Laughing Mama's Blog

My inner monologue with myself inside my head put in this blog out in the open for everybody to read.

The End of A Chapter (AKA: “Canadians didn’t like Americans in 1877 either.”) September 18, 2012

Filed under: kids,parenting,Psychotherapy — laughingmama @ 3:59 pm
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We’ve all heard the term “mama bear”. It’s a phrase meant to conjure up the image of a snarling mother fiercely protecting her young at any cost, striking fear into the heart of the one who DARES to threaten the cub on any level. I’ve definitely had my own “mama bear” moments where my children are concerned. Although, to be honest, I look less like a bear and more like a chicken with my disjointed head swivel going on, a finger waving in the air and a pointed “Mmmm hmmm!” at the end of the tirade. I’m sure I’m not very threatening. But, I do my best at fiercely protecting my babies. Which is why every time I’ve found myself in a meeting with our local county school system regarding my son, Drew, I’ve felt like I’ve had to have my guard up and fight for him. (If you don’t know Drew’s back story and have a couple of hours, start
here: “My Drew- Part One… (AKA: “With a mother like me, he’s GOT to be special.).) He’s had an IEP since he was 3 and with the help of some angels on Earth, he’s been doing better and better and is to the point now where he can handle himself in almost any situation and his IEP reflected that. There were no more modifications and the one remaining thing left to work on was his speech. I never thought his IEP would be so minimal.

And then the time for the annual review came yesterday. These used to be scary meetings with vice-principals, counselors, teachers and many, many forms to fill out and sign. I would go into them with my jaw set, a list of demands at the ready in my head. When I walked in yesterday, it was a smaller group, a smaller stack of papers and the first thing the speech therapist said was that she was recommending that Drew be exited out of speech. He had reached all of his goals, he’s speaking without mistakes 95% of the time, and there is no need to pull him out of class anymore. Part of me expected this and I agreed. There were other kids who needed her help much more than Drew. I signed the paperwork and the shortest IEP meeting ever was over in about 10 minutes. Drew’s IEP was closed. The end.

When I got to my car in the parking lot I called my husband who had unfortunately not been able to attend the meeting. When I told him the result, he asked me how I felt about it and I burst into tears. Some mama bear I am! But this has been such a long road. And although it’s by no means done (we still have Drew seeing a private therapist once a week- and I don’t mean for speech. See the explanation here: I See Fat People (AKA: “Shit OCD makes you say.”).) I felt a strange sense of sadness at the closure of this part of our journey. I exhaled with the sort of weariness of someone at the end of an extended battle. And suddenly, a part of me was scared that since we no longer had an IEP, we no longer had any recourse to get Drew any help in case he needed it. I forgot (temporarily) that I had been fighting for over 7 years for him and could again if necessary. I dried my tears and remembered something I had read a few days ago…

For Labor Day, we went to visit my in-laws in the NC mountains. While there we got on the subject of family history and tracing my husband’s family’s lineage. My father-in-law let us know there were boxes full of research his father had done and all kinds of papers and pictures going back more than 100 years. It was a treasure trove of familial goodness. He offered all of it to us since he had no interest in pursing it or storing it any longer, so into the car it all went and in my living room it sits. We’ve taken a few days here and there to look through some of it and it is fascinating. This past weekend we came across a letter written by one of his relatives in 1877. The cursive is beautiful and the script flows gorgeously, but it is a bit hard to read. Here is what I could decipher of its awesomeness:

“Charles says you call our boy a “runt“. He was born in Missouri but he is no “runt“. (My note: I surmised this slam on Missourians is because this side of the family originated in Canada and to them, someone born into American citizenship was a blemish on the family tree. Read further for proof of their clear superiority despite being from Missouri…) Our boy is a fine specimen of the sex- Canada today holds not his equal. Cast in the mold of beauty, he is perfection of form and personification of grace. He is energy incarnate, spunk typified and his ordinary howl makes the scream of a locomotive engine seem like silence. He weighs twenty pounds, stands flat-footed and alone, four months and three days old and he is no “runt”. Mark that down where you won’t forget it. (My note: That right there is what we nowadays call a bitch slap.) Hoping you may in future find it not inconvenient to be elegant as well as terse in your use of the mother tongue in speaking of our “King Ben”.”

