Something a little different for the blog today. I was approached by the mother of a 6-year-old with special needs who had a particularly frustrating experience with her son's teachers. Exasperated by the lack of support she's received from the people who are supposed to be a part of her son's team, she asked if I would share this correspondence. Keep in mind that both the mom who wrote this letter and I know that there are many wonderfully skilled teachers out there working tirelessly to help their students navigate their challenges. This particular experience, however, is indicative of a problem and sharing it seemed the best way to call attention to it.
Email from: [The Teachers]
Subject: [Your child]'s Morning
Good Morning,
We
typically do not go on email at this time but we wanted to inform you
about [your child]'s very difficult morning. [Your child] came in to
school shouting and making noises and appeared exhausted ( he was
yawning). After returning from Art at 9:40am
he began to cry. The crying lasted for almost 45 minutes on and off.
Teachers attempted to coax him with strategies such as a bean bag and
pillow, we tried taking him on a walk, and offered him his usual
preferred activities in the classroom. He was throwing his glasses and
appeared very distraught. We just want to inform you about what occurred
this morning.
Also we wanted to inform you that the gate closes at 2:50PM and [your child] should be picked up at 2:45. Three days this week the babysitter picked him up late. Please inform your babysitter about the correct pick up time. Thank you,
[The Teachers]
An Open Letter to My Son’s Teachers:
Good Afternoon,
I do not typically respond with sarcasm and negativity to a
situation, but I wanted to inform you of my gut reaction to your email, as both
a teacher and a special needs parent.
Your email came into my inbox just as I was finishing my day
of teaching and sitting down to a meeting with my colleagues. When I finished reading at 12:40 pm, I began
to cry and had a hard time focusing on my work for the rest of the day. I wondered if I should come to pick up my son,
but you had neither mentioned that, nor called me at work to ask for someone to
come get him. I wondered if he was still crying as you sent me this email. I decided you were probably sending it to
vent to me about my horrible parenting job and your frustration with him, me,
and the system that placed him in your class.
I realize that my son
is a handful -- an enigma -- and that it
can be particularly challenging to work with him when he becomes frustrated,
especially given that he has practically no language through which to vent his
frustrations. I understand you have over
30 children in your class and your email makes it perfectly clear, to me, that
you really don’t want to have to deal with this child as well. I’m also aware that in erroneously
complaining last June, when I was told two days before the end of the school
year that this public school was no longer an “appropriate setting” for my
child, that I had been given “no warning” about the situation, that I probably
brought this email upon myself. Now, you
see, I have had my written warning that your school is not an “appropriate
setting” for my child. This is a
conclusion I have already come to myself but, funny enough, schools don’t seem
to have “appropriate” spaces for tricky special needs children who apply mid-July
for the upcoming September. And it
really eases my anxiety about the one interview we did go on, when you ask me
at the conclusion of almost every written and face-to-face communication “How
did the interview go? Have you heard
back from any schools yet?” Perhaps the
only thing harder than finding a space in a school for a special needs child in
July of the same year you are looking at is trying to do it in September for
that same year. So, thanks for your
support.
Thank you for easing the burden that weighs heavily on my
shoulders as I leave the house each morning to go teach other people’s children
(some of whom are just as tricky as my own special needs child). Thank you for realizing that as parents of a
child who has, at most, 50 words and can reliably use about 15 of those, my
husband and I are totally and completely disconnected from the world at school
and rely on your ability and expertise to guide our child (and us) through this
situation. Thank you for loving our child
the same way you would hope someone would love your child.
I apologize for my child’s yawning in class. His bedtime is 6:30 pm. I might be able to make that earlier, but you
see, I myself get home from teaching young children around 3:30 pm. I spend about ten minutes in the bathroom and
changing into comfortable, paint-germ-and-booger-free clothes. I then spend a few minutes trying to give both
my special needs child and my ebullient two year old equal attention, since
they both are clamoring for some of my affection and my husband is still at
work. I say thank you and goodbye to my
caregiver and once I get them “calm” (and you know why that’s in quotes) I ask
them about their days and they respond about as reliably as a two-year-old and
six-year-old with a speech disability can.
I can’t ask my child who he played with that day. He can’t tell me. He screams and cries, and sometimes smacks me
in the face and says “No!” Because I’ve
just asked him to do about the most frustrating thing I can ask of him. Something you, and I, and just about everyone
short of Stephen Hawking takes for granted.
