Barnmaven

Normal is extraordinary

I'll never forget A's kindergarten graduation.

Here she is with her class on stage, waving at me:

And then here she is afterwards, having ice cream with me:

What these two pictures don't show is what happened in between, after she waved at me in that picture.  She realized that the gymnasium was full of people and that those people were looking at her.  She fled the stage and we watched her kindergarten graduation together, from the audience.  It wasn't the first time she'd done this.  Both she and her brother refused to participate in their preschool's "graduation" ceremonies too, where they celebrated each advancing class.  It wasn't until the end of second grade that I got to enjoy seeing my daughter perform with her classmates in a spring offering of musical selections.

When we got the note home that the kindergarten classes were going to present a Nursery Rhyme Rap Night, I smiled and tucked it away.  We would go, of course, but I had no expectation that C-man would join his classmates in the front of the gym.  His teacher and I had discussed it during our conference, there were days when the classes were practicing that he just couldn't bring himself to participate, although there were times that he joined in just fine.  The noise in the gym, the knowing that other people were looking at him, these are incredibly difficult things for a kiddo with his issues to process. 

The first time I thought that I might never see my kids do a school play or a Christmas pageant, I cried.  I mourned.  I felt cheated and robbed.  Over time, though, I grew to accept.  There are lots of things my kids can do, so what if being on stage isn't one of them?  I got over myself.

God is funny.

When we arrived at the school and we saw the other kindergartners lining up to go in, I said "Look, there's your teacher!  Go ahead and go up there so you can stand with your class!"

He gave me a somewhat desperate look, but then he surprised me by actually leaving his sister and I and walking over to his class.  A and I went into the gym and found chairs in the second row just as the three classrooms filed in onto the risers.

As the teachers moved the kids around to get them lined up and centered, he found me in the audience.  He looked very uncomfortable but much to my surprise he didn't try to flee the stage. 

 

 

And up there he stayed the entire time.

He didn't sing much and he got just a few of the hand movements in there,but up there he stayed.  And when they were done he was so proud of himself.  And I of him.

I'm still smiling from ear to ear.

For your viewing pleasure, MY SON.  ON STAGE.

 

 Things look pretty awesome up here from cloud nine.

Holes

Ah, the joys of Sensory Processing Disorder.

We are making progress, I can see it every day.  The meltdown at the chiropractor's office yesterday - after being asked to back down from a spat with his sister, he started to lose it.  Crying and being frustrated turned into pulling on his hair and then punching his eyes.  Every mental discomfort becomes physical discomfort, and he comes undone.  Keenly aware of the horrified gaze of the older couple sitting in the waiting area with us and the sideways glances from the reception staff, I pulled him onto my lap.

"NO!" he yells, "DON'T TOUCH ME!!"  He struggles to get loose.  Quietly I say to him, "Here, push on my arm.  Push me away from you."  He begins to push on my arm, getting deep pressure therapy by virtue of his own struggle.  All it takes is a few moments, and he begins to visibly relax.  "You're not pushing hard enough," I say with a smile.  He giggles.  All is well.

I wish he'd make progress about his feet, but I fear we may never see it.  I dread buying shoes; it is an ordeal that I need a bottle of whiskey, a rope and a tractor to accomplish.  The rope and the tractor are simply to drag him into the store and hold him still long enough for me to find shoes that fit him - shoes that he will actually  WEAR.  They must fit loosely so that nothing pokes his foot.  They must be reasonably soft.  It helps if they have a picture on them of Lightning McQueen or Buzz Lightyear.  He's motivated by his characters.  But if they poke his foot in any way, if he can feel a seam or a tongue, forget it.  We're all done with THAT pair, thankyouverymuch.  The whiskey?  That's for me.  Just call it anaesthesia.

C also refuses to wear socks.  His sister does as well.  Its a genetic preference, I'm sure, because on weekends I rarely wear them either.  I go barefoot constantly as soon as the weather is warm enough, and if shoes are required, they're usually slipped on bare feet.

Winter is always a concern.  The sock refusal seems fraught with dangers -- waiting for the bus, recess, walking between the portable and the main school, all in sub-freezing temperatures.  The rains of spring don't really alleviate the concern, but I've learned to just sit on that desire to FIX and understand that so far he hasn't actually lost a foot to frostbite.  The likelihood that he will make it to adulthood without socks seems more possible every day.

