The Rainbow Connection

So here we are, almost a year later, riding the waves of  ROYGBIV.  And what a roller coaster it's been.  In some ways this is a vent session.  In some ways this is a pity party.  In some way it's meant to inspire.  I don't know.  I just watched a few episodes of Parenthood at the behest of some co-workers and there's so much that I feel like I'm going to have my own meltdown.

First - what is that like?  That moment when there were 2 parents sitting there, in a therapists office, holding hands supportively as they absorb the news that their child has Asperger's.  WHAT IS THAT LIKE?  You mean to tell me that there are families out there where that actually happens?  Lemme get this straight - not everyone sits there alone to hear the news, goes home to handle the symptoms of it alone, holds their child down from a fit of self abuse alone, goes to every therapy session alone, meets with IEP teams alone, bears the stares alone, and otherwise handles every single ASD related issue alone?  Really?  What's that like?  I've had good friends complement my strength.  I've had family offer to correct his behavior for me.  I've had people listen to me vent.  But not one person has ever held my hand and reassured me that I can get him through this.  And only recently has this even mattered to me.  Sometimes, my knees start to shake and I second guess whether or not I can handle it even though I *know* I can handle it.  And these teachers!  Okay, this one teacher.  She feels the need to win out over an 11 year old with Autism in a power struggle.  I worry about this alone.  Sure, I get those comforting "awww" sounds or "WOW's".  And no one knows what to say and I don't know what I want to hear but for like 11 minutes I would love it if I didn't feel like the Autism world was on my shoulders.  Or the support system where I didn't have to choose between The Middle Son's therapy or The Youngest Boy's soccer practice.

Every time I have to take part of my day off of work to handle one of these issues I get to feel like shit.  Like I'm judged for taking time off to go play.  There are days where I'd GLADLY trade places.  I want to scream and ask what the hell they are so jealous of - a special needs kid?  Being a single mother?  Being the single mom of a special needs kid?  WTF?  I'd rather be at work.  Sometimes I'd rather my child get through life without additional obstacles of a processing disorder.  I can't imagine what would drive people to get upset at me for taking care of my child.  My children are my reason for working.  Not whoever is on the other side of the cubicle or whose wallet I'm bulking.  How do I get picked out of the group to be the scapegoat for why time off has to be approved?

And Class Dojo can so totally go eff off.  Every single day there are these reminders that his math teacher doesn't understand Autism.  I've offered educational materials to aid the teachers in their understanding of the fundamentals of ASD.  And I sit there, corrected, while I listen to a table full of people give me a laundry list of the kids they know that have ADD or ADHD.  Part of me remains calm because I know it's the only thing that they have to relate The Middle Son to in their heads.  Part of me wants to hit them because there is very little to nothing that connects Attention Deficit to the Spectrum.  We all have struggles whether are kids are NT or ADD or ASD.  But we do have to recognize that each is an individual beast.  Then I hear how disorganized he is because he doesn't fit the cookie cutter kid mold.  Then he's unprepared because he has the short term memory of Dory the fish.  GOD FORBID they allow him to return to the previous classroom to retrieve materials because then the whole class would want to do it.  I'm so tired of the pressure of getting all "green" today.  The Middle Son couldn't really care less and it's really his feelings that matter but it's so difficult to keep that in mind.  When the "1" lights up on the Dojo app - I know it's The Middle Son and I know it's because he didn't do his homework or didn't want to staple a paper or is disorganized or is unprepared.  I want to cry.  I know my child is different.  He's 11.  I think I've caught on.  And I want to have the teacher's back but I really would prefer to scream.  He's not going to change.  All the Thumbs Up and Thumbs Down in the world will not make that any different.  That new "-1" isn't going to be the miracle.  So stop, please.  Just stop.  This is the equivalent of a "-1" to a wheel chair bound child for still not running the track today.  And tomorrow.  And Wednesday.

It's really all okay because at the end of the frustrating days where my heart hurts there's an occasional "I love you, Mom" and "I'm glad that I have you" and a "You're the best mom ever".  And all of those things are so much easier to bear and I'm reminded of the importance of what I do and I'm blessed enough to get those accolades all to myself.

And I said, Goodbye to You.....

