An open letter to Zach’s teachers, specialists, paras, principals, child study teams (and the gazillion other professionals who helped make him who he is today),
I’ve just finished my bazillionth conference about my boy, the report card crisp and unblemished in my hand as we discuss his progress, a grin on my face reflecting how well it’s going. I didn’t plan on any surprises dear fourth grade teacher because your communication skills are superlative (which greatly reduces the anxiety of this fourth grade mom), but you never know. The stakes are higher this year because we made a big change in Zach’s educational trajectory in the spring. You see, for the last six months he has only had a 504 plan (what I call an IEP light), with accommodations frankly any good educator could carry out in her or her sleep.
And the glory of it is, his present educator, like her predecessors before her, has got this cold.
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As a former fourth grade teacher myself I always said third grade was a huge bridge year, and this rang true for Zach, who made leaps and bounds in his ten month third grade stint. The change in his maturity level from September to June seemed miraculous (and yes, much credit goes to the third grade teacher who “got him”), so much so that a little voice told me it was time to shake things up a bit, to really think about whether or not this kid needed a full blown IEP and an inclusion classroom. Of course this contemplation required anxious analyzation on my part, with the requisite “asking of opinion” of every major player in Zach’s educational repertoire, my husband, and my mom with her thirty years of special education expertise.
Frankly I would have consulted a fortune teller if I thought it would do any good.
In true A-type mom fashion I was initially just scared. Scared to let go of the few ancillary services he received knowing they might not be reinstalled if I made a mistake. Scared this would be an unnecessary disaster I brought down on both our heads that could have been averted. Scared he would not be in an inclusion classroom the following year and we’d find he really did need that second teacher.
Scared if I didn’t make this move now I’d be holding him back.
But last spring after a lot of hand holding from his equally wonderful third grade teacher (she got me too) we took the plunge, signed the documents, and I began to hold my breath. We skated through the rest of the year as I knew we would, cognizant of the fact that the true test would come in September, where a zippy fifteen minute 504 plan meeting would replace the round table IEP discussion of my son’s education.
You will hate me, but mostly I look forward to IEP meetings. With two kids on the spectrum, I’ve been to a lot of them. I know everybody’s kids’ names.
So now I’m here sitting in this fairly small chair listening to you tell me how much you like my boy, how even in under three months he’s made progress. I listen quietly as you tell me even though most of the kids in this non-inclusion class are new to him that he’s made friends, gets along with kids when he works in a group is nailing his academics. You tell me you appreciate his unique world view, his kindness to others, his enthusiasm for learning. You like him, you really like him.
And slowly, I begin to let go of my six month inhale, because nowhere in our dialogue do the words “you made a mistake” surface.
I’m proud of my boy, but not because he’s no longer classified. My other son will nurse various IEPs until he’s twenty-one, and I have no issue with that, am appreciative for the law which entitles him to have them. No, I’m proud of Zach because that kid is damned determined- when he wants something he’s willing to work for it, to break down a goal into small steps until said goal is accomplished. He wants so many things- friends, to participate in a zillion activities, a cell phone (not happening any time soon), and the first two he has in spades, for which I am forever grateful.
And I’m also grateful to all of you. I’m grateful for every teacher, para, specialist, and child study team member he’s had from the tender age of three until now who worked tirelessly to help him become his best self, and tolerated me in the bargain. There are many factors that weigh in on Zach’s success and happiness- his family, his friends, and Minecraft among others. But he literally would not be here today without the women (and a few men) who “got” my boy, reveled in his personality, and never accepted anything less than his best.
We’ll wrap up our conference soon, with me smiling and proud this aging brain remembered to bring the cookies I bought you (because among my many failings is an inability to bake anything other than toll-house cookies from a bag and I didn’t have time). I will clutch the papers you gave me to my heart and make my way outside to collect my Kindle-engrossed boy, and we will make our way home.
There will be hugs and praise, rewards given (food and technology, my son has his priorities), and a mountain of laundry to attack.
There always seems to be laundry to attack.
I will share the good news with the husband, the grandma, and the fifty other people I consulted. I will reward myself with more chocolate. I will hug that damn fantastic kid yet one more time.
And I will exhale.
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