Did you know that if you write an email to a teacher that contains the word "penis" in it, the email will be deleted by the Board's net-nanny software? This can cause much comedy later, when you allude to the email and the teacher has no idea what you're talking about.
Just sayin'.
And I leave it to your collective imagination to speculate on precisely *why* I am writing emails to the teacher with the word "penis" in them...
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
A new record
2.5 hours into new school year before first trip to principal's office. Librarian didn't know that he has been allowed (for two years now) to have unobtrusive "fidget" toys to keep his fingers busy and help him sit still during circle time. She confiscated it as contraband; he yelled at her, and then took himself to the principal's office to cool down and get it back together. Which is progress, of a sort, albeit under unfortunate circumstances.
Meanwhile, the students' backpacks are stuffed with inspirational start-of-year screeds from the teachers; one parent was cooing over the one from T.K.'s former kindergarten teacher, a heart-stoppingly sugary little poem about how her job was to take our little stars and lovingly buff them and put them up in the sky. Gaaak. How many hours did my little star spend in her time-out -- excuse me, "magic" -- chair? Two days in, and he was begging me not to take him there again.
"I can't do it, Mom, I can't be a proper student!" When questioned, the teacher coyly denied the term.
"Oh, I NEVER say that. I just point to someone else and say that SHE'S being a proper student."
"Oh," sez I. "So if I point to someone else and say, "Now SHE'S a PROPER TEACHER," then what am I saying to you??" No answer to that. But apparently she's still in the business of buffing stars and putting them in the sky. And getting the rest started on their careers of marginalization and incarceration... Sigh.
You know that moment when the roller coaster is pulling away from the platform, and you're all strapped in, and it doesn't really matter whether you are screaming or not because what's coming is coming and you might as well just hunker down and hang on for the ride? Yeah. That.
Meanwhile, the students' backpacks are stuffed with inspirational start-of-year screeds from the teachers; one parent was cooing over the one from T.K.'s former kindergarten teacher, a heart-stoppingly sugary little poem about how her job was to take our little stars and lovingly buff them and put them up in the sky. Gaaak. How many hours did my little star spend in her time-out -- excuse me, "magic" -- chair? Two days in, and he was begging me not to take him there again.
"I can't do it, Mom, I can't be a proper student!" When questioned, the teacher coyly denied the term.
"Oh, I NEVER say that. I just point to someone else and say that SHE'S being a proper student."
"Oh," sez I. "So if I point to someone else and say, "Now SHE'S a PROPER TEACHER," then what am I saying to you??" No answer to that. But apparently she's still in the business of buffing stars and putting them in the sky. And getting the rest started on their careers of marginalization and incarceration... Sigh.
You know that moment when the roller coaster is pulling away from the platform, and you're all strapped in, and it doesn't really matter whether you are screaming or not because what's coming is coming and you might as well just hunker down and hang on for the ride? Yeah. That.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Things That Work #6: Professional Edu-Psych Assessment
Hold your hats, folks, this one's expensive. Or, it is if you do it right. But I promise you it'll be the best darned investment you'll make in the next ten years, both for you and your kid.
Yes, we are talking an Educational/Psychological assessment for your child. Why? There's a lot of reasons.
See, there's assessments and there's assessments. The basic ones that the folks in the schools and the front-lines educational support staff do are, well, kinda like walking around the car, counting the tires and kicking them, maybe taking it for a quick spin around the block. It really only catches the BIG stuff (car doesn't start, or brakes don't work) and it doesn't do anything for telling you WHY there are problems (car pulls to the right at highway speeds, for some reason, that's all we know from this evaluation).
But if you're seeking assessment, you already know that stuff is not working right. You want the mechanic who is going to pop the hood, crawl underneath it, test the individual systems, and tell you EXACTLY which part is contributing to the problems, and EXACTLY how that is going to affect the car's performance when you're trying to drive on the highway, parallel park, go up hills, all the stuff of which everyday driving is made.
But it's not just about the problems. A really systematic under-the-hood assessment can spot the strengths that are not immediately apparent either. "Ohmigod," says the expert assessor, "Did you know that there's a Ferrari engine installed in your car? And I have never seen fuel efficiency like you're getting. There are some fantastic things about this car!!"
Okay, enough comparing your kid to a car. But you get my basic point. You want the most experienced, in-depth, fine-grained, detailed assessment you can get, if you're going to actually fix, or at the very least compensate for, the things that make your child different.
Enter the Psychologist. One who specializes in pediatric assessments. But they're not all the same. You want one who is going to GET your child, who will work well with them and bring out the best in them (chances are the system already knows about the worst). I asked a bunch of people. I asked the principal of our school who she'd encountered in her work. I asked my family doctor. I asked friends who worked in social and educational services if they knew anyone. Before long, I had two names that were coming up regularly. Talked to both of them on the phone and quickly chose Dr. A (not her real initial).
She spent three one-hour sessions with T.K., gently and engagingly putting him through a wide assortment of tasks, and winding up the session promptly when his attention and motivation began to flag in a serious way. "We want his best," she said. She observed him in the classroom, collected input from his teacher and from me, and when the dust settled, rendered us a detailed 11-page report on our son, including recommendations on how to structure his school and learning experience for the best fit and most positive experience for everyone. Reviewed it with us, then scheduled a sit-down with the school personnel (us included).
It was fantastic. When the words, "He's a smart monkey, and I'm afraid he's getting bored," come out of MY mouth, nobody really registers that as something to do anything about. When the words, "He scores in the 99th percentile for abstract reasoning," come out of the psychologist's mouth, suddenly everyone's talking about enrichment, and gifted programming, and alternative approaches to conventional learning paths. When I say, "He stinks at handwriting, it's hard and annoying for him and he hates it," the immediate response is that he just needs to work harder and get used to it. When the psych says, "His fine-motor co-ordination scores at the 1st percentile and it's dragging down his performance and making school a miserable experience for him," suddenly everyone sits up and talks about alternative testing methods and occupational therapy and minimization of unneccessary busy-work writing while he builds his skills. His typically T.K. combination of extreme assets and extreme weaknesses has got the principal slinging around the phrase, "Gifted LD" (Learning Disabled) as if he's a jewel in the school's crown and not a burr under its saddle, and we've been propelled into this magical alternate universe where people actually stop and think a moment about what school must be like for a kid like T.K. Incredible.
The price for all this incredibleness? $1800 (Canadian). Yeah. Not cheap. But this document has magically transformed us from a difficult, noncompliant child and an annoyingly persistent mother to a highly-intelligent special-needs child and a member of his educational team. Plus the professional identification of his high intelligence puts us into the group of recognized exceptionalities for our school system (where the doctor's offhanded diagnosis of ADHD would not). So now we get an IEP (Individualized Education Plan), which is a formalized, specific, legal commitment by the school to work with T.K.'s particular learning needs. Worth it at twice the price.
"But," I hear you say, "Isn't it the school board's job to provide that kind of assessment service?" Well, yes and no. The lineups are long, the budget is limited, and the kids who get assessed tend to be the ones with super-heavy-duty challenges, with a side of assaultiveness or self-harm or we're-working-on-railroading-this-one-into-another-teaching-environment. If you aren't one of those, you'll wait a long time for a school-funded assessment. Like, forever. Forever's good for us, is it good for you? No?
And if you pay for the assessment, you can choose the assessor. I canvassed around, chose sources I respected, and then talked to two psychologists. Both were competent and well-spoken of, but one really lit up when talking about her work with brain-injured kids and kids with various chromosomal syndromes, where the other talked knowledgeably about kids with uneven development (like mine) and how their stuff played out in a classroom, plus she had a warm, humourous manner that I knew T.K. would take to. It was an easy pick.
And if you pay for it, you own it. They can't hold their meeting without you, since you are the custodian of that document, and you can choose who to share it with, and how much. There's more power in that than you think.
And it can help YOU. On the days when you are ripping your hair out wondering WHY this kid is not acting like the others, why childrearing is not the cakewalk for you that it is for your neighbour who has the typically-developing kid, well... on those days, it's good to know WHY. And cherish the undeniable strengths that go with the weaknesses.
Yes, we are talking an Educational/Psychological assessment for your child. Why? There's a lot of reasons.
See, there's assessments and there's assessments. The basic ones that the folks in the schools and the front-lines educational support staff do are, well, kinda like walking around the car, counting the tires and kicking them, maybe taking it for a quick spin around the block. It really only catches the BIG stuff (car doesn't start, or brakes don't work) and it doesn't do anything for telling you WHY there are problems (car pulls to the right at highway speeds, for some reason, that's all we know from this evaluation).
But if you're seeking assessment, you already know that stuff is not working right. You want the mechanic who is going to pop the hood, crawl underneath it, test the individual systems, and tell you EXACTLY which part is contributing to the problems, and EXACTLY how that is going to affect the car's performance when you're trying to drive on the highway, parallel park, go up hills, all the stuff of which everyday driving is made.
But it's not just about the problems. A really systematic under-the-hood assessment can spot the strengths that are not immediately apparent either. "Ohmigod," says the expert assessor, "Did you know that there's a Ferrari engine installed in your car? And I have never seen fuel efficiency like you're getting. There are some fantastic things about this car!!"
Okay, enough comparing your kid to a car. But you get my basic point. You want the most experienced, in-depth, fine-grained, detailed assessment you can get, if you're going to actually fix, or at the very least compensate for, the things that make your child different.
Enter the Psychologist. One who specializes in pediatric assessments. But they're not all the same. You want one who is going to GET your child, who will work well with them and bring out the best in them (chances are the system already knows about the worst). I asked a bunch of people. I asked the principal of our school who she'd encountered in her work. I asked my family doctor. I asked friends who worked in social and educational services if they knew anyone. Before long, I had two names that were coming up regularly. Talked to both of them on the phone and quickly chose Dr. A (not her real initial).
