Lessons for Walking

"Your son has been suspended for three days."

I certainly wasn't the first parent to hear that over the phone. But the principal went on to tell me that he had, in his twenty years of service, never seen a situation in which a first grader was suspended. That was the moment in which I realized I was going to be the parent of a child in special education.

But that was years ago, and the issues and trials of raising my son have all past. He's 18 now and out of high school. He has plans for college, enjoys playing music and has the rarity of a teenager—an actual job. Sometimes when I drink too much I apologize to him for being such a crappy parent. He then proceeds to tell me that I'm the best parent he knows. I only hope that I've been successful in passing on the lessons of love that were so important to me.

After thinking I had this parenting thing all figured out I went ahead and had another kid. Things were going great and I was having a blast when I brought my little girl to her first preschool class. I smiled as I watched her attack the classroom with gusto. It was the next class when the teacher pulled me aside and said “We're having some issues with your daughter ...”

So a couple of weeks later I had all kinds of written assessments of where my daughter was delayed, papers that served me entry into “Early Intervention”. My kid's not even three and she's getting therapy.

There's a lot still ahead, and I don't even know what's there at the end. I probably would simply endure in silence but a recent argument with a friend showed me something. Maybe if I talk about it somewhere where it could make a difference for another parent. Or explain the system to people who don't know.

 So that's the story so far.

Digging for gold

The speech therapist was working with my daughter in my living room. As a two year old is apt to do my daughter picked her nose … and ate it. The therapist kept on offering up tissues and saying “Yucky yucky” when my daughter would eat another nugget. My daughter looked at her and said “No, yummy yummy!”

A simple girl

The school building looked as if it was built in the 1950s or 60s—a time when it was thought important to have a building be a monument. My wife and I had been here two weeks ago for an evaluation. Now we were returning for the initial IEP—Individual Education Plan—meeting. It's in a conference room—though toys are spread out across a table in the back children aren't invited. A laser printer whirrs in the corner and several laptops are scattered about. One older woman, someone who I had not seen before, was busy typing away at one of them. Later she was introduced as one of the teachers from a classroom.

IEP meetings are brutal affairs, especially the initial ones. The way in which the meeting is organized appears logical—that is, the meeting starts with people going over their evaluations before moving the second stage, establishing goals. But it seems the real purpose sometimes is to beat you over the head with everything wrong about your kid so that you'll agree to their suggestions. Not this time though—maybe it's because I've sat through so many or maybe it's just because I'm a parent but I don't really hear anything that sounds that bad. Is it possible they'll deny my daughter admission?

I remember the first IEP meeting for my son. It was a complicated affair as it took place during the custody battle. Not being the possessive parent, I had to get additional court orders to even have the evaluation completed. Because of my my son's behavior I was familiar with many of the meeting's participants. My ex wife also attended—it was, to the best of my knowledge, her first act of participation in the special education process. I sat and listened to the school staff tell us what a miserable wreck our son was. Even then I still had the same doubt. What if this isn't so bad—maybe my son won't get the help he needed. My ex wife said no that day.

The schools staff continue to drone on: the psychologist; the speech therapist; the occupational therapist. I zone in and out, thankful that my wife is with me, asking intelligent questions and appearing interested. It allows me to absorb what they say with a stony reserve. But I don't—I make an effort to establish eye contact and keep my body language friendly. Their words use an intense jargon to describe what seems to be just the simple actions of a of a simple girl.

We get towards the end and I notice that the staff seems to be getting more uncomfortable. They shift around more and start using more words then they have to. I watch them and wonder if I should just blurt it out but I don't—I want to hear them say it. They heap on the explanations and finally get around to mentioning the word: Autism.

Of course, they tell us, she's too young to really say that. But I know—I see what they see. The go on to explain that my daughter qualifies for a full day of class. My wife and I had agreed earlier that this was too much, which doesn't seem a problem. I'm given a stack of paperwork to fill out and told that I have a week in which to complete registration, a complicated administrative process that takes multiple steps in different locations. I know the drill—I just wonder how much this is going to cost us. I'm also informed that once a month there's a parent education day—so I realize that I'm going to school too. Go figure.

We return home and relive my son from babysitting duty. I take the opportunity to run errands in the afternoon and return home late. It's unseasonably warm so I take my daughter out to the backyard to blow bubbles. My wife produces a bubble gun which delights my daughter and annoys the cat. We watch as our daughter chases bubbles in the sunset while we quietly mourn her impending transition.

