Occupational Gratitude

Noah first met his occupational therapist at summer camp. He was three-and-a-half years old and had already developed a fierce dislike of school (and any school-like activities) and a deep distrust of teachers (and any teacher-like adults). But for some reason, Ms. M___ was different. He liked her. He liked her a lot. 

For over three years now, she's worked with him. First, almost daily, at preschool, then weekly. She was his anchor, the thing he looked the most forward to all week, the one person who could always — ALWAYS — coax the most and the best from him. Balance, coordination, motor planning, social skills, play skills, handwriting, attention span, self-regulation. She's encouraged him, pushed him and challenged him. But most of all she's believed in him, and loved him. Genuinely, unconditionally.

She's the first person to hear about Noah's victories and breakthroughs, big or small. She is one of his biggest cheerleaders.

She's also the first person I talk to when I'm having a rough time, or need ideas or strategies or some empathy from someone who gets it. Or maybe just to geek out about The Hunger Games. She's kind of been my cheerleader, too. 

Yesterday she told me that she's moving on. She's resigned. She's accepted a new job somewhere else, and the countdown to Noah's final session has begun. 

We both cried. She cried the hardest. 

I haven't told Noah yet. God. That's going to suck. 

The good news is that I know Ms. M___ and I are going be awesome friends now, and that she's not really going anywhere. Except maybe to our house, and my couch, since we'll allowed to hang out and drink wine and play with Noah in the backyard. 

And you know? It's time. It really is. Noah's doing great. Beyond great, really. And other kids deserve to be great now too. I wish I could tell those kids and their families that man, you guys, you're so lucky.

You're about to meet the person who is going to change your life. 

The Face of Awesome

I don't know about you, but I'd give money to that face.

Before anyone jumps to the wrong (yet probably all-too-common these days) conclusion: No worries, Noah's photo wasn't ganked from my blog or Facebook. TLC is the non-profit organization that has been helping Noah (and us) for years now. It's where he attended the Miraculous Summer Camp of Miracles and The Preschool That Changed Our Lives. He still receives weekly occupational therapy there for ongoing issues with rigidity, self-regulation, social skills, etc. A couple years ago they asked if they could take photos of Noah and his therapist for brochures and stuff, and we agreed. I always forget about it, though, until one of the photos shows up somewhere, blast-from-the-past style.

I don't know how much longer Noah will require OT. (After several ridiculous tussles with several ridiculous insurance companies, we are finally on a plan that covers the weekly sessions without protest, so I am admittedly in no rush to change anything or draw the slightest bit of attention to ourselves.) All around, the reports are good-to-excellent: his teachers, his therapists, even his karate instructors are singing his praises and talking about corners turned, strides made, breakthroughs and maturity and etc. We're firmly in a "flow" portion of the endless ebb and flow cycle that is Noah's unique way of developing. Behavior, focus, flexibility, everything has taken a big leap forward. Even his eating habits have improved.

(You know what's responsible for THAT? A McDonald's Happy Meal hastily purchased at a drive-through while traveling to the beach this summer. He was too busy watching the damn TV in the damn minivan to protest. He discovered that McDonald's cheeseburgers are delicious, and has since been completely willing and enthusiastic to try other new foods in case they are also delicious. This weekend we went to a restaurant and he ORDERED A STEAK. What in the hell of a what, I ask you.)

Before school started, he was worried. He's beginning to sense that he's a little different, and aware that certain things are harder for him. He wants to do good and be good, but just...can't, sometimes. Even after all these years of camps and schools and evaluations and therapy, he's never asked why he goes to TLC or has two classrooms at school, or what "OT" stands for. 

And so we had our first real talk about it. About some of it, anyway. 

(I try not to hammer you guys with tons of self-promoting links, but this week's Advice Smackdown is more personal than usual, so if you follow Noah's story you might enjoy it.)

A few weeks later, he doesn't seem too worried. He seems happy. I'm happy. 

When he saw his picture on the brochure that came in the mail, he didn't ask what it was for or why he was on it. 

Instead, he held it up over his head. "Look Mom," he shouted. "I'M FAMOUS!"

 

First Grade, First Grade

On Friday I took Noah to his school's Open House. We met his new teachers, checked out his classrooms, and I was completely thrilled to see that the school assigned him to the teachers of his dreams, to exactly the kind of teachers Noah has historically responded best to and worked hardest to please.  