But the buying of shoes -- always something to avoid.  Just last night as I was getting him out of the tub and into his PJ's I noticed the bottoms were pulling away from the fabric in the front.  Oh, great.  How long can I delay buying shoes?  Days?  A week maybe?  Definitely need to do it soon.

Not soon enough.

A phone call today from the school.  One of the duties on the playground was concerned because my son has no socks and his shoe is falling apart. 

I'm getting better at not feeling like a complete parenting failure when things like this happen, but there's always a few moments where I close my eyes and let the feelings of shame, anger, frustration and resignation wash through me.  Then I take a breath, compose myself, and thank the person for calling.  Its not their fault, they're new, they don't know my son.  They don't live this.  I suppose if I was the playground duty on a cold Tuesday in February and I saw the kid who looked normal running around without holey shoes and no socks I'd probably assume there was some negligent parenting going on too.  Or maybe not.  Who knows?

Will they let me add verbage to his IEP to the effect that no one is allowed to question the state of his shoes, at least to my face?

Pardon me while I go grab a rope from the barn, rent a tractor and buy a bottle of whiskey.  I've got some shoes to buy.

 

Puppies, headaches and mania, oh my!

Thanks to S, whose next contract job doesn't start until April(ish) I was able to volunteer to foster puppies for the rescue.  Wait, maybe I'm phrasing that wrong.

Because I'm a forgetful person and a total pushover for babies, I managed to get suckered into fostering puppies for the rescue, aided and abetted by my darling S, who apparently is a sucker of gre at magnitude.

Meet Bella:

and her litter mate Lexie:

As I write this, they are under my chair, chewing on my Uggs.

They are 7 1/2 week-old bundles of cuteness, charm, needle-sharp teeth and an endless reserve of piddle.  The boys have their noses seriously out of joint and the cats are hatching murder plots.  If they don't quit chewing on the power cord to my laptop, though, the cat's won't need to murder them.  I will.

Puppy antics aside, I'm enjoying a few days of relative calm.  I'm pretty sure C was cycling this weekend, the end result of that being a complete inability to cope with anything.  He spent much of Saturday night an Sunday either crying over things that weren't going right or screaming at the top of his lungs because things weren't going right.   He was on sensory overload and just couldn't cope.  Monday I had to get him from school because he was so upset about going to his class Valentine's Day party that he laid on the floor in the hallway sobbing for an hour.

We all survived it, mostly.  Last night after everyone else was sleeping C and I cuddled together on the couch and watched The Tooth Fairy.  He was tired and so was I, but neither of us was ready to give up each others company.  Those are the moments that get me through the trying times. 

A had a terrible headache last night.  Its the second one she's had in as many weeks.  Friday before last I ended up taking her to the ER.  She'd had a headache since the night before, and when we went to see our pediatrician, she also said her neck was hurting.  He was concerned about meningitis and sent us straight to Emergency.  Apparently when they suspect bacterial meningitis in children, they don't mess around.  AT ALL.  We were ushered straight into a room.  The pediatric doctor on rotation examined her, then had blood drawn to check white-cell counts.  It was A's first blood draw and she likes needles about as much as I do, so it ended being quite the rodeo, with four nurses and me holding her down so the nurse could get her samples taken.  Fortunately her white cell count was in normal range, so they sent us home with some Naproxen and instructions to rest.  The Naproxen worked its magic and she was much better within a few hours.  Last night the headache started again and she was unable to sleep, so I gave her another one.  She got sleep, but I tossed and turned.  Of course.

 

Anyone in the market for a puppy?

 

We have a plan

Sometimes I feel like the White Rabbit, running from place to place, checking my watch, frowning and rubbing my forehead over how behind I am and worried over all that needs doing.  Someone will kindly mention a chore or task they notice needs to be taken care of and all I can say is "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll get to it.  When I have time."  or "When I have money."  And as neither of those commodities appear anywhere immediately on the horizon, I putter and mumble.  And cope.

Nonetheless, I am able to focus on the immediate needs and so long as I can hold this car together with string and paperclips, she'll drive.

I've got a phone meeting with Social Security next week.  I'm trying to get SSI for C, which would give me the capital to get him in with a local therapist who is probably the best we could find here for what my son needs.  Since he's not in my insurance plan's network, the out of pocket is prohibitive for us.  The extra assistance would make a big difference for him.

His IEP team gathered yesterday and I signed off on a draft plan for him. 