First day at special school

Despite the long hours in courtrooms and associated legal proceedings I never really was granted custody of my son. The term used was “possession,” a stark legal term indicating that I was the parent in charge. Shortly after moving in with me the school year ended. I took a few minutes one day to walk over to the elementary school that he should be attending. I met with the principal, a nice enough man except he immediately told me that this was his last week. He then proceeded to tell me that it was district policy to make my son attempt a go without any special education assistance.

Great, I thought. All the effort I did to get him involved in special ed was worthless … I'm going to have to start all over again. Of course next fall he was assigned to a fourth grade class. To make matters even better I had arranged for a teenaged neighbor to watch over him after school. She was familiar with the teacher and his methods, and was eager to help my son. It served to no avail.

An IEP was called—on relative short notice. It was attended by several personnel from my son's current school and a couple of special education representatives. My ex wife also attended. It was the second IEP we had, however the difference was that this one I had the ruling factor. The educators went through their evaluations, and it was concluded that my son needed help. They proposed a program in a different school. My ex wife objected and it was explained to her that she needed a court order to stop this process.

It would be several days before bus service started but I would have taken my son to school on his first day. We met with the principal, who took the time to explain to my son what he was to expect, and what was expected from him. I then went with him to his new classroom. The teacher pointed to a desk and my son sat down. A classmate immediately started explaining to my son what class was like and showed him his chart monitoring his behavior modification program. The teacher looked at me and shrugged and said “It's always the other kids that explain what's going on.”

That afternoon I went to pick up my son. When he got into my car he told me that for the first time in his life he actually liked school.

Girl in the Spring

Francesca Buxton. Picture by J. Garcia

 

Readers of this website are invited to submit pictures of their children. Please send pictures to socialsmoker@gmail.com

History, part 2

When my son was born I was living with my ex wife in an apartment. She stayed home from her job as a dental assistant to take care of him. After attempting some child care my ex wife and I agreed that I would take a second job to help cover expenses.

At one point I heard that there was a recommendation for an evaluation for my son. I let my ex wife handle things and she later told me that there wasn't anything to be concerned about. I accepted this and continued to work while my wife watched my son and occasionally other children.

Eventually I was able to quit my second position and spend more time with my family. My earnings had increased significantly and I began to make plans for purchasing a house. My ex wife identified a private school she wanted my son to attend.

Then came what my son refers to as the 'Big Fight,' of which resulted in me moving out. The subsequent divorce lasted five years and is rife with events involving police, attorneys, social workers and psychologists. Even my son had his own attorney. My ex wife refused to acknowledge that there was any problem and blocked my efforts at treatment. At that time my son received a diagnosis of Early Onset Bipolar Disorder, ADHD and Oppositional Defiant Disorder.

This process ended in June of 2001, and my son, then aged 9, came to live with me. That fall I had to enroll him in a new school district, who initially was skeptical of my requests for special education. A few short weeks they reversed their position and my son was transferred to his first special ed program.

Two years later I remarried and moved to a new school district.. My son was admitted to their special ed program and continued through high school. My daughter was born in 1998, and her special needs were identified this past fall. We have no formal diagnosis at this time, though it has been suggested that my daughter appears mildly autistic.

In writing these words I have made it sound very simple. It isn't—there's a lot of stories that have been untold. I stopped hating my ex wife years ago; I now only feel sorrow.

Banging like she's Charlie Watts

Francesca Buxton. Photo by C. Buxton

Decision by #2 Pencil

My wife and I filled out a couple of evaluation forms last night. There were two forms that were given to us last week as part of the evaluation. They were formal documents—not something photocopied, but rather color printed and set up to be electronically readable. All of the questions were either a four point rating scale or yes/no.

The evaluation itself was okay. We drove to the school at 9. When I saw it I realized I had been there before to drop off some papers for my son as part of his registration in the district's special ed program. I had noticed that there was a school attached and that it was even in session that day, but hadn't realized what it was. Now I realize it's a full time school for kids with needs.

We met first in a board room and then walked through a school hallway to an evaluation room. It seemed like every other elementary school. One of the classroom doors was open and my daughter charged into the room, which was full of students. One of the evaluators retrieved her from the room.

While the evaluation was taking place the school's social worker interviewed us while we sat waiting in hallway. I knew she was building a social history for the school records. At one point the evaluators needed to move to another room and it was my daughter leading them around. She took a moment to hug mom and I. The social worker made it sound like my daughter was going to be accepted.

At one point a group of kids came by, shepherded by two teachers. My wife and I both noticed the large number of south Asians. I knew from an earlier conversation that half of the students at the school were not in special ed, but rather participating in a paid preschool program.

