especially today. Except that my child is almost as big as I am. And she can talk back.

When Maddie was a baby, I thought, “How could I ever be mad at her?” It was unfathomable. She was so sweet and innocent and helpless. Then when she was about two, I realized I could get plenty angry at this kid. It takes me awhile to build up to that, but the frustration your child can cause is probably equal to the love you feel.

And that’s where I am this morning. I am at my wit’s end. I don’t have a solution. Just when everything seems to be going great, there’s a major stumble. A roadblock. An insurmountable problem that comes seemingly out of nowhere. Like Mount Shasta. Except Mount Shasta’s pretty to look at.

She was doing something on her phone, so I tried to take it away from her, but it was turning into a wrestling match, something I can’t win anyway. Maddie is a lot stronger than she looks. Plus, it’s not really healthy to have a physical altercation with your kid, so I gave up. Maddie would never give up, and I realized that, too.  She would be good under interrogation. Oh, yeah? You think that’s going to work? Think again, mister!

The boarding school idea popped into my head. How many times can I bring that up without actually doing anything about it? It’s meaningless at this point, I think. She doesn’t believe we will send her away. And I don’t want to send her away. It’s not a punishment. It’s a white flag. I give up. I give in. I am not capable to fighting this battle anymore. And today it feels like a battle.

“Why are you doing this?” I plead.

“I don’t like Tuesdays and Thursdays,” she declares.

“Well, you can’t just skip them. That’s forty percent of school!”

Huh, good point, apparently. But it doesn’t matter how good of a point I make; Maddie has decided. 

Is there such a thing as a stress aneurism? Because I’m about to have one. I tell her again about the boarding school thing. “I’m serious,” I say. “I wouldn’t be giving up on you. I’d be giving up on me. Apparently I can’t teach you what you need.”

“Well, if I go to boarding school,” she counters, “I won’t get up and go to school there either, and they’ll just send me back.”

“Maddie, there are schools where people specialize in this kind of thing.”

“Huh,” she says. She is digging in her heels at this point. “They haven’t dealt with me before.”

This apparently has turned into a battle, and she is going to win no matter what.

“Really, Maddie? What are you going for here?” I ask. “You want everyone to just pass you off to somebody else? Really?”

This probably isn’t a good road to take, this particular line of questioning. But I’m just out of ideas. It seems to me she doesn’t take skipping school seriously, so I feel obligated to change her attitude. Somehow or other I need her to see that school isn’t optional, and that there will be consequences for her choices.

My body is tense and my brain is shorting out. I can’t do this for one more minute. I get my husband up to help me. I’m out of ideas. I’m out of patience. I feel powerless. I am powerless.

——————-

Fast forward 30 minutes.

My son has a broken finger and has a cast. He usually rides his bike to school but for now I’m driving him. Just as we are about to depart, I hear my husband shout, “She’s almost ready!” A miracle has occurred. The one thing that sometimes works in times like this is role playing, using characters from whatever Maddie is into at the moment. Right now it’s that anime show she loves so much. I suck at role playing. My husband doesn’t love it, but he’s better at it. And sometimes it works. It’s absolutely absurd that we should have to take on other characters to motivate Maddie, but we do the absurd all the time if that’s what’s required.

So now we run out the door, up two flights of stairs to the car, and high-tail it to the middle school. Henry leaps out at his first opportunity, and to my relief, we are on our way to high school. Maddie will be a bit late, but that’s okay.

About three minutes later Maddie announces, “Just so we’re clear, I’m not getting of the car when we get there.” You have got to be kidding me.

It’s 8:15 and I want to go back to bed until today is over. I can’t do this for one more minute. I consider just turning around and going home. What’s the point? I wonder. Seems like a waste of time to drive halfway across the county for a disappointing and frustrating outcome. But I’m not quite ready to give up. Oh hell no. She’s going to school.

So I tell her we are going, and if necessary I will go to the office and get someone to help me. I’m serious. I will wait there and talk to whomever I can until this matter is sorted out. I am not leaving until Maddie is out of the car and checked in at the office.

