Martin asked, “Why is this school year going so much faster than last year?”

I answered, “It can seem like time goes faster when you’re having fun. Do you think you’re having more fun at school this year?”

He said, “This year is way better than last year. The kids are so much nicer, because everyone knows me better now.”

I don’t consider myself a superstitious person. Yet I hesitate to post good news on Finding My Kid. I ask myself, What if tomorrow things go bad again? If I say today that Martin is doing well, do my readers assume that will always be true? Isn’t it easier to admit when we’re going through a tough time, and thus to set a lower bar that subsequently I can exceed? Am I going to jinx his whole recovery?

Martin has a handful of friends now—friends he made himself instead of in social-skills group or otherwise organized by me. Despite April’s unsuccessful play date, I think the friend situation continues to improve. What follows is a series of texts from last week with Martin’s school behaviorist, Debbie. If you are a regular reader of this blog, you may recall that I affectionately refer to the behaviorist as Debbie Downer, because she never seems to hesitate in giving bad news, which makes these texts all the more precious:

He’s totally part of the class now. Today was another [happy] tear-filled day. I just watched him interacting with his peers and them calling his name across the room to share in a private joke or ask each other questions.

I wish this year wouldn’t end for him.

We have so many kids that we can choose from now to request to be in his class next year.

You know, you probably could invite the whole class to his birthday party if it’s not too late. If you’re concerned about a lot of rejections you wouldn’t even have to tell him that you invited everyone. You would just be happy with whoever showed up.

You guys should be very proud of your little boy.

When I pick Martin up after school now, we cross the parking lot to the sound of “’Bye, Martin! ’Bye!” The other kids are talking to him.

Last week Adrian and I attended Martin’s IEP meeting, where this progress was confirmed. The speech teacher recommended switching from a mix of one-on-one and small-group instruction to small-group only, on the grounds that Martin progresses better when he has other kids to talk to, instead of being just with a grown-up. The resource teacher said the same thing she said at our last check-in: that Martin does not need resource room. The classroom teacher echoed what Debbie had said. We all decided that Martin no longer requires a one-on-one aide. Next year, he will share the aide with another student. The idea is to pair Martin with a special-education student who needs more academic support and less social support. Martin, who apparently no longer needs much academic support, won’t have someone looking over his shoulder in the classroom but will retain the benefit of the aide in the wild west that is gym class, lunch, and playground.

Friday before last, Martin was invited to a classmate’s birthday party. (The mom had invited every boy in the class, but still, Martin was invited!) The party was at an indoor track-and-field center, and chaos reigned. (The mom had also invited every boy in the twin brother’s class, plus friends from outside school.) Martin was hardly leading the pack; sports aren’t his forte. Still, he did fine and did not freak out or melt down—even when a boy who bullied him last year but has since switched schools showed up unexpectedly. Martin kept his distance from that boy and just did his thing. At one point, I saw Martin and the birthday boy from his class walking with their arms around each other’s shoulders.

Sorry about all the italics. How can I help it?

I left Martin’s IEP meeting feeling like a million bucks. Last school year was so difficult, and I constantly questioned whether we had made a bad decision when we pulled Martin from his self-contained special-education school and placed him in our local public elementary. Here was a team of professionals agreeing that Martin, finally, is bridging the gap and becoming more like a regular kid.

The same day as the IEP meeting, I attended an allergy-awareness presentation at the school. On the way out I ran into a church acquaintance, a mom I barely know but whose kids attend both school and Kids’ Klub with Martin. She looked confused and asked me what I was doing there. I said I’d also been at the allergy-awareness presentation. She still looked confused, so I asked, “Did you know Martin goes to school here?” She replied, “No. I had no idea,” and then added, “Martin goes to this school?”

As a special-needs parent, I have a tendency to perceive slights against Martin. I could have interpreted this mom’s question as geographic, i.e., surprise because she didn’t realize we live near each other; our district has several elementary schools. But of course I didn’t interpret her question as geographic. I assumed that what she’s seen of Martin at church has convinced her that he doesn’t belong in mainstream school with her kids.

I said, “Yes, Martin goes to this school. Did you think he isn’t good enough? Why would you suggest that to me? I have news—your kids are hardly brilliant.”

Just kidding.

I said, “Yes, Martin is in Mrs. B—’s class.”

And I thought, “That’s just where he belongs.”