editing our story
January 29, 2012 § 2 Comments
Writing allows me to capture snapshots of my life filtered through a uniquely intimate perspective. I endeavor to share my stories with genuineness and honesty, without remorse or regret. Occasionally I will retrieve a thought, tucking it tenderly aside for my eyes only; keeping my words rather than erasing an experience. This morning, feelings of gratitude for a successful school week mocked undercurrents of frustration with my son’s education in a recent post.
This past week has been a more joyful adventure in learning. My son has come out of his shell, the hallmarks of anger and sadness replaced with an easy smile and willingness to learn. His teachers are experiencing similar success during the school day. Gone is the chasm between my son’s needs and adults’ expectations, we have bridged the void with resources. Rather than retract an expression of genuine unhappiness and concerns for my son’s educational experiences, I thought I would take a moment to reflect on my words and emotions; charting our journey, sharing our story.
Let me begin at the middle of the beginning, a page out of a chapter of my son’s educational experience. A couple of weeks ago, on a day weighted with uncertainty, I gave voice to an internal conflict over my son’s education. For several months I have struggled watching my son curl into himself, sad and angry over frustrations within the boundaries of his school day; moments of unkindness from peers and difficulties processing his world independently. Each school day I felt like we were moving against a current too powerful to overcome and I sought calmer waters. I toyed with the notion of keeping my son home and personally assuming the responsibility of providing an individualized education. There was an immediate sense of peace in this possibility. Others could not say and do hurtful things that chipped away at my son’s spirit. I could work around my son’s needs rather than forcing him to navigate other’s needs. Coulds, maybes, and possibility built a wistful expectation of something better.
Even as I embraced the utopia of my mind’s eye, I was humbly aware of potential challenges. Academically my son would require similarly structured lessons and mandatory testing to demonstrate he was receiving an education that properly prepared him for a continuing education. Personally, I would have to restructure our family experience and overcome my organizational weaknesses to provide the education my son deserves. I would also need to supplement the social and speech therapies my son requires. The question remained, how do I ensure my son receives the education he deserves?
It is in this place of frustration and uncertainty that I explored a new, old possibility. Rather than move my son from the mainstream classroom whose work he can handle into a modified classroom or keeping him home and sacrificing the social lessons of a classroom, I revisited a resource we had hoped to have outgrown, the utilization of an aide. Every council warned against an aide at the middle school level, but my son was not processing his environment independently; academics were slipping and his increased anxiety had led to exaggerated episodes of socially awkward behavior deteriorating his relationship with peers.
With doubt and hope this past week we welcomed an aide to my son’s days, someone to help my son navigate the halls of middle school until he can read the unwritten social cues that would properly prompt him to an individual understanding of other’s expectations. We are fortunate in that the aide is a teacher that is familiar with my son from another classroom setting; someone who embraces my son as is while endeavoring to teach him that which he does not know. He is a translator, lending comprehension and modeling expectations.
My son’s anxiety has leveled; he has begun to interact more appropriately with peers and perform academic exercises with greater productivity. Our goal of independence remains, but for now I am grateful for the peace of mind that comes from knowing my son is not withdrawing from his education. Rather than delete expressions of frustration or uncertainty, I am sharing my hopes and doubts; documenting our experiences rather than editing our lives. Holding myself accountable to my son’s education by evaluating challenges with the same enthusiasm I celebrate moments of success.
school & home
January 10, 2012 § Leave a comment
The other day I had a profound moment of uncertain, certainty. I carried my thoughts carefully tucked away in my mind, weighing if I should give them a voice. At day’s end, the house quiet, I told my husband I needed him to listen without questioning my sanity or nudging me into action.
With a deep breath and full heart, I said: I want to teach our son from home. Maybe. My husband, whatever his initial thoughts, honored my wish and kept silent. I unraveled my concerns and hopes measuring them each against possibility. The core truth: I’m not sure a traditional school setting is right for our son.
Earlier the same evening I had sifted through old pictures of both children with my daughter, noting the happy dimpled little boy of days gone by. In each picture my son was peaceful, whole. There were no worried lines on his face, no sadness in his eyes. Most school days I cannot see his smile and his spirit feels buried beneath sadness and anger. An eternally curious child he used to beg to attend school, eager to learn and make friends. Now he hides behind individual interests, his footsteps heavy with resistance as he finds his way to school. I paused in sorrow wondering, are we suffocating the joy from learning?
I still do not have an answer. I have new questions. Would I be facilitating my son’s escape from a traditional school setting that might better prepare him for life? Am I capable of providing a balanced, structured education that would prepare my son for a limitless future? Do I then keep my daughter home? Does she have the same option as her brother? Where do I begin and how do I know if it is the right fit for our family? What if I become ill, we move, the Earth slips off its axis; what then? What next?
