Posts filed under ‘autism’
be crazy. No, scratch that. I know I’m crazy.
School registration came up quickly this past spring, and I knew in my heart I didn’t want to send C back to his current school. There’s so many reasons why I felt this way: not the least of which was one of his teachers telling him God spoke in her ear at the bookstore and told her the Harry Potter books were evil; or the fact that based on one test (which “I didn’t do well on purpose because I didn’t want more homework, Mommy”), C was placed in what seemed to be remedial math (despite his being able to do long division in his head); or the fact that several of his specials teachers gave him such useless, meaningless, negative comments – without any context – on his report card. It’s more than that; it’s a feeling that despite getting straight As last quarter, the gaps in C’s education are far greater than they should be.
So the great search began once again. C “shadowed” at two schools. We chose one of the two, enrolled him for next year, and settled down to wait. Except I didn’t feel settled. That little voice in my head just kept creeping back in telling me none of it felt right. It grew and grew until I hatched a new plan. All of C’s schools – public, charter, and private – went sour after a time, and some far more quickly than others. We keep moving C to a different school, either because the current school doesn’t work or because we actually move, and they all turn out the same. Some sour more quickly than others, but they all end up in the same place – the WRONG place.
Then I saw that quote about the square peg fitting into a round hole: The problem with trying to fit a square peg into a round hole isn’t that it’s hard to hammer, but rather that you are actually destroying the peg.
And boom. There it was. It’s not that the schools are wrong (although some of them, frankly, are). Perhaps it’s that C doesn’t belong in school. Perhaps putting him through the stress and anxiety of trudging through school every day, never wanting to go back on Monday mornings, and feeling like the week is one hundred years long is not what C needs. Perhaps there is no school that is right for C.
So the idea was born. I resigned my job, cancelled his registration at his new school, and started planning. C and I will start our new homeschooling adventure on September 3, 2012. Our journey along the path to what we need continues with this newest chapter, and I hope you’ll join us.
We suffered through the school Christmas pageant last week; happily it wasn’t as painful as I expected it to be. There was definitely no Santa – far too pagan – but there were some familiar Christmas carols coupled with the seriously uncomfortable older kids playing Mary and Joseph with their plastic baby Jesus. C dutifully rehearsed his two lines (he was one of many narrators) and was all ready to speak them slowly into the microphone. “With sheep, cattle, and a manger,” he read, “baby Jesus arrived on a very special night.”
It was all very sweet and good. But I miss the days when school plays were more entertaining – when some kid knocked over the set, sat down and cried, or stole the show. C’s kindergarten play was priceless. C was a pumpkin in a garden full of vegetables. He hated the hat he had to wear (sensory issues), and try as she might, his teacher could not get him to keep it on. He spent the entire play tipping forward, letting his hat fall, and then picking it up, putting it on, and starting all over again. It was hilarious. At the end of the play, C got stuck in front of the curtain and laughed with a joy and abandon that will forever make that video one of my favorite treasures.
When I listened to C rehearse his lines for this year’s play and discovered his mistake, I admit to not working too hard to correct it. I probably should have; the mistake was irreverent in its tone, but the innocence of the misspeak was too cute to worry over. We let it go. To draw attention to it probably would have given C a self-consciousness he rarely exhibits, and we didn’t want to stifle any of his enthusiasm. So we held our breath when C proudly got up to the microphone and said, “With sheep, cattle, and a MANAGER, baby Jesus arrived on a very special night.”
Honestly? I don’t think anyone really noticed. Everyone was so focused on watching their own kid I don’t think people really listened to everyone else’s. But Husband and I chuckled and reveled in the return to the joy that should be a school play. Complete with sheep, cattle, baby Jesus, and his own special manager.
It’s about that time of year. I’ve been listening to Christmas carols for a couple of weeks now, which is far better than my usual late September starting date (with apologies to my college roommate, who teases me about it to this day), and C’s Christmas list is long and wide and full of things there’s no chance anyone will get him.
C has been asking for a couple of months now if he should check his name on santaclaus.net to see how good he’s been. But he hasn’t done it, and last night I found out why. While he soaked in the tub, we talked about our plans for the holidays. “I’ll bet Santa won’t bring me much this year because of my behavior,” he said, his head hung dejectedly.
My heart broke more than a little bit in that moment. I couldn’t lie and tell him his behavior has been fine. It’s been a challenging year for sure: C’s behavior has rocked our family to its core, and I’ve read more books on defiant children than any parent should even know exists. I’ve collapsed on the floor in sobs too many times to count. And Husband and I have locked ourselves in our bedroom far too frequently in order to escape the wrath of C. Still, there’s nothing more heart wrenching than a child whose self-defeat is written all over his face, and all I could do was give him a big kiss on the forehead and tell him that Santa knows he’s been trying his best.
Once again I was thrown into both the joys and sorrows of parenting this particular child. In the same moment, I was both impressed C recognizes his own challenges and sad that he feels his challenges are having such a profound effect on his life. It’s times like these when I remember that C carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and there’s little I can do to help him shoulder the load.
…I seem to be on a blog sabbatical. Perhaps a permanent one. But you can always reach me by leaving a comment on any post, and I will respond.
In the meantime, I’ll be trying to figure out just what we need.