It’s her phone that finally saves the day. I have left my own cell phone at home. So a number of times Maddie has called home to talk to her dad. As we are arriving at school, I ask for her phone so I can talk to him. I thank him and hang up. Then I take her phone and slide it into my purse as I’m getting out of the car.

“My phone!” she panics. “Can I have it? I need to write my story for school!”

“Is it due today?” I ask. I am wondering now if late homework is factoring into today’s events.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you can finish it at school. It’s better to turn in homework late and be at school.”

“Can I have my phone back?”

“Once you have checked in at the office and are leaving for class, I’ll give it to you.”

And that’s how it goes. I walk her to the office, and she checks in, having to admit she is late because she “slept in,” although that’s not really the truth.

Can I quit now? On days like this, I feel like I’ve done a full day’s work by 9:00 in the morning. I’ve been up for 2 1/2 hours. A very long 2 1/2 hours. And I’m tired.

Now, as I’m writing this, one thing becomes clear. Words aren’t going to solve this problem. I could talk about this for a week straight and it’s not going to change her mind. She needs concrete information, and that is going to come in real-life consequences. So for now, I need to see what I can accomplish with the administration at her school. Somebody over there needs to make a point. Maybe it’ll work, and maybe it won’t. But I can’t do this alone.

Today will be about communicating with the school and doing a lot of deep breathing. Maybe a nap. I need to figure out how to relax now. My head hurts. I feel like crying, but I can’t. It would be such a relief, but the tears aren’t there. I just feel heavy and tired. Stressed out and defeated. I’m not sure what the appropriate way is to express all that.

Tomorrow should be easier. It’s a shorter day, and on this particular Wednesday, there is a series of entertaining events scheduled. I hope she sees that as a reason to go to school, not another reason to stay home. I hope I get some sleep. I hope I am better equipped to handle whatever comes my way.

Let’s Be Serious for a Minute

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

My parenting style is loose and fun. I’m sure I could be more of a disciplinarian, but that’s just not my personality. My typical way of thinking is whatever is funny wins. I’m also a big softie. I like to snuggle and play and give back rubs, and as my mom used to do, absolutely smother my kids with love when they’re sick. Well, my own mom’s style wasn’t quite as snuggly, but she always loved us by doing things for us. You’re sick? Chocolate chip ice cream will make you feel better? Well, then, you shall have it. I say that all the time. Well, then, you shall have it!

Ask our two dogs. If there’s an alpha dog, I’m not it. I’m more of a roll-around-on-the-ground-and-play type of person. They sleep on our bed (yes, two people and two dogs fit nicely on a California king, it turns out), and I wouldn’t have it any other way. It would be better if they were more well-trained. I know that. But I need an alpha to step in and make it happen. It’s just not me. Is there a Greek letter for goofball? I wish.

And most of the time, I think my style works. I’m close to my kids. They’re open with me. We like to hang out together. They both tell me they love me all the time. Those words come easily. I hope they continue to come easily for all the other relationships in their lives.

We’re also the house where the boys come to play. My son’s friends are here often, and I love it. The other moms might say, when they hear I’ve got five seventh grade boys over here, “You’re so nice!” But really I enjoy their presence. They’re great kids and I’m happy they like to come here. I hope that never ends.

And then there are days like today. Maddie won’t get out of bed. She was awake for several hours during the night.

I’m sympathetic. I’ve spent the last 15 years of my life in a state of sleep deprivation for one reason or another. It is a rare morning that I wake up to my alarm without having first been woken up by an animal. For years it was the kids. Now it’s the dogs. Sometimes a cat. Sometimes everybody. There were many years when I would have spent at least some of the night in each bed in the house. I would wear a watch to bed because I never knew where I’d end up in the morning, and I wanted to be sure to know what time it was when I woke up. Sometimes I even ended up sleeping horizontally across the bottom of our bed, my legs tucked under me, because I had a husband and a kid and a dog in the bed, and that’s all that was left. Maybe 1/8 of the bed in the bottom corner. I’d pick up the end of the covers and slide in gently, so I wouldn’t wake anybody up. And yes, I could actually sleep that way. Desperate times, you know. So, if anybody has empathy for a tired person, it’s me.

