The beginning of September marked a major milestone in Kate's educational career: the beginning of kindergarten. All summer long I harbored a great deal of anxiety over this transition. She would be leaving the safe haven that was preschool, the magical place that transformed her from a screaming, dysregulated toddler into the delightful child she is today. It was the place where everyone knew her, students and teachers alike. It was the place she loved.
So it was with great trepidation that I put her on the bus that first day and bid her farewell. For the 2 1/2 hours that she was gone I paced back and forth, waiting for the phone to ring telling me I needed to pick her up immediately. Surely she would be overwhelmed by the bus ride and the large building and the new teacher and the 19 new classmates. I was confident this kindergarten thing was a recipe for disaster.
So it was with great surprise at dismissal time that I was greeted by a smiling Kate coupled with an enthusiastic thumbs up from the teacher. "A fabulous day!" the teacher gushed. No time for elaboration, Kate was quickly deposited into the car and off we drove, leaving a million unanswered questions swirling around my head. A fabulous day? What did she mean? A fabulous day for a kid with issues? Or a fabulous day just like any kid might have? A fabulous day as in she didn't throw herself on the ground and scream? Or a fabulous day as in she talked to the other kids and played with them? A fabulous day as in she blended in with the rest of the class, the autism indiscernible?
I looked in the rear view mirror to gauge Kate's reaction to all of the newness. It was the smile that silenced all of my questions. She is happy and that is all that matters. A fabulous day indeed.
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
9.06.2008
10.26.2007
Surrounded by Affluence
My scratched minivan waits in line every morning in front of Kate's school amid the Lexuses, BMWs, and Hummers, an outcast. I do not mind. It is reliable and accepts the fifty-plus miles I put on it each day without complaint. We are an average, middle-class family. We live in a nice neighborhood, in a nice house that feels a little cramped at times. We do not mind. Luxury vehicles, second homes, exotic vacations, and black tie cocktail parties are foreign to me. I do not mind. We are happy and healthy. That is all we ask for.
One day a letter came home from Kate's school. It explained a wonderful program for preschoolers who are at risk for academic failure due to low income. The program is funded through the state, and children whose families meet the requirements are eligible to attend preschool for free. I read the letter, then tossed it, as it did not pertain to us.
The next day when I pulled up to Kate's school, the office manager flagged me down. "Did you get the letter I sent home yesterday?" she asked cheerfully. "Yes, I did," I answered somewhat quizzically, not fully understanding why she was asking me. "You can send Annie here. For free!" Free? Why would I be able to send her here for free? And then it dawns on me. She thinks we are a low-income family. She thinks we cannot afford to send Annie to preschool. She thinks that my child is destined for failure because we are poor.
Flustered, I stumbled over my answer, "Oh, no, we don't qualify for that program." I failed to mention that Annie is enrolled in a different preschool, one that is around the corner from our house. That we send her there because it's close to home, so she will make friends in the neighborhood. So we can carpool. Because the twenty minute drive each way to Kate's school really sucks, and I won't be able to do it next year once Kate starts kindergarten. That I wanted Annie to attend the same school for two years instead of having to move her next year. That if Kate didn't have an IEP she would have gone to the school close to home. That this is really none of her business. "Oh? You were one of the families we were thinking of. You know, that could use a little help." This time my answer was more firm, "No, we don't meet the criteria. We are doing just fine, but thank you for thinking of us." I drove away, leaving her red-faced and speechless.
I hope she learned a lesson that morning, that it is wrong to make assumptions about people. That driving a minivan does not mean that someone requires financial assisstance. That being surrounded by people who have too much, does not make a person poor. That there are families out there who need help, but we are not one of them.
One day a letter came home from Kate's school. It explained a wonderful program for preschoolers who are at risk for academic failure due to low income. The program is funded through the state, and children whose families meet the requirements are eligible to attend preschool for free. I read the letter, then tossed it, as it did not pertain to us.
The next day when I pulled up to Kate's school, the office manager flagged me down. "Did you get the letter I sent home yesterday?" she asked cheerfully. "Yes, I did," I answered somewhat quizzically, not fully understanding why she was asking me. "You can send Annie here. For free!" Free? Why would I be able to send her here for free? And then it dawns on me. She thinks we are a low-income family. She thinks we cannot afford to send Annie to preschool. She thinks that my child is destined for failure because we are poor.
