Tag Archives: iep

He Belongs

Posted on by findingmykid
4

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.”

Third Day, Positively Sleepy?

Posted on by findingmykid
1

From my perspective, School Day No. 3, which was a Wednesday, commenced as inauspiciously as School Day No. 2. Martin woke himself early by coughing, then had to be dragged from bed to the breakfast table. (Not literally. Everyone be chill.) He barely ate, except what I loaded onto a spoon and lifted to his mouth. (Literally.) He was scratching his legs—bug bites, remnants of Costa Rica—so intently that I made him wear pants, though the forecast was steamy. We trudged to the bus stop where, again, he isolated himself.

If they don’t kick him out of general education based on whatever he does today, I will be satisfied with that, I told myself. It was the best I could conjure, in terms of reassurance.

Beginning at 1:08 pm, I had this text exchange with Darlene, the behaviorist:

[Darlene:] He is exhausted but compliant and doing his work. Looking a little warm too. Shorts tomorrow for sure.

[Me:] On it. I put the pants on him today only because he was scratching the bug bites on his legs! No behavior issues?

Nope.

He has brand-new [school name] shorts and is eager to wear them.

He started laughing at one point this a.m. and was told to stop. He didn’t. Was told to stop or he would move to yellow and he stopped immediately.

The afternoons he is tired so [Mrs. N] asked resource room teacher to pull him in morning during morning work. (This is a maintenance and review period when many ESL students get pulled.) They’re going to try to accommodate that.

He’s definitely doing a lot of writing in school. I know they already wrote up a science experiment and an “about my summer” paragraph. And today he finished a poem about himself.

Overall it sounds good, except for the laughing. On the other hand, if he stopped for yellow that’s an improvement. His old school couldn’t address that behavior well.

He’s doing great.

Thanks, Darlene.

So they did not kick him out of general education based on his Day No. 3.

I told myself to be satisfied with that.

He Doesn’t Seem to Know

Posted on by findingmykid
16

Back to the topic of school.

We’ve been hoping to transfer Martin from his self-contained special-education school to a general-education classroom with an aide. Our local zoned school, at Martin’s grade level, had 26-to-28 kids per class, which is too many, so we looked at private schools. We found two church schools we thought would be good fits. Each school asked Martin to visit, for an entire day, without an aide. Each visit, Martin was at his worst; fighting his Lyme disease has been a rough ride. Combine “Martin is having a bad day” with “Martin is making a full-day visit to a general-ed classroom with no assistance.” The result was no private school placement for Martin.

At the same time, Adrian and I became increasingly convinced that the time has come for Martin to leave his current placement. Martin has started copying undesirable behaviors that he witnesses at school, like whining. Four other boys are leaving the class, including Martin’s two closest social peers. Martin has started self-advocating, telling us that he’d also like to go to a new school. He says he has too many teachers and that he’d like to be in a bigger class, and that he wishes he could go to a school close to home like his friends from play group do. Finally, Martin is finishing second grade, so these decisions concern possible third-grade placement. We’ve been told, by multiple sources, that the distance between second-grade curriculum and third-grade curriculum is the biggest jump in elementary school. Academics (except for reading comprehension and drawing inferences) are Martin’s strong point. Adrian and I worry that the longer we leave Martin in a slower-paced, modified learning environment, the less possible an eventual move to general education will become.

Just when it seemed that leaving Martin in his current school would be our only acceptable, available choice, two late entries arose. First, our district passed a new budget, part of which added additional sections to our zoned school. The class sizes dropped from 26-to-28 kids to 21 or 22 kids. Second, our local Catholic elementary school, which works closely with our district, invited Martin to visit—for a few hours, with an aide—and he happened to be doing well that day. Then the district offered Martin an IEP for general education, with a full-time, one-on-one teaching assistant, plus a consultant special-education teacher, plus resource room, plus regular visits from a behaviorist to the classroom, plus continued speech therapy and, if we wanted more services, occupational therapy, physical therapy, and counseling (services he has in his current placement). This panoply of benefits would be available to us at either our zoned school or the Catholic school.

The decision to pull Martin from his current placement was almost clear. Almost. We still faced this hesitation: Whatever our concerns with academics or behaviors, Martin is safe where he is now. His class is small, structured, and constantly supervised. He faces no playground bullying. He does not stand out because of his differences. His self-esteem is high, his confidence intact. The headmaster of one of the church schools that turned us down earlier this year is a former special-education administrator. Immediately after Martin’s full-day visit there, the headmaster kindly spent 20 minutes on the phone with me and Adrian. He enumerated the reasons why they wouldn’t accept Martin (including, apparently, the 11 times Martin stopped between the gymnasium and the classroom, because he wanted to examine a vase, to look at a photo of last year’s graduates, and so forth). The headmaster also said, in Martin’s favor, “I have to tell you that he made himself right at home. This is quite extraordinary—Martin doesn’t seem to perceive that he has any challenges at all.”

I’d like to keep it that way: that Martin doesn’t perceive that he has challenges. With continued hard work and a little luck, we just might be able to lose the ADHD diagnosis before Martin wonders too much about being different. If we toss him into a classroom of typically developing kids, how much of Martin’s own perception of himself will evolve?