But I also know about having to get up and do it anyway. That’s today’s mantra…AGAIN. Maddie has a hard time with that concept, as you all now know. “I’m too tired. I can’t think,” she says.

“Well, you’ll still get more out of being at school than NOT being at school,” I reply. I even offer to pick her up at lunch time because most of her more rigorous classes happen in the morning today. I’m so nice!

I spend maybe 45 minutes working on her this morning. She’s not budging. Finally, she says, “I’ll just go in later.” That’s really not acceptable to me because I don’t want her to think mornings are that flexible. I insist that she get up now or she will be cutting school and will face consequences both at home and at school.

“Come here,” she wiggles her finger, motioning for me to come closer. I am standing in the doorway to her room, maybe five feet away. I don’t really want to go in there again because there’s really nothing else to discuss. I have said what I have to say. “Come here,” she begs again. I give in.

“I’m confused,” she says. Confused about what, I cannot imagine. “I’m confused,” she starts again. “Usually you’re so nice to me…” I can’t even listen to the rest. I just leave.

So there you have it. Yes, I’m nice. I’m fun. I joke around a lot. But I can be serious when I need to be. And this morning I am serious. I’m also frustrated and a little mad. I’m pretty sure she’s trying to manipulate me. I don’t think of her as being manipulative in general. Or dramatic. But I’m pretty sure she’s trying something underhanded now. She’s pretty clever and she’s incredibly determined. Maybe this will work.

Well, it doesn’t. I don’t even respond to that comment. “I’ve told you the rules,” I say. “I’m done talking about it.”

I remember the last time she wouldn’t go to school. When I spoke with her teacher, Mr. L., he encouraged me to get her to school whenever I could. Some of the day is better than none of the day. So this morning, after recalling that conversation, I agree to take her later. She will miss geometry, the one class of the day I’d prefer she not miss. But something is better than nothing. “I’ll take you for second period,” I offer.

“I don’t know when I’ll be done sleeping,” she replies. Oh hell no. I know what that means. Sleep all day, and Oh look I missed the whole day. Oh well!

“I’ll give you and hour and a half,” I concede. That’ll get here to school for second period. Better than nothing, I think.

She’s in bed. She now has about 45 more minutes until I try again. I have to admit, based on my past experiences, I am not optimistic. My head hurts. Yesterday’s migraine is trying to make a comeback. If I’m on the fence, stress will push me over. And this is stressful. I’m feeling discouraged. I am trying to hold on to our recent successes rather than let today overshadow my optimism. But at the moment, that shadow is pretty dark. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. And maybe some strong drugs for my head.

And here I am, holding my head and pondering my parenting style. You know what? I’m still okay with it. Most of the time it serves our family well. I try, through humor, to keep our family life light and fun in what is often a relatively stressful situation (the whole special needs kid thing). And it works. I’m serious when I need to be, but otherwise, forget it. Let’s do what we have to do, but let’s also have a good time. That balance is eluding me a little today. I’m not sure where that line will fall. But I will try my best. That’s all I can do. So I will pat myself on the back, give myself an A for effort, and see what happens.

What a Difference a Day Makes

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

This weekend I was elated. Maddie had a fair amount of math homework to do, and once I got her started, she went into her room, closed the door, and ACTUALLY DID HER HOMEWORK. I let her listen to music, even though her phone is involved, and that could lead to all kinds of distractions. I assured her at any moment I could burst through her door, so she’d better not be enjoying any screen time or there would be trouble. Happily, to my surprise, she buckled down and did her work.

Some time later, I checked on her. She was on her phone. I admit I was skeptical that everything was in order, but instead of being accusatory, I simply asked, “Did you finish all your homework?”

“Yes!” she answered with enthusiasm. She was light and happy. And now I was too.

“Maddie!” I said. “I think you’re transforming yourself as a student!”

She looked at me and smiled.

“Don’t you think so?” I added.

“Well, I do NOW!” she replied. She smiled. I was so glad I had said that.