(Young, babyfaced-types with gobs of enthusiasm and no fear of Bribery With Snacks.)

(I am about 99% sure his special ed teacher from last year hand-picked them for us.)

Before we left, Noah insisted on visiting every former teacher and classroom. There were big hugs and high fives and marveling over his missing front teeth from his kindergarten teachers (and yes, Hot Teacher Is Still Hot, Only Now More Tan And How Did I Not Notice The Tattoos Oh My God), and then we stopped in to visit his preschool teacher. He had the same teacher for two full years of the Preschool Education Program (PEP), though it already feels like forever ago.

Noah ran in and gave her a hug and they chatted about his summer (BEACH WATERSLIDES BEACH AND 14 MILLION HOURS OF LEGO), and I stood there and stupidly beamed at him, all big and huge and grown-up looking. 

And then I saw the other parents. The other parents with the terrified, nervous faces, because it's not the same for them. A classroom visit is never just an informal, no-big-thing. For them, this visit is loaded with meaning, with promise, and with a million things that could go wrong. What if my child doesn't like it here? What if they have a fit, a tantrum, an "episode?" Are the other kids "the same" as my child? Better? Or worse? Autism? SPD? Downs? Non-verbal? Is that kid still in a diaper? Does anyone notice that my child is still in a diaper? 

And:

What if this teacher can't help? What if this wasn't the right decision?

I knew what they were thinking because I remember thinking all of those things, forever ago. 

I tried to make eye contact and smile at a couple of them, perhaps so I could work in an encouraging comment about how wonderful this teacher is, or how happy we were with the program or something.

But they were all watching Noah. Handsome, bubbly, talkative Noah, proudly announcing his first grader status and talking about waterslides.

He was all the encouragement I could possibly offer to any parent in that room. Look at him. Listen to him. You'll get here too. It's scary and overwhelming right now but you can do this. Keep swimming. Keep fighting. You'll get here too.

He's a first grader now. Officially.

Bring it on. 

The Next Big Thing

We met with a new child psychologist this morning. So I spent last night organizing and re-filing the mountains of old paperwork we've collected over the years. Old evaluations, assessments, treatment plans, progress reports, IEPs, re-evaluations, insurance rejections and appeals and God knows what else. 

Something old, something new, something photocopied, something blue.

(The cup. The cup is blue. The cup is also full of vodka.)

Reading through those old files is both oddly inspiring and completely masochistic. On the one hand, how far he's come! The things he says and does! The mind-boggling number of victories, both large and small (and medium and miniscule!), that we've celebrated since that fateful day when I took my non-verbal almost-two-year-old to the pediatrician. When that pediatrician cocked his head to the side and asked, "Does he walk like that a lot? On his toes?" 

He did it. We helped. I have no doubt that the things we've done and the people we've worked with have absolutely helped. There are miracle workers in that pile of papers. Bona fide. 

And yet. Ugh. The mistakes are all there too. The consent to discontinue services form I signed for Early Intervention. The progress reports from the mainstream preschool he never should have attended. The very first psychological evaluation that revealed a child buried so deep within himself, that made me wonder if we'd ever be able to pull him out, that made me wonder how in the world I'd missed how serious things were. Noah wasn't just "challenging." Noah was...well, something with an acronym. Something with a diagnosis, a code, something that probably wouldn't just vanish at the end of the "terrible threes."

(And the money. Oh my God. The money.)

But then this morning, we were asked for that diagnosis. And for the millionth time we sighed and shrugged. It's complicated. Little from column A, a little from column B, a little from column Planet Quirkozoid of the Weirdo Nebula. Nobody will commit to Any One Thing and there's always an asterisk after every evaluation. He's Spectrummy and Inattentive and Hyper and Uncoordinated and Anxious and Rigid. He's also Smart and Imaginative and Verbal and Affectionate and The Type Of Kid Strangers Watch At Parties And Declare That There's Nothing Wrong With That Child, So Why The Hell Do You Have An IEP Again?

We talked with her for close to two hours. We probably could have talked for another two, easy. At the end, I handed her the freshly organized binder, full of the Old. 

I'll pick it up next week, when we once again start something New. He'll visit and play and talk about his feelings and fears and what it's like to live inside his head. They're going to do some yoga together. 

