A Guest Blog: An Open Letter To My Son's Teachers

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