Negotiating Space

I have a world map and a map of the US folded and stacked on top of my jeans in my closet. J’s framed Imagine Dragons poster is also in our room, leaned up against the foot of our bed. They’ll be there until Tuesday, fingers crossed, until J earns the right to have them back.

Right now when I get dressed or go to bed, I have these visual reminders of how much space J can take up in my life. It’s easy to let J overtake every aspect of my life. Space is something I have to fight for. It doesn’t just happen.

I got married young (just shy of 21). I had J less than a week before turning 22. J and autism have been my entire adult life. Maybe that’s why I fight so hard to make sure I have my space without him.

Steve and I both graduated in 2002 with our BAs. I was 7 months pregnant at the time.

It’s easy to become an autism martyr. It’s easy for autism to creep into every thought you have. It’s an easy go-to place to wallow in when you feel like your life’s not going the way you want it to. That’s why it’s so important that I fight for my space, because it’s the only thing that keeps me sane through this whole thing. I still have my life to live.

I was “me” before Steve, J, or W. I’m still that person (yes, evolved a million times over from the experiences I’ve had over the past 15 years married with kids) and I’m always trying to make sure I learn and improve on that person too. It’s important to my family, I feel especially to my daughter. She needs to feel the right to develop herself in the ways she needs to as well–unlike me, her life started with autism. Even though I love my children, I’m not just their mother. I am so many other things too. It’s dangerous to get stuck into seeing yourself as one thing, especially a mother of an autistic child, because you can’t see the myriad other things you are too.

Once W was born, I stopped subbing altogether. My time and my space had to be put on hiatus for a few years.

It’s hard to say if I’d feel the same way or not if J didn’t have autism, although I’m guessing I probably would. I’ve needed that “me” time before we knew J had autism. We were a poor grad school family when Steve was attending the University of Illinois and I substitute taught in the Urbana school district every Friday, while pregnant with W. The extra money was nice, but getting out of the house once a week, being an adult “me” was worth much more than the money. Raising another human is an especially exhausting, all-consuming experience. I had to step out of that, even for a short amount of time, on a regular basis.

Pregnant with W and subbing at the same time. We didn’t have a ton of money at the time and I had about 2 or 3 “nicer” maternity shirts that I rotated through when I subbed. This shirt was one of them.

When W started kindergarten, I really felt I needed to go back to school again. With a lot of Steve’s support (he took a sabbatical during some of that time so I could TA and go to school full time) I was able to graduate with my MFA. I had gone back and forth between speech therapy (or some other education emphasis) and an MFA. Speech therapy (and even education) required that I go back and take more undergraduate classes before a masters program. My life track before marriage and kids was in English, so the MFA won out. A few weeks into the program I realized how important it really was that I develop “me” in other ways than in the special needs department and that I was really starving to develop my own interests.

MFA graduation, 2012. My sister and Steve were some of my biggest supports through the whole process.

Over the years I’ve realized that in all the ways I fought for my space, I’ve ended up reciprocating them back to J and my family. My experiences in the Urbana Public School District helped me understand the special education process better, even when I didn’t have a stake yet in special education. I could see teacher’s perspectives and how challenging their jobs could be. I’ve been able to see hundreds of kids with different backgrounds, different learning challenges, and different learning strengths that have helped me understand my kids better.

My MFA experiences have been invaluable too. I use one of my favorite reading comprehension strategies taught in my TA class with J on a daily basis. Understanding the human experience and exploring human motivation has helped me imagine a little better what J’s world probably looks like. My creative nonfiction class changed my whole perspective on what reality means to each person, and how even two people sharing the same experience will tell their stories in very different ways because of how they interpret the world around them. Creating fictional stories outside of my experience helps me understand others better and has helped lessen the pain of well-meaning, yet hurtful comments I’ve received. It’s helped me escape my life in healthy ways when I need to the most.