She spent three one-hour sessions with T.K., gently and engagingly putting him through a wide assortment of tasks, and winding up the session promptly when his attention and motivation began to flag in a serious way. "We want his best," she said. She observed him in the classroom, collected input from his teacher and from me, and when the dust settled, rendered us a detailed 11-page report on our son, including recommendations on how to structure his school and learning experience for the best fit and most positive experience for everyone. Reviewed it with us, then scheduled a sit-down with the school personnel (us included).
It was fantastic. When the words, "He's a smart monkey, and I'm afraid he's getting bored," come out of MY mouth, nobody really registers that as something to do anything about. When the words, "He scores in the 99th percentile for abstract reasoning," come out of the psychologist's mouth, suddenly everyone's talking about enrichment, and gifted programming, and alternative approaches to conventional learning paths. When I say, "He stinks at handwriting, it's hard and annoying for him and he hates it," the immediate response is that he just needs to work harder and get used to it. When the psych says, "His fine-motor co-ordination scores at the 1st percentile and it's dragging down his performance and making school a miserable experience for him," suddenly everyone sits up and talks about alternative testing methods and occupational therapy and minimization of unneccessary busy-work writing while he builds his skills. His typically T.K. combination of extreme assets and extreme weaknesses has got the principal slinging around the phrase, "Gifted LD" (Learning Disabled) as if he's a jewel in the school's crown and not a burr under its saddle, and we've been propelled into this magical alternate universe where people actually stop and think a moment about what school must be like for a kid like T.K. Incredible.
The price for all this incredibleness? $1800 (Canadian). Yeah. Not cheap. But this document has magically transformed us from a difficult, noncompliant child and an annoyingly persistent mother to a highly-intelligent special-needs child and a member of his educational team. Plus the professional identification of his high intelligence puts us into the group of recognized exceptionalities for our school system (where the doctor's offhanded diagnosis of ADHD would not). So now we get an IEP (Individualized Education Plan), which is a formalized, specific, legal commitment by the school to work with T.K.'s particular learning needs. Worth it at twice the price.
"But," I hear you say, "Isn't it the school board's job to provide that kind of assessment service?" Well, yes and no. The lineups are long, the budget is limited, and the kids who get assessed tend to be the ones with super-heavy-duty challenges, with a side of assaultiveness or self-harm or we're-working-on-railroading-this-one-into-another-teaching-environment. If you aren't one of those, you'll wait a long time for a school-funded assessment. Like, forever. Forever's good for us, is it good for you? No?
And if you pay for the assessment, you can choose the assessor. I canvassed around, chose sources I respected, and then talked to two psychologists. Both were competent and well-spoken of, but one really lit up when talking about her work with brain-injured kids and kids with various chromosomal syndromes, where the other talked knowledgeably about kids with uneven development (like mine) and how their stuff played out in a classroom, plus she had a warm, humourous manner that I knew T.K. would take to. It was an easy pick.
And if you pay for it, you own it. They can't hold their meeting without you, since you are the custodian of that document, and you can choose who to share it with, and how much. There's more power in that than you think.
And it can help YOU. On the days when you are ripping your hair out wondering WHY this kid is not acting like the others, why childrearing is not the cakewalk for you that it is for your neighbour who has the typically-developing kid, well... on those days, it's good to know WHY. And cherish the undeniable strengths that go with the weaknesses.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Things That Work #5: Volunteer at the School
Not in your kid's class, of course. Nothing seems to cause the administration and teachers to circle the wagons faster and harder than a parent who wants to SEE what's actually going on in the classroom.
No, I'm talking about other stuff. Anything, really. Contribute to the school snack program. Do a once-weekly shift helping the smaller ones to read. Go along on the school trips. I particularly recommend anything that brings you into contact with the school administration in a context that does NOT involve your child's (mis)behaviour. Me, I'm secretary of the school council. I take the minutes (a job everyone else hates) and I offer my thoughts at the once-monthly meetings, and I get to hear what issues the administration is currently juggling.
Why? Well, I can never decide if my reasons are warm, human-connection ones, or manipulative, Machiavellian ones.
For one, it forces them to look at you with a label around your neck that is not just "Mother of That Kid". It's harder for them to keep you at arm's length when you've also helped organize the teacher appreciation lunch, or cut out a zilllion little numbers for Math Night, or baked three of your amazing pies for the bake sale, or whatever. And when it's a T.K. kinda moment, and we are on the carpet because T.K. lost his temper and hit someone, it helps keep things on an even keel if the principal and I both know that we'll be seeing each other three hours later at the council meeting, and I'll be the one taking down everything she says, and she'll be listening to my perspective as a parent at that school.
It possibly also makes them more reluctant to cheese you off. Schools need volunteers, and as a volunteer, you get to meet the other movers and shakers, and make friends with them. When you're part of that power structure, you're harder to push aside or ignore.
It also helps them realize that you are a thoughtful, intelligent, committed parent, and not the stereotypical ignorant slacker mother that they think is the main cause of kids like T.K. Sorry, folks -- revisit your assumptions. T.K. has educated, involved, contributing parents. Sad to say, but when people pigeonhole you, they've stopped thinking about why you are the way you are. It's an excuse to stop thinking, really. When they can't pigeonhole you so easily, they can't pigeonhole your kid easily either.
And finally, for YOU, it's more important than you can imagine, to have a reason to walk in that school door with your head held high and a big confident I-belong-here smile on your face. If you're only ever in there because your kid's done something wrong, you'll hate the place, you'll develop a hangdog slink the second you turn up the front walk, and that way lies marginalization. So what if your kid doesn't always do what they want. It's YOUR school too, and his, just as much as anyone else's.
No, I'm talking about other stuff. Anything, really. Contribute to the school snack program. Do a once-weekly shift helping the smaller ones to read. Go along on the school trips. I particularly recommend anything that brings you into contact with the school administration in a context that does NOT involve your child's (mis)behaviour. Me, I'm secretary of the school council. I take the minutes (a job everyone else hates) and I offer my thoughts at the once-monthly meetings, and I get to hear what issues the administration is currently juggling.
Why? Well, I can never decide if my reasons are warm, human-connection ones, or manipulative, Machiavellian ones.
For one, it forces them to look at you with a label around your neck that is not just "Mother of That Kid". It's harder for them to keep you at arm's length when you've also helped organize the teacher appreciation lunch, or cut out a zilllion little numbers for Math Night, or baked three of your amazing pies for the bake sale, or whatever. And when it's a T.K. kinda moment, and we are on the carpet because T.K. lost his temper and hit someone, it helps keep things on an even keel if the principal and I both know that we'll be seeing each other three hours later at the council meeting, and I'll be the one taking down everything she says, and she'll be listening to my perspective as a parent at that school.
It possibly also makes them more reluctant to cheese you off. Schools need volunteers, and as a volunteer, you get to meet the other movers and shakers, and make friends with them. When you're part of that power structure, you're harder to push aside or ignore.
It also helps them realize that you are a thoughtful, intelligent, committed parent, and not the stereotypical ignorant slacker mother that they think is the main cause of kids like T.K. Sorry, folks -- revisit your assumptions. T.K. has educated, involved, contributing parents. Sad to say, but when people pigeonhole you, they've stopped thinking about why you are the way you are. It's an excuse to stop thinking, really. When they can't pigeonhole you so easily, they can't pigeonhole your kid easily either.
And finally, for YOU, it's more important than you can imagine, to have a reason to walk in that school door with your head held high and a big confident I-belong-here smile on your face. If you're only ever in there because your kid's done something wrong, you'll hate the place, you'll develop a hangdog slink the second you turn up the front walk, and that way lies marginalization. So what if your kid doesn't always do what they want. It's YOUR school too, and his, just as much as anyone else's.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Things That Work #4: Uncomplicated Reconnect Time
It's so easy to get caught up in the moment-to-moment power struggles, and/or whatever humiliating episode the school needs you to know about THIS time. ("He what??? But he's NEVER bitten anyone at HOME... .")
Your child needs a parent who is involved, who teaches him/her appropriate behaviour, who keeps them accountable for their actions, who insists that everyone do the best they can on everything... but more than anything, they need to feel connected to. Like someone really SEES them, really GETS them.
Some days, that's harder than others.
What you need is some kind of ritual; some kind of place or event where, whatever failures or disagreements or power struggles or paint-peeling-tantrums-audible-three-counties-away the day held, you can just be together in an uncomplicated way. Your child needs it very badly, but you need it too. You need to feel like a good parent, in the face of all the evidence that the job is not going well (and the deep-seated, ever-present fear that worse is yet to come). And you need regular doses of the wonderful kid that your child is, no matter what was on today's rap sheet.
In our house, it's story time. We cuddle on the bed and I read Pippi Longstocking or the Wizard of Oz or Owls in the Family or The Great Brain, or whatever classic from my childhood I have chosen to inflict on my offspring before they develop their own literary tastes. Both my kids can read independently, but that's not stopping story time, and I don't plan that it should, for many years yet. We have J.R.R. Tolkien and Terry Pratchett and many, many others yet to come.
If story time is not your thing, well, see what is. My friend got through her three daughters' stormy but very individual trips through adolescence with chick flicks on the couch, side-by-side videogaming, and crafts at the kitchen table (she paints an AWESOME Ukrainian pysanka). Go biking together, make cookies together, paint their room whatever colour they choose together... just BE together. Talk is optional.
