An Open Letter to My Son's Teacher

Dear Teacher,

I received your email apologizing "if you hurt my feelings" and saying you "thought we got off on the wrong foot."

Well, I'd say we did.

I emailed you back. It took me several hours because I needed to calm down and breathe and figure out how to politely tell you that emailing me to apologize "if you hurt my feelings" was degrading and back-handed.

You haven't responded to that email yet. I sent it last Friday.

I'm sure you're busy.

I spoke to the principal. When I spoke to her on Friday she couldn't believe the quote I gave her was actually said. You know, that thing you said about "the gifted children always being above and ... you know ... 'the special need' always being below because that's 'just how it is'."

On Monday, your boss told me that you fully owned that statement but that what I got wrong was that you weren't just talking to another parent when you said that, but that you were talking to a fellow teacher at this school whose daughter is in your classroom. I'm not sure how that was supposed to help with the situation except maybe now I know who I don't want to teach my son when he is in fourth grade. She told me that it was a "conversation between colleagues" that was "never meant to be heard by a parent" and that it was "unfortunate that I heard it."

I'm not really sure how we went from Friday to Monday with that change.

I don't think it's unfortunate that I heard it - the conversation that took place with a wide-open door that lasted into my son's parent/teacher conference time. The scheduled time where you knew you were going to be meeting with the mother of one of ... you know ... "the special needs". Maybe you assumed I would be late because I also overheard how you talked about "those kids" who don't know all of their letters when they enter your class. I heard the tone and the sighs and the little digs you made towards the parents of those kids because, surely, we must not care about their education or well-being. I'm sure you just assumed I'd be late since my child has trouble remembering that an uppercase "I" and a lowercase "l" look the same. That's a reasonable thought.

Sure.

I really appreciated how you spoke slowly and used small words when you talked to me about my son. It would have been difficult for me to understand his kindergarten curriculum if you hadn't. I also really appreciated how you hadn't read his IEP until just before our meeting -  two weeks into school. I know how inconvenient that piece of paper must be for you. How much time it must take from your life to read how his brain works and the simple two or three steps it asks you to take with him each day. And his IEP isn't nearly as involved as my three-year-olds. Remember? I asked how you would handle my little giant if he was in your classroom - the one on the spectrum who is highly-intelligent. Wouldn't shock me if he tested gifted once they finally can test him. You told me he wouldn't be able to learn with the "gifted" children or even the average kiddos because in kindergarten "the special needs" aren't ready for that integration. I have a really awesome book on Special Education Law. Please, let me know if you would like to borrow it.

I think the only "unfortunate" part of any of this is that you - an educator and these kids very first step in their educational journey - that you see no issue with discussing that "the special needs" will "always be lower". THAT is what is unfortunate. That is what is unacceptable.

This has nothing to do with children learning differently. It has nothing to do with meeting the needs of each individual child. In no way am I asking you to teach my son the same way you teach the little girl that sparked this entire thing - the one who reads on the third-grade-level - contrary to what it seems you suggested to the principal.

I am asking you to never refer to my son as "always below" ever again. I am asking you to in no way ever say a word or make a face or have an open-door conversation that writes him off before he even gets started.  I am asking you to follow the oath you make as an educator. I am asking you to see my child as able and worthy and deserving rather than an inconvenience or extra work or a nuisance.

My son loves to learn. I know it's going to be a little harder to teach him. I know that IEP asks you to do a little more with him. I know that being excited that, after working with him for an hour last night, when he finally got down how to write his name as "Logan" rather than "LOGAN" isn't nearly as fun for you to brag about as having a student who reads on the third-grade-level. But for my son that was a victory and was celebrated in our home.

Don't you dare lump him into some made up category of "always lower". He's five-years-old. He's eager to learn. Don't you dare take his joy. Don't you dare squander his sense of wonder. Don't you dare make him think he'll never be good enough to be more.

- His Biggest Fan, His Mom

The "R" Word

This has been a hard week.

We struggled with whether or not to take Eli out of the school system and strictly do ABA therapy at his clinic. We love his clinic. If you could see where he was four months ago and to see him now ... you wouldn't think it was the same child. His progress has been incredible.

Unbelievable, really.

Well, two weeks ago you would say that.

I have read about regression and taking ten steps forward, four steps back. I knew it existed. I knew that it was an incredibly emotional part of this roller coaster. I knew that transition was a time that parents of kiddos on the spectrum hold their breath and watch.

I knew that.

I just ... I didn't think we ... I didn't think we would see it right now.