I try my best to read my family’s cues to make sure there’s a balance. Sometimes you get stuck temporarily and a balance can’t be reached, and things are just hard for a while. Even though both my kids were in school, I know the last few months of my MFA were hard on W. I spent many late nights on thesis revisions, I’d grade papers after school or cram reading assignments in while my kids played outside. I’d set dinner out for the family, or Steve would make something, and I’d head out for night classes and workshops. It was something everyone in our family had to make adjustments for. Right now our family is changing again. J needs special attention sometimes with the ups and downs of middle school, and W has her own share of challenges too. Sometimes I have to put off my own projects temporarily for them. But it’s okay, because we all have the right to be needy sometimes. There’s a lot of give and take that happens here.

I know every family, every relationship, requires negotiation of space. It’s a dance that needs to be monitored constantly. Sometimes I’m better at managing that dance than others. Sometimes I play the autism martyr supermom and forget to take care of myself and sometimes I play the selfish, self-pitying mom and forget that sometimes I need to wait my turn too–family issues function on a triage system. I think the most helpful revelation for me through all of this is that our family is made up of constant, fluid seasons of need. Everyone in our family should have a turn to have their needs met, especially when autism is constantly monopolizing that space.

 

 

Life Lately

J was so excited to participate in hat day on Friday. Last week we had a police officer killed in duty and his school was doing a “hat day” fundraiser. 

When J was little I treated his life and experiences as a recovery. I was going to make him better. I knew there was no cure for autism and that because of the complex nature of the neurological disorder there might not ever be one. But I was on a mission to make as many of his symptoms disappear as I could. I was going to make him as non-autistic as possible. I was going to fix him.

I cringe when I think about the perspective I had. I would like to think I’m independent and strong and noble, that I see the injustices of discrimination in the world and I stand up for “the underdog.” I’m not as brave as I’d like to think I am. I feel like I’m a little like Katharine Hepburn’s character in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. It’s one thing to say you believe in embracing differences and different perspectives but sometimes it’s a different story when that different person is your own child. There are times I don’t like the fact my kid is different. It’s a humble pill to swallow.

I’ve mentioned my feelings about milestones, the shame I feel sometimes when J’s behind in this post here, and I’m trying to be better at this. I’m trying to celebrate the little things more because J’s life isn’t a recovery. It’s his life. It’s the way he experiences the world and even though it’s not the way I see or do it, or the same way his friends are seeing and doing it, that’s okay. It’s his life. I need to be better at celebrating his life.

Here are three celebrations this week. They’re little and big at the same time. I feel like these middle school years can be so volatile, but this week has shown me they can be amazing too.

Self Restraint:

Once a week Steve and I have our dessert night–dessert just for us, not the kids. W will express her displeasure the next day. J will take his fingers and pinch a bite out of the leftovers if we’re not looking and so we always have to hide things in the kitchen from him. His impulsiveness is a huge struggle and  I know he’d never pass the marshmallow test. At least that’s what I’ve always thought. This week I had forgotten to hide the last ramekin of molten lava. Later that day it remained untouched. By night it was still there. J had manged to conjure enough self restraint leave it alone.

He’s also shown self-restraint in other ways this week. Over the weekend we were watching Netflix and a “violent scene” (two people dueling with swords) came on screen. J really doesn’t know how to process violence–and I’ve realized it’s a hard thing to teach a child with autism how to process violence in a socially acceptable way. It’s not just J. We’ve been to movies before with special needs kids in the audience and they’re always laughing at the most “inappropriate times.” Time after time I’ve explained it to J this way: “When the bad guy falls or gets hurt, it’s okay to feel a little good about it. If a bad guy gets hurt in a silly way, it’s okay to laugh. If it’s the good guy who’s getting hurt then it’s not okay to laugh.People think you’re a bad person if you laugh when a good guy gets hurt.” Even as I type this I see how ridiculous it sounds. I guess we’re a little ridiculous as a society sometimes.

I’ve tried explaining this to him for years, but no matter the situation J always giggles when people are fighting or hurting each other because that’s the only way he can process it. This weekend, as the two men were fighting to the death onscreen,  he announced, “This is violent, I have to leave now, I’ll be back later,” and he left the room. Steve and I were floored. We had never introduced the concept of “just leaving” to him before. We had always just tried to coach him through it, rattling the “rules of violence” to him again. It’s just a little thing in the whole scheme of this last week. But I feel like J’s hitting a new milestone too. He’s gaining more confidence in being in control of his thoughts and actions.