Your child needs a parent who is involved, who teaches him/her appropriate behaviour, who keeps them accountable for their actions, who insists that everyone do the best they can on everything... but more than anything, they need to feel connected to. Like someone really SEES them, really GETS them.
Some days, that's harder than others.
What you need is some kind of ritual; some kind of place or event where, whatever failures or disagreements or power struggles or paint-peeling-tantrums-audible-three-counties-away the day held, you can just be together in an uncomplicated way. Your child needs it very badly, but you need it too. You need to feel like a good parent, in the face of all the evidence that the job is not going well (and the deep-seated, ever-present fear that worse is yet to come). And you need regular doses of the wonderful kid that your child is, no matter what was on today's rap sheet.
In our house, it's story time. We cuddle on the bed and I read Pippi Longstocking or the Wizard of Oz or Owls in the Family or The Great Brain, or whatever classic from my childhood I have chosen to inflict on my offspring before they develop their own literary tastes. Both my kids can read independently, but that's not stopping story time, and I don't plan that it should, for many years yet. We have J.R.R. Tolkien and Terry Pratchett and many, many others yet to come.
If story time is not your thing, well, see what is. My friend got through her three daughters' stormy but very individual trips through adolescence with chick flicks on the couch, side-by-side videogaming, and crafts at the kitchen table (she paints an AWESOME Ukrainian pysanka). Go biking together, make cookies together, paint their room whatever colour they choose together... just BE together. Talk is optional.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Things That Work #3: Gum
An Occupational Therapist can tell you all about the neurological regulating effects of the "suck-swallow-breathe" synchrony, and about the power of "oral stims", for helping even ordinary folks calm and focus themselves.
Mary Sheedy Kurcinka, author of the fabulous Raising Your Spirited Child books maintains that passing out the gum is the best and fastest way to take the temperature of a heated situation down by a few oh-so-critical notches.
Other parents have found it aids focus during homework and other sustained-attention tasks.
Let's just say that it works.
Set aside your prejudices about the vulgarity of chewing gum, and about whether an oral self-calming mechanism is "infantile" or "a crutch" in any way. Think of it as a "brain hack"... a piece of circuitry that's installed in almost all of us, and that you can use to reach into the brain and bring it into a better and more productive state.
I know parents who (as mentioned above) use it for homework. I know parents who use it for difficult transition times (e.g. home to school) for a high-needs kid. T.K. gets to chew it when he's having one of his beaker-emptying breaks, with me or at the school. He likes two or even three pieces sometimes, to intensify the sensation, and with it the calming effect. He's quite good about getting rid of it in the garbage when the break is over, but I even know some teachers who permit it in class, as long as students do it quietly and appropriately.
Go ahead, try it. I don't know anyone it doesn't work for.
Mary Sheedy Kurcinka, author of the fabulous Raising Your Spirited Child books maintains that passing out the gum is the best and fastest way to take the temperature of a heated situation down by a few oh-so-critical notches.
Other parents have found it aids focus during homework and other sustained-attention tasks.
Let's just say that it works.
Set aside your prejudices about the vulgarity of chewing gum, and about whether an oral self-calming mechanism is "infantile" or "a crutch" in any way. Think of it as a "brain hack"... a piece of circuitry that's installed in almost all of us, and that you can use to reach into the brain and bring it into a better and more productive state.
I know parents who (as mentioned above) use it for homework. I know parents who use it for difficult transition times (e.g. home to school) for a high-needs kid. T.K. gets to chew it when he's having one of his beaker-emptying breaks, with me or at the school. He likes two or even three pieces sometimes, to intensify the sensation, and with it the calming effect. He's quite good about getting rid of it in the garbage when the break is over, but I even know some teachers who permit it in class, as long as students do it quietly and appropriately.
Go ahead, try it. I don't know anyone it doesn't work for.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Things That Work #2: Breaks, not Blowouts
The Child and Parent Resource Institute (CPRI) in London, Ontario, runs a clinic called The Brake Shop. Periodically, they offer a free six-night "Leaky Brakes 101" course for parents and educators and social service and medical professionals. For those of you who dig the whole diagnosis-alphabet soup scene, they deal with OCD, ADHD, ODD, Tourette's, rage problems, and related stuff. For those of you who don't, they deal with kids who, for whatever reason, Have Trouble Stopping... whether that comes with a diagnosis or not.
If you live in southern Ontario and you can get to one of these, it's worth a million bucks. It completely turned my thinking inside out, about why my kid does what he does, and how I can help him do better. For those of you more than a couple of hours from London, Ontario, you can get on their website and take in a lot of the materials in printed and recorded form. Not quiiiite as good, but still very helpful. Check out http://www.cpri.thehealthline.ca/clinics.asp?page=1 .
Anyway, the section on rage and emotional explosiveness included the "frustration beaker" (available in the "Putting the Brakes on Rage" printout in the "Strategy Documents" section. See, we can all tolerate a certain amount of frustration (some more than others). But when the beaker is getting too full, it doesn't really matter what the "trigger" is that set off a full-blown meltdown. The point is that there was not room in the beaker for one more frustration/annoyance/too-hard challenge. Kaboom. And it's usually the kids who are vulnerable to can't-cope-any-more meltdowns who face more challenges in getting through an ordinary school day that's business-as-usual for everyone else.
The strategy that flows naturally from that is to find ways to empty out the beaker, through the day -- because once a meltdown has started, there's really no way to divert it before it's run its course. Better not to have it at all.
Right now, thanks to my flexible home-based business (as in, I understand how freakily unusual my situation is) I go to the school twice a day and take T.K. out for recess/nutrition break (we're doing that "balanced day" nonsense). We ride bikes. We climb trees. We scooter. He has a snack. For him, exercise and fresh air and physical space and an absence of hectoring classmates and commanding teachers is a fabulous beaker-emptier. His teacher reports that he returns to class relaxed, refreshed and ready to learn.
I am sure that the readers who can implement this same solution exactly as I have... well, if there's more than four or five of you, I'll be surprised. But start giving thought to the things that empty your kid's beaker, and how they can, somehow, even in very small ways, be worked into his/her day.
I'll give some more beaker-emptying suggestions on future posts.
If you live in southern Ontario and you can get to one of these, it's worth a million bucks. It completely turned my thinking inside out, about why my kid does what he does, and how I can help him do better. For those of you more than a couple of hours from London, Ontario, you can get on their website and take in a lot of the materials in printed and recorded form. Not quiiiite as good, but still very helpful. Check out http://www.cpri.thehealthline.ca/clinics.asp?page=1 .
Anyway, the section on rage and emotional explosiveness included the "frustration beaker" (available in the "Putting the Brakes on Rage" printout in the "Strategy Documents" section. See, we can all tolerate a certain amount of frustration (some more than others). But when the beaker is getting too full, it doesn't really matter what the "trigger" is that set off a full-blown meltdown. The point is that there was not room in the beaker for one more frustration/annoyance/too-hard challenge. Kaboom. And it's usually the kids who are vulnerable to can't-cope-any-more meltdowns who face more challenges in getting through an ordinary school day that's business-as-usual for everyone else.
The strategy that flows naturally from that is to find ways to empty out the beaker, through the day -- because once a meltdown has started, there's really no way to divert it before it's run its course. Better not to have it at all.
Right now, thanks to my flexible home-based business (as in, I understand how freakily unusual my situation is) I go to the school twice a day and take T.K. out for recess/nutrition break (we're doing that "balanced day" nonsense). We ride bikes. We climb trees. We scooter. He has a snack. For him, exercise and fresh air and physical space and an absence of hectoring classmates and commanding teachers is a fabulous beaker-emptier. His teacher reports that he returns to class relaxed, refreshed and ready to learn.
I am sure that the readers who can implement this same solution exactly as I have... well, if there's more than four or five of you, I'll be surprised. But start giving thought to the things that empty your kid's beaker, and how they can, somehow, even in very small ways, be worked into his/her day.
I'll give some more beaker-emptying suggestions on future posts.
Junior Mad Scientists
T.K. and his sister brought me their latest invention the other night. It's a Lego contraption which "plugs into the brain of an animal without hurting it at all, and records all the behaviours in its behaviour centre. Then it downloads them to a robotic copy of the animal that's controlled by this remote control. The remote control has a video screen where you can see the pictures it takes as it moves around."
So... brush and braid My Little Pony's mane and tail... and then plug it into a neural-control device. That's my kids. So sweet to see them making their first forays into mad science! Well, there WAS the assemble-your-own-human-brain experiment ("You're putting it in upside down!!"), but that was last year.
And they wonder why T.K.'s not so interested in the plant-a-bean experiment they're doing in Grade 1 science.
So... brush and braid My Little Pony's mane and tail... and then plug it into a neural-control device. That's my kids. So sweet to see them making their first forays into mad science! Well, there WAS the assemble-your-own-human-brain experiment ("You're putting it in upside down!!"), but that was last year.
And they wonder why T.K.'s not so interested in the plant-a-bean experiment they're doing in Grade 1 science.
Things That Work #1: Not Going Away
Lindsay Moir came to speak at our local children's developmental-services agency a few years ago. Lindsay's got some serious cred. He's been a special-needs teacher, principal, superintendent, governmental bureaucrat, professional advocate... AND, parent to a special-needs daughter. (I believe I have all those positions right.)
The Ontario Association of Children's Rehabilitation Services (OACRS) features a regular "Ask Lindsay Moirs" column on their website at www.oacrs.com/resource-familynet.php , where Lindsay fields questions from parents of children of all ages, and facing a wild diversity of challenges. It's well worth a browse. Odds are you'll find someone like you, with a child like yours.