Eli is on an extremely exhausting and rigorous schedule that we are probably going to need to change. Monday through Thursday he is in the school system. We chose to keep him in this program because he was moved to a different teacher in a different setting. She communicates daily with us and really understands how important structure and boundaries are with kiddos like Eli. She holds firm with him and he hates it. He went from a classroom with no structure, no boundaries, to a place where he has to "earn the train table" and "earn the tracks" and share the trains. This is where he will (hopefully) go to kindergarten. One of Eli's greatest struggles is acceptable social behavior. He doesn't know how to communicate and interact and "play" in a socially acceptable manner. He hits, he doesn't stop moving, he needs what he needs right now. Having him in this setting is important for him because for him to be allowed in a regular kindergarten classroom he just has to know how to sit still, and play, and wait, and just be around two dozen kids.

It's an extremely important goal for our kiddo. It is our number one focus in therapy and daily life. He can look at alphabet flash cards and identify those letters (sometimes faster than his brother), he can do the same with numbers up to twenty-five but he can't let another child touch a train...

I want so much for him and he's come so far.

We love his clinic - the hour-away clinic that he still goes to three-days-a-week - but they can't offer him that same social environment. They work on it but they can't mimic the preschool setting. They work on food-intervention and potty-training and proper behavior and labeling and expanded speech.  They are the people that made it possible for my son to look at me and say, "Mommy, I'm sad," during a time that he really was sad. I cannot explain how invaluable that is to this kiddo!! They are a key-part of this journey.

On Wednesdays he goes to speech and occupational therapy. It took three tries before we found his incredible OT. She understands his sensory issues spot on. His speech therapist has been with us since the beginning of this journey.

Every single one of these aspects challenges him, and he is in a place where he hates it. He has to work ... hard. He has to do things that he doesn't want to do and doesn't understand why he has to do them. His defiance wears him out. His anger shuts him down.

He's so tired and frustrated. He's moving backwards.

And I know this is part of it - a HUGE part of it. I know that regression is almost guaranteed with transition. I know it.

I know it. But, God, it's so hard to see it! It's so heartbreaking and soul-crushing to watch your child struggle and move backwards. I want to squeeze him and help him and push him through it.

But I'm still learning so much. It's hard to swallow the reality of the cycle - that there is a cycle - and that it's going to take a lifetime to break it.

Trial and error. Sorrow and joy. Heartbreak and Hope.

One day at a time. Step by Step.

Until we're back on the "moving forward" part again.

I love you, Little Giant. It's going to be okay.

We Need Better Mothers

I first saw "the letter" yesterday.

I have to say I was so angry that I had to move myself away from the computer and just sit and hold my littlest little.

It's been circulating around social media and you've probably seen it. Social media really is incredible that way - a blessing and a curse. This is the message that has been all over. Take a deep breath. You're going to need it.

I'm not going to talk about the "mother" who wrote it. I'm not wasting my words or energy on her - not for a moment.

But I am going to talk about the mother she addressed in the letter. It isn't me. While Eli has melt downs and times when I can't understand what he is saying and he is a challenge and difficult and loud and "different", he will never be this precious child.

I met the mother this letter is addressed to today - one of tens of thousands that it could have been written to. I met the "lady living at this address." While waiting for Eli to finish his therapy, she said hello. We sat and talked while we waiting for our sons.

I met this mother.

The mother of a sixteen-year-old boy with autism. A young man who will never be able to live beyond her care - beyond her comfort. A young man who will never go to college - like his sister did for the first time today. He most likely will never "normally" communicate or understand boundaries or social etiquette or an "inside voice".

I listened as she shared the little bit about her son with me. I listened while I sat beside my five-year-old. I listened while I waited for my littlest little who I knew has a real shot at every single one of those things. I listened and I looked into her eyes.

She was so tired. She smiled nearly the entire conversation but I could see it.
Her eyes were so tired.

I knew how much she loves him. I could see it just as much as I could see the hurt.

We hurt for our children. We hurt for the things we hear that they don't. We ache for the hatred we witness that we pray in the deepest corners of our soul that they never experience.

She sat there knowing what future could be held for her son. Her son who is just as human, just as much a child of God, just as much worthy of joy and hope and peace - however he finds it.
This mother deserves a world that teaches its children understanding and generosity and open-mindedness and patience. This mother deserves a people who strive to become educated on the world around them. She deserves compassion. She deserves fellow mothers who teach their children that the hand dealt to them has nothing, nothing to do with how they treat others. That how "normal" they are does not give them a right to berate and tear down those who were dealt a different hand. That nothing given to us naturally makes us better than anyone else. That how their brain works doesn't mean how someone else's works warrants for them to be condemned or locked up or ...  I can't even type the other thing written above.

This mother deserves better mothers.

This child deserves a better world.

I hope with all that I am that the world is kinder to my child. I pray with every ounce of hope that there are children with better mothers who have taught them how to love - how to truly love their fellow man.

We need better mothers.