Our goals for the next months are simple.  There are three:

C will follow directions two out of three times, which I guess would be an immense improvement over "Zero out of infinity-thousand times."

C will learn to limit his disruptive behavior, for which his fellow students will be grateful.

C will join group activity without continuous teacher prompting.  He currently has difficulty participating in circle time and group crafts.  Part of the problem is that he is visually overstimulated, so if someone is next to him or behind him, his attention is drawn to the distraction and not to the work at hand.  He is so easily overwhelmed by too much noise and activity that many of the things that most kids consider to be fun are just painful for him.  Unfortunately he often reacts to the stimulation by provoking the students who's inadvertently snagged his attention.  We're working on that.

He'll have resource room time daily, and be in his regular classroom the rest of the time.  His teacher will receive support from the occupational therapist in strategies and tools to help him with his sensory issues. 

Throughout the day he'll get breaks for "heavy work" and movement activities and have access to support staff, a "buddy classroom," self-controlled activities and sensory materials on an as-needed basis.  Periodically the school psychologist will observe him in the classroom setting to assess his progress.

He'll also have accommodations for state-mandated testing and he'll get transportation.  His grades will be based on effort and work completed and determined by his teacher and his special education teacher.

At the meeting, his teacher showed some materials she's made to help him assess his own success throughout the day.  She's made a visual representation of regular activities, and for each, C chooses a happy face, a neutral face or a sad face to affix below the activity to indicate if his participation or following of instruction/expectation was good, OK or not successful.  She keeps the completed sheets as a record of his progress.  Its heartwarming to me to see how engaged and enthusiastic a participant she has become in this Grand Plan to help my son.

As plans go, I suppose this is a good enough one to start with.  I had hoped it would contain the secret formula to releasing his innate abilities and identify him as a college-ready genius.  I think, though, that I can be content with "following directions two out of three time."  Start small, right?

I wish I had an IEP team to help me make a plan for all the stuff I need to do.

No bad apples

I can't count the number of times I've heard people comment, "When we were kids they didn't have all this ADHD stuff.  Kids either behaved or they got in trouble, period."  If you have kids like mine, you've probably heard it endlessly as well.  And you've probably been as frustrated as I have, trying to explain all of the things that are wrong with that line of thought without sounding like you're an ineffective parent or just making excuses. 

The pervasive belief in our society is that children misbehave to get attention, or because they're "bad" or "acting out."  They misbehave because they're not being parented appropriately or disciplined enough.  My children have disorders that walk hand-in-hand with behavioral challenges, and as their mother and their advocate, I'm compelled to actively challenge this kind of thinking. 

In The Explosive Child, Dr. Ross Greene writes, "Children do well if they can."  Many people think rather that children do well if they want to.

Consider the impact of that statement. 

I think of my son, in his classroom, out of his seat, touching everything, ignoring instructions, tantruming when he feels other kids are looking at him or when he has to cope with a change from one task to another. 

He doesn't want to act this way.  He's not seeking attention.  He doesn't like being in trouble, he doesn't like being different, he doesn't like not being liked.  He does these things because he can't help himself. 

When we understand our special needs kiddos in this context, almost everything about the way we parent them changes.  Dr. Greene says that the difference between the kids who can do well and those who can't is simply that the kids who can't lack the skillset they need.  That's where they need their parents, educators, counselors, therapists and doctors - they need us to help them learn those skills.

Once we grasp this, we can stop looking at the behavior and look at the child underneath it and start to discover what they lack and where we can assist.

I posted several times about the disconnect between my son's teacher and me.  I felt that she was focusing too much on the things he was doing wrong and not seeing the same child that I love with all my heart.  The best thing about people and circumstances, though, is that they are always changing. 

At our last team meeting, I noticed a change in how C's teacher talked about him and the things that were happening in her classroom.  She seemed excited to relate some of the things she was finding helpful, and there was a shine to her that wasn't there before.  After the meeting, when his counselor and I were talking privately, I remarked on this.  The counselor told me that she, too had noticed a change and not only that, but that the teacher was now contacting her frequently with ideas and questions on things that might help my son.

Then yesterday, when I picked him up from his aftercare, the director (who has been a wonderful friend to us) passed along a little bit of information that brought tears to my eyes.  She had been late arriving to pick him up after school, so the teacher had seen the rest of her class off and had taken C back to her classroom.  K apologized for being so late.  The teacher responded, "Oh, I don't mind that at all.  It gives me a chance to have some one on one time with him, and I enjoy that so much."