Anyway, Lindsay spoke about structuring an IEP that would be useful AND used, about navigating the various levels of educational bureaucracy, and about the underlying concerns and psychology of the school-system people you'll be dealing with, which makes it easier for you to speak their language and jump over the hurdles that get placed in your way. Loads and loads of great stuff.
But the first, best thing he said was this (Lindsay, forgive me if I mess up your delivery):
"There have been studies done on the factors that contribute the most to the success of children with special needs. Whatever the special need, and however "success" is defined for that child, there is one factor that the successful cases have in common. It isn't education level or income or socioeconomic status of the parents. It isn't the geographic district you live in, or the educational philosophy of the school. It isn't the size of the class. It isn't any of those things."
"It's Parents Who Will Not Go Away. Notice that I don't say parents who are pushy or obnoxious, but... parents who calmly, firmly won't go away until their child has what they need to succeed."
I sat in the audience that night, and all my anxieties about knowing what to do and how to do it fell away in a moment of wonderful clarity. "Not Going Away," I thought. "I can DO that!!"
This principle will carry you through those days when the administration informs you that you didn't get the teacher you were hoping for, or you lost the disagreement about how to handle your kid's stress meltdowns at school, or they withdrew the funding for the social skills class he was loving so much. I had a principal for a while who liked to make sure that the parent walked out of her office knowing just WHO in that room had "won" that day (her) and WHO had "lost" (the parent). "Yeah," I'd think. "You won this round. But what you don't understand is that I'm. Not. Going. Away."
So... take a deep breath, have a cup of coffee, plaster a calm, confident smile on your face, and KEEP COMING BACK. It's amazing how much gets done, sooner or later, when you do.
The Ontario Association of Children's Rehabilitation Services (OACRS) features a regular "Ask Lindsay Moirs" column on their website at www.oacrs.com/resource-familynet.php , where Lindsay fields questions from parents of children of all ages, and facing a wild diversity of challenges. It's well worth a browse. Odds are you'll find someone like you, with a child like yours.
Anyway, Lindsay spoke about structuring an IEP that would be useful AND used, about navigating the various levels of educational bureaucracy, and about the underlying concerns and psychology of the school-system people you'll be dealing with, which makes it easier for you to speak their language and jump over the hurdles that get placed in your way. Loads and loads of great stuff.
But the first, best thing he said was this (Lindsay, forgive me if I mess up your delivery):
"There have been studies done on the factors that contribute the most to the success of children with special needs. Whatever the special need, and however "success" is defined for that child, there is one factor that the successful cases have in common. It isn't education level or income or socioeconomic status of the parents. It isn't the geographic district you live in, or the educational philosophy of the school. It isn't the size of the class. It isn't any of those things."
"It's Parents Who Will Not Go Away. Notice that I don't say parents who are pushy or obnoxious, but... parents who calmly, firmly won't go away until their child has what they need to succeed."
I sat in the audience that night, and all my anxieties about knowing what to do and how to do it fell away in a moment of wonderful clarity. "Not Going Away," I thought. "I can DO that!!"
This principle will carry you through those days when the administration informs you that you didn't get the teacher you were hoping for, or you lost the disagreement about how to handle your kid's stress meltdowns at school, or they withdrew the funding for the social skills class he was loving so much. I had a principal for a while who liked to make sure that the parent walked out of her office knowing just WHO in that room had "won" that day (her) and WHO had "lost" (the parent). "Yeah," I'd think. "You won this round. But what you don't understand is that I'm. Not. Going. Away."
So... take a deep breath, have a cup of coffee, plaster a calm, confident smile on your face, and KEEP COMING BACK. It's amazing how much gets done, sooner or later, when you do.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Okay, time to quit whining
It's been an extremely rough year. Thanks to the miracle of operant conditioning, I now get a stomach ache every time I approach the school, for fear of what I will be told that my kid's done wrong THIS time.
But whining palls quickly. Probably already has. And that's not why I'm here anyway.
Time to get started on The Stuff That Works. Things that have made our lives better -- sometimes by design, sometimes by happy accident. That's what we special needs (however you define special needs) parents do best. We brainstorm, we problem-solve, we pass around tips and resources and techniques and anything someone else might find useful.
Do with it whatever you will!!
But whining palls quickly. Probably already has. And that's not why I'm here anyway.
Time to get started on The Stuff That Works. Things that have made our lives better -- sometimes by design, sometimes by happy accident. That's what we special needs (however you define special needs) parents do best. We brainstorm, we problem-solve, we pass around tips and resources and techniques and anything someone else might find useful.
Do with it whatever you will!!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Hands-on (hands-in?) Learning
When T.K.'s teacher brought him out for his break today, she patted his shaggy blond head and wryly asked, "T.K., do you want to tell your mother what you learned today?"
T.K. held up a bandaged thumb, and announced importantly, "I shouldn't staple myself!"
Who says that a public school education doesn't equip you for real life?
T.K. held up a bandaged thumb, and announced importantly, "I shouldn't staple myself!"
Who says that a public school education doesn't equip you for real life?
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Grilled cheese, not Ritalin
The school has me picking up T.K. for his twice-daily nutrition/recess breaks, because it was the unstructured times that were causing the most problem (or, as the principal rather agitatedly put it after one incident, "kids are getting hurt whenever he goes out to recess!!") Nowhere near the truth, but clearly, something needed to be done. So, twice daily I leave my desk, and go to the school. T.K. and I scooter, or ride bikes, or climb trees in the park, or go walking, and eat a snack on a park bench or even at home, with a few minutes of Scooby-Doo on the telly. He chills.
It's been totally gutting my work productivity, but it's helped a lot -- his teacher reports that he returns relaxed, ready to learn, and with his "frustration beaker" emptied out for another round. He's not melting down nearly as often. And it was totally worth it when T.K. collapsed happily on the grass in the park and said, "Mom, this is GREAT. Nobody's BUGGING me!!!" I know how you feel, kiddo. It's not a coincidence that I work at home by myself. Part of me knows I'm supposed to be pushing him back towards a full, uninterrupted 6 hours at school... but part of me also remembers how much I wanted, NEEDED my lunches at home, with grilled cheese and ten minutes of the Flintstones and a grandmother whose love was unconditional.
Well, yesterday I went to pick him up and the gym teacher was just leading his class back to their classroom... but he wasn't in the lineup. Her lips were pressed tightly together and she conspicuously did not meet my gaze. Then T.K. arrived with his "cool-down basket" (more on that later) -- he hates gym class, and had decided simply to opt out, with a stint in the principal's office instead. Oh-kay. I stared wistfully at the orderly line of little conformity-droids trooping obediently back to their classroom, and indulged in a bit of self-pity. Why can't *I* be one of those parents who just drops the kid off in the morning and collects them at 3:10, and doesn't have to brace themselves for the tales of what the kid has done wrong THIS time??? T.K., immune to both the teacher's disapproval and my droopy expression, was already outside and turning his face up to the sunshine of freedom, or at least of 40 minutes' worth of freedom.
The low mood didn't last. It couldn't, not on such a beautiful day, and in the company of T.K. and his happy chatter. We ate a snack and climbed trees in the park (am I being immature if I choose the ones that are visible to the kids who eat their lunches confined to their desks in the classrooms? I want to make it clear that T.K. is not being punished for needing his breaks.)
Signing him back in at the office, I listened as the intercom crackled. Mrs. R, one of the intermediate-level teachers, announced to the secretary, "I have just been informed that Cindy threw her water bottle at Melinda during the break and told her that she hated her. For this ASSAULT, she needs to come see the principal." I imagined Cindy standing there, head low or defiantly high, as the teacher proclaimed her crimes for the entire class and the administration too. I've seen Cindy in the principal's office before. She's a frequent flyer like T.K. Has a nice smile, when it comes out.
And I wonder... is anyone speaking for her? I hate the amount of time I have spent listening to accounts of T.K.'s crimes, consulting with OTs and behaviour specialists and aggrieved teachers, using words like "consequences" and "triggers" and "impulse control", feeling like my parenting (and my genome) are on the trial stand, and trying to somehow create a fit between my son and the school system he's just not quiiiite ready for. But is anyone doing that for Cindy? Sure, it wasn't right to throw the water bottle. But maybe all she needs is a break too, now and again, a bit of breathing room with "nobody bugging me" and grilled cheese and a bit of Scooby Doo laid on by someone who doesn't judge you.
She probably needs it... but I imagine that trips to the principal's office and the whispers of her peers and the teacher spitting words like "ASSAULT" is all she's getting. And I'm also betting that that won't solve the problem for anybody.
Yuck.
It's been totally gutting my work productivity, but it's helped a lot -- his teacher reports that he returns relaxed, ready to learn, and with his "frustration beaker" emptied out for another round. He's not melting down nearly as often. And it was totally worth it when T.K. collapsed happily on the grass in the park and said, "Mom, this is GREAT. Nobody's BUGGING me!!!" I know how you feel, kiddo. It's not a coincidence that I work at home by myself. Part of me knows I'm supposed to be pushing him back towards a full, uninterrupted 6 hours at school... but part of me also remembers how much I wanted, NEEDED my lunches at home, with grilled cheese and ten minutes of the Flintstones and a grandmother whose love was unconditional.
Well, yesterday I went to pick him up and the gym teacher was just leading his class back to their classroom... but he wasn't in the lineup. Her lips were pressed tightly together and she conspicuously did not meet my gaze. Then T.K. arrived with his "cool-down basket" (more on that later) -- he hates gym class, and had decided simply to opt out, with a stint in the principal's office instead. Oh-kay. I stared wistfully at the orderly line of little conformity-droids trooping obediently back to their classroom, and indulged in a bit of self-pity. Why can't *I* be one of those parents who just drops the kid off in the morning and collects them at 3:10, and doesn't have to brace themselves for the tales of what the kid has done wrong THIS time??? T.K., immune to both the teacher's disapproval and my droopy expression, was already outside and turning his face up to the sunshine of freedom, or at least of 40 minutes' worth of freedom.
The low mood didn't last. It couldn't, not on such a beautiful day, and in the company of T.K. and his happy chatter. We ate a snack and climbed trees in the park (am I being immature if I choose the ones that are visible to the kids who eat their lunches confined to their desks in the classrooms? I want to make it clear that T.K. is not being punished for needing his breaks.)
Signing him back in at the office, I listened as the intercom crackled. Mrs. R, one of the intermediate-level teachers, announced to the secretary, "I have just been informed that Cindy threw her water bottle at Melinda during the break and told her that she hated her. For this ASSAULT, she needs to come see the principal." I imagined Cindy standing there, head low or defiantly high, as the teacher proclaimed her crimes for the entire class and the administration too. I've seen Cindy in the principal's office before. She's a frequent flyer like T.K. Has a nice smile, when it comes out.
And I wonder... is anyone speaking for her? I hate the amount of time I have spent listening to accounts of T.K.'s crimes, consulting with OTs and behaviour specialists and aggrieved teachers, using words like "consequences" and "triggers" and "impulse control", feeling like my parenting (and my genome) are on the trial stand, and trying to somehow create a fit between my son and the school system he's just not quiiiite ready for. But is anyone doing that for Cindy? Sure, it wasn't right to throw the water bottle. But maybe all she needs is a break too, now and again, a bit of breathing room with "nobody bugging me" and grilled cheese and a bit of Scooby Doo laid on by someone who doesn't judge you.
She probably needs it... but I imagine that trips to the principal's office and the whispers of her peers and the teacher spitting words like "ASSAULT" is all she's getting. And I'm also betting that that won't solve the problem for anybody.
Yuck.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Irony
I spent most of an afternoon last month in a school case conference about my high-spirited tow-headed young nonconformist who doesn't obey the rules.
That evening, I attended the school musical, "Tom Sawyer"... which was about a high-spirited tow-headed young nonconformist who doesn't obey the rules.
Am I the only one who finds this the teensiest bit ironic? I joked about it to the principal, but not having read Tom Sawyer, she just looked at me blankly.
Those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it. It seems that this goes for their literature as well.
Seriously, though, we have a collective fascination with blond-headed troublemakers who say and do all the things we yearned to get away with at that age. How long has Dennis the Menace been running on the comics page? How about his modern compatriot, Calvin of "Calvin and Hobbes"? Bart Simpson? All of them a right royal pain in the rear, and we're not keen to live next to them, but we seem to need them, nonetheless.
That evening, I attended the school musical, "Tom Sawyer"... which was about a high-spirited tow-headed young nonconformist who doesn't obey the rules.
Am I the only one who finds this the teensiest bit ironic? I joked about it to the principal, but not having read Tom Sawyer, she just looked at me blankly.
Those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it. It seems that this goes for their literature as well.
Seriously, though, we have a collective fascination with blond-headed troublemakers who say and do all the things we yearned to get away with at that age. How long has Dennis the Menace been running on the comics page? How about his modern compatriot, Calvin of "Calvin and Hobbes"? Bart Simpson? All of them a right royal pain in the rear, and we're not keen to live next to them, but we seem to need them, nonetheless.
The Art of Apology
Apologizing is a loaded act, these days. Apologizing at the scene of a car accident can let you in for some fun liability issues. Corporate apologies (for getting caught cooking the books, for issuing a faulty product, for causing a gas leak that wipes out an entire village) are also invitations for the legal dogs to descend, and generally issued only at gunpoint. Apologizing for a medical error? Hel-lo, malpractice suit.
However, I have always been cultivating the art of apology with T.K. Putting it bluntly, if he keeps being the impulsive imp he is, he's going to need to do a lot of it, and do it well. So we work on it.
The crime under consideration recently was an incident in math class. He and a girl were playing a math game that involved rolling dice. Both wanted to be the custodian of the dice, in between turns. She got hold of them and wouldn't give them back, he got upset and bit her on the hand. Which is certainly not okay (and yet another thing he doesn't do at home or outside of school, go figure).
So we talked about how to demonstrate his penitence, and settled on a card of apology. When asked what this girl liked best, T.K. was prompt -- "she likes Disney Princesses". So we went to the Disney website, and sonovagun, they have printable greeting cards. Did you know that? I didn't. He chose the border, chose the princess she likes best (Sleeping Beauty) printed it out and laboriously signed it. He also had to write the message inside because of all the canned greeting messages available, "Sorry I bit you in math class," is not one of them. You'd think that Disney would be all over a productization opportunity like this, but apparently not.
The next day he presented it to her with great pride and excitement; she was thrilled with it and kept it in her desk until the teacher made her take it home.
As a friend of mine is fond of saying, "Ya gotta take us everywhere twice -- the second time to apologize!"
However, I have always been cultivating the art of apology with T.K. Putting it bluntly, if he keeps being the impulsive imp he is, he's going to need to do a lot of it, and do it well. So we work on it.
The crime under consideration recently was an incident in math class. He and a girl were playing a math game that involved rolling dice. Both wanted to be the custodian of the dice, in between turns. She got hold of them and wouldn't give them back, he got upset and bit her on the hand. Which is certainly not okay (and yet another thing he doesn't do at home or outside of school, go figure).
So we talked about how to demonstrate his penitence, and settled on a card of apology. When asked what this girl liked best, T.K. was prompt -- "she likes Disney Princesses". So we went to the Disney website, and sonovagun, they have printable greeting cards. Did you know that? I didn't. He chose the border, chose the princess she likes best (Sleeping Beauty) printed it out and laboriously signed it. He also had to write the message inside because of all the canned greeting messages available, "Sorry I bit you in math class," is not one of them. You'd think that Disney would be all over a productization opportunity like this, but apparently not.
The next day he presented it to her with great pride and excitement; she was thrilled with it and kept it in her desk until the teacher made her take it home.
As a friend of mine is fond of saying, "Ya gotta take us everywhere twice -- the second time to apologize!"
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The New Epidemic of Defiance
My M.O., when confronted with a problem, has always been to get one (or two, or twelve) books on the subject and research obsessively. Parenting is the first challenge that has not fairly quickly sorted itself out in the face of the onslaught of print-based expertise, and this has actually been a very good thing for me.
However, old habits die hard, and after one of our recent school blow-ups, I went out and spent $100 on books with "Defiant" and "Challenging" in the title. The first one, "Your Defiant Child" (by Russell Barkley, who has a PhD and everything, and Christine Benton, who doesn't but is still really really smart) earned itself a free flight across the room and into the opposite wall, when I encountered the following, ten pages in:
"Therefore, to answer the question, 'Is there really anything wrong, or is it just me,' you need some reliable objective measures. My colleagues and I consider a child oppositional and defiant when the child demonstrates a pattern of three types of behavior:
"1. The child fails to start doing what you ask within one minute after you make the request (or one minute following the point at which you say the child has to do what you ask, such as after the cartoon he is watching is over)."
Good heavens. Who knew? It seems that I also have a defiant *husband*, as well as a defiant child!! And to be fair, I find out that *I* am also regularly defiant! Don't ask how many times my husband has to ask me to do my taxes, in an average year. Well, on we go...
"2. The child fails to finish what you've asked her to do. Some children may get up and start making their beds as requested right away, but then they run off to do something more appealing in the middle of the chore."
Well, THAT'S certainly not normal. I mean, if it were, we'd have a whole nation of people checking their Facebook pages or thinking about their vacations or talking about last night's episode of Lost, when they SHOULD be WORKING!!
"3. The child violates rules of conduct already taught. Does your son know that swearing is unacceptable in your house, but he does it anyway? Does your daughter understand the rule, 'no snacks without permission,' but constantly take food from the refrigerator without asking?"
Oh, for pity's sake. Kid drops the f-bomb or raids the fridge and he's diagnosable? What are we raising here, humans or Imperial Storm Trooper Clones? Would you take parenting advice from someone who never did these things? Would you want to BE parented by someone whose demands for compliance were that rigid?
There are some families out there with REAL problems. Kids who do real harm to others and themselves. Kids whose anxieties are so paralyzing that they can't even leave the house. Why are we pathologizing kids who do things that we ALL did, and all STILL do, even as adults?
Okay. Deep breath. Retrieve book from place behind the sofa where it landed. The dust jacket features a recommendation by Ed Hallowell, who's someone I respect. Russell and Christine, Ed's just obtained you your second chance. Don't be wasting my valuable time, now. Give me some worthwhile perspective -- within one minute of me requesting it, please.
However, old habits die hard, and after one of our recent school blow-ups, I went out and spent $100 on books with "Defiant" and "Challenging" in the title. The first one, "Your Defiant Child" (by Russell Barkley, who has a PhD and everything, and Christine Benton, who doesn't but is still really really smart) earned itself a free flight across the room and into the opposite wall, when I encountered the following, ten pages in:
"Therefore, to answer the question, 'Is there really anything wrong, or is it just me,' you need some reliable objective measures. My colleagues and I consider a child oppositional and defiant when the child demonstrates a pattern of three types of behavior:
"1. The child fails to start doing what you ask within one minute after you make the request (or one minute following the point at which you say the child has to do what you ask, such as after the cartoon he is watching is over)."