That is the best letter from 1877 I’ve ever read! We parents have a way of defending our children. That is for sure. And any time I doubt that, I will think about this spirited correspondence. In the meantime, I will appreciate and celebrate where Drew is today – a mainstreamed student with good grades, lots of friends, the affection of his teachers and an IEP that has been rightly closed. Maybe mama bear can hibernate for a while. But rest assured that if need be, she will wake and she will be fierce! Mark THAT down where you won’t forget it, universe!

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My Drew- Part Five… (AKA: “If I Only Had A Brain (Like His).”) March 10, 2010

Continued from Part Four

Arnie didn’t agree that Drew’s classroom situation was that dire, even after Drew came home saying he had to flip his card to “yellow” (green= good, yellow= warning, red= big trouble) for talking out of turn…. on the second day. In his new teacher’s classroom there is only negative reinforcement, no treasure box at the end of the week, no warm fuzzies. Arnie’s theory was maybe this is the type of teacher Drew needed- someone who didn’t “take any mess”, someone who would teach Drew the proper way to behave in public school. A relative of Arnie’s had trouble in his youth and before he got kicked out of college, joined the military. It put his life in order and from then on he has been a very responsible, productive member of society. Because of this, Arnie thought maybe, because this teacher was somewhat of a drill sergeant, she was going to be good for Drew. I wasn’t convinced. And after he came home a couple of days later saying he was on yellow again, his teacher made him cry and then subsequently yelled at him to stop, I was livid. We had all worked too long and too hard to get Drew to where he currently was, especially Drew himself. Nobody was going to come along and undo all of that and make us go back to square one. Drew was a confident, happy, dare I say well-adjusted boy, and I’ll be damned if some shrew who was two steps away from retirement was going to hone her Marine-like skill of tearing down elementary kids to bend them to her will on him. These were the thoughts in my head. Of course, as I requested a meeting with her, I was considerably more polite. My mother taught me what hers obviously hadn’t, to treat others the way you want to be treated.

The next day I showed up for my appointment with the woman. Only, instead of meeting in the classroom as we originally agreed to, she told me we’d just talk outside on the playground. I used to work for a woman who played control games. I know them well and if she thought making me stand out in the sweltering July heat with screaming kids running all around was going to make me uncomfortable, she underestimated me. I started out by giving her a bit of background on what we had been through the past two years. Heretofore, she had been unwilling to listen to any of it and even denied Drew’s LD teachers when they offered to e-mail her some strategies that they had found to work. I understand being territorial and on more than one occasion she let me know that “it won’t take long for (her) to figure it out, (she) had done this a time or two”. True, but what’s the harm in taking a few pointers from people who had been there, done that with this particular child? If he had a current IEP all of those strategies would have been there in writing and she would have been legally obligated to follow them. Since we didn’t have that yet, it was up to me to make her listen this time. I kept it short and sweet and basically told her the following: Of course we want Drew to behave in class. By all means, if he isn’t following the rules there should be consequences. But if he feels like you don’t like him, his bad behavior is only going to get worse and would spiral out of control. He’ll be anxious every day about screwing up, about your displeasure and our disappointment and it will become a vicious cycle, a self-fulfilling prophecy. I told her that if she took the time to bond in a positive way with Drew, he would do ANYTHING to please her and would most likely be her best student. I let her know that I had no doubt he would learn how to be a “good school boy” in her classroom, but what we also needed was for him to finish first grade with his self-esteem intact.