She gets it.

He will do well IF HE CAN.  And she wants to help him get there.

WIN.

Remembering to breathe

Tomorrow morning we have the first meeting of C''s team at school to discuss the results of his IEP testing and to hear the recommendations the school will make.  To find out whether they agree that he qualifies for services.  IF he qualifies for services, what interventions they will put in place.  And I'm really anxiety-laden about it.  The stomach-in-knots and sweaty palms kind of anxious.

When we had A's testing done, she had already been in an intervention program.  Instead of going into the mainstream kindergarten class, she went instead to a small classroom for kids from K to 2nd grade who had behavioral issues/learning disorders. The school was able to place her there because she had an IEP from New Jersey with diagnoses and recommendations for interventions.  But between some maturing, the help she got in her classroom, the medications and the therapies, she was doing much better by the time the school got around to doing their own testing on her.  So she wasn't qualified for an IEP by the school.  They didn't feel that she needed formal interventions to function, that her issues didn't provide a significant impairment to her ability to learn and to receive an appropriate education. 

I was new to the process, and I acquiesced. Caved to the "experts."  I wrote up a 504 plan for her, to provide her accommodations in the event that she did have issues, and so far things have gone well - but still, I wish I'd fought a little harder.  She's doing fine, really, but I think there would be tremendous benefit to her having learning assistance, extra tutoring, OT, additional help with behavioral adjustments.  She has difficulty focusing in school even with medication, and I know that she's not even close to living up to her learning potential.  But because there is no IEP, its up to me to provide all that she needs.  And I simply don't have the resources, financially, or time-wise to get OT, private tutors, etc.  Her meds wear off by dinnertime, and I'm not giving her more stimulants at night -- so homework just doesn't happen.  Its either a knock-down, drag-out fight to get her to do it -- or she does it, but she's all over the place and I know she's not getting anything out of it.  

Please don't take any of this to mean that I feel she's not an amazing, smart, talented, loving, creative and unique child.  Because she is all of those things, and more.  Every day I am blown away by my daughter, by her thoughts, her beauty, her maturity, everything about her.  I love her with every fiber of my being.  And I wish I could do more for her.

So tomorrow, I am already anticipating the worst.  I know, there's no reason that I should, but its one of those things I do.  I plan for the worst, hope for the best, and then if the worst should happen, I'm prepared.  Except when it comes to my children, when it comes to the one thing in the world I care the most about, I lose rationality.  I desperately want my son to get the things he needs, all the things he needs, not just the things I am able to provide him.  I need the school for that.  I know how impaired his functioning is in the classroom because of his issues.  He's not cognitively impaired, not by any means -- but without interventions, I fear he'll be one of those gifted children who end up dropping out of high school and climbing into that hell-bound handbasket, because he never got help to function in the school environment.  So I know more now than I did before, I am armed with better resources and information.  And I know which words to use and what to ask for.  What my rights are for appeal if we don't agree on what he needs.

I'm working hard to prepare myself to be calm, logical and rational.  Calm.  Logical.  Rational.  I can do that.  I can do that.  Now all I need is an infusion of optimism.  Tell me that its going to go well.  PROMISE me.  That all my anxiety and fear amounts to nothing.  Can you do that?

If you're the praying type, send a few up for my boy tomorrow.  If you're not, just spare him some good thoughts. 

Thanks.  I owe you.

 

How...lovely (sort of nsfw)

"Mommy, I made an angel for you!"

"Oh, baby, that's so nice.  How sweet."

"It has a picture of baby jesus on one side."

"That's wonderful, C."

"And the angel's on the other side.  Here you go, Mommy.  I love you, Mommy!"

"Thanks buddy.  She's...she's...ummmm..."  awkward silence.   "...are those boobs?"

"Uh-Huh!"

"Why is your angel naked?"

"She's not naked!  She's wearing pants!"

"I see."

"Pants!  And an invisible shirt!"

"Um, thanks C.  I really love it." 

"Uh, C?  Could you maybe not draw boobs anymore?  For a while?"  Til you're like, 30, maybe?

 

Because there will be plenty of time for boob pictures when he's NOT IN KINDERGARTEN.

 

Motherlode

Keep up on the "don't jinx me" part and I won't have to dump you like a hot rock, internet.  Seriously.  You're doing great, now just hold your breath and stand on one foot and don't don't DON'T look down.