With every passing year, there is a brief time of reflection (about 3 days before NY and maybe 5 days after) on what transpired in those preceding months.  Then, we prepare to dive, head first, into a fresh, new calendar.  365 unwritten pages.  For me, this has been a pretty limit testing/rewarding year.  I'm looking forward, gratefully, to the next 8,760 hours.

2013 opened my eyes in so many ways.  There have been lots of superficial things that have made me think and made me smile or hurt my heart and made me cry (entirely more happiness over pain).  And I take with me into 2014 and beyond, the wisdom from those grins and sobs.  I'm also packing the enlightenment of anger.  I'm pretty sure I can title 2013 as "The Year I Was Really Pissed Off".  However, looking for the soft, gooey center of all that petulance was the clarity that followed.  I generally go out of my way to avoid being mad.  It took a long time to let go of the baggage of things that happened when I was little and I think I overcompensated.  I undervalued the benefits of this less than pleasant emotion.  It provides motivation to get a lot of things done.  It got me through the hardest parts of the year.  Thank you, Fury, I owe you one, but it's time to put you back into the holster.  I promise I won't let you get dusty.

Milestones were bittersweet.  The Oldest started driving lessons.  Very little actually scares me.  Except something happening to one of my children.  It's a Craven/Shelley/King/Lovecraft/Poe/Manson/Bieber compilation of thought.  My child operating a vehicle is terrifying.  There was an intermission, though.  For close to a month, he was unable to move much.  Not sure which incites more trepidation - car accidents or surgical procedures.  We spent about a week together in a small room in Cincinnati.  Just staring at each other.  His mole is gone.  But scars now reside in it's place.  And we learned so much about skin grafts.  And the courage inside of my amazing son.  He made the difficult choice to go through this painful surgery to avoid an uncertain future.  (This is my side note vent at Melissa Etheridge, an avid reader of my blog: FUCK YOU LADY.  It takes a lot of guts to take a preventative step to avoid cancer.  Sure, you were talking to Angelina Jolie.  But you were kicking dirt in the faces of those who make similar choices to control a potentially life threatening and volatile disease.  You made a different choice and it worked out, because you're still here.  Good for you, that doesn't make you Queen Shit of Cancer.)  His determination paid off.  "Benign" is my new favorite word.  Then the little shit went and became a senior in high school.  Not my little baby anymore.  2014 brings with it a graduation party and the big "18".

Soccer-mom-hood hit with a vengeance.  The Youngest Boy discovered sports and loves it.  I, of course, found a love for being a mom on the sideline.  Cheering, quashing my internal loudmouthed Bitch, learning how to work a double elimination tournament bracket.  Watching his fall team rock an undefeated season, bring home medals and trophies - made me really proud.  His commitment to teamwork is pretty awesome.  And, I didn't punch anyone!  He is also reading well above his grade level.  This pride comes with us.  Soccer can stay too.  (12 more days until indoor winter season starts)  It's inspiring Miss Mini-Me.  She packs a little backpack full of things to do during practices and games.  She roots her brothers team on and plays with him at home too.  There's a large net folded under my china closet, 2 small nets on the patio, a stockpile of cones in the living room, and this morning I tripped over his newest soccer ball.  This is a result of their friendship (even though I am preeeeeeety sure she slapped him a few times).

I gained a new respect for the teaching profession.  Teaching The Middle Son at home has been very taxing on the soul.  Saluting all the teachers out there, high!  I have to know my own limits, though.  The silver lining of this experience is that had it not happened, it would've taken a lot longer to get a diagnosis.  We needed this.  Next week, he will rejoin society and public school.  Fortunately, I'm only seconds away.  It's going to be interesting and exciting.  While I won't let him sink completely I'm also going to be letting him do a lot of his own swimming.  I won't be around forever and Autism isn't the end of the world.  He's high functioning and he's not going to adapt if I shield him.  Advocate, not shelter.  So I need to put the strength from the last year into my carry on luggage.

For me, the resolutions I've set for myself are cliche.  Eat better, take better care of myself, workout more, increase my volunteer hours, and write.  Usually, they are silly and easily attainable.  Though, I blew the "I won't say 'farfegnugen'" resolution of 2011 within the first 2 weeks.  I am going to throw in a "I won't operate a shopping cart faster than 2 mph" for 2014.  And maybe a "I won't flip my neighbor off" (not the ones immediately on both sides, more like the ones across the street and 2 doors down on the left and 3 down on the right).  I might do something reckless, too - trim my hair, wear pink (I hate pink), shoot a gun (I hate guns), beat ZombieU, and get arrested for Public Intox at a high school graduation.