Well, we’re about to find out. Last week, Adrian and I accepted the district’s proposed IEP, placing Martin into general education with an aide, in our zoned school, with one change in plans: At our request, Martin will repeat second grade. He’s changing schools, so the other kids won’t realize that he’s repeating. I hope that repeating second grade will give Martin a chance to adjust to the faster pace of general education before he is called upon to master new material.

Martin’s going to spread his wings. Here’s hoping he can fly.

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Martin, in orange, with friends.

Disappointment

Posted on by findingmykid
5

I’d like to write a bit on the topic of disappointment, because disappointment is affecting me this week.

To be honest, disappointment is always affecting me, to some degree. When we started recovering Martin, more than five years ago(!), I thought we’d be done by kindergarten. The mother who launched our biomed journey put that notion into my head, I suppose, because she’d recovered her own son in less than three years. Martin is in second grade now, and if you read this blog, you know that he’s not recovered yet. That disappointments me, chronically.

The fact that the pace of Martin’s recovery disappointments me—that compounds the issue, because I feel disappointed in myself. Think about the son I have today: conversant, joking, getting-healthy, almost-non-stimming, diagnosed ADHD/language delay. Compare him with the constantly stimming, perseveration-stuck, limited-speech son I used to have, diagnosed ASD. What kind of person am I, to let disappointment enter my thoughts?

dis•ap•point

v.tr.

1. To fail to satisfy the hope, desire, or expectation of.

2. To frustrate or thwart.

v. intr.

                To cause disappointment.

We are hoping to transfer Martin from his self-contained special-education school to a general-education classroom with an aide. The neurodevelopmental psychiatrist (mainstream) says that Martin is ready. The behaviorist says that Martin could make the leap. Martin’s Sunday-school teacher, who has charge of him along with a dozen typically developing kids one morning per week (and who herself has a son fully recovered from autism), has advocated for general education. Adrian and I, when we see Martin at his best, know that he has outgrown his special-education placement and needs the challenge of general education.

Our zoned elementary school, at Martin’s grade level, has 26-to-28 pupils per class. Even with an aide, that’s too many. Instead, we’ve been combing the local private schools, which average 12-to-15 pupils per class. I’ve met with the admissions directors of more than half a dozen private schools, explaining that we want to transition our son, and that he would likely need assistance, including a classroom aide, for another year or two. One school told me to get lost: They had no provisions to help a child transition to general education, and were not interested in stretching their parameters. Several schools said they had a resource room and/or a special-education teacher on staff and could offer accommodations but would not consider a classroom aide. Two schools, both church-affiliated, said that if Martin was otherwise a good fit, they would consider allowing a classroom aide. One of those two schools currently has two students with classroom aides, and its headmaster is a former special-education teacher. That school soon became my, and Adrian’s, top choice for Martin. When the school agreed to have Martin visit for a day, last week, we were hopeful.

As I wrote above, when we see Martin at his best, Adrian and I know that he has outgrown his special-education placement and needs the challenge of general education. Regrettably, Martin is not always at his best, and for the past month or so, he’s been sensory-seeking, with a diminished attention span. (A limited attention span—an infinitesimal attention span—remains Martin’s greatest challenge. Diminish that? Argh. Martin? Martin? Hello, Martin?) When he visited our top-choice private school last week, Martin was not at his best.

The school promptly turned us down.

What a disappointment.

Disappointment, because although the other church-affiliated school remains in play, our plan to move Martin to general education may be delayed another year. Disappointment, because the school we thought would want our son rejected him. Disappointment, because biomedical recovery is still a fringe movement, so I cannot tell the school, “Two steps forward and one step back. It gets worse before it gets better. The antimicrobials he’s taking for Lyme disease have kicked up a lot. Wait a month or two. He will be a whole different kid.”

The sting of rejection is still fresh, and today Martin’s annual review arrived from his current school. If you have a child with an IEP, you know that annual reviews, and progress reports, and IEP’s themselves, are not drafted to highlight a child’s strengths. They are drafted to justify maintaining services. Martin’s annual review is no exception. He has trouble sitting in his chair properly. He sometimes calls out inappropriately during lessons. (Detoxing. Ever hear of detoxing?) He reacts poorly when he doesn’t earn all his behavior-management tokens. He can’t focus. He needs prompting. He is making progress, but he isn’t ready to leave his supportive setting.

When I was a child, my family had a Magnavox Odyssey2 video game console. (Showing my age with that admission.) I remember a game that scrambled words. I just searched online but found no record of this game. (If you, dear reader, happen to be an Odyssey2 whiz, or just skilled at finding ancient relics online, please email me at FindingMyKid@yahoo.com, or comment on this post, with some evidence that this word game existed.) I loved the Odyssey2 word game. I challenged myself to find words too long to fit on the screen.

I remember distinctly: The longest word my pre-teen mind could conjure was DISAPPOINTMENTS.

Fifteen letters, DISAPPOINTMENTS. Many months passed before I found a better word than DISAPPOINTMENTS.

Today, here, now, I challenge myself to find a better word than “disappointment.”

I challenge myself to find a better emotion than disappointment.

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Martin, next to a good friend of mine, checks out the Long Island Sound.