In with the New, onward, ever upward, packed to the gills with hope and optimism. He can do it. We can help. 

Mr. Big Stuff

After Noah learned to ride his bike sans training wheels, and after the trip to the toy store and the coveted Ninjago Lego Set Of Six Hundred Eighty Four Infernal Fucking Pieces Are You Kidding Me was procured and assembled, Noah calmly asked us to put his training wheels back on.

Uh. Well, see, the point was...

"I'M NEVER RIDING MY BIKE AGAIN," he shrieked, before I even finished the sentence. He may have stomped up the stairs and slammed his bedroom door, but I can't specifically recall if that was over the training wheel thing or any of the MILLIONS of hideous injustices his six-year-old self is forced to endure on a daily basis, including but not limited to:

1) not being allowed to watch TV

2) being told he really shouldn't wear that sweater, it's 80 degrees outside

3) YOU HAVE TO EAT ACTUAL FOOD SOMETIMES

4) AND GO TO BED

5) being told to bend over all the way to the ground to pick up the thing that he just dropped, I mean, MY GOD, he's tall for his age. It's like, three whole feet away, down there. YOU DO IT, MOM.

He stuck to his stubborn little guns for a couple days before we could lure him back outside for more bike-riding practice. It went well, but I think he protested for longer than he actually spent on the bike. He didn't fall, he got better at getting going by himself and staying in a straight line. 

He still couldn't wait to get back inside. Sweet, sweet inside! With Legos and soft places to sit! Heaven on Earth for the Inside Kid.

So I don't know what came over him yesterday, just like I never, ever know what triggers a change in Noah, in his brain or just in his heart. Because if I could figure it out I would bottle that shit up in a spray bottle and keep it in my purse. Maybe sell it on infomercials. It's Noah's Amazing Rigidity Anti-Starch! Penetrates the Toughest Quirks! Long-Lasting Flexibility In Every Spritz!

All I know is that he got on his bike and rode back and forth, up and down our sidewalk. Up the hill, down the -- HOLY SHIT THAT'S FAST -- hill. I sat on the yard with the baby and cringed through my cheerleading, because HOLY SHIT THAT'S FAST. 

***

I don't know how to parent Noah, sometimes. Blah blah advocate cheerleading decision-making research good mother all that blah. Yes. In a big-picture, theoretical sort of way, I know how one should parent a child like Noah. I think we're getting the big-picture stuff right. I think we're doing a good job. I hope. Mostly. 70/30. I'd take that.

No, I struggle more with the little details. The day-to-day life with a kid who turns on a dime minute-by-minute. Who is hyper and quirky and boisterous and stubborn and sweet and infuriating. Who tests and challenges and misbehaves and pushes, like any kid, but also like one who is perpetually turned up to 11.

I yell and scold too much, I'm afraid. I push back against behaviors I should lean gently into. I lose my temper, or at least let my annoyance get the better of me and show through. It drips into my voice and body language. I get irritated over things he cannot help, and get angry over the things he can, and some days I can't tell the difference. "DSTSS," Jason and I have taken to hissing at each other, when we see the other making too big of a deal out of something, of being too hard on him, or just fighting a losing battle of wills.

DSTSS. Don't sweat the small stuff. It's the small stuff I suck at, though.

***

Anyway.

Noah rode his bike again, some more, better. He went down the hill super-fast and scared the living daylights out of his overly-nervous, fellow-Inside-Kid mother.

And after each run, he'd stop, and let out a whooping cheer for himself at the top of his lungs.

"I AM SO SUPER AWESOME!" 

Outside the Box

When the flyer came home in his backpack, I groaned. The Valentine's Day class party was going to have a "theme." A 1950s sock hop, with music and dancing. Dressing up in poodle skirts and "greaser" costumes was encouraged. Please remember that all treats must be store bought, not homemade.

Sometimes integration in the general education classroom sucks. No way would the room parents in special education plan something like that, with so many of the kids easily unnerved by changes in routine and costumes and noise and cupcakes frosted with Red 40 dye. But there was no party for the special ed class -- parties fall exclusively in the domain of the homeroom. The giant overcrowded homeroom, like the one I toured just over a year ago with other parents from the preschool program.