I wish the best for everyone reading this.  While my follower list is quite small and consists of a handful of friends, this blog did cross the 4000 hit mark a few weeks ago and I got my first writer's paycheck.  The hit count means a lot to me.  It means that you're here on purpose.  So, thank you.    Go do something fun tonight and try not to end up in jail.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

A little over a year ago, I began to have some serious concerns about my, then, 9 year old son.  I butted heads with his teachers and eventually removed him from his conventional brick and mortar school.  He was not thriving in any way.  My gifted little boy, who could read just about anything you put in front of him, was failing every subject.  He couldn't make a friend to save his life.  He was as blunt as a 2 x 4 to the back of the head.  He was drowning and it was the only thing I could think of to help him.

Within months of attending an online school, his teacher made a very difficult phone call to me.  She was concerned that there was something much deeper going on.  She offered to help me get him on the right track and suggested we consult his physician.  His doctor is the most amazing woman, so easy to talk to.  She reminded me of a similar conversation that we'd had about 2 years ago.  He has issues with effective social skills.  She asked me to follow up with her if that didn't remedy itself.  At this point, she asked me to complete an assessment and return it to her.  His teacher filled one out also.  Rather than scheduling a follow up appointment, his doctor called me to refer us to the local Children's Hospital to help pinpoint what was going on.  She immediately dismissed ADD or ADHD.

A few weeks went by before I heard from the referral nurse.  And when I did, she proffered up a word that I wasn't anticipating: "Autism".  But, he can talk and function.  Isn't Autism where they are low functioning?  I've met a few Autistics here and there and The Middle Son is really nothing like them.  Not that he's "better" or anything.  Just not what *I* thought of when I thought of Autism.  She explained to me, very lightly, what "Asperger's Syndrome" is.  High functioning Autism.  She recommended we get to a therapist quickly.  The earlier the diagnosis, the better.  He's NINE.  How is this just now on the table?  He's worked with a therapist before, shouldn't this have been caught by now?  Surely, he is not Autistic.  I have to say, I was reeling.  Confused, scared, shocked, worried, speechless, curious.  I think I even laughed a little.  But, we got appointments scheduled.  Then we hung up.  15 minutes ago, life was totally different.

I began to research.  And research some more.  And then, there was some more.  The more I read, the more I cried.  Pretty sure that I sat here, for hours, with tears streaming down my face.  Not tears of sadness.  Relief.  Realizations.  MY KID ISN'T AN ASSHOLE!  (Every Aspie parent has that initial fear that their child is just a jerk, at some point in the diagnostic process)  Suddenly, 9 years all made perfect sense.  These signs have been there for so long.  But they got buried.  Divorce, moving, anxiety about schools, 2 more siblings.  We just kind of thought he was having adjustment issues.  Well, no shit.

He has a wonderful therapist.  She's fun, sharp as a tack, and relates to him.  She doesn't dilute his therapy.  Initially, we didn't mention the "A" word.  Then, he hacked Disney's gaming site.  Here he is, at 10, developing and creating video games.  Learning some programming code.  Taking to it like a duck to water.  But ask the kid to tie his shoes.  He can give you a detailed history of Godzilla.  When I say "detailed" I mean EVERYTHING. A few weeks ago, I filled out another set of forms.  If I had doubts about his diagnosis - I didn't after that.  28/30 spaces checked in the affirmative.  Absurdly high vocabulary.  Has anxiety walking down certain types of stairs.  Can't stand denim jeans.  Has no understanding whatsoever of the concept of other people's feelings.  There's no filter on what comes out of his mouth.  He can smell what neighbors 2 streets over are cooking.  Things taste very strong.  Sounds are really loud.  Lights can be very bright.  When that all gets to be too much - the punching ensues.  Not directed at me or anyone else.  Just himself.

So, just before Christmas, we got the official Welcome Kit to the world of Autism Spectrum Disorder.  What a difference a year can make.  All of a sudden, I want to make this place more understanding for him.  But there's a balance I haven't quite figured out yet.  He can't go through life thinking that he can just drift without consequence.  Armed with an official diagnosis, I placed him back in a public school.  We will see how it goes.