Back to the forms: So they're kind of cold and seemingly computerized. Their mechanical nature seems to clash with the delicate nuances of my daughter's behavior. How can I answer a question about her interactions when my choices are only 'never, sometimes, most of the time, always'? The yes/no questions were even worse. How could I explain that my daughter can apparently read but won't ask for a book by name?

Often when people argue about evaluating children for special needs they cite these kinds of tests to illustrate the absurdity of a behavioral diagnosis. 'How can you judge children by a 1-10 scale?' they argue. Of course, they never see the whole process—they just get ahold of the test itself. What they don't understand is that the test is necessary because it forces the evaluator to be objective. You have to make it yes/no—there can be no in between because it makes it easier to deny the problem.

I looked at the text at the bottom of the yes/no questions. It said that any answer of no was an indication of a developmental issue. I looked over the form my wife and I carefully poured over and realized that forty percent of our answers were marked 'no.'

Doctor of Medicine, Killer of Trees

I'm always disappointed at how much paperwork is generated each time I take one of my loved ones to the doctor. For each visit, for example, the receptionist/appointment desk would take my copayment and process it via a personal computer … and then automatically produce a receipt on a full sized sheet of paper. When I get a bill, I see multiple lines entered for a single visit. In some cases, I even get separate bills for things like radiology. I'm sure there's a good reason for it but at the same time I can understand part of why medical costs are so high.

Bedtime Number 1

Routines are important. When my son was young, I had a hard time getting him to sleep. The fact that my ex wife would often allow him to stay up later and sleep in our bed made things more difficult, but I still tried by establishing a bedtime routine. Later, when he came to live with me, I first used a bath before bed as a good bedtime routine … and later as a good way to get a few minutes of a break from my son. Anyway, it was obvious that routines were important.

So when my wife and I decided that our daughter could climb out of our crib we made the transition to a toddler bed. Perhaps a bit early but the since the crib wasn't going to be able to hold her in it was time to teach her how to stay in bed without a barrier.

She took to it just fine, but did quickly established a routine.

First: Bath

Second: I'd get her dressed in her pajamas, allowing her to pick out which pair. She would actually help me put them on.

Third: My wife would brush her teeth and read to her. Often two to four books. And two to four toothbrushes.

Fourth: We'd tuck her in bed and shut off the light.

Fifth: My daughter would get out of bed, turn on the light and remove all clothing. She then would pick out a new outfit to wear to bed (note: tonight's outfit was a bathing suit and sneakers) I would redress her in her chosen outfit and re-tuck into bed.

Sixth: She then requests my presence to sing. I sing 1-3 crappy pop tunes to her. The Beatles are a popular choice.

Seventh: Then and finally then does she stay in bed and eventually go to sleep.

You may wish to try this at home with your special needs child. Your mileage may vary.

2x4

Once when my son was in high school he was suspended for several days for not following the instructions of a teacher. The incident took place after school was completed while my son was waiting for a late bus to take him home. Near where he was waiting was a field, which had a flock of geese. My son opted to pass the time by throwing small objects at the geese to annoy them.

His art teacher saw this as she was leaving and told him to stop. He didn't so she reported him.

What made this remarkable was the language she used in the report. I had already seen some correspondence from this teacher who had expressed some concern about my son's focus on 'dark' art—themes of death, dark colors, blood. Nothing portraying violence but definitely the work of a tortured soul. I hadn't paid much attention to her because she wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know.

The report she filed stated that my son was throwing objects, including rocks and a two by four. Upon initially hearing this description I was concerned—for throwing a large board at geese is defininately more then just a nusiance factor—it showed an intent to hurt the geese. Upon discussion with my son, I established that it was a sawed off piece of a two by four, only about 1 inch long. Basically, a stick.

I didn't bother disputing the suspension due to past failures and the simple fact that by the time I found out that it was disputable my son was already serving the time. I requested a meeting with school officials for the day he returned.

At the meeting, which was attended by the assistant principal, teacher, and a few others, I went over the behavior of my son with the teacher and the principal. It took some pointed and directed questioning of the teacher before she admitted that it wasn't actually a “two by four” but rather a small block of wood, and that my son had no intentions of hurting geese.

The assistant principal looked shocked that he was so deceived. I could tell that he realized that the suspension was inappropriate. But it was too late—the damage was done. Because of the missed time, my son had to drop out of driver's ed—a big blow to someone about to turn 16. He also shortly dropped the art class due to the fact that he was unable to meet the teacher's expectations.

My mistake here was to not fight this as quickly as possible. In my defense I was worn down—my son had served another suspension that I had fought and lost, and I felt the whole process of appealing a suspension was set against the student. It was, but that was no excuse.