We observed it with wide, terrified eyes -- one mom grabbed my arm and squeezed it while shooting me a WTF look, because we were both thinking the same thing, because our kids won't be ready for this environment in a million billion years. The kindergartners moved around the room in quiet, controlled movements, focused on independent activities, tuning out their dozens of classmates all scattered in different centers, while the teacher quietly went over a reading activity with a small group in the corner. They were writing words in lowercase letters. I swallowed hard and pressed my fingers into my palm -- hard -- and fought back some tears and an overwhelming, crushing sense of Noah's delays.

The principal tried to assure us that the classroom didn't start out like this, that there's a huge difference between September and January, and that there's a huge difference between this January and next January, for our kids. I don't think any of us believed her. One year? No. A million billion. If that. 

I almost didn't send him in on Valentine's Day. I almost kept him home, just because. Why put him through that? He stayed home on Halloween and seemed downright happy to miss the party and the costumes, and it's not like he has any real grasp on Valentine's Day or why we made him write his name on 30-plus cheap-o Star Wars-themed Valentine cards the night before. When I mentioned the party to him, he seemed immediately on-edge and unsure, his THINGS ARE DIFFERENT alarm going off in his head. 

But then I suggested that Jason and I could come to the party, too. And he jumped up and down and clapped and threw his arms around me in a hug because YES YES YES, come to the party. Well then! I may be a bitter, paranoid pessimist sometimes but I'm also not an idiot: One day my very existance will horrify and embarrass my children, so I should accept my invites while I can still get them. 

We arrived, Noah was thrilled. He pulled us around the classroom to show off his favorite things -- mostly the shoebox full of insects that he almost knocked over while excitedly explaining the lifecycle of the mealworm to us -- and then introduced us to his teacher, who we have met many times before but who indulged Noah and shook our hands. "It's so nice to meet you," he said with a laugh. 

Some kids dressed up, some kids danced. Most of the kids put on the sunglasses they'd been given as a party favor. Noah picked his up and eyed them suspiciously. "I don't think I'd like to wear mine," he said. He put them down, then offered them to his tablemate who'd already managed to break his own pair. 

Absolutely nothing unusual happened, the whole time we were there. Except for the fact that absolutely nothing unusual happened. Noah was calm, Noah was happy. He knew and understood the classroom routine; he was good-natured and flexible when the routine was changed. He was not the loudest or quietest or the craziest or the weirdest or the shyest or the bossiest or any other -est. 

He has self-control. He has focus. He has friends.

***

This time last year, Noah was already really into Legos. But only if they looked like they looked on the box. He would argue with us endlessly if he disagreed with the directions, pointing over and over at the finished product on the box, adamant that we were telling him the wrong thing and trying to trick him into building something different. 

If we bought him general free-play sets of assorted blocks, he would study the pictures on the package and meticulously reproduce them, and then refuse to build anything else. 

This weekend he designed and built an alien ship, complete with working side doors and a cash register from the Krusty Krab for a control panel. Later he built the alien's house. It doesn't have a door because the alien is made of goo and can just ooze in through the window. 

I don't remember when, exactly, he stopped worrying so much about the box. It happened when I wasn't paying attention, I suppose. Sometime between this January and last. A million, billion years ago, apparently. 

Mr. Fixit

We have an IEP meeting today, the first of two IEP meetings scheduled over the next few months. For this year is Noah's re-evaluation year, the year he's due for...wait for it, oh, you'll never guess...a re-evaluation of his strengths and weaknesses and needs and services, up to an including the Big Label that keeps him in special education and keeps my mother-in-law up at night for fear of his PERMANENT RECORD and her continued, unshakable belief that the public school system is legally allowed to tie him to a cheerful Circle Time Chair and forcibly inject Ritalin into his veins. IT HAPPENS. SNOPES IS IN ON IT TOO.

This particular meeting is, quite frankly, going to be bullshit. Not much more than a procedural checkpoint. We will show up and be told about all the different evaluations and testing procedures they plan to do before our next IEP meeting, the big one that will determine his placement for first grade. (Where there are no Circle Time Chairs, but I believe you may be able to request one of those coin-operated massage recliners for your child's Clockwork Orange-style med drip. Fingers crossed!) They will hand us five trees' worth of paper detailing everything we just talked about and our 17th copy of the Parental Rights & Responsibilities handbook that we cannot turn down because they found a typo on page 47 of the last version, thank you and we'll see you again in a couple months, time for the next family, moving on, thanks. 