One day, my son was an average boy, on an average street, doing average things.  The next day, he's Autistic.  It knocks you back a few ticks. Thinking back to all the things you punished him for that were his condition breaking the surface.  This is probably where having a schizophrenic biological mother comes in handy.  She can't ever shut off her hallucinations, her eccentricities, or her symptoms.  She is no more responsible for her conversations with the Planter's Peanut Guy than I am.  That's something I learned a loooooooooooong time ago.  Maybe it was a way to prepare me for raising an Aspie.  I don't get offended anymore when he looks through me when I'm being emotional.  I'm a lot more patient when he needs a few extra minutes to make it down the steps.  He has taught me a lot about life in the last year.  Slightly scared/nervous/excited/proud to see where it goes from here.

Poop Patrol

As the mother of four, I pretty much feel like I've seen it all.  My kids are weird.  I accept that.  Even adore it.

The Oldest has done everything from super gluing his mouth shut to getting a cellulitis in his foot from a TOOTHPICK to creating a character named "Count Buttula" for his numerous bandage changes from his surgery (complete with accent).  The Middle Son has de-pants-ed (sp?) The Oldest in the middle of Dollar General, in front of about 30 other shoppers, and hacked Disney's website, by age 10.  Mini-Me has painted hardwood floors bright red and worn 3 shirts at once because she couldn't decide on what to wear.

And then there's The Youngest Boy.  He's the most creative when it comes to mischief.  And when he does something - he REALLY does it.  Slid on a book once resulting in 10 stitches and a broken jaw.  Learned beatboxing when he was 3.  Tripped over his Woody Talk doll and managed to force his tooth through his cheek.  For the most part, I don't really get rattled anymore when there's a scream, crash, or phone call from the school.  So, of course, there had to be something to throw me off of my 17 year Mom game, and The Youngest Boy was the one to do it.  

Yesterday, he came home from school with prizes from phys ed class.  He'd ran more laps around the track or something.  He got these 2, small, 1/4 inch thick, 1/2 inch tall, plastic charms.  One was a blue school house (which I joked was the Tardis) and the other was a fluorescent yellow apple.  He was very proud.  He placed them on the coffee table, next to his milk.  (can you see where this is going?  BECAUSE I DIDN'T)  The phone rings, it's my sister, we start our usual conversations.  A few minutes later, he starts lightly panicking.  I divert my attention from the call to the child with the freaked out look on his face.  This is when he informs me that he accidentally swallowed the apple charm.

By accident.

He was reaching for his drink, when he mistakenly picked up the charm from the table, and ACCIDENTALLY SWALLOWED IT.

Yes.

That's what he tells me.

Seriously.

Um.

W.  T.  F.

While the majority of me is confused, the other part of me is worried.  You see, my kids haven't ever swallowed foreign objects before today.  None of them.  Boogers, cat food, latex paint, super glue, a Skittle from the Orchestra room floor- yes, toys- no.   So, I'm not really sure how to proceed here.  My sister is a medical assistant, so I ask her if this warrants an E.R. visit.  I mean, it's been a few months since our last trip.  It'd be nice to know if they have any new flavors in the slushy machine.  She wasn't sure.  I decided I'd just call the pediatrician.  He's not choking or anything.  Just a little weirded out.

The pediatrician is on my "Favorite" list on my iPhone, for obvious reasons.  I already know to press 5 for the nurse.  And I'm on hold for a few minutes.  About 5 minutes later I'm explaining this story to a sweet, young nurse.  She decides to consult one of the doctors due to the size of the toy.  Several minutes later, she's explaining what to do from here.  Something about 2 weeks, watch his bowel movements, keep an eye on stomach pains, yadda yadda yadda....

Then it happens.

He starts coughing.  His face reddens.  His eyes are bulging.  He's grabbing his throat.  He's garbling "It's.................. coming................... back .............. up....."  The nurse on the other end starts to flip.  I was preparing for CPR.  She frantically asks me if I need for her to call 9-1-1.  I'm trying to keep a cool head in case I need to save his life - or catch as the toy projectiles from his face.  And then....

Then....

THEN HE PROCEEDS TO LAUGH.  He was kidding about the choking. 

Give the kid an Oscar.

Of course I got off of the phone prior to beating him but those were a close few seconds.

I've been sentenced to 2 weeks of Doody Inspection.  I'm going to make a badge to wear for it.  Then keep it in a box with the Mowing Tiara and my Mother of the Year awards.