The PACER test: 

3 years ago, J ran his first kids run through the Fargo Marathon. He tolerated the experience, but really wasn’t a fan of running.

This week I got a text from J’s para, letting me know how well J did in PE that day. They had run the PACER test (The Progressive Aerobic Cardiovascular Endurance Run (PACER) is a multistage shuttle run . . . designed to measure aerobic capacity, which is characterized by endurance, performance, and fitness. The objective of the PACER is to run as long as possible while keeping a specified pace. Students run back and forth across a 20-meter space at a pace that gets faster each minute. A point is scored for each 20-meter distance covered. The test is easier in the beginning but progressively gets more difficult.) (Nova.edu) and J had scored a 53 (the average range for his age is between 41-78) and was one of about 6 kids still going at that time. Just two years ago, J wouldn’t step in a gym. He wouldn’t run when asked. Now he loves it. He’s running with his peers. Major progress!

J and Fred:

Fred, our senior dog, has been struggling a little lately. His hips are bothering him and some days he struggles to walk. Sunday morning was one of those days. We gave him some medication and decided to make sure he took it easy. Even though he’s an anxious dog and ABSOLUTELY NEEDS exercise before we kennel him, we decided to hold off on the exercise because he was struggling so bad.

When we came back from church we came home to a messy dog and a messy kennel. It stresses J out if Fred messes his kennel, but Sunday he said, “I want to help,” so I carried the dog upstairs and J helped me bathe Fred. I held up his paws while J took a rag and very carefully cleaned each paw off. It was really sweet how gentle he was. It made me realize that J is capable of compassion and responsibility and I think I’m guilty of seeing J as always being the one who always needs to be taken care of. He can take care of others too.

This week J has been making connections on his own about who he is and how he wants to interact with the world around him. It’s not at the same rate and in the same ways as his peers most of the time. But it’s an amazing thing to watch him start to figure himself out.

Reconciling the Present with the Future

I feel like J is always more than an arms length away from fully understanding him.

I think it’s almost impossible as a parent with a special needs child to not be constantly thinking about the future. I’ve been guilty a million times over. I’ve kept a running list of potential professions for J since he was 5.

-At 5 I thought he might have a potential career as a mail carrier. He created mental maps and physical maps of the neighborhood constantly, complete with Christmas lights, basketball hoops, and flags. The only big hang-up was dogs. At that time, J was terrified of dogs.

-I’ve gone back and forth on the idea of a grocery store bagger or even cashier. It’s a low skill job, and the days I feel like he’s failing dismally in academic areas, this is the job that comes to mind. But it’s not the perfect one either. At 7 he would have meltdowns if he saw people with freckles. He’s over that now, but he gets fidgety over spellings and numbers. Would he have a meltdown if he saw a name or a brand with a “misspelled” name? If a total rang up with a “bad number?”

-At 10 I thought he might have a future as a bus driver. The driver on my route to work was definitely on the spectrum.  I learned a new obscure fact about the Beatles every day. If I was lucky he’d mix it up with some Buddy Holly trivia. But would J ever be able to learn how to drive? Would his brain blow up if he couldn’t hit the stops on time?

I keep a list of a dozen possible professions for J in my head. I’ve come up with stenographer, and proofreader or copyeditor. I’ve come up with the possibility of community college or a late entry to college (as a nontraditional student at 30 something. I had a student once in one of my classes who started college for the first time at 35 because of her anxiety issues). I keep the possibilities filed away because I want to make sure that once J graduates from high school, we’ll be able to find a place for him.

This week we his future was lightly touched upon at parent teacher conferences. I got to sit down with each of J’s three core teachers and listen to how they see J, how they’re trying to reach him on a relational level, and how they’re trying to reach him at an academic level. The question on everyone’s mind is, “how do I know if what we’re teaching J is what J needs?” What will he need to succeed in the future?