This is what I know. Both of my children are fortunate to have teachers who are passionate about teaching and compassionate when faced with challenges, who see my children as individuals and communicate openly with me. Of course, we also live in a competitive environment where our children are measured endlessly against themselves, classmates, and nameless others. Teachers are forced to teach in preparation for tests and not all subjects are weighted equally. Our school days are short and our school years fragmented with oddly spaced vacations. There are gaps in my children’s education that I as their mother am obligated to fill; pockets of potential, natural resources overlooked.
I wonder if there is a way to draft a lifelong education plan that truly inspires independent learners. Is there a way to nurture learning and educate from home in celebration of the joy of learning while preparing our children to become contributing members of society? Do I continue to work with the school, outlining my son’s unique needs and partnering with his teachers to navigate this experience together? If my daughter is happy, is contentment acceptable or do I insist she be inspired?
I cast my worries to the wind and wonder what answers I might find.
class notes
October 10, 2011 § Leave a comment
My earliest writing memories are of class notes scribbled during school hours. In most classes my teachers’ lectures were monotonous monologues on the mundane. I would fill the spaces of my distraction with my own thoughts in the lines of letters to friends.
My children scribble thoughts and doodle with the same restless, creative energy that accompanied my classroom memories. My daughter draws her letters with flamboyant swirls and sketches whimsical images on the back of her school work. My son draws diagrams, makes lists, drafts petitions. Their school work is always completed, but with an effort lacking enthusiasm.
Where some parents have saved school papers cataloguing progress and academic effort from years past, I save the class work unrelated to assignments. These creative pen strokes are my glimpse into each child’s interests, friends, and dreams; in the margins of their work are beautiful examples of rich, unfiltered individuality.
it takes a village
October 8, 2011 § Leave a comment
My son is having peer problems at school. It began with a group taunting him with an inappropriate rhyme. Then, someone was unkind during gym class. Most recently a peer was disrespectful while waiting for the school bus. When my son came home in gym clothes because his school clothes disappeared from his locker my strength wavered. I reached out to a friend and to my son’s school for support, reassurance, and guidance. It takes a village to raise a child.
We build confidence and self-esteem at home. Then, in moments of difficulty we nurture our strength with numbers. When peers, parents, and teachers stand behind a child the weight of a challenge becomes bearable. The message of compassion and value dispels toxic notions of unworthiness.
It is important to note I do not allow my son to play victim. I try to give him a new script and recast supporting roles as needed. Each unfortunate experience begins with, you do not deserve to be treated that way. Then I try to open up a dialogue that allows my son to look at the problem, generate possible solutions, and reinforce self-worth. We have a similar conversation when he is unkind.
My conversations with teachers are centered in creating awareness and a sense of safety in the space of a school day. I try to fight against labeling children bad. Rather I look towards the problem causing children to act badly, trying to determine how best to help my son navigate his day with both compassion and self-respect.
I turn to my friends for wisdom. As a mother I am continually finding my way and looking to other strong women for guidance. Some days, they are my sounding board, other times they are fantastic listeners, but more often they are a fresh perspective that lends balance to a moment mired in my own concerns.
Throughout our misadventures in 6th grade, I have had the strength of a village. May every child know a community of compassion and concern that celebrates and reinforces a strength of character empowering a future of possibility.
marginally successful
October 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
My children reside in the academic margins of test scores, their success defined just outside the traditional framework. Both of my children have been gifted challenges that require a unique approach to traditional classroom expectations.
This year has been a transition year as my son moved from elementary to middle school. Early on there were signs he was struggling with otherwise simple tasks. Specifically, note taking and classroom activities. Up until last year there was an aide in his classrooms available to support my son when his attention wandered. This year, he is independently accountable for the little things that collectively make a big difference.
In the company of my son’s middle school teachers, a special education coordinator asked: What are your goals for your son? My husband and I had come to the meeting with a unique goal in mind. To set aside grades and test scores and chart our son’s ability to self-monitor as he learns to rely on himself for redirection. It was a goal that may have made other teachers uncomfortable, but his teachers respected this honest request. In a system where students and teachers are rated by scores, lesson plans structured to prepare students for tests and test scores used to measure success, our son’s teachers set aside those expectations and honored our wish.
Simultaneously, my daughter is struggling in elementary school. Reading and math skills loom in front of her like giant trees blocking the road to success. Slowly, we are all pushing against the weight of the block, moving forward together. Her teacher sees the seeds of greatness hidden behind test scores and nurtures my daughter’s strengths while challenging her to grow.