;

I stood there, in my bathroom, staring at the stranger in the mirror.  I was there crying.  So much torment in my head and pain in my heart.  The weight of the world was resting on my crumbling shoulders.  Patsy Cline was echoing off the tile walls as she belted out that heartbreaking, familiar, pleading as she fell to pieces.  A fresh package of double edged razor blades was enticing me from the counter with a promise of eternal relief.

The hot water was running, offering it’s aid in my plight, some Aspirin to push the cause further.  I knew how quickly the blood would flow down the drains and far from my heart leaving me pale and cold.  It would be so fast and so easy.  I’d just slip silently into the Great Beyond.

My hands trembled as I slid the blade from it’s case, tears down my cheeks, thinking confused thoughts.  My mind raced over the violent abuse, the way it made me hate myself, mixed with the way it felt to be kissed by a cute boy and laughing with my best friend.  That internal struggle tore my soul apart.  I had to force those happy memories from my head.  If I thought about them too hard, I’d lose my nerve.

There was thought behind the first slice - traveling the length of my vein - making it harder to repair.  I was so numb that I almost didn’t feel it.  Watching it drip, swirling it’s brilliant color with the crystal clear contrasting water.  It was fascinating and beautiful.  And relief would not be too far now.  It created such thick pools that it took several seconds to fully dilute and stain the water.

Then the pain started  to hit and my fingers started to involuntarily curl.  I couldn’t muffle my cries.  I didn’t expect such sharpness.  It’s not like that in the movies.  They just cut, the blood comes, then a few minutes later their internal agony is done.  But that’s not real life.  In real life, there is excruciating pain.

Patsy was quiet now, at least I couldn’t hear her.  The sensation running up my arm was deafening.  Now, I wanted to die more than ever.  And the door opened.  I sat there, in the shower, with my favorite ripped jeans on, donning the Nirvana t-shirt my BFF got me, and a flannel.  My (grand) mom stood over me - “Why Nich-ee, Why?!”  The thickness of her horror was palpable.  She looked down on me - the girl she saved, the daughter she chose, the little girl with wild curls and abundant freckles, and she grabbed me from the shower and put as much pressure as she could.  She screamed for my (grand) dad.  And there they were - holding me when I could no longer stand.  11 stitches and several evaluations later - I was back home.

I don’t know why she came in the bathroom that day.  I’d locked the door.  What was it about this time that sent her to me?  I wish I could thank her for it and apologize for the sight she had to see.  The thought of my own children or loved ones laying there terrifies me.  While I can’t look her in the eyes again - I thank her with my actions.  That was my second chance and I'm not wasting it.

Does This Beast Have A Name?

There is a horror of untold levels lurking at my door step.  I can hear it's footsteps as it draws closer to me.  A panic sets in, the fear takes control, my limbs feel like weights and each bated breath is agony.  With a trainwreck like curiosity, I risk detection to peer through the fisheye lens of the peephole.  It knows I'm looking.  It's ghastly mug is strategically placed on the other side of the door, almost like it knew I was going to spy.  My chest heaves in an attempt to quell my nearly inaudible gasp.  My hand is on the doorknob in futile effort to bar it's entrance.  The metal has become white hot and my palm is scorched.  But I know that if I cry out, it will hear me.  It will sense my fear and know it has me.  If I can hold out for just a little bit longer - maybe it will go away to feast upon some other victim before it comes back to devour me.  It patiently waits, knowing that there is a guaranteed meal on the opposite side of this thin slat of wood.  It has the strength to reduce this home to rubble.  I can sense it.  I saw the souls of its previous prey in it's eyes, I could see their terror trapped inside, their essences now the trophy of this terrifying beast.  And it's hungry, waiting for me.

So many things are running through my head now.  My children.  Their beautiful faces, their enchanting personalities.  It will come back for them, won't it?  There's so much we have left to do.  So many places to go and adventures to have.  I want to see them grow.  I want to hold them all again.  My instinct is to call out for them, draw them close, tell them that I love them - but do I want them to witness this gruesome act?  Do I want them to see this monstrosity consume my skin and bones?  I want to see my grandchildren someday.  There are so many things I have left to teach them and share with them.  Pain to kiss away, hugs to give, pride to express, graduations to plan, weddings to attend.  Soccer games, driver's ed, doctor's appointments. My sister - how I love her so in ways she will probably never know.  We've been through everything in our lives together. Nieces and nephews to meet.  My bestie - she's so far away, but soon this will knock on her door.  We have game shows to be contestants on. I miss her terribly and wish I could see her face again before I'm this fiends lunch.  My mom, in all of her eccentricities, I want to hear another of her crazy tales.