The answer is I don’t know. Do we push the more complicated steps in algebra when he’s frustrated with the first steps of algebra? Does he really need to know the pythagorean theorem or not? In reality, the answer is probably no. He will probably get along fine with a more “applied math” approach. In fact, I have gotten through life with just “applied math” skills. I have an MFA and not once have I had to graph an equation or use the pythagorean theorem since my first year as an undergraduate. I work at a university and can function just fine without the “higher math” in my life.

Right now I feel that it’s important to keep trying though. It’s by throwing things at J that we can find out what J is good at and not good at, because the truth is I really have no idea. We can see where his interests are and how to push him in those areas. He might be terrible at algebra but really good at geometry. He may be terrible at reading comprehension but a whiz at grammar and usage.

The more I try to plan J’s future out, the more I try to determine what he’s good at and not good at, the more I realize it’s a futile waste of my energy.  He is always changing and progressing–dramatically sometimes. Strengths come out of nowhere. Two years ago, J became obsessed with Presidents of the United States. He knows the order of the 44 presidents starting with George Washington forward and can do it from Barack Obama backward. He knows when they were all born, died, how long their terms were, when their terms were. He just picked it up and he’s been on fire about it ever since.

This year it’s been the same way with geography. He knows almost every capital city of every country on this planet.He’s just started World Language Survey and within 2 days he could identify all 16 phrases—including differentiating between Arabic and Urdu—and I know it’s because of his interest in countries that he’s interested in what is spoken in different countries. We’re only a couple of weeks in—I don’t know how he’ll pick up new languages—but he’s incredibly smart at English grammar and usage. At the same time, he could be terrible and another language’s grammar and usage. I don’t know, but I’m glad we’re giving him a shot in World Languages.

Academically, he’s good at memorization. He’s bad with abstract concepts. It’s easy to feel discouraged and feel like he’s really “learning something” when he can’t yet apply a lot of his knowledge.

Temple Grandin 2013

When Temple Grandin (an autistic woman and professor and Colorado State University in Animal Science and who also swears off Algebra ;)) came to Fargo back in 2013, one of the things she said that stuck out to me was, “It’s not just memorization. It start’s that way. The more they get out and learn specific examples, it builds their Google base.” Being exposed to those concepts–even if he doesn’t understand them all, builds his Google base.

She also talked about  starting with “areas of strength” and spreading out from there. J loves maps—especially Africa. That’s a bridge to vocabulary words in his unit that have more social constructs around them. I really believe the more times he hears the word, “refugee, Apartheid, push and pull factors, colonization” at home or at school, the bigger we’re building that Google base. It will be there ready to access when he’s able to figure it out.

There’s no way to know an autistic child’s threshold for learning and growth—which gives you hope when things get rough. But in the back of your mind you are always terrified of failing them because you don’t know how far they can go if they have the chance. You don’t know how much to push or if it’s too much. You see stories like Carly Fleischmann‘s or Martin Pistorius‘s and you’re scared to stop pushing. I felt that from the teachers on conference night. I know it well. I think about it every day too.

You can watch Carly’s amazing story here:

So I keep monitoring, pushing and engaging him. I’m asking his teachers to keep doing the same. I keep that list of potential professions running through my head but in reality I can’t really plan his life out for him at this point. He changes so quickly. And the world is changing just as quickly too. Well educated millennials can’t get jobs right now. Technology is also eliminating jobs. Even if he were “neuro-typical” I couldn’t plan and predict his life for him.

For now, I think the only plan to go in is this: make him the best person he can be today.

 

The Well Child

Perfect 10 month Baby J with Steve at Lake Superior, Ontario.

At the two year well child visit, J threw an epic tantrum in the examination room. I was alternating rocking W’s car seat with my foot while trying to wrangle J at the same time. Our Illinois pediatrician slipped out of the examination room and returned quietly with a photocopied piece of paper that looked like it was taken from 10-year-old medical textbook. “It’s some information about tantrums,” she said with a tentative smile. “Read through it. It’ll give you some tips.”

J, just turned 2 years old. Urbana, Illinois.