I wanted her to feel the satisfaction and pride that come along with that accomplishment. I realized then that this new leaf might blow away with the fall winds, or dry up and disappear by the next day, but it was important that Maddie have this idea that she CAN transform. I believe she can.

Yesterday was a good day.

And now it’s today. It’s only 7:25 a.m. and I’m already rather discouraged. That’s not to say I don’t believe in Maddie anymore. It’s just that reality has set in. One good day doesn’t mean even one other good day.

I woke up her at 6:30. I’m so nice about it. I bring our little white fluff ball of a puppy with me and he wiggles and wriggles and buries his head in her blanket trying to gain access to her face for some kisses. Maddie lets our dogs lick her right in the face, and Banjo was going for it. It’s the best possible way to wake up because you can’t possibly be mad. It’s too adorable.

I stayed for awhile, searching for her favorite sneakers, getting out some shorts for this hot day and a shirt I was pretty sure she’d be excited to wear. And then the inevitably difficult search for a matching pair of socks. She doesn’t care if they match, but since she’s wearing shorts today, I put in some extra effort.

“I’ll be back,” I said.

My mornings are full of trips upstairs and downstairs. Up to work on breakfast and lunch, down to try to persuade Maddie to get up. It’s not unusual for me to make 5 or 7 round trips. (I have developed some pretty healthy calf muscles over the years!) This morning was typical.

Usually by the third time I go to Maddie’s room, I start to get a little stressed out. I try so hard to keep calm, and this morning I was pretty successful. But 15 minutes before the cab was to arrive, she was still wrapped up in her blanket. “Maddie! You HAVE to get up!” I announced. I have to admit, there was probably a little panic in my voice by this point.

“Don’t rip my blanket off! I’m getting up.” Shortly after that she was in the bathroom. Problem solved. It was cutting it close but she was up. It would all be okay.

At 7:10 she still had not appeared in the kitchen. Her breakfast had been sitting on the bar waiting for her. I still had to put her lunch in her backpack and fill up her water bottle. I ran downstairs, and there she was back in bed. She sleeps cocoon-style, wrapped in her blanket head to toe. I couldn’t believe it, which is kind of hilarious now that I think about it. The bigger surprises are when Maddie does what she’s supposed to do. This was a typical morning.

So I grabbed her clothes and together we got her dressed. It’s absolutely ridiculous for me to be dressing my rather curvy 15-year-old daughter. But the point was to get her to school, so I overlooked the absurdity of the situation and did what needed to be done. Well, not overlooked exactly. I just did the absurd anyway.

In her usual fashion, while I was running up and down the stairs as if the house was on fire, Maddie stopped to pet the puppy. In times of panic, she will still stop what she is doing to pet a dog, consider a question, or even just for dramatic effect. That last one makes my blood boil. Well, they all kind of do.

So this morning at that 7:10 mark, when I was scrambling to get her socks on her feet, I asked Maddie, “What were you THINKING?”

The truthful answer: “I wasn’t thinking at all.”

And therein often lies the problem. Most people would at least consider the outcome. It would be obvious that not getting up would come with some consequences. I don’t even think she was planning to stay home exactly. She just didn’t want to get up. Does that make sense? No, not really. But in her mind, only the not getting up part was relevant.

At about 7:18 she headed out to meet the cab in our driveway. I had heard the car drive up at 7:15, right on schedule. I hate for her to be late, but the cab driver is patient.

The moment she walked out the door, I was so relieved. I had been up for about an hour, and that hour is often the most stressful part of my day. My primary jobs as a parent are to keep my kids safe and fed, love them, and to get them to school. There is a mountain of other parenting to do as well, but those are the fundamentals. So at 7:15 when Maddie is gone, I feel triumphant. I really do. I accomplished something really important today.

What will tomorrow morning be like? Probably a lot like today. What about this afternoon? How much homework awaits, and will she do it willingly and independently? I expect to be challenged. That’s me keeping at least one foot in reality. I have to do that, otherwise I will be constantly disappointed. I prefer to be pleasantly surprised like I was yesterday with the homework thing.

Here’s hoping for an easy afternoon and a pleasant surprise in the morning despite the high probability of a repeat of today.