My thoughts race to the things I still want and need to do.  The book - write, inspire, tell my uninhibited story, share my life, maybe reach into someone else and get them to feel what I felt.  I think of the last cigarette I smoked, the way it tickled the back of my throat before descending to my lungs - I'll never touch another.  My "mom" and "dad".  This came for them once, and now we're a step closer to our reunion.  There are flowers to be planted outside.  There are desserts to eat.  Cabin trips to make.  England someday.  Aspirations of political nature.  I spent too much time on the computer, not enough time doing the things that mattered.  There are childhood friends I want to see again.  I want to make my dreams a reality.  I want to sing really bad karaoke, eat sushi again, have cake for breakfast.  Camping, roller coasters, books to read, Christmas lights, vacuuming, horseback rides, hikes, family pictures, being a pin up, meet Alton Brown.

What have I learned from life?  Grateful I took no shit.  I stood up for myself.  I put my family first.  Never forgot who I was/am.   No one ever broke me to the point where I couldn't be fixed.   Happy with the reflection in the mirror, both the shell and it's contents. Found the lesson in everything, even when I didn't want to.  Discovered that cliches are true.  Experienced such splendors as criminal activity, drugs, alcohol, friends, church, embarrassing moments, heartbreak, tears, happiness beyond measure, true friendship, unconditional love, anorexia, rape, fights, love, hugs, loss, grief, music, kissing a girl, pretty shoes, creme brulee, coffee, tiramisu, laughing, children, animals, poverty, high school, college, work, psychic friends, HDTV, smiles, forgiveness, and fuzzy socks ..... I'd do it all over again in an instant.

These trials inspire fight, strength, fortitude.  With my back against the door, I muster the courage to wage war.  I channel my inner Buffy Summers.  Only, there is no tangible weapon with which to slay this demon.  I give myself one last pep talk, play a mental video of flashes of moments of my life, set it to Tom Petty's "I Won't Back Down" and pull open the door.  I come face to face with this vicious creature and lock eyes.  It's breath is steaming against my skin.  We stand there, sizing each other up, looking for an Achilles Heal, evaluating armour for chinks.  It reaches under it's dusty cloak to draw the object of my demise. It moves closer to me, opens it's giant skeletal hand and reveals unspeakable evil -

35 pristine birthday candles.

It smiles at me, bearing razor sharp teeth, bows, and walks away.

Because hitting people is unacceptable

Our 9 year old, gifted son is having difficulty in school.  Last year he was being picked on relentlessly by other students.  This year, he has a personality conflict with a particular teacher after he rolled his eyes at a homework assignment.  I attended a meeting with his principal and teachers to discuss an incident where The Middle Boy was removed from class for telling the teacher that "[he'd] be able to see the board better if she moved her arm".  He lacks social skills almost entirely.  He has a very blunt, direct, broadsword way when it comes to communication.  (I have no idea where that comes from).  His educators agreed that they would have him meet with a Gifted Student counselor as this is a common trait among children with higher intelligence.  This is not an excuse for this comment.  But clearly, he has needs that surpass his understanding.  It's easy to forget that even though he has the intelligence of a teenager, he has the maturity level of a 9 year old.  The two parts of him did not develop at the same rate.  Throwing him out of the classroom without explaining what he did wrong when he clearly didn't understand the issue doesn't exactly teach him anything.  There was no connection made between cause and effect.  He followed instructions and left the class without argument.  The teacher informed me that she consulted the superintendent prior to meeting with me to make sure she was not in any trouble with the way she handled the situation. 

During my meeting the teacher told me "This may not be politically correct for me to say but my life would be so much easier if you withdrew him from this school."  I appreciate the jobs that teachers do.  They put up with so much and work so hard.  But the parent in me had to refrain from physical violence.  I nodded and smiled and participated in the conversation as a grown up should.  Then I came home, had some time to think, and wrote this letter to the teacher and principal: 

First, I want to thank you for your time and efforts over the last few months with our son.  Teachers don’t get nearly enough credit for the amazing jobs that they do.  After we met Tuesday morning, I came home, discussed the meeting with his father, and had time to reflect on the conversation.  We’ve spent several hours talking and I’d like to take this opportunity to share with you the thoughts and conclusions to which we came.  I apologize for the delay in sending this – our household has been suffering from an incredible cold. 