The unique needs that have created poor test scores have gifted my children space in the margins to blossom. Rather than focus on what they know, we are guiding them through the experiences of their mistakes. Perceived failure is often just a lesson in strength; success a personal achievement.
homework helper
September 5, 2011 § Leave a comment
A little over a week into the new school year and we are all passively protesting the routines like a new pair of shoes that are pinching and confining. We fuss over the discomfort, grumbling under our breath at the inconvenient newness while longing for the old, beloved, well-worn comforts of summer. Each child tumbles down the stairs half conscious for breakfast only to scramble each evening into bed exhausted and eager to cocoon among dreams. Behind the scenes, I too am begrudgingly adapting to a new school year.
Our mornings are busy with breakfast and simple acts of preparing for the day ahead. Evenings have lulled us into a false sense of normalcy; sunshine makes the hours after school dismissal seem longer and an absence of homework makes the new year feel deceptively, effortlessly manageable. I am mindful of evenings ahead centered at the dining room table as textbooks, paper, and sharpened pencils steal lazy evenings outdoors.
Homework has often signaled a power struggle between my children and my expectations. This year, I am hoping to change the dynamics of dreaded anticipation into an opportunity for accountability. I am attempting to empower my children to seek out the answers, by giving them room to find them. I fall too easily into the habit of coaching and editing; controlling under the guise of helping my very capable children through their work.
I began to step back from the homework table when my son was in 4th grade, giving him room to make mistakes. This year, I am trying to create an expectation of independence for both children. I am placing myself off to the side, waiting to see if they need me and willing to help if necessary; fostering a quiet faith in their ability.
Tomorrow will be a true test as we juggle our first school day with homework and evening activities. Fingers crossed, this is the week we settle into our after-school routines.
out of sight, on my mind
August 25, 2011 § Leave a comment
Day 2: first full-day of my children’s new school year. This morning’s routine familiar, drawing on the experience of a successful first day, each child began their morning eager to return to school. My children are navigating their days independently and I am keeping busy with the distractions of housekeeping and errands; filling the quiet that seems to surround their absence with activity. They are out of sight, but on my mind.
in the blink of an eye
August 24, 2011 § Leave a comment
One minute I was chasing after my children as they ricocheted off the corners of their days, tirelessly propelling themselves in different directions while tossing around new ideas and testing boundaries. Then, in the blink of an eye, they were older and there was calm.
Watching my children prepare for their first day of school this morning I was overwhelmed by the stillness. The simple acts of sharing breakfast and getting ready for their day were filled with a quiet assurance. My own sentimental emotions rippled beneath my calm while my children were smiling, eager for a new beginning.
My son, making his way to the bus stop, waved a cheerful goodbye as he crossed the street without a backward glance. My daughter skipped several steps ahead of her father and I, lining up among peers, ready to file into school. I linked my hand in my husband’s and we found our way home, grateful for their readiness and mindful of their absence.
My hopes for their happiness and well-being guarded inside my heart, I wish my children the ability to approach each new beginning as an opportunity; with confidence in themselves and curiosity for a future filled with endless possibilities.
school daze
August 23, 2011 § Leave a comment
Yesterday morning I walked my daughter hand-in-hand down our tree lined street to the cozy elementary school nestled in our neighborhood to meet her new teacher for the coming school year. It is the first time we have walked to school without her big brother. Mindful of my son’s absence, the sidewalk felt too wide without his company. Memories of years past were ever-present with each new step.
My son is transitioning to Middle School and this milestone has brought both anticipation and anxiety. While he moves towards a new experience his sister is lonely for the shared space of their school days. Mealtimes are peppered with her concerns for his absence, what was theirs has become her own. No longer identifying herself as her big brother’s sister in school, the shade of his company has left her feeling exposed without his shadow. She will do well, the change will soon become familiar. She is adjusting.
Mornings will begin earlier, this is an unavoidable challenge given my son’s difficulty falling asleep at night. Waking early today in preparation for the week ahead, our movements felt forced; my son seemed to sleepwalk, awkwardly stumbling through simple tasks. I immediately longed for familiar mornings of pancakes and play time before school.
One more day. In the morning my son will find his way to the bus stop and join his friends and classmates. No longer will he walk two steps ahead of me with his nose tucked into a book. It is both exciting and terrifying letting go. I smile, breath held, and guide both children toward change.
Tomorrow new routines will create new normals for each of us. Today backpacks and new shoes sit by the door as quietly as our hopes and fears unspoken.
scribblechic 