Which was the best part of yesterday?  Where the babysitter (I hate that term it sounds so...demeaning.  Governess?  Nanny?) showed up on time to pick up my son.  Noticed his teacher being dismissive of him when he was trying to tell her he left his coat in the room.  Standing in the cold for twenty minutes with him while she took her damn sweet time (and wouldn't let him go in the classroom without her, because, I suppose, he's dangerous?)?  Took him to McDonald's and waited while he went down the slide in the playground a million times, that she did my daughter's homework with her, or got dinner for all of us or that she let my dogs out so they didn't have to be in their crates all day? 

It was none of those things.

The best part, the VERY BEST PART OF YESTERDAY was when she asked the teacher for the form to be a volunteer in my son's classroom.  Because, as she explained to me later, she didn't think his teacher was giving him the attention he needed and that it would be very helpful to him to have someone in the classroom who understood his behaviors and could advocate for him.

I don't have to explain my children to her because she already gets them, raised a few just like them on her own and fostered or took in off the streets a bunch more.  She's been through the IEP's and the therapy and the medications and the school system, she knows how to use her voice to advocate for a child who is being seen as a behavior and not a child in need of help.

There is an angel in my house.  She may be disguised as a curly-haired woman of middle years with a lovely smile and gentle hands, but she an angel she is.

Please, God, let this be the one who stays.  Because I'm already her biggest fan. 

The one where I claim, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I'm not losing this battle

So let's see, where were we?

The teacher that can't be bothered to "trouble shoot" (direct quote) my son sent him home after a mere half an hour in kindergarten on Tuesday.

My emails to the Principal and the counselor have gone unanswered, though I finally received a return phone call from the assistant director of special services with the school district, who I resorted to calling Tuesday afternoon.  Since I feel my concerns aren't being addressed, I've taken the liberty of elevating things.  I am not certain this is a good move or not; by getting the district involved I risk alienating the people I am counting on to help my son.  On the flip side of that  penny, I fear if I don't take some sort of action to push things along, we might make it through the entire year of kindergarten without my son learning anything more than the fact that his teacher can't spell his name right.

Yes, that's correct.  His teacher sent home a sheet for the children to practice writing their names.  She was kind enough to give them a model to follow at the top of the sheet...except she spelled my son's name incorrectly.   After everything else that has happened it was...I can't even find the words.  Insulting?  Last straw?  Proof?  Don't know.

There's something about talking to school administrators, who must be very carefula bout how they choose their words in order to avoid any appearance of acting outside of rules and regulations (and federal laws) that makes me feel somehow shamed.  As if my son's problems are MY fault.  The result of poor parenting.  Because maybe when he was born I just took a big ole' hypodermic needle and shot him up full of anxiety and ADHD and manic-depressive illness.  Because, you know, that sounded like FUN.  And so, feeling somewhat on edge from the phone call I had with the school this afternoon, I trudged happily off to choir practice knowing that it would make me feel better to do that and that I could then come home, throw the little guy in the tub (his sister's at their dad's) and relax with a nice glass of H3 Cab. 

That was a very good plan, until I sat down with my freshly poured glass of wine at this computer and opened my email. 

"I wanted to talk to you in person but it’s hard to find a moment to do that without little ears around. So, forgive the email. I know time is of the essence. I’m sorry to put  you in this position but I have decided that it’s best that I do not continue watching _____ & _____. I didn’t want to quit on you or the kids, but I think it might be for the best. ______ & ______ are great kids and I see the good in them. However, it is overwhelming and I am thinking of my little ones. _______ is impressionable and copies [sic] everything older kids do; we just feel that it’s best to go with our instincts on this.

I regret putting you in this position but I also need to be honest with you. If it was just me watching _____ & _____ (without my little ones); I wouldn’t mind. However, I realize now that I need to look out for their best interests.

I plan on still watching them tomorrow (as you did pay me through this week), and maybe that can give you the weekend to make other arrangements?"

Ah.

I see.  My kids are "great kids" but your kids are impressionable, and so what, you don't want them to COPY THE KID WITH ADHD.  Which I get, really I do, but maybe you should have thought of that BEFORE YOU ACCEPTED THE FUCKING JOB.  I totally understand how being involved with me and my broken, special children isn't in the best interests of ANYONE.  I do.  And I forgive you for it.  And no, you don't need to watch them tomorrow, dear lady, because the last thing I want to do is send my children back to a home where the adult in charge thinks that they are a BAD INFLUENCE.   We get enough of that everywhere else, thank you very much.