Flustered, I stumbled over my answer, "Oh, no, we don't qualify for that program." I failed to mention that Annie is enrolled in a different preschool, one that is around the corner from our house. That we send her there because it's close to home, so she will make friends in the neighborhood. So we can carpool. Because the twenty minute drive each way to Kate's school really sucks, and I won't be able to do it next year once Kate starts kindergarten. That I wanted Annie to attend the same school for two years instead of having to move her next year. That if Kate didn't have an IEP she would have gone to the school close to home. That this is really none of her business. "Oh? You were one of the families we were thinking of. You know, that could use a little help." This time my answer was more firm, "No, we don't meet the criteria. We are doing just fine, but thank you for thinking of us." I drove away, leaving her red-faced and speechless.
I hope she learned a lesson that morning, that it is wrong to make assumptions about people. That driving a minivan does not mean that someone requires financial assisstance. That being surrounded by people who have too much, does not make a person poor. That there are families out there who need help, but we are not one of them.
9.20.2007
A First First Day
Last week marked an important milestone in Annie's young life- her very first first day of school. We enrolled her in a nursery school in town that touts its program to be "a loving and gentle first school experience for three year-olds". It is your typical nursery school, complete with cheerful, sweet women who just ooze enthusiasm and speak in the same lilting sing-songy voice to children and adults alike. It really is lovely.
Annie was all smiles on her very first first day, excited to be a big girl like her Kate. I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. Would she miss me? Would she cry? Would I sob unabashedly right in front of her? Will she make friends? Will she pee her pants? Will she know to ask a teacher if she needs help?
However, when it came time to drop her off, I was remarkably calm. So much so that when a teacher swooped over to the car and plucked Annie out of her car seat, I simply smiled at her excited smile and wished her lots of fun. And as I drove away, I teared up a little bit, for that tiny sprite just took another step toward growing up.
That brief flash of sadness was quickly replaced by something else. Excitement. As much as I will miss having her here with me, I truly am excited for her. Excited for her to learn new things, meet new kids, discover who she is. In school she will not be the middle child, the girl who has a big sister with autism, the girl with the baby brother. She will simply be Annie.
Annie was all smiles on her very first first day, excited to be a big girl like her Kate. I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. Would she miss me? Would she cry? Would I sob unabashedly right in front of her? Will she make friends? Will she pee her pants? Will she know to ask a teacher if she needs help?
However, when it came time to drop her off, I was remarkably calm. So much so that when a teacher swooped over to the car and plucked Annie out of her car seat, I simply smiled at her excited smile and wished her lots of fun. And as I drove away, I teared up a little bit, for that tiny sprite just took another step toward growing up.
That brief flash of sadness was quickly replaced by something else. Excitement. As much as I will miss having her here with me, I truly am excited for her. Excited for her to learn new things, meet new kids, discover who she is. In school she will not be the middle child, the girl who has a big sister with autism, the girl with the baby brother. She will simply be Annie.
9.10.2007
Not Welcome
"We don't deal with kids with IEPs," the new Pre-Kindergarten teacher was told. "Once the evaluation report is complete, he will be asked to leave," explained the principal of a small Catholic school in a small community not far from ours. The little boy is "just like Kate", meaning he has a mild form of autism.
Oh. My. I could say nothing, paralyzed by confusion and sadness and anger. And so those words swirled around in my head last night. And all day today. Those words came to rest on my heart, leaving behind a heavy ache.
If I had the words, this is what I would have said to that new teacher: You will love having this little boy in your classroom. He needs structure. He needs understanding. Take the time to know him. Each interaction makes a deeper connection. He is a visual learner. Teach him through pictures. Have a picture schedule for him and review it with him each morning. Warn him in advance of transitions. Expand his play. Engage him by being silly. Provide him with lots of opportunities to interact with his peers. Show him how. Have a quiet spot in the room filled with lots of fidget toys and pillows and lotion and soft music in case he gets overwhelmed and needs to regroup. He is a really neat kid. Take the time to look at life through his eyes. It really is beautiful. Oh please, just give him a chance. Please, please, make this work. Take care of this gentle soul.
If I had the words, this is what I would have said to the principal: This little boy is a child, not a label. He likes to run and play and laugh just like any other child. He is different, not broken. It is your school and your ignorance that need to be fixed, not him. He is a child, not something to be discarded because he is deemed to be unworthy. You owe it to him and to yourself to make this work. He is a part of this community, just like you and me. His strengths and uniqueness cannot be expressed in the confines of a fifteen page document. Help him and he will show you the beauty of life.