Good heavens. Who knew? It seems that I also have a defiant *husband*, as well as a defiant child!! And to be fair, I find out that *I* am also regularly defiant! Don't ask how many times my husband has to ask me to do my taxes, in an average year. Well, on we go...
"2. The child fails to finish what you've asked her to do. Some children may get up and start making their beds as requested right away, but then they run off to do something more appealing in the middle of the chore."
Well, THAT'S certainly not normal. I mean, if it were, we'd have a whole nation of people checking their Facebook pages or thinking about their vacations or talking about last night's episode of Lost, when they SHOULD be WORKING!!
"3. The child violates rules of conduct already taught. Does your son know that swearing is unacceptable in your house, but he does it anyway? Does your daughter understand the rule, 'no snacks without permission,' but constantly take food from the refrigerator without asking?"
Oh, for pity's sake. Kid drops the f-bomb or raids the fridge and he's diagnosable? What are we raising here, humans or Imperial Storm Trooper Clones? Would you take parenting advice from someone who never did these things? Would you want to BE parented by someone whose demands for compliance were that rigid?
There are some families out there with REAL problems. Kids who do real harm to others and themselves. Kids whose anxieties are so paralyzing that they can't even leave the house. Why are we pathologizing kids who do things that we ALL did, and all STILL do, even as adults?
Okay. Deep breath. Retrieve book from place behind the sofa where it landed. The dust jacket features a recommendation by Ed Hallowell, who's someone I respect. Russell and Christine, Ed's just obtained you your second chance. Don't be wasting my valuable time, now. Give me some worthwhile perspective -- within one minute of me requesting it, please.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Pitching Pastries with the Posh Set
T.K. and his older sister were eating their bedtime snack at the table, and pretending to be customers at a fancy restaurant.
"And why are you here?" enquires Sis loftily. "Are you in love?"
T.K. replies, equally loftily, "No, I won a pie-throwing contest."
"And why are you here?" enquires Sis loftily. "Are you in love?"
T.K. replies, equally loftily, "No, I won a pie-throwing contest."
The Cosmic Roller Coaster
So... T.K.'s show-and-tell triumph was followed by the worst weekend we've ever had. Three complete and utter meltdowns, over stuff he normally handles quite well (okay, well, pretty well at least). The largest and best freakouts and showdowns and lockups were reserved for his Community Helper homework assignment.
See, T.K. hates writing. HATES it. And watching him laboriously scrawl wobbly preschooler letters onto paper, I can see why. It must be like writing with your left hand ALL THE TIME. I've got him signed up for the Handwriting Without Tears Printing Camp in the fall, which did wonders for his sister's equally drunken script, but until then... we make do with Handwriting With Tears.
I scribe for him. I write out his words and let him copy them down. I let him use the computer occasionally. I take him for walks and movement breaks. I let him chew gum. I help him do finger warmups. I don't insist that he write a LOT, but he has to do some, or he'll never get the hang. Some days it works. Some days, it.... doesn't, and the whole experience is not unlike giving your cat a bath. Both parties emerge from the experience dishevelled, breathless, roughed up and resentful.
But... eventually, the stars aligned, and he was able to buckle in and git 'er done, and was quite proud of himself when he finished.
So it goes, so much of the time when you have an atypically-developing kid. For every triumph a disaster, for every disaster, a triumph... it does sorta balance out, but it's certainly not a ride for the faint of heart. You need a catch-phrase, a "some days you eat the bear, some days the bear eats you" kinda mantra to get you through the disaster days. I used to work as a forest fire lookout, and I remember the day when a waterbomber team spent a long and laborious (and killingly hot) day laying a fire retardant line around an out-of-control fire. They almost had that sucker penned in, when the wind changed and the thing ran out the back of their almost-completed circle, and they were back to square one. One of the pilots (in weary violation of federal regs about swearing on the air) sighed, "Ah, fuck, it's only trees."
So -- accept the disaster days, indulge in a little balm for the soul, shrug off the humiliation of... oh, insert the Unspeakable Incident of your choice here... and move on, confident that there is a triumph of some sort coming down the pike to keep you going. It may not be tomorrow, and you may have to keep a sharp eye, because it may be small and easy to miss in the daily chaos, but it's there. And it'll keep you going, if you let it.
See, T.K. hates writing. HATES it. And watching him laboriously scrawl wobbly preschooler letters onto paper, I can see why. It must be like writing with your left hand ALL THE TIME. I've got him signed up for the Handwriting Without Tears Printing Camp in the fall, which did wonders for his sister's equally drunken script, but until then... we make do with Handwriting With Tears.
I scribe for him. I write out his words and let him copy them down. I let him use the computer occasionally. I take him for walks and movement breaks. I let him chew gum. I help him do finger warmups. I don't insist that he write a LOT, but he has to do some, or he'll never get the hang. Some days it works. Some days, it.... doesn't, and the whole experience is not unlike giving your cat a bath. Both parties emerge from the experience dishevelled, breathless, roughed up and resentful.
But... eventually, the stars aligned, and he was able to buckle in and git 'er done, and was quite proud of himself when he finished.
So it goes, so much of the time when you have an atypically-developing kid. For every triumph a disaster, for every disaster, a triumph... it does sorta balance out, but it's certainly not a ride for the faint of heart. You need a catch-phrase, a "some days you eat the bear, some days the bear eats you" kinda mantra to get you through the disaster days. I used to work as a forest fire lookout, and I remember the day when a waterbomber team spent a long and laborious (and killingly hot) day laying a fire retardant line around an out-of-control fire. They almost had that sucker penned in, when the wind changed and the thing ran out the back of their almost-completed circle, and they were back to square one. One of the pilots (in weary violation of federal regs about swearing on the air) sighed, "Ah, fuck, it's only trees."
So -- accept the disaster days, indulge in a little balm for the soul, shrug off the humiliation of... oh, insert the Unspeakable Incident of your choice here... and move on, confident that there is a triumph of some sort coming down the pike to keep you going. It may not be tomorrow, and you may have to keep a sharp eye, because it may be small and easy to miss in the daily chaos, but it's there. And it'll keep you going, if you let it.
Friday, April 23, 2010
If that's a truck tire in the bathtub, then this must be spring
T.K.'s teacher is trying to get away from the "bring and brag" element of traditional "show and tell". So she usually assigns themes. This month's theme is, "Signs of Spring". All the nice normie kids are dutifully bringing in flowers and willow branches and pictures of robins and etc. T.K., who can become one with nature with the best of them (thank goodness for my heavy-duty washer-drier), said, "I want to bring a tire."
"Um, why?"
"Because spring is when you change over from winter tires to summer tires."
"Oh." Makes sense. Fortunately, we have an obliging mechanic, who loaned us one for a few days. T.K. decided that it was too dirty for the classroom... so he had a bath with it. My husband arrived home that night from a four-day business trip to find a damp truck tire (and a big scummy black ring) in the bathtub. Being a wise man, he asked no questions.
The next day T.K. triumphantly towed it to school on his wagon, and apparently explained in great detail (holding the spotlight has never been a challenge for T.K.) the factors that make it a good idea to change from winter to summer tires right now. His teacher said even she learned some things she hadn't known.
That's my lateral-thinkin' boy!!!
"Um, why?"
"Because spring is when you change over from winter tires to summer tires."
"Oh." Makes sense. Fortunately, we have an obliging mechanic, who loaned us one for a few days. T.K. decided that it was too dirty for the classroom... so he had a bath with it. My husband arrived home that night from a four-day business trip to find a damp truck tire (and a big scummy black ring) in the bathtub. Being a wise man, he asked no questions.
The next day T.K. triumphantly towed it to school on his wagon, and apparently explained in great detail (holding the spotlight has never been a challenge for T.K.) the factors that make it a good idea to change from winter to summer tires right now. His teacher said even she learned some things she hadn't known.
That's my lateral-thinkin' boy!!!
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Pee break
Well, the good news is that I'm impressed by the school's scramble response when a student fails to show up at the next class. But I wish they'd checked the bathroom BEFORE they went and freaked out.
Seems T.K.'s class was on the way to the library. T.K. decided he needed to pee, and in the absence of an immediately-available adult to ask permission of, he peeled off and went to the can. The librarian noted his absence and called his teacher. His teacher arrived, breathless, at the office where I was chatting with the principal about some School Council stuff. "Is T.K. here?" "No, he isn't." "He didn't report to the library!" The principal turned white, shot to her feet, and in a trice we had the principal, the assistant principal and an E.A. galloping through the halls in search of the lost lamb. Just as I was saying, "Has anyone checked the bathrooms?" -- T.K. emerged from the boys' room, and found himself instantly surrounded by a posse of hard-breathing, dishevelled adults. He saw Mom, and made a beeline in my direction. I prompted him, "T.K., if you have to go to the washroom, you should always..."
T.K. looked around at the assembly of white-faced authority figures surrounding him and ventured uncertainly, "Um, wash my hands??"
Yeah, honey. That too.
Seems T.K.'s class was on the way to the library. T.K. decided he needed to pee, and in the absence of an immediately-available adult to ask permission of, he peeled off and went to the can. The librarian noted his absence and called his teacher. His teacher arrived, breathless, at the office where I was chatting with the principal about some School Council stuff. "Is T.K. here?" "No, he isn't." "He didn't report to the library!" The principal turned white, shot to her feet, and in a trice we had the principal, the assistant principal and an E.A. galloping through the halls in search of the lost lamb. Just as I was saying, "Has anyone checked the bathrooms?" -- T.K. emerged from the boys' room, and found himself instantly surrounded by a posse of hard-breathing, dishevelled adults. He saw Mom, and made a beeline in my direction. I prompted him, "T.K., if you have to go to the washroom, you should always..."