And as you might guess, I am now sipping that nice glass of cabernet, plotting my revenge trying to wade through all of the anger and guilt and shame in my head and figure out just what on God's green earth I am going to do next.  I am simultaneously thanking that same God for my boss, who when I called him trying to explain what was happening without dissolving into miserable tears, reassured me that I was valued, appreciated, and to please not worry about taking a day tomorrow to try and solve this problem.  To not worry about doing anything that was needed to take care of my family.

And then I came here to post, and I read the really supportive comments a few of you really amazing people have left for me on the last couple of epistles, and I know that I am not alone.  I know that I am not the only person who is trying to make chocolate chip cookies out of a steaming pile of dog poop, and I know that this is not the worst thing ever that could happen, even if it feels like it right at this very moment.

And I am not giving up.  I am not going to concede that my child has no value, regardless of what some educators and caregivers might think.  Yes, he can be terribly difficult.  Annoying.  Crazymaking.  He is also adorable and loving and articulate and SMART oh my God smart, and he has the best smile in all the world.  When we do songs and stories at night, as I tuck him in, we do a hug, he kisses me on the cheek, and I say "I love you, C."  "I love you too, Mommy."  "I love you more."  "No, Mommy, I love YOU more."  "I love you more than anything, C."  "Well, I love you more than the whole EVERYTHING, Mommy." 

You win, buddy.  You win.

 

Difference of opinion

Define “success” for me, will you?

From the first glimmer of understanding that we were facing issues most families never have to, I have been whittling the meaning down to its bare-bones minimum.  Success no longer means my perfectly behaved,  beautifully dressed offspring dutifully march off to school each day, where they earn top grades in their classrooms, eagerly complete their studies and excel at athletic endeavors whilst simultaneously keeping their rooms clean and participating in dinnertime conversations about poetry and politics.

I find myself somewhat at odds these days with my son’s teacher over what it means for him to be “successful.”

Over the course of several email exchanges, a pattern emerges that I find profoundly disturbing.  As I take my son’s hand and we tiptoe through this murky maze of medicines and doctors and behavioral modification, I don’t dare seek a magic bullet.  I look instead for ways to improve the here and now, incrementally.  Even if the day is an off day in many respects, each exchange and interaction can be measured singly and when the mark falls on the high side of the curve, I whisper hopefully to myself, “success.”   I hope and pray for each success to be followed by more successes, until we begin to have patterns where more things go well than ill, more smiles appear than tears, more time is spent enjoying life and each other than is spent getting through tantrums and anxiety-related sensory outbursts.

Every moment where a question is asked and the answer is spoken sweetly and not screamed is an occasion to smile and appreciate.

Unless you happen to be the teacher of my child.  Who, as requested, dutifully sends emails marking daily incidents and behaviors, grimly outlining each failure without remarking on the ways in which improvement exists.  As if there is none.  A narrative of a field trip, wherein his distaste for wet pumpkins was noted and his desire to go on carnival rides rather than follow the other children into the maze, his inability to sit still during activities and his crying issues home on the bus were all noted, without acknowledging that not once during this trip did my child act aggressively, that nearly every instance of reluctance and difficult behavior was able to be resolved without my child having a complete meltdown, in which NONE of these ragingly terrific successes were even mentioned.  Or thought to be mentioned.  And when the successes were gently pointed out by a proud mother, the response was along the line of the teacher having other children to deal with and not having the time to understand the “why’s” of my son’s behavior.

Combined with a notable instance or two of less-than-friendly demeanor toward my son and I during a morning dropoff (notably different than the friendliness expressed at the IEP team meeting, in front of the principal, counselor and school nurse), I begin to draw the conclusion that this woman is less interested in the best interests of my son and more interested in maintaining harmony in her classroom.  Its not that I don’t get that, but its rather that I don’t care.  My interest is in having my son be cared for in the school environment in a way that is conducive to his success as a person and as a student.

I don’t know how to navigate the chasm between what I see and what she sees.  I don’t know how to make her like my son.  I don’t know how to help her see the child and not the behavior.  I try to express this to the counselor and to the other folks on the IEP team, but I don’t feel like I’m taken seriously.

I suppose at this juncture, I’m better off buying lottery tickets in the hopes of a private school placement when my numbers are drawn.  I’m not giving up, though.  Not by a long shot.