***

At almost half past six years old, Noah has no real trace of a speech delay, the thing that started All Of This. He never shuts up, actually. Sometimes his grammar is a tad mixed up and full of extra words that buy him precious processing seconds, and he still adorably pronounces V as B. (As in "This lebel of Plants Bersus Zombies is really hard.") But other than that, he's your typical chatty exuberant omg inside voice, Noah kid. Bonus: he's learned all kinds of delightful words from his classmates, or at least he thinks he has. 

"Damage!" he says, deviously scanning my face for a reaction. "Beenis slug! Poople tale!"

His brain seems to be running a constant loop of things he's seen or heard -- usually TV or movies which he memorizes like a human tape recorder -- and he has a hard time turning off the recall or understanding that not everybody else in the room has any idea what he's talking about when he randomly decides to talk about how the bad bird was up on the roof but then the thing fell down and that was funny, right? Right? Right Mom? Right? 

"What are you talking about?" I usually end up asking, exasperated that I am unable to coax more than five words from him about his day at school but will get several hundred about some bit of an Angry Birds fan video he watched once on YouTube.

The thing is, TV and movies help, too, especially with the bigger social picture and his ongoing issues with rigidity and anxiety. The Diary of a Wimpy Kid movies and books, for example, maybe play to his current obsession with potty talk than I'd like (OMG THE MOTHERFUCKING IRONY), but have completely changed the way he treats his friends, and especially Ezra. "I'm not a mean brother like Rodrick," he says. "I'm a nice brother. I'm a friend brother."

The various iterations of Star Trek -- with different costumes and ship details and characters and hell, even actors -- have been hugely helpful when he's confronted with something being "different" or "not normal." Before that, Star Wars and Harry Potter and The Wizard of Oz taught him how to use his imagination.

And Kung Fu Panda 2, of all things, gave us the phrase "inner peace" as an effective code for "rest your body" or "holy sensory freakout child, please calm dowwwwwwn." 

And the auditory recall seems to work at school, too, despite how easily distracted he is by...well, EVERYTHING. The wiggly leg on his chair. The edge of his shirt sleeves. That other kid who is in time out for saying Something That Sounds A Lot Like "Damage." Anything and everything in the classroom that may have been moved from its usual location. The sound his mouth makes when he blows air out like this or like that.

Despite all the distractions, he's learning. He's reading. He's writing. He's drawing elaborate re-tellings of his favorite movies comic-book style on the wide sheets of paper we set out on his kindergarten-teacher-recommended Writing Station, up to and including the closing credits. His fine motor skills have never been better, and his teacher even declared his handwriting "beautiful," especially for a kid who only really figured out how to hold a crayon properly a year or so ago. 

He says he hates school, which of course bothers me, but I sort of think that's the point: I roll my eyes at "damage" and "fartle fart" and "pooper diaper" but have a hard-to-resist kneejerk reaction to "I hate school." Why? Why do you hate school? What's wrong? What's happening there? Is it your teacher? The other kids? TELL ME SO I CAN FIX IT. I CAN CALL ANOTHER IEP MEETING AND FIX IT.

I should know by now it doesn't exactly work like that. Sure, there are things about Noah that I could cautiously, inelegantly call "fixed" or "resolved." Things that took years of therapy and effort and money. And other things that simply faded away with a little extra time: maturity on his part, understanding and creative thinking on mine. And other, other things that found unlikely, almost sudden solutions: A curved exit ramp, Star Wars, karate or sometimes just actual, real-life magic. 

And of course there are still other things. Big things, subtle things, question-marky-let's-keep-our-eye-on-that things. The IEP helps with some of those things, along with OT and diet and a truckload of patience, so we keep chugging along and showing up and doing everything we possibly can to help, to guide, to aid.

But not to "fix."

Because you can't fix something that isn't broken. And my child is not, and never has been, broken. 

 

And On Third Thought...

So. Yeah...turns out that was nicely anticlimactic, in the end. 

The best thing about about this whole...uh, thing (besides working itself out fairly quickly) was the fact that it rallied our mostly-dormant parent email distro list like nothing else in the world. What had previously only been used to send out links to special-needs talks and events and charity 5Ks suddenly came alive with the sound of HIGHLY ALARMED MOTHER BEARS.

Everyone quickly passed along whatever bits of conflicting or corroborating information we'd received from the school, the teacher, the administration. We compared notes and conspiracy theories and even a horror story or two. (It was a dark and stormy Tuesday after the first day of school when one child spent 40 goddamn minutes wandering around the school completely lost because neither his homeroom teacher nor special education teacher realized he was missing, holy shit, the end.) By late last night, we were virtually toasting each other's wine glasses over email and firming up final details on a class playdate next week and a mom's night out the week after. It was beautiful.

It was also interesting to see the different advocacy styles: Some go in with guns blazing. They argue, they hang up the phone, they say things like "if I find out you've pulled my child out of general education for even five minutes because of overcrowding, I will file a discrimination lawsuit." Others are more measured and willing to give the school the benefit of the doubt...but not too much benefit, because...you know. Some see conspiracies everywhere, or can always find a reason to be angry, while others have to get dragged kicking and screaming from their confrontation-adverse corners, and fight only when they absolutely have to. Some get amped up by the process, injected with nervous energy that keeps them up and emailing until midnight, while others get so emotionally wiped out by an afternoon IEP meeting that they have to go home and crawl back into bed for a few hours before they talk about it. 

I'm sure for teachers and therapists and administrators it gets AWFULLY exhausting dealing with some of these personality types, and easy to point at a particular reaction and say YOU'RE GOING ABOUT THIS THE WRONG WAY, STOP. The thing is, though, that every one of these parents got to where they are -- to this X-Files-like point of TRUST NO ONE -- honestly. Usually the hard way. From the time they didn't fight back or argue or ask that one last pointed question because they didn't want to seem mean or be a bother. Or the time they DID fight and argue and question...and still were unable to get what their child needed. It doesn't make us right all the time, but just another imperfect part of an imperfect system. 

Personally, I spent the bulk of my afternoon composing a (hopefully) polite yet undeniably pointed email to the involved parties. (Probably shouldn't come as a surprise that writing tends to be my best medium for confrontation, rather than the phone or in person.) I tossed around the proper acronyms and dissected my son's day, calling his service minutes into question while also attempting to appeal on a personal level, describing Noah's level of stress and anxiety about school in general and c'mon, dudes. Don't be dicks about this. LRE, man. LRE.

Within 15 minutes of the dismissal bell ringing at school, my phone was ringing and my email was replied to, with a good three or four other higher-ups from the school now CC'd on it. 

Basically, what we all had here was a failure to communicate. Basically, this kerfluffle is what happens when a principal (who is actually an assistant principal filling in temporarily while the "real" principal is on maternity leave) makes a phone call that probably should have been made by the teacher, and with a lot more notice or lead time to prevent parents from feeling railroaded, or like someone was trying to pull a fast one on us. 

Upshot: I thought Noah spent more time in his homeroom than he actually does, thanks to a misunderstanding at our last IEP meeting, some bungled information we received at Back To School Night and from...yeah, okay, I know...Noah himself, the most unreliable of narrators. He actually gets off the bus, goes to the gen-ed classroom, hangs up his coat and backpack, sits down to listen to about five minutes of all-school announcements via the Promethean Board...and then is immediately told to get his coat and backpack again, line up at the door, and head to his other classroom. 

Oh. 

Well.

Would it be okay if he listened to the announcements in the other classroom instead, so he's not having to transition 10 minutes into the school day? Because the kids are so tightly scheduled down to the minute this year -- all because of statewide changes to the curriculum, which is why this is a new problem -- and the special ed teacher isn't able to get the new, longer math lesson in. So it would really help her if she could have the kids there from the beginning. Then they aren't running late to rejoin the gen-ed class for art and music and science, which is what's currently happening almost every day. The 10 additional minutes a day would not actually eat into his IEP-dictated gen-ed time, but would instead make sure he WASN'T missing more valuable peer interaction later in the day.

Oh.

I see.

I have to admit, there was a part of me -- a small, petty part -- that wanted to stick to my original guns. To cling to Noah's five minutes of homeroom time no matter what. MY PRESHUS! HISSSSSS! To insist that those five minutes provide invaluable peer interaction that they will take from my COLD DEAD HANDS, just to stick it to them for handling this so badly and not explaining things well. To continue to nurture my pet theory that this was still some kind of fallout from the overcrowded kindergarten rooms. 