To make his mouth reliably work.
I’m sure if I could attach a speaker to his brain, that he’d literally
be shouting all this stuff from the rooftops.
He’s (despite your report of this morning) a happy, sociable, humorous,
loving guy who is always trying to make connections with other people and share
these connections with his family.
The same motor-planning disorder that traps my son’s words
in the depths of his head, also keeps the rest of his motor-planning a bit
wonky, so that when we move on to the next part of our day (completing the
homework assignment, which is neither vaguely appropriate for my child nor based
on the modifications laid out by his IEP) we encounter even more frustration
than ever before. He bites me, his
shirt, the pencil. Throws the sheet on
the floor. I am left to modify the
assignment to my best ability because there has been no communication from you
as to the expectations you have of him.
(Thank G-d I have dual degrees in special education and over a decade of
experience in the field. I think it was
all for this moment) And, at this time
of the night I have an abundance of patience, too, since I’ve only been doing
this same work for 6 hours with my own class of well over a dozen three-year-olds
with varying identified and unidentified needs.
But I’ll do it for another hour for my own child. Because if not me, then who?
This brings us to 5:00 pm and I’m so excited to start cooking
dinner for my children. I don’t eat with
them. When I do, I end up scarfing it
down and getting indigestion, so I wait for them to be finished before eating
(or making) my own dinner. Just to
inform you, I do let them watch television while I cook. And then, after placing the dishes on the
child table in front of my son and daughter, I get to sit on my hands, and my
patience, and watch as my hard-working son battles his motor-planning disorder
for the umpteenth time today as he struggles to get whatever meal I’ve prepared
onto his fork or spoon and into his mouth.
Most of the time he gives up after 3 bites and starts using his hands,
before he gives up altogether and just stops eating. Sometimes his two-year-old sister feeds
him. Usually I end up doing it myself
after watching a half-hour of his struggle.
But I still carefully plan his meals and place them on dishes with special
suction or sides that are used for 9 month olds learning utensil control,
because I want to foster his independence and (someday) break his reliance on
(literally) being spoon-fed. Usually
around 6:30 pm I smell my son, inspect his face and hair and have an internal
debate on whether or not giving him a bath is worth the time it takes away from
his sleep. It’s a 50-50 shot. So my son heads in, once again unarmored
against his motor-planning disorder, this time to undress and re-dress himself
in his pajamas. Because, the kind of thoughtless
mother I am, also thinks he needs to learn how to do this independently and
that practice is the only way for him to form this habit. He often screams in frustration when two legs
go in the same pant hole or bites his shirt instead of putting it on his
head. It makes me extremely proud and
contented to watch. Just to inform
you. So, I apologize. Even after 13 hours of sleep (sometimes a
very insufficient 10-12), my son is tired and yawning at 9:40 in the
morning. I won’t detail what the hours
between 7 and 8:35 look like at our house, or what might be causing him to tire
between 8:35 and 9:40 at school, but you can imagine what waking up, eating
breakfast, getting dressed, walking to school, etc. consists of for a child
whose words and body don’t do what he’d like them to do, when he wants, every
time he tries. And that the only
consistency for him is that this is always inconsistent and unpredictable. This is just to “inform” you about our child’s
(and our) daily routine, so that I can vent some of my frustrations to you
(since we’re all sharing).
Also, I want to inform you that we have only had three
pick-ups this week, and I did one of them.
I was at the gate at 2:45, no students or teachers were there and they
were locked tight. They did open at 2:55
and I proceeded straight towards you. My
babysitter is an amazing young woman who manages to care for both my strong-willed
and extremely verbal two-year-old in addition to my tricky and often frustrated
(and strong) six-year-old special needs child.
She gets paid for her job, but should be earning a special educator salary
considering the patience and education she gives to both of my children, not to
mention for putting up with being yelled at and blamed incorrectly by teachers
for being 5 minutes late. I also ask her
to do this job for me because at this point, I’m not sure I can stretch a smile
across my face when I see you in person, and I was taught to say nothing if I
couldn’t think of something nice to say.
I apologize again, because I think this letter is in direct
contradiction to that last sentence.
Thank you,
Name WithHeld