Archive for the ‘school’ Tag
January 09 2012
The first day at Buzz’s new school went shockingly well. I’ve said the boy has a way of surprising me, and he did yet again. The second day, however, started with a bit of a hitch.
Buzz’s new school begins half an hour earlier than where he went before, and where Jedi still goes, so I gave us an extra 20 minutes in the morning. There’s a new routine to learn, and it could have a few kinks to work out. As such, I woke Buzz first and set his bowl of Lucky Charms in front of him while I went about dragging everyone else out of bed.
His bus would be at the end of our driveway by 8:10, they told me.
Constantly aware of the clock, I did my best to make sure we made good time. His teeth were brushed, his hair was combed, the pen he marked on his hand washed off. Pleased with myself for adhering to schedule, I bundled him up in his coat with his backpack on his shoulders and opened the front door, hurrying up to wait.
And there we stood, staring out the screen door. Waiting.
And waiting.
Hmmm… the bus should be here by now.
When some more minutes passed as if in slow motion, still hopefully and pathetically waiting like an anxious teenager being stood up at prom, I knew the time had come to accept that the bus should have definitely been there already.
I made a few calls and the bus finally arrived, eventually. He bounded aboard, glad to be on his way. But the second day at his new school and I already feel like stuffing myself with donuts to suppress this feeling like we’ve been dumped.
January 04 2012
Dearest Buzz,
You start a new school today. Because no one wanted to listen to me.
It’s not my choice. I would have preferred you stay at the school you’ve known, with your brother by your side, at least until the end of this, your first, school year. Your progress there has been amazing, surpassing my expectations. They taught you how to write your name, and beginning words. You know your letters and can count to 100, though you skip a lot along the way. It’s the little things that most your age have known how to do for awhile but you’ve struggled with. And now you’re learning. Not just learning, but loving.
In switching schools after you’ve just begun to feel comfortable, I’m afraid that will change.
I also know, however, how you’ve surprised me in the past. You manage to work in mysterious ways. You’ve taken actions in stride after I’ve already braced against the aftermath. You rise and you fight, even when your fear is palpable. I left you crying mercilessly on the very first day of school, I’m terrified I’m going to leave you the same again. It breaks my heart to do this to you twice.
But you are strong. And you are bright. And you’re going to do wonderful. I know change is hard to understand, but I’m trying to do what’s best for you, even when it’s not my favorite choice.
Although if you want to raise hell just for the first few days, you have my support. I’d kind of like to say I told you so.
With so much love,
Your Mom
November 21 2011
I sat in a squeaky office chair as a small conference room of school faculty read aloud their reports. The room was otherwise silent and my expression absent as they detailed what they had observed from Buzz during their evaluations. Every few minutes I would glance up at the clock, willing for it to end. Stop bombarding me with what he’s doing wrong and tell me what we can do to help him.
Going into it, I had stated that I wanted answers. I had no idea it would feel like so much of an attack.
“He seems unaware of others’ space, and puts himself in unsafe situations.”
He’s always been my dare-devil child. I make jokes about it, even. You should read my website.
“He doesn’t participate well in class, and has a hard time focusing.”
Well, yeah, because of his trouble communicating. One of the reasons he was in therapy before.
“He has trouble making eye contact.”
I only noted this because his teacher mentioned it in the previous meeting and I knew I was filling out those stupid forms wrong. Personally, I’ve never noticed a lack of eye contact.
“He has a habit of playing with toys out of their intended purpose.”
He’s 5. He’s imaginative, I don’t understand why that’s bad. This is a ridiculous thing to single out.
“His speech mainly echoes that of what is said to him.”
I can’t argue with this.
I was sitting there, an abundance of negative aspects about my child being clinically read aloud, arguing the seriousness of each in my head. All while I was fighting the tears from my eyes. It was such a hard thing to hear, along with a diagnosis I had blindly swept out of possibility.
Put it all together, however, and it makes sense.
My son has Autism.
But he’s still my same little boy.
October 24 2011
Last week were the boys’ parent teacher conferences, where I also received their report cards. This mostly solidified what I already knew. Buzz is a great kid but has issues and we’re waiting on his evaluations to proceed to the next step that would be a better fit, and Jedi is incredibly smart. He’s on top in every subject and likes to participate in his 2nd grade class.
There is one problem, however.
In math, they have tests that must be completed to move on to the next level. These are timed. I think it’s 3 minutes to finish 42 problems. As his teacher remarked, he knows the answers. But the time aspect stresses him out.
It was the same last year. It’s all in his head, something that I believe he just needs to work past.
His teacher, however, suggested that we could look into getting an IEP (individual education plan). Instead of finding a solution to calm the stress the clock presents, we’d eliminate it entirely.
Um, huh?
I realize his teacher was merely offering suggestions that might help, but I don’t see how this does. Maybe I’m being too hard on my son because I know what he can do and how he is. He’s an exaggerated, dramatic boy who’s beyond his years in intelligence. There are some kids that really need an IEP. Buzz is one of them. Then there are those like Jedi, who don’t. He has no issues that require special treatment. I’m more inclined to tell him to just get over it, because in my opinion, and in my heart, there is no need to let a perfectly capable child skirt the system. It may be beneficial to him for the immediate now, but it won’t be in the long run. It seems like a ridiculous idea to even consider.
Or is it? Am I wrong here?
September 13 2011
I took the kids to school early since there was a Problem-Solving Meeting scheduled to discuss Buzz. It was a formal discussion with a table full of different teachers, their laptops open, ready to explain the many evaluations that were soon to take place as we forge ahead to the next stage of an IEP. All in an effort to obtain the additional help my son needs, since his speech delay can now safely be classified as a communication disorder.
It was difficult to get to the group, however, as my son had a grip around my leg and wouldn’t let go.
The time came for the meeting to begin, and as I peeked in on the room where it was to take place, I saw Buzz’s kindergarten teacher waving me in. I must have shot her a look, because she stepped out to evaluate the situation at hand.
Taking notice of what I was dealing with, the teacher instructed me to lead him into his classroom where one of her assistants were waiting. Which would have been a wonderful idea, he’s been there for 3 weeks now and it’s familiar with toys!, save for the fact that my child had removed himself from me and was now hunkered down under a cafeteria table, in tears.
Nope. Nothing to see here. Not at all.
“I see they marked ‘separation from parent’ as another problem”, the Life Skills Superintendent read when I finally made it in after literally dragging my son to his classroom by the hand, then turning my back without a second look while he cried for me to come back.
“Yeah”, I agreed. “I think we still need to work on that, too.”