Since the beginning of the school year my husband and/or I have met, in person, 3 times.  We have had several phone calls as well.  One trend we noticed was the continued reference to the “eye roll” that occurred in the first few days of school, literally each visit and all but one call.  It is our belief that this incident has become a catalyst for the rift between teacher and student.  We feel that it has been taken as a personal slight that seems to be one which there is no recovery.  While we do not condone [The Middle Son] behavior in any way, shape, or form we also do not feel that this poor choice on his part should continue to be an issue two months later.  From that point on, the personality clash between you and [The Middle Son] has grown considerably.  We feel that this has amplified everything  [The Middle Son] has done from that point forward.  The old adage that “you never get a second chance to make a first impression” has a great deal of truth in it.  It also bars it’s adherents to a place where forgiveness is impossible.   Thus, teaching both parties nothing of interpersonal growth. 

You stated to me that [The Middle Son] is the only student that you do not have a connection with out of the entire class.  You also stated to me that your life would be easier if I withdrew [The Middle Son] from school.  These confessions weighed heavily on me, as a parent.  This situation promotes further social detachment.  Children are sponges, as you know.  They are intuitive, sensitive, keen observers.  When they witness, whether verbal or non verbal, an adult authority figure disconnect from something they have a tendency to follow suit.  [The Middle Son] has an already difficult time with making friends.  I have to wonder if your indirect/non verbal indifference to him is not being picked up on and harbored by the other students.  I’m not sure it’s really possible for him to be more emotionally isolated than he already is.  I fail to see how this is helping him develop social skills.  Being an outcast is not a skill one strives to accomplish.  No child, including [The Middle Son], wants to be disliked.  You mentioned that you had difficulty sleeping in anxiety over the meeting and can’t stand the thought of not being liked.  Well, that’s every moment of school for our son.  I won’t deny that he bears responsibility for that fact.  I will also reaffirm my belief he’s not cognizant of it.  This is not an atmosphere where learning can be fostered.  There are means to correct his rudeness.  There are not means to make you care.  There was much talk of his lack of empathy.  There was none expressed for him, either. 

We feel very adamantly that parents and teachers should be allies in pursuit of academic achievement.  When a teacher, a person we are to trust with our child’s life, expresses indifference for that child – well, to be honest – it does not provide motivation to continue that alliance.  It carries the same weight as stating that you do not care.  That is not acceptable.  He is not just part of your job.  He is a person.  I cannot imagine how that would motivate him in his studies or to be respectful, if he knew.  Something tells me, he already does. 

Our extended family and circle of friends include numerous teachers and administrators in and out of the district.  Of the people we spoke to about the meeting and its outcome, all were flabbergasted by this statement.  Never have I heard any of them say this in casual conversation about their students, let alone to a parent that they are supposed to work with on a regular basis.  Imagine if your spouse, child, parent, family member or friend told you that their life would be easier if you weren’t there.  The relationship between teacher and student is just as important to a child. 

I have several thousand clients at once.  Some have simple cases – cut & dry and finished in 9 months.  Some have time consuming, intricate plans that require detailed work that takes up to 5 years to complete.  Sometimes one person’s case can rearrange my entire day and night (including my family and home life).  I cannot imagine feeling or expressing indifference for any of them, especially to them.  It’s counterproductive, not to mention unprofessional.  In all fairness, maybe it was a simple case of miscommunication with unintended implications. If that’s so, then perhaps the same consideration should be given to a struggling 9 year old boy.  However, any doubts we had about our decision to pursue the [deleted for safety] have been extinguished. /end

 

I received an apology from the principal where she explained that the teacher was trying to tell me that she wanted [The Middle Son] to stay in this school.  She just chose the wrong words.  

yeah.  And I'm the Queen of England.  Either way, we have begun the process of enrolling him into an alternative educational program endorsed by the Ohio Association of Gifted Children.  Hopefully, this will put him on the path toward the greatness he is destined for and not one with tragic results.