I did a quick scan in the parking lot when I had the kids immobilized and secure in their car seats, both of them screaming at the top of their lungs. Words like “consistency,” “discipline,” “patience” and “staying firm” popped up all over the page. Words that had popped up in the books I read before J started speech therapy and early intervention. Tips that didn’t really apply to our situation because even though it would be another year or so until J would officially receive an autism diagnosis, I knew there was something fundamentally “different” with him. I HAD TRIED ALL OF THE TIPS ALL OF THE TODDLER PARENTING TIPS HAD SUGGESTED AND NONE OF IT WORKED. J wasn’t like “the other kids.” I had explained to the pediatrician that he wasn’t talking, that some of the developmental milestones he was now doing (like walking) took him a few extra months than his peers, but J’s pediatrician just brushed it off and said that some kids just develop a little slower than others.

I started dreading every single well child visit. It was a physical knock down battle to get J to stay in the room without a meltdown—without him freaking out from the moment we entered the room about immunizations. I had to hold his head firmly so he wouldn’t puncture an eardrum as the doctor checked his ears. I had to hold his body down while the doctor checked his toes (he has extreme sensory sensitivity on his feet–at one time Steve and I had to sneak in his room while he was asleep to trim his toenails). I tried explaining J’s autism to our new Kansas pediatrician, thinking she’d be a little more patient and would at least understand diagnosis, but she didn’t seem to really “know” what autism was either.

Even though I really like J and W’s pediatrician here in Fargo, I still dreaded this week’s well child visits. I set up W’s first, knowing that she would pass with “flying colors.” I was hoping it would give me a little courage for J’s visit the next day.

“Height and weight look good. You say that she’s at or above grade level at school; she says her hobbies are music, reading, and soccer. She’s good. Looking at her, I have hope for America’s future,” Dr. W said, finishing the checklist items with a smile. I know he was half-kidding when he said it. But it still kind of bothered me for some reason. She won the genetic lottery inheriting a body with very few hiccups. She wasn’t born with any learning disabilities or emotional disorders. It’s just how she came.

Dr. W has been the only pediatrician that has been patient and understanding about J’s autism. He got us a referral right away when we had some suspensions about seizures, he understands J’s coordination is bad because of his autism, so he’s more patient when he asks him to do things like jump or touch a toe, or other coordination tests. He’s even split J’s immunizations up so he doesn’t have to endure 4 needles at once. But out of all the people who work with J, I feel like the pediatrician has (and probably always will be) the person on the team that knows the least about autism and the least about J.

J and I practiced “getting a shot” every night before bed, timing his deep mindful belly breaths with the touch of a pencil tip. This amazing kid handled his shots and used his breathing like a pro! See? No tears!–this is post-shots!

J doesn’t meet the “hope of America’s future” requirements. During J’s well child visit, I explained to Dr. W the losing battle we’ve been fighting with the eczema around his eyes. He’s had it since November, and we went to the walk-in in December. I explain the finger picking issue and medications for J’s anxiety and ADHD that Dr. R and I have been visiting about every 3 months for years. I show him J’s ankle foot orthotics (AFOs) for his severe overpronation (not autism related). Dr W. made the referral to the specialist during our visit last year but he hadn’t seen them yet. I explained his weak muscle tension in his one arm and that the OT at school is working on that with him. In the middle of rattling off all of J’s ailments, and before I could prep J or remind Dr. W of J’s ear sensitivity, I watch Dr. W insert the otoscope in J’s ear, just as J takes a big, deep belly breath to stay calm.

“J, you’re doing so awesome!” I say excitedly. I wanted to give Dr. W my two minute replay of nightly mindfulness practice and how we’ve been using that as an extra way of helping the anxiety, and Dr. R’s thoughts about our new strategy, but by watching Dr. W’s clinical efficiency I know that it’s not at the top of his observation list. He’s checking out his rate of growth, encouraging preventative healthcare, and testing the basics of J’s human development. In-the-moment anxiety management isn’t on his radar. He’s interested in a very tiny piece of the overall J picture.

