Little C man had his readiness assessment for kindergarten today.
I had prepped the kids that we were going to the school. C asks me, "We're going to A's school?"
"Well, yes, but it's going to be YOUR school now too."
His eyes widened. "Really? MY SCHOOL TOO?"
He chattered the entire way there in the car, all five minutes of it, and when we arrived he threw his seatbelt off before I had even taken the car out of gear and had his door open. He thundered up the sidewalk, full force, to the doors.
Once we arrived in the classroom his enthusiasm faltered. His teacher, Mrs. C, introduced herself and asked him to come in and sit down. He did, but as he looked around the room with all of the things on the walls and the books and the size of it, I could see he was getting anxious and overwhelmed. I quietly explained to Mrs. C about his anxiety disorder and that this might be scary for him.
She tried getting him to write his name. He stared straight ahead and wouldn't look at her or talk. She shifted through a few tasks, trying to warm him up, but no doing. I knelt down next to him and got him finally to make eye contact with me.
"I guess this is a little scary, bud." I held his cheeks gently, asking him to maintain the eye contact. "Mrs. C just wants to spend a little time with you so you can show her all of the cool stuff you know. When you start kindergarten in a week or two, she's going to be your teacher, and this is going to be your classroom." He looked around, doubtfully. I was beginning to feel the anxiety grow in my own chest, that he would refuse to participate, that his teacher's first impression of him was going to be of the kid who was different, difficult. Hard to work with.
As we were talking, his sister, who had been in this same classroom the final third of her own kindergarten year, came in and started playing with some toys. She sat down on the beanbag chairs on the other side of the room.
He looked at her. He looked at me. He wouldn't look at his teacher.
Finally, I asked his sister to go out in the hall to let her brother have some space. I sat her down a ways away from the door so he couldn't hear her and gave her my phone to play games on. down the hall. I was about to go back into the room, but I heard Mrs. C talking to him, so I stopped, and peered through the crack between the door and the jamb. He was looking at her, finally. He nodded, then he started talking to her. I hovered, holding my breath, just outside of his sight. Before long he was reading her the entire alphabet, identifying all the numbers from one to thirty-one, and pretty much showing off his big-boy smarts. He wrote his name. Finally, they were done. I could exhale.
He's doing exactly what his sister did when she started at this school. I forgot.
The more I back out of the picture, the better they do. This is THEIR school. THEIR territory. When I'm in the room, they are used to me being in charge. If I leave the room, they almost magically gain confidence. For whatever reason, this is their dynamic and I have to honor it.
He's ready for kinder. Without me.
Will we still have issues? Maybe. Will we need medication? Maybe. Its a big transition for a kid whose neurological makeup makes transitioning a huge deal. But for the first time today I got the feeling he was going to be able to handle it.
He's going to be just fine.