Our children are here for a reason. They are here to teach others about tolerance, about acceptance, about unconditional love.
Oh. My. I could say nothing, paralyzed by confusion and sadness and anger. And so those words swirled around in my head last night. And all day today. Those words came to rest on my heart, leaving behind a heavy ache.
If I had the words, this is what I would have said to that new teacher: You will love having this little boy in your classroom. He needs structure. He needs understanding. Take the time to know him. Each interaction makes a deeper connection. He is a visual learner. Teach him through pictures. Have a picture schedule for him and review it with him each morning. Warn him in advance of transitions. Expand his play. Engage him by being silly. Provide him with lots of opportunities to interact with his peers. Show him how. Have a quiet spot in the room filled with lots of fidget toys and pillows and lotion and soft music in case he gets overwhelmed and needs to regroup. He is a really neat kid. Take the time to look at life through his eyes. It really is beautiful. Oh please, just give him a chance. Please, please, make this work. Take care of this gentle soul.
If I had the words, this is what I would have said to the principal: This little boy is a child, not a label. He likes to run and play and laugh just like any other child. He is different, not broken. It is your school and your ignorance that need to be fixed, not him. He is a child, not something to be discarded because he is deemed to be unworthy. You owe it to him and to yourself to make this work. He is a part of this community, just like you and me. His strengths and uniqueness cannot be expressed in the confines of a fifteen page document. Help him and he will show you the beauty of life.
Our children are here for a reason. They are here to teach others about tolerance, about acceptance, about unconditional love.
9.05.2007
And So It Goes
I was in the process of drafting a sentimental post about the first day of school being a new beginning, a whole new world of possibilities, blah, blah, blah. Instead, reality hit today, and it hit hard. My first feat on this first day of school was getting three children five and under out the door, fully dressed, fed, and properly groomed. Anxious to make a good first impression, I fretted over Kate's decision to wear the strappy neon blue sundress that, if she so much as breathes, out pops a nipple (am I allowed to say that?). Paired with that lovely outfit are her purple Crocs, or should I say Croc in the singular form. The child has a knack for widowing shoes, losing one and leaving the other behind to grieve the loss of its partner. I considered bribing her to wear another pair but decided it would be easier to rip apart my already disorganized house in search of the Croc's missing mate. Turns out it was hiding in the dreaded bathroom.
Ah, the bathroom, where most of my battles are fought these days. Kate has a picture schedule of her morning routine to increase her independence and to stave off any battles that might ensue. And on that schedule is a picture of a toilet to remind Kate to, that's right, use it. However, Kate enjoys just looking at the picture and prattling on about how big girls use the potty. All talk, no action. Each of my gentle reminders to sit on the potty was met with an increasingly louder, "No." Knowing that she has a bladder of steel and can hold it until the mid-morning trip to the bathroom at school, I decided to forgo any more arguing. Annie, on the other hand, will have an accident if she is not placed upon the toilet the minute her eyes open. Although she insisted, kicking and screaming, that she did not need to go, she did. Thankfully, a large puddle on the floor was averted.
Next came scarfing down breakfast, brushing teeth, and combing hair. For the most part, these activities were uneventful, except for a little screaming while brushing Kate's bedhead hair. We flew out the door and tucked ourselves neatly into the trusted minivan. Miraculously, we made it to school right on time. And so it goes, each weekday morning until June, a new school year, a new beginning.
Ah, the bathroom, where most of my battles are fought these days. Kate has a picture schedule of her morning routine to increase her independence and to stave off any battles that might ensue. And on that schedule is a picture of a toilet to remind Kate to, that's right, use it. However, Kate enjoys just looking at the picture and prattling on about how big girls use the potty. All talk, no action. Each of my gentle reminders to sit on the potty was met with an increasingly louder, "No." Knowing that she has a bladder of steel and can hold it until the mid-morning trip to the bathroom at school, I decided to forgo any more arguing. Annie, on the other hand, will have an accident if she is not placed upon the toilet the minute her eyes open. Although she insisted, kicking and screaming, that she did not need to go, she did. Thankfully, a large puddle on the floor was averted.
Next came scarfing down breakfast, brushing teeth, and combing hair. For the most part, these activities were uneventful, except for a little screaming while brushing Kate's bedhead hair. We flew out the door and tucked ourselves neatly into the trusted minivan. Miraculously, we made it to school right on time. And so it goes, each weekday morning until June, a new school year, a new beginning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