I feel like everyone else on J’s team: his psychiatrist, his child psychologist, his teachers, his paras, his occupational therapist, his speech therapist would have all seen how big that moment was. They would have been ecstatic to see how J used his deep breathing and took his flu vaccine and booster WITHOUT KICKING, BITING, SCREAMING, OR TEARS. Dr. W only sees J for 40 minutes once a year. He doesn’t really know J. It’s not really his job. Pediatricians aren’t specialists in autism, and that’s okay. I know this, but I still hate going to the pediatrician’s office. Because all of the poking and prodding usually sends J and all of the other autistic kids in the world into a frenzied mess. And that’s all the pediatrician—that primary medical contact—ever sees. That’s what autism looks like to them.

Steve, Me and J (7 months) Utah

It still haunts me when I think of J’s well baby visits, neither his pediatrician nor I knew that inside that 90th percentile head of his there was a brain that was wired so very, very differently from the kids he was being sized up against on the development charts. That inside that body that registered at 90th percentile height and weight there were muscles that didn’t communicate with his brain like the other kids. When he was an infant he was perfect. No one knew anything different. All of those measurements and developmental milestones fooled us for almost two years.

Because there’s so much more to a well child than just inches and pounds.

 

Adaptations and Modifications

J and Steve working on Geography homework.

It’s been about a month since J’s IEP meeting and I’m really excited about some of the ideas the team came up with. I guess that’s what happens when you get over a dozen people in a room to discuss J.

The hard thing about J is that there is no academic setting he really fits into. J is what I call “middle autistic.” If you think of a line graph where “low functioning” is on one side and “high functioning” is on the other, I would put J smack dab in the middle. So where do you put an “in the middle of the spectrum kid” in the public school setting? He would be bored to tears and be a behavioral nightmare in a magnet special ed classroom for lower functioning students. He doesn’t even really fit into a typical magnet autistic classroom either. Right before J entered kindergarten, I took the tour of the magnet autism classroom and thought, “J could never learn here. The meltdowns, the defiance, all the things that J exhibits too when he’s frustrated–it would just reinforce his own behaviors.” It was also really, really loud. J would go crazy with all of the auditory stimulation and be so stressed out, he wouldn’t be able to learn. No, the magnet autistic classroom really wasn’t an option either.

J manages changing classrooms, the transitions, and  going to all 8 periods of the day just fine. He opens his locker on his own without help. In fact, when W had to navigate her locker before school started, he easily opened hers on the first try. He LOVES geography, choir, FACS, and art–all classes he wouldn’t have access to if he were in a magnet special education or autism classroom all day. Even though he is absolutely dreadful at social interactions, he loves to see his friends throughout the day, so he’d miss a lot of those opportunities if he were placed in the “low functioning” places in the current system.

But he isn’t “high functioning” enough to navigate a regular classroom on his own. He needs a para with him at all times (primarily to help him regulate his emotions and behaviors), he needs someone to make sure he’s on task and he’s got his work organized. Someone to make sure his work is legible and his work is turned in. He’s not like the Aspies who can demonstrate savant-like qualities that make it easier for students and teachers forgive those “high functioning autistic kids” of their social-emotional deficits.

Sometimes he can be disruptive or say and do inappropriate things. How do you manage his learning with the learning of his peers in his class? How do you be fair to them and make sure they have the right learning environment that they need?

How exactly do you educate a kid like J?

Middle school also throws a wrench in the situation because instead of one classroom teacher who sees J intermittently throughout the day (while he is pulled for speech or OT or extra help on an assignment), J has 8 different teachers a day who have less than an hour to figure him out as well as the rest of the kids in the class and teach their lessons.

That’s why I’m so grateful that we have great teachers and paras who are willing to work with him. I know this kid can learn–he loves to learn. You have to be creative sometimes, but boy when that boy gets it, he GETS IT. The big challenge is how do we make this work for him and everyone else? How do I, as a mother who knows my kid can do things–who may take years to learn things but will absolutely learn things–how do I make sure he’s in the right situation with the right people?

I feel like we’re sort of the trailblazers and that we’re making mistakes all the time–torching fields left and right. Breaking new ground along side educators trying to find out how to help J academically, socially, and emotionally is hard. Many educators with their decades-long experiences in the classroom have never had a kid like J come through the system. But my gut says that J’s not the only “middle autism” kid out there. That there will be plenty more coming through the pipeline in the years ahead.

Since J’s come back from winter break and started a new semester, the team has come up with a few (I think) