...that we got Noah's evaluation results on Monday.
We didn't get them in time for his IEP meeting, but no matter, the school district team agreed that he belongs in the smaller special education kindergarten program for most academic portions of the day, with a few hours in the (gigantic, one teacher and 28+ kids, oh my God) general education classroom, albeit with "support" and regular pullouts for one-on-one occupational therapy for fine-motor delays.
All in all, a very good outcome, with no need for us to halt proceedings with our last-minute evidence and change of diagnosis and THIS WHOLE IEP MEETING IS OUT OF ORDER dramatics.
But yeah. We do have a change of diagnosis. ADHD, or at least several assessment scores that put him at the top of the "very high likelihood" range. Also a word retrieval disorder, and confirmation of a bunch of ongoing sensory-based delays that we already knew about, so like, whatever. Pffft. Bring it. And yet: GAH, OMFG, ETC.
You guys, I am so tired. I am beat. I read the reports, I shrugged my shoulders, I went upstairs and lay down. I told the ceiling fan that hey, we could really, really use some good and happy and easy around here, and soon.
I told Noah about PopPop last week, probably no more than five hours after I knew. He took the news so nonchalantly I might as well have told him "Noah, I'm really sorry, but...we're out of butter."
And then, a few minutes passed, and he revisited the topic after some thought: "You lost your Daddy!"
"Yes, I did. And it makes me very sad."
"I'd be sad if I lost my Daddy."
"I know you would. But Daddy is fine."
"Can I have a banana?"
And then, after a few more minutes, he coughed.
"I coughed but I'm not going to die."
"No! No you are not. Don't worry, PopPop was a very different kind of sick. The kind we couldn't give him medicine for, or the kind the doctors couldn't make better, and when you're sick we can..."
"Look, this is Harry Potter and he has a wand. See? See his wand, Mommy?"
"Yep. I do. It's awesome."
Later, out of the blue, Ezra asked "Where's PopPop?"
He asked that a lot last week, never quite satisfied with our answers, because PopPop wasn't in his chair or in his bed, and where else could he be? Why are we visiting Nana's house without seeing PopPop too? What the hell, you guys?
"PopPop is gone, Ez."
"In da car?"
"No, not in his car. He's...well..."
At this point, every time, Noah would get exasperated with our pussyfooting around the obvious, correct answer.
"HE DIED," he'd say. "HE'S DEAD."
One night -- oh, I forget when, exactly, every night has been a blur of grief and/or pregnancy-related ailments, honestly -- I had a headache and was sprawled out on the couch, bleating to the boys to please keep the noise down.
Noah came over and snuggled next to me.
"I'm sorry your head hurts, Mommy."
"But you're not going to die."
"No, I am not."
"And Daddy isn't going to die. And Ezra isn't going to die. And none of my friends are going to die. None kids are going to die. Or mommies or daddies or brothers ever."
"Right. Okay. Can I play the Harry Potter game?"