As we stood toe to toe in the sand, I was waiting for a random tumbleweed to pass by and the western music to start to swell. What happened was she took the constructive criticism reluctantly and got a jab in there about how I was an overprotective mother and probably just needed to chill. I let her have that. It was most likely true and I could see myself from her perspective. She probably wasn’t used to mothers getting up in her face on the 5th day of school. Before I left I extended an olive branch, an offer to volunteer or do whatever I could to help her in the classroom. The purpose was two fold- the first was that I really wanted to be helpful. I have a lot of friends who are teachers and I know their jobs entail a lot more than standing up in front of the kids explaining addition. If I can make their job easier, that leaves more time for them to focus on teaching my child. The other motive was of course to keep an eye on the classroom and keep my face fresh in her mind. We made arrangements for me to come in the following week. I left our meeting with my head held high. I made my points and felt like we had come to an understanding. I tried to be optimistic.

The next week I was encouraged to hear Drew talk about how funny his teacher was. She apparently also had taken up the habit of patting him on the head when he did something good. She seemed to be making an effort anyway and Drew was responding- he had stayed on “green” all week. I went in at my appointed time to volunteer. When I walked into the classroom, the children were quiet and Drew’s teacher motioned for me to come to her desk. She began showing me some of Drew’s work, openly praising him and his efforts in class. I glanced at Drew. He couldn’t have been more proud. Neither could I, I didn’t think. And then, after I asked about his conduct, she whispered this, “Oh no, his behavior is not a factor in the classroom at all.” I didn’t know what to say. There was a time when I never, EVER thought I would hear a teacher say that about my son. All the parent/teacher conferences from pre-school flashed in my mind, the Wake Co. IEP team telling me they rarely hold kids back for behavior issues, the thought that we might have to medicate Drew or put him in a cross-categorical class with other special needs students because he couldn’t control himself. I had prayed for a moment like this and here it was being delivered by someone I viewed as “Enemy #1”. I thanked the teacher, got my assignment, and went over to give Drew a big hug- just another boy sitting at his desk, doing his work like he was supposed to. But he was happy. And so was I.

However, the IEP issue was still unresolved. Drew’s teacher told me that she was going to have him tested to see if he qualified for specialized reading help. I felt sure that he would. The LD Center didn’t focus much on academics and I knew he was lacking. We had tried our best at home and Drew could read the heck out of a Dick and Jane book but something wasn’t clicking. This was part of the reason we had put him into first grade. Even with a summer birthday, at 7 years-old, he was technically supposed to be in second grade. But we felt like he had really missed out not only on a lot of material, but also the experience of being in a public school with so many rules and things to remember. We didn’t want him to be overwhelmed and figured his best chance as success would come in first grade. Around the time Drew was tested for reading help, word came that he would have to be retested for his IEP. We got the results of his reading test first- he did qualify for help and would be pulled out of the classroom 3 times a week and taught with a small group of children (mostly other boys).

The other testing was completed and our IEP meeting was scheduled. Arnie and I showed up and were escorted into a conference room. In attendance were Drew’s teacher, a special education team member, the school psychologist, the speech therapist, and an assistant vice-principal. We sat around a huge table and looked at Drew’s test results. Compared to two and half years ago, the numbers on the paper didn’t even look like they could have come from the same kid. There were obviously many improvements, but also areas that needed work. In addition to reading help, he qualified for speech therapy- FINALLY! No special education consult was necessary but we demanded to have some classroom modifications included in the plan. Drew had been in school for almost 8 weeks at this point and his teacher had in fact learned pretty quickly what worked for him and what he needed. I wanted it in writing so we didn’t have to go through it all over again with a new teacher the next year. The modifications Drew needed weren’t really all that tough, although his teacher did kind of make it seem like a total inconvenience to her. I know she’s busy and she has 24 children she has to teach. But, sitting him close to her, making sure you repeat instructions for him and redirecting him once or twice during the day to make sure he stays on task warrants a big “SO WHAT?” from me.