T.K. looked around at the assembly of white-faced authority figures surrounding him and ventured uncertainly, "Um, wash my hands??"
Yeah, honey. That too.
T.K.'s and my place at the table
Well, I wasn't holding out much hope, and sure enough, Behaviour Consultant showed up (late) with a fully-developed plan in hand (again). The first page was a summary of the stuff that T.K.'s hardworking teacher and I are already doing. Ummm, thanks. The second page was a detailed discussion of what to do if T.K. leaves school property (which he has never done). There was a lot of verbiage about repeatedly paging him to return to a safe place, then of following and not chasing him through the neighbourhood while attempting to contact me by phone, as if he was going to go on some kind of murderous rampage or something. I suspect it was a cut and paste from some other kid's plan. On top of that she got my name wrong.
A fuse somewhere in my head went, "fzzit!" and I listened to a clear, controlled voice (hey, whoa, is that ME??) saying, "This is precisely the situation I was hoping to avoid with the phone calls I made to you last week, hoping to discuss the plan, which you did not return. Now I'm in the position of having to read, digest and respond to the plan all simultaneously, when the meeting is already in progress." She could have saved it by an apology, but instead she turned bright red and tightly said, "Yes, that's... hard." So I stopped the whole meeting and however many dollars of School Board time and expertise (tally up: one principal, one special education teacher, one teacher, one social worker) and cooled its heels while I leafed through the thing... and then chucked it aside. We then went on to have quite a productive meeting (enjoyably enhanced by the sullen silence of the Behaviour Consultant), although my husband remarked later that it was a very FEMALE meeting, with everyone dancing around everyone's feelings with exaggerated deference.
"What, you didn't think I was too pushy?"
"No, you were the only one trying to get specific problems and specific solutions on the table. Yeah, you slapped that one woman down, but she deserved it. I think they're a little scared of you now."
Wow.
Bottom line? I'm sure you'd get a wide variety of "takes" on that meeting depending on who you ask. But for me it was a breakthrough. I found my voice, and it wasn't shrill or defensive or ingratiatingly passive. I have a place at the table, and a role in this process, and you don't have to agree with me but you do have to listen. My son's a six-year-old who sometimes does good things and sometimes does bad things and sometimes succeeds and sometimes fails; he's not a rabid dog. If you're not prepared to keep thinking and keep problem-solving with him, and with me, then why are you in this job? Or did you only sign on to deal with the "easy" kids, the ones who line up in neat rows and do precisely what you expect?
A fuse somewhere in my head went, "fzzit!" and I listened to a clear, controlled voice (hey, whoa, is that ME??) saying, "This is precisely the situation I was hoping to avoid with the phone calls I made to you last week, hoping to discuss the plan, which you did not return. Now I'm in the position of having to read, digest and respond to the plan all simultaneously, when the meeting is already in progress." She could have saved it by an apology, but instead she turned bright red and tightly said, "Yes, that's... hard." So I stopped the whole meeting and however many dollars of School Board time and expertise (tally up: one principal, one special education teacher, one teacher, one social worker) and cooled its heels while I leafed through the thing... and then chucked it aside. We then went on to have quite a productive meeting (enjoyably enhanced by the sullen silence of the Behaviour Consultant), although my husband remarked later that it was a very FEMALE meeting, with everyone dancing around everyone's feelings with exaggerated deference.
"What, you didn't think I was too pushy?"
"No, you were the only one trying to get specific problems and specific solutions on the table. Yeah, you slapped that one woman down, but she deserved it. I think they're a little scared of you now."
Wow.
Bottom line? I'm sure you'd get a wide variety of "takes" on that meeting depending on who you ask. But for me it was a breakthrough. I found my voice, and it wasn't shrill or defensive or ingratiatingly passive. I have a place at the table, and a role in this process, and you don't have to agree with me but you do have to listen. My son's a six-year-old who sometimes does good things and sometimes does bad things and sometimes succeeds and sometimes fails; he's not a rabid dog. If you're not prepared to keep thinking and keep problem-solving with him, and with me, then why are you in this job? Or did you only sign on to deal with the "easy" kids, the ones who line up in neat rows and do precisely what you expect?
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Another meeting with the "experts"
Okay, hopefully I'm wrong, and this will encounter will be full of fresh ideas, open discussion and problem-solving.
But, well, the odds aren't great. For a start, this is the behaviour specialist from the school board. When we first spoke, I asked her for two things:
I did support it as best I could, but -- surprise, surprise, it didn't work worth a damn.
Has she learned anything from this, or will we plunge on into bigger and more thoroughly elaborated tickie-charts? I'm not holding my breath.
But, well, the odds aren't great. For a start, this is the behaviour specialist from the school board. When we first spoke, I asked her for two things:
- I don't want any more tickie-charts for T.K. because they DON'T WORK (when you lose your cool outside at recess because someone just pushed you or called you a name, a tickie-chart kept on the teacher's desk won't help you calm down and make "good decisions"),
- and I wanted to be included in the problem-solving process because I know the kid and can support the system's efforts better if I'm included.
I did support it as best I could, but -- surprise, surprise, it didn't work worth a damn.
Has she learned anything from this, or will we plunge on into bigger and more thoroughly elaborated tickie-charts? I'm not holding my breath.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Maybe if we called it emotional dyslexia or something...
T.K. lost his cool today at the child care centre in the fitness club; he desperately wanted a turn on the Wii, and he ran out of patience and threw the remote he was holding. Not AT anyone, but one doesn't throw stuff, and one NEVER throws stuff in a crowded room, and one particularly doesn't throw EXPENSIVE stuff that belongs to someone else. As usual, things escalated when he was put into time-out; many of his large-scale meltdowns are the results of his reaction to being scolded for some smaller-scale infraction, and no, I still can't say precisely why this is the case. It's just one of his things.
So. I got paged and we went for a walk outside while he cooled off. (I had to drag him outside, initially. He was still too tied up in freakout mode.) Took about ten, fifteen minutes to pass off. Longer than usual. I knew he was pretty much done when he crawled into my lap.
"Mom, I think we should call that phone number."
"What phone number?"
"The one on TV. The one for if you have a disabled child."
"Do I have a disabled child?"
"Me. I can't cool down as fast as other kids. And I break easier."
Hm. Not bad, kiddo. I have worked with 40-year-olds with less self-awareness, whether I agree to call it a "disability" or not. Some days I want to. Not in the, "It's not my fault, I have a disability," sense. More like a developmental delay, or a learning problem, the way Ross Greene has framed it. (Dr. Ross Greene, developer of the Collaborative Problem Solving approach to challenging kids, totally rocks. More on him later. But if you can't wait until then, go check out his resource-rich website at http://www.livesinthebalance.org/.)
I'm on the School Council, and I've listened to all the initiatives that go on for kids who don't acquire skills the same way the other kids do. Do you have dyslexia or other reading challenges? We have literacy coaching for kids to help you catch up. Do you struggle with graphomotor tasks? No problem, we have Handwriting Without Tears and printing camp to get you more comfortable and more fluent. Are you having a hard time mastering the foundations of numeracy? It's okay, there's math boosters and individual coaching. Do you have trouble controlling your emotions and developing social skills equivalent to your peers'? Go sit in the timeout chair, and if that doesn't give you the skills, off to the principal's office with you.
Time was, it was thought that people who struggled with basic literacy and numeracy were stupid, lazy or both. Now we know better. They are intelligent, motivated, and just need some extra help along the way, because the standard ways of learning the skills don't work for them.
Ross Greene hopes that in thirty years we'll have dropped the moral stigmas associated with poor self-regulation and challenging behaviour, and get down to brass tacks with figuring out how to teach the skills in the way that kid can learn them. And that means TEACHING them. Not just rewarding success and punishing failure. Think back to when you learned to drive. Did the teacher sit in the passenger seat with a big stick and a bag of Smarties, and whack you when you made a mistake, and dole out a Smartie when you did it right? No, they talked ahead of time about the challenge you were facing, then talked you through it. Practiced it until it worked well. Treated you like someone who WANTED to learn.
T.K. eventually went inside, apologized, and while I showered he got his turn, then promptly handed off to the next kid in line without a moment's hesitation. That's my boy. I hope they remember that part, when they're telling the meltdown story later.
So. I got paged and we went for a walk outside while he cooled off. (I had to drag him outside, initially. He was still too tied up in freakout mode.) Took about ten, fifteen minutes to pass off. Longer than usual. I knew he was pretty much done when he crawled into my lap.
"Mom, I think we should call that phone number."
"What phone number?"
"The one on TV. The one for if you have a disabled child."
"Do I have a disabled child?"
"Me. I can't cool down as fast as other kids. And I break easier."
Hm. Not bad, kiddo. I have worked with 40-year-olds with less self-awareness, whether I agree to call it a "disability" or not. Some days I want to. Not in the, "It's not my fault, I have a disability," sense. More like a developmental delay, or a learning problem, the way Ross Greene has framed it. (Dr. Ross Greene, developer of the Collaborative Problem Solving approach to challenging kids, totally rocks. More on him later. But if you can't wait until then, go check out his resource-rich website at http://www.livesinthebalance.org/.)
I'm on the School Council, and I've listened to all the initiatives that go on for kids who don't acquire skills the same way the other kids do. Do you have dyslexia or other reading challenges? We have literacy coaching for kids to help you catch up. Do you struggle with graphomotor tasks? No problem, we have Handwriting Without Tears and printing camp to get you more comfortable and more fluent. Are you having a hard time mastering the foundations of numeracy? It's okay, there's math boosters and individual coaching. Do you have trouble controlling your emotions and developing social skills equivalent to your peers'? Go sit in the timeout chair, and if that doesn't give you the skills, off to the principal's office with you.