But I had to admit that his teacher really had a point. Moving Noah around that much in the morning is kind of silly, and probably feels like transition-whiplash to him. For kids without transitioning difficulties, it's SUCH a nice idea to have everyone arrive on equal gen-ed footing before scattering out to special ed and ESOL and the resource room. I mean, I love the sound of that, because it's just so...up with integration! everybody is different and special but also the same! and stuff.

But for a kid like Noah, well, the reality is that it probably makes things harder for him. 

Some of the other parents have decided to reject the schedule change and keep things as-is, and of course the school is bending over backwards to agree that yes! That is completely within your rights! We will of course honor your wishes! Our bad!

I asked Noah what he wanted. I assumed he'd pick the original homeroom option, since he likes that teacher a lot more. (Mostly just because he only sees that teacher for the fun, easier parts of the day.) 

No, he said. He wants to start off in the smaller classroom. He doesn't like lining up to leave all the time, and he always forgets which room he's left his jacket in and then Mommy gets annoyed with him when he gets off the bus with no jacket. It was just too much moving around all the time.

Oh.

Well.

I see.

As you wish, Noah. As you wish.

 

(Photo by Wendy at Blue Lily Photography, and HELL YES SQUEE I have dozens more to inflict on you guys, now that I'm done talking about the latest crisis of my own fool creation.)

On Second Thought, Hell No

The principal at Noah's school called us mid-day on Friday. She abruptly dropped an oh-HI-THERE-just-wanted-to-let-you-know-something-we're-changing bomb, in that sweet disarming way only cheerful elementary school ladies can. And after I hung up I stared at the phone for awhile, trying to figure out what just happened and why.

The change in question felt like...not a good change, or at the very least felt like a change we should have been able to say "no thank you" to, or discussed a little further, instead of what it was: On Monday we're moving your child out of his morning homeroom, and sending him directly to the special education classroom. Try to give him a heads' up over the weekend, kthxbye.

A flurry of emails among the other parents with children in the special education class confirmed that I was not alone in my unease. The "change" seemed to fly in the face of the program our children are in (small, self-contained classroom only when necessary, integrate at all other times), in the face of our IEPs, our right to be involved in these sorts of decisions ahead of time, and our right not to be fed a line of complete horseshit, just because the school is overcrowded and overwhelmed and hey! You know what's easy? Move the special ed kids out. A couple less kids for the general education teachers to have to deal with in the morning. Tell the parents it's a transitioning problem, or something, and we're only talking 10-15 minutes or so a day, no big deal, right? 

TL;DR version: Big deal. Somebody hold my earrings. 

UPDATE: Oh, school. How hast thou violated my child's IEP? Let me count the ways. In excruciating, exhaustive detail, cuz I gots alllll afternoon and every piece of paper you have ever sent me EVER:

You fools! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is "Never get involved in a land war in Asia," but only slightly less well known is this: "Never go in against a compulsive paperwork hoarder when her kid is on the line!" MWA HA HA HA

The Road To Here

I woke up this morning to discover that a big giant kid crept in and ate Noah up last night.

I was pretty annoyed, so I walked him to the neighborhood bus stop and sent him off to school with a bunch of other big kids. Whatever.

***

The other parents snapped pictures as their kids lined up and boarded the bus. I just stood there. I'd abandoned my camera on our front step because Noah was having a hard morning and me standing around trying to capture the preshus memories of childhood rites of passage was clearly NOT HELPING. He didn't want to get out of bed, he didn't want to get dressed, he didn't want a shirt with too many buttons and he didn't want breakfast and he CERTAINLY didn't want to walk to the bus stop. 

But of course the minute we rounded the corner and he spotted other kids at the bus stop his anxiety melted. He cheerfully climbed on the bus and stopped mid-step to turn around and give me the most picture-perfect first-day-of-school wave in the HISTORY of first-day-of-school waves. 

I waved back. I bit my lip. I turned around and walked home. 

Noah will spend part of his day in the mainstream kindergarten classroom. Mostly the "easy" stuff like homeroom, lunch, art, recess. Close to 30 kids with one teacher. (Who, okay, is a dude. And Ezra's preschool teacher [he starts next week] is a dude. Lots of dudes all of a sudden!) The rest of the day he'll be in a smaller special education class. He'll get one-on-one OT once a week and other support services as-needed for issues related to attention, behavior, anxiety, sensory stuff. It's all good. We're extremely pleased and are hoping for a mostly-smooth year. We're also continuing to take Noah to private services every week to plug the holes in his IEP, because we still aren't that idealistic. Ain't our first rodeo, and all.

I get asked from time to time about the whole blogging-about-Noah thing, and it's a totally fair question. (Provided it's asked in a way that doesn't assume 1) that it's something that has NEVER EVER OCCURRED TO ME TO THINK ABOUT, and 2) that there's only one right answer, and that it is not the one I've come up with.) 

Here's the thing: Yes, I suppose it is possible that Noah's classmates might one day read this blog and learn that he experienced developmental delays. It is possible. Likely? I dunno. I imagine by the time they're of the age where they're Googling each other and allowed to visit random blogs with R-rated langauge unsupervised, Noah will have his own online presence that will supercede this one in the search results, or this blog will be offline or entries will have been removed (I do that, sneakily like, sometimes) and hey, if kids really want to spend hours and hours tracking down an unformatted cache of overwrought ramblings from somebody's boring old MOM on Wayback Machine, well...Noah has my blessing to mock the SHIT out of them right back. 

(I also own the possibility that any of my children might one day look at me and say, "Wow, I really wish you hadn't done that," about blogging or posting pictures or hell, any number of parenting choices we make that might, in hindsight, suck.)

But the fact is, other kids don't need to do all that much to figure out some of the things I've shared here, if they want to. They just need an older sibling with a yearbook, because Noah's name and picture have been in there for the past two years, as part of the district's preschool program. 

And they'll see him leave the classroom every day. That part worried me, as hypocritical as that probably sounds.

I asked the special education teacher about it on Friday: Do the other kids...notice? Do they ask? Do they figure it out? 

No, she assured me. Just about every kid gets "pulled out" at some point during the day or week. There's a large ESOL population and those kids go to their own classroom too. Some kids need handwriting help, or speech therapy for lisps or stutters. Others go to special reading groups -- both remedial and gifted. Some kids see the school pyschologist, some get tutoring, and all of this happens in mysterious "other" rooms than the homerooms, so no one knows why anyone is leaving. When everyone is special...no one is. Huh.

"Mostly, the kids who stay behind think the ones who leave are lucky," she said. 

And really, Noah IS lucky. He has an amazing barrage of services being made available to him, even in an age of crazy district budget cuts and school overcrowding. He has received great services from this school already, in addition to all the private therapy and camps and whatnot. 

And he is lucky because once upon a time, his mother poured her heart out to the Internet when she feared her baby might be speech delayed. And when she found out that he was. And when she first heard of "Sensory Processing Disorder" and "Pervasive Developmental Disorder - Not Otherwise Specified" and Asperger's and dyspraxia and ADHD and any number of acronyms and diagnosis codes that have shown up in paperwork or conversations. 

He is lucky because when I did that, people listened. And they helped. They left comments and emails and sent me book and website recommendations and phone numbers and taught me how to be his advocate and let me cry on their shoulders both virtually and in real life. They taught me how to write social stories and that visual schedules help and have you talked to the miracle workers at The Treatment & Learning Centers? They donated money and a kick in the pants when I was stressed and hesitant about an insanely expensive private school tuition bill. They told me I would never, ever regret spending that money and they were 100% right. They taught me not to be afraid or ashamed, but let me know that it was okay to feel that way sometimes.

You listened. You shared. You taught. You helped.

Thank you.

I don't really feel compelled to share the daily ups and downs of raising a challenging child quite the way I used to, when Noah was little and baffling and I felt so lost and overwhelmed all the time. He's big and still baffling but...we got this. More or less. Some days are better than others, just like always. We're trying some new things and re-introducing some old things that stopped working so well but seem to help again but mostly we just...enjoy being around our boy. Who enjoys going places and doing things except for the places and things that he doesn't. We just have to try to keep it all straight, and then be prepared when he changes the rules on us again. No biggie. 

But, you know. I'll still keep you posted. Don't worry. 

In the meantime, though, one small favor: If your child comes home from school and tells you about how some kids talk funny or can't sit still or can't keep quiet or don't like to be touched and those kids get pulled out of the classroom during math and reading and science and asks you where do those kids go? And why? 

Tell them that gee, you can't say for sure. But those kids sound pretty lucky.