And this is where I am right now with “special needs” children and “mainstream” classrooms. Drew is amazingly smart. I would LOVE to know how his mind works. You’ve read the anatomy textbooks that talk about synapses and making connections in your brain but to see it actually happen in real-time before your eyes is an incredible gift. Remember back in part one where I said at three (almost four) years-old Drew couldn’t count to five? For as long as I live I will never forget the day he counted past five. We were in our playroom and Drew had been playing with his train set. The time came to clean up so I got out the bin and we started picking up tracks. I heard Drew mumble something each time he threw a track in the bucket. I listened closely and was startled to realize he was counting- and he was already in the 20s. There were 138 pieces of track and that day he counted every one. He must have wondered why his mommy was sitting there crying and hugging him so tightly!

That’s the way it’s been ever since. You know something is brewing underneath that skull. You can see him trying to work it out. It may not happen right away, or even very soon, but once Drew gets it (whatever “it” happens to be), he gets it better than anybody and takes it further than it’s been explained. Such was the case with the reading help. He started with the literacy coach before our track-out in October and maybe had two or three sessions. The regular schedule resumed in November and at our Christmas break, I was delighted to find the following note in his literacy folder:

Dear Drew’s Parents,
Just wanted to let you know that it has been a pleasure (underlined) working with Drew this year! He has made incredible progress! He is meeting reading benchmarks very successfully- he doesn’t need me anymore! Today will be Drew’s last day in the ALP Literacy program. What a success story!

It’s currently still on my refrigerator and I look at it every day to remind myself how far Drew has come and what he’s capable of. He is doing a wonderful job in school academically and behaviorally. He has yet to bring home anything less than 100% on his weekly spelling tests and sometimes math work gets sent home marked in red- not because it’s incorrect, but because he has provided a more sophisticated answer than they’ve learned in class. His teacher says Drew frequently raises his hand to answer questions that leave the other children scratching their heads. Behaviorally, he’s doing just fine. He stays on “green” most days. The days he does get on “yellow” it’s for infractions like talking too loud in the cafeteria or chasing a ball on the playground and going outside of the designated area. I can live with that.

All of these things are gold coins we can put in the bank, strengths to draw upon. I know we’ll have to fight this fight every year, no matter what his IEP says. I know that as he gets older and expected to be more independent his need to be reassured to calm his anxiety or redirected to stay focused will be less and less acceptable. And then where will that leave him? It seems like there’s a whole population of kids out there who are perfectly able to do the work, could excel even, they just need a little more guidance than most other children. They are misunderstood and mislabeled, prejudged and underestimated. These are the kids who are falling through the cracks. There is a place in schools for special needs and learning disabled. What about special needs and academically gifted? It is possible to be both. Is there not a place in the world for these children?

Why can’t there be a place in school for the child who might need to be reminded every day where his homework goes? Or for the child who has to hum when he takes a test? What about a child, like Drew, who sometimes has to spin when he reads a book? He’s reading the book. He’s learning the material. Does his method make the end result less valid? No, just inconvenient. Well, too bad I say. My child is not a robot. He has never done anything the way it’s “supposed” to be done- EVER. But who are we to say that’s wrong? How his brain works and what he does sometimes doesn’t make sense to us. The other way to look at it is that I’m sure what we do doesn’t make sense to him either. Demanding that he sit still and never fidget while he’s doing his homework is probably like telling Tom that he has to be best friends with Jerry. It just doesn’t work that way. What the public school system as a whole needs to realize (in my opinion, of course) is that these aren’t bad kids. They aren’t misbehaving on purpose. They don’t WANT to get into trouble. They are complicated, smart, sensitive and have many, many gifts they would love to share. It’s a complete disservice to tell them that they are a round peg and don’t fit into a square hole. Adaptability has to be part of the equation for BOTH sides.

I shudder to think of how many van Goghs or Einsteins we’ve missed out on simply because they couldn’t toe the line in an overcrowded classroom and didn’t have anybody in their corner to advocate for them or look past the inappropriate behavior and see the promise waiting there to be nurtured. I don’t know what the future will hold for Drew- what type of person he’ll become or what he’ll do with his life. But I do know it’ll be one hell of a ride and we’ll always feel blessed for the gift that he is.

“Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer. Every day in every way it’s getting better and better. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.” ~ John Lennon

 

My Drew- Part Four… (AKA: “Go Forth and Prosper”) March 5, 2010

Continued from Part 3

The thought of leaving the LD Center and going it on our own never failed to send me into a panic attack. The fact that we had come to rely so heavily on these “strangers” for daily support never failed to make me laugh. If I could rent a time machine, I’d go back to me as we were first stepping onto the LD path, pat my past-self (the one with the horrified look on her face) on the back and tell her it’s going to be okay. Who would have ever thought I couldn’t live without these people? Certainly not me. Those people kind of had an inkling though. As with everything else there, they were intuitive and understanding and began preparing Drew and us for our departure six months before it actually happened. We met as a team to discuss the transition, how to best handle it for Drew, and things we should keep in mind as we “mainstream” him.

For example, I didn’t know how to handle our first meeting with his new public school teacher. I wanted her to know about Drew and his challenges but that’s not what I wanted her first impression of him to be. I wanted her to know we were on top of everything and very involved parents without making her feel like we were going to be invasive. More than anything I wanted her to know that I thought of all of us like a “team”. That was one of the best parts about the LD Center- the fact that everyone who had anything to do with Drew was part of a team with one goal in mind- success for him. I wanted his new teacher to know we were on her side and wanted to make her year a success just as much as we wanted it for Drew. Dr. S suggested I say just that. She assured me that my sincerity and love for Drew would shine through and put this woman at ease with us. If it were another woman, maybe Dr. S would have been right.

Our foray into Drew’s public education didn’t start out well. To begin with, our neighborhood had just been rezoned so the school Mary had been going to for three years was no longer our school. I had loved that school and hated that we wouldn’t be going there anymore. On the other hand, I thought the change might be a good thing since Drew was going to be joining his sister. This could be a new adventure we would all be starting together instead of Drew being the only new one. Also, there would be fewer expectations as “Mary’s brother” at a place where nobody knew either of them. That being said, I didn’t know anybody either and three years of volunteering at the old school, showing my face around, and making friends in the school office in preparation for the day Drew joined the ranks had just been flushed down the toilet. (Not that the experiences weren’t still valuable but the in-roads I had made with the administration had essentially just been deemed irrelevant.) I began to make my round of phone calls to the new school and the county to figure out the procedure for getting Drew’s IEP reinstated or if, instead, we could have him retested and a new IEP drawn up. Little did I know it would take five months and being bounced around like a pinball for that to happen. In that time, I made multiple phone calls and wrote letters to assure people that 1) Drew was indeed supposed to be going to first grade at the same school as his sister 2) he DID have an IEP but had been in private school for two years and he probably needed to be retested 3) had been registered at our base school two years prior before private school was decided upon and was in the system 4) DID have an IEP on file (even though it was outdated) 5) his last name had a “d” in it instead of a “t” 6) HE HAD AN OLD IEP ALREADY- I SWEAR!!! Even after all that, the county refused to return phone calls from me or the school, actually faxed the wrong child’s file, and finally declared his old IEP “expired” and suggested he be retested and a new IEP drawn up. Government agencies can really make you want to stick a pencil in your eye sometimes.