Time was, it was thought that people who struggled with basic literacy and numeracy were stupid, lazy or both. Now we know better. They are intelligent, motivated, and just need some extra help along the way, because the standard ways of learning the skills don't work for them.
Ross Greene hopes that in thirty years we'll have dropped the moral stigmas associated with poor self-regulation and challenging behaviour, and get down to brass tacks with figuring out how to teach the skills in the way that kid can learn them. And that means TEACHING them. Not just rewarding success and punishing failure. Think back to when you learned to drive. Did the teacher sit in the passenger seat with a big stick and a bag of Smarties, and whack you when you made a mistake, and dole out a Smartie when you did it right? No, they talked ahead of time about the challenge you were facing, then talked you through it. Practiced it until it worked well. Treated you like someone who WANTED to learn.
T.K. eventually went inside, apologized, and while I showered he got his turn, then promptly handed off to the next kid in line without a moment's hesitation. That's my boy. I hope they remember that part, when they're telling the meltdown story later.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
But don't get me wrong
It isn't all angst and anguish living on T.K.'s side of the rules.
T.K.'s teacher puts large achievement stickers on the kids' shirts if they do something particularly difficult or remarkable in class. The idea is that parents, friends and who-all can then ask what the wonderful achievement was, and the kiddo gets to bask in admiration multiple times over.
Well, T.K.'s shy, bookish little buddy Donny came out at dismissal time wearing one the other day. "Hi, Donny," sez I. "Wow, what did you do to get one of those special stickers today?"
T.K., eyes shining with pride and excitement for his friend, bursts out, "I was bugging him and he used his words to say he didn't like it and I should stop!!"
Um, yeah. Well, if we can't be the good example, we'll be the obstacle that someone else overcomes to get the glory, right? Ooooo-kay.
T.K.'s teacher puts large achievement stickers on the kids' shirts if they do something particularly difficult or remarkable in class. The idea is that parents, friends and who-all can then ask what the wonderful achievement was, and the kiddo gets to bask in admiration multiple times over.
Well, T.K.'s shy, bookish little buddy Donny came out at dismissal time wearing one the other day. "Hi, Donny," sez I. "Wow, what did you do to get one of those special stickers today?"
T.K., eyes shining with pride and excitement for his friend, bursts out, "I was bugging him and he used his words to say he didn't like it and I should stop!!"
Um, yeah. Well, if we can't be the good example, we'll be the obstacle that someone else overcomes to get the glory, right? Ooooo-kay.
When That Kid is Your Kid
I am mom to That Kid (hereafter referred to as T.K.) The one your own well-behaved kids come home and tell stories about.
"Sid was lifting a chair to show how strong he was, so T.K. THREW a chair to show how strong HE was. Nobody got hurt, but he had to go to the principal's office."
"Janette and her sister wouldn't let T.K. play on the benches with them. They said the benches were just for girls. Then they called Janette's big sister to make him go away. She pushed him, so he hit her. Then he got mad and called her a penis. He had to go to the principal's office."
"T.K. put his gum in Charlie's hair. Mrs. McCloud the secretary got it out with cooking oil. T.K. had to go to the principal's office."
"T.K. really hates spelling tests. His writing is SOOO bad. He hid in the coat closet when it was time for the test and wouldn't come out. He had to go to the principal's office."
Sense any repeating themes here? We spend a lot of time in the principal's office. A *lot*. Hearing phrases like, "he makes bad choices". Boy, am I getting tired of that particular one. It makes it sound like T.K. stands there, tapping his six-year-old cheek thoughtfully while he considers the situation. "Do the thing that will get me in a lot of trouble, gain me no rewards or pleasure, and cause my classmates to point fingers at me? Or shall I choose the more conventional and societally expected route? Hmmmm... Oh, heck, ya gotta live large."
This is the point in the discussion where you lucky folks whose kids have always complied easily with authority roll your eyes and mutter something about (passive/uninvolved/permissive/inconsistent/noncontingent/lazy) parents. (Take your pick.) I assure you, we're not any of those. I stayed home with my kids. They have limits, and consequences. I limit their screen time, don't permit violent videogames or programs, feed them healthy food, encourage collaborative play, make sure they get lots of exercise outdoors, assign chores, all that good stuff. The humbling surprise has been to find out that I *don't* control the personalities that my kids arrive with. T.K. is T.K. My job is now to figure out how to help him function and succeed in a school system whose expectations he's (often spectacularly) unable to meet for six straight hours a day.
Somewhere in the last few decades, we had a continental shift in the education system. On the up side, systematic bullying is less acceptable. That's good. We talk about concepts like "empathy" and "self-esteem" and other very important things. Also good. But dear heavens, we expect a lotta control. Control of one's emotions, control of one's fidgetiness, control of one's attention, control of one's impulses, control (a toughie for many three-and-four-year-olds) of bladder and bowels, control of one's preadolescent sense of humour, six straight hours of perfect control, while executing someone else's agenda, which may or may not be any fun. Do-able for some kids, and for the others there's no shortage of blame and shame. For the kid, and also, of course, their parents, who clearly haven't done a very good job. Never mind kid -- your parents clearly messed up, but for you we have time-out chairs and behaviour-mod sticker charts at the ready. And if those don't turn you away from your criminal ways in short order, then you need a label. ODD, ADD, PDD-NOS... it seems that just being six years old (or five, or four, or three) is no longer sufficient explanation of your persistently childish behaviour.
Yes, yes, I do realize that there are diagnosable disorders and mental illnesses out there, and early help is key for helping those kids grow up to be the best and happiest selves they can be. And I also realize that many of you were traumatized by bona fide bullies who went out of their way to make your life a personal hell. But I live in the in-between zone, and somewhere along the way, "immature kid" turned into "bad kid". The Kid Who Makes Bad Choices.
This blog is my way to blow off steam as T.K. and I (and his father, and his sister) navigate our way through the school system, one day at a time. And also to extend a hand to other parents who dread seeing the school's number show up on the call display, who burn with frustration and shame when they overhear teachers, and other parents, and their perfectly-behaved-in-school offspring, talking about that kid.
That Kid.
"Sid was lifting a chair to show how strong he was, so T.K. THREW a chair to show how strong HE was. Nobody got hurt, but he had to go to the principal's office."
"Janette and her sister wouldn't let T.K. play on the benches with them. They said the benches were just for girls. Then they called Janette's big sister to make him go away. She pushed him, so he hit her. Then he got mad and called her a penis. He had to go to the principal's office."
"T.K. put his gum in Charlie's hair. Mrs. McCloud the secretary got it out with cooking oil. T.K. had to go to the principal's office."
"T.K. really hates spelling tests. His writing is SOOO bad. He hid in the coat closet when it was time for the test and wouldn't come out. He had to go to the principal's office."
Sense any repeating themes here? We spend a lot of time in the principal's office. A *lot*. Hearing phrases like, "he makes bad choices". Boy, am I getting tired of that particular one. It makes it sound like T.K. stands there, tapping his six-year-old cheek thoughtfully while he considers the situation. "Do the thing that will get me in a lot of trouble, gain me no rewards or pleasure, and cause my classmates to point fingers at me? Or shall I choose the more conventional and societally expected route? Hmmmm... Oh, heck, ya gotta live large."
This is the point in the discussion where you lucky folks whose kids have always complied easily with authority roll your eyes and mutter something about (passive/uninvolved/permissive/inconsistent/noncontingent/lazy) parents. (Take your pick.) I assure you, we're not any of those. I stayed home with my kids. They have limits, and consequences. I limit their screen time, don't permit violent videogames or programs, feed them healthy food, encourage collaborative play, make sure they get lots of exercise outdoors, assign chores, all that good stuff. The humbling surprise has been to find out that I *don't* control the personalities that my kids arrive with. T.K. is T.K. My job is now to figure out how to help him function and succeed in a school system whose expectations he's (often spectacularly) unable to meet for six straight hours a day.
Somewhere in the last few decades, we had a continental shift in the education system. On the up side, systematic bullying is less acceptable. That's good. We talk about concepts like "empathy" and "self-esteem" and other very important things. Also good. But dear heavens, we expect a lotta control. Control of one's emotions, control of one's fidgetiness, control of one's attention, control of one's impulses, control (a toughie for many three-and-four-year-olds) of bladder and bowels, control of one's preadolescent sense of humour, six straight hours of perfect control, while executing someone else's agenda, which may or may not be any fun. Do-able for some kids, and for the others there's no shortage of blame and shame. For the kid, and also, of course, their parents, who clearly haven't done a very good job. Never mind kid -- your parents clearly messed up, but for you we have time-out chairs and behaviour-mod sticker charts at the ready. And if those don't turn you away from your criminal ways in short order, then you need a label. ODD, ADD, PDD-NOS... it seems that just being six years old (or five, or four, or three) is no longer sufficient explanation of your persistently childish behaviour.
Yes, yes, I do realize that there are diagnosable disorders and mental illnesses out there, and early help is key for helping those kids grow up to be the best and happiest selves they can be. And I also realize that many of you were traumatized by bona fide bullies who went out of their way to make your life a personal hell. But I live in the in-between zone, and somewhere along the way, "immature kid" turned into "bad kid". The Kid Who Makes Bad Choices.
This blog is my way to blow off steam as T.K. and I (and his father, and his sister) navigate our way through the school system, one day at a time. And also to extend a hand to other parents who dread seeing the school's number show up on the call display, who burn with frustration and shame when they overhear teachers, and other parents, and their perfectly-behaved-in-school offspring, talking about that kid.
That Kid.
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