In the meantime, Drew finished up his days at LD. His phone calls home only occurred maybe once every other week which mostly consisted of him telling us things like “Hey Mama! I made blue gak!” and the sounds in the background were delighted squeals instead of demonic screams. We started practicing Arnie dropping him off at the door and Drew walking down the hall by himself. It was all coming together, just like they promised. And just like I thought, on his last day of school there Drew was, the strong one and I was emotionally fragile. I had bought each of the teachers a combination cork/dry erase board as a gift. To the cork board I had tacked a picture Drew had drawn, a letter I had tearfully written, and tons of gift cards I had hoped they would use to pamper themselves. On the dry erase side I had written “YOU ARE” in big letters and wrote all the adjectives I could think of to describe what wonderful human beings they were even though it fell woefully short of telling the whole story of them in our lives. I hoped it would say what I couldn’t because at the time I was choked up with all the feelings a grateful mother could fit inside and it felt like a huge ball in my throat. I tried to squeak out a “thank you” but nothing but tears, snot and a forced smile through a constrained sob came out. Yes, it was the ugliest of ugly cries. I didn’t think anybody who wasn’t a parent could get the magnitude of thankfulness I felt, but they did and pulled me in for the world’s longest hug. Going down the hall felt like a pep rally, everybody coming out to say their good-byes and Drew high-fiving every one. I lagged behind dabbing at my eyes, thinking with each step of how far we had come in two years, and how I didn’t want to leave this bubble. I came to the end of the line and standing there was the director of the Center. He was the first person we had met so it was a perfect bookend that he was the last one we saw. This older man who hadn’t so much as touched my hand in two years opened his arms wide and enveloped me in a tight embrace. After a minute he patted my back and said “You and Drew will be just fine.” “Thank you… for everything.” I quietly responded and apologized for getting snot on his tweed jacket. Drew and I left triumphantly and went to have ice cream.

It was the middle of July and it turned out that, with the 11 month schedule of the LD Center and our new school’s year round calendar, Drew only had two weeks before he started his public school career. We met his new teacher beforehand. Everything Dr. S had told me to do kind of flew out the window when I laid eyes on her. Arnie and I had an idea about what kind of teacher would be right for Drew. This woman was none of them. She was a classroom veteran, somewhat severe looking and definitely intimidating. Maybe that’s why when it came to be our turn to say hello during the open house I started talking and couldn’t stop. I verbally vomited on this woman who stood there shell-shocked trying to process everything I was throwing at her. I’m pretty sure the only things she heard were “unresolved IEP situation”, “social and emotional delays” and “challenging but lovable”. And then I asked if I could take a picture of her with Drew so he could look at it over the next couple of weeks and be better prepared. (Another one of Dr. S’s suggestions.) Ugh, the look on this poor woman’s face. She looked like she wanted to vomit for real. Still she could have completely ignored me and been warm to Drew but she wasn’t. On the drive home the kids were gushing about their new school. I was glad to hear their excitement but couldn’t hide my anxiety. Arnie glanced at me and patted my knee, “It’ll be okay” he said without ever having to ask why I was upset.

I hoped he was right. I tried to keep in mind what Dr. S had told me, to remember how unsure I felt when we started at LD and that (to quote my mother) “this too shall pass”. I never let Drew see any of my apprehension. In front of him I was enthusiastic, positive and always spoke highly of his new teacher. He had to know that he could trust her as much as his old teachers. I was praying she was trustworthy. The first day of school came. I followed Drew down the hall since he wanted to walk by himself. He looked so adorable with his camouflage backpack and fresh haircut. I walked with him into his classroom, found his cubby, and got him settled at his desk. I took a deep breath, went home and waited for the phone to ring. It never did. Drew came home excitedly telling me about all the new friends he had made. I was the tiniest bit relieved. The next day I walked him to class again. I was the only parent to do so. While talking to the teacher briefly about how Drew had done the day before, more students came in and were meandering around the classroom. Let me remind you this is first grade… and only the second day. All of a sudden the teacher very loudly began yelling at the kids, “Uh, uh, uh, uh UH!!!” she shouted as she shook her head, marched over to the light switch and (somewhat violently) flipped the lights off. The children froze. “We do not come into our classroom like THIS. We are quiet and calm and move to our seats in an orderly manner! YOU! (she pointed to a student who looked terrified) You get to where you need to be.” I was floored. I looked at the sweet faces staring blankly at their new teacher. Over half of them looked like they were going to cry. Hell, I was about to cry. She turned the lights back on, walked back to me and said, “So… anyway, Drew had kind of a rough time containing himself yesterday but he’ll get there.” I tried to smile at her but my ears were burning. I couldn’t believe this is the teacher we ended up with and that THIS was her method for teaching 6-7 year-olds. I went over and hugged Drew tight, waved at the other kids and told them they were doing an awesome job. I left the school, went home and began plotting how I could get my child out of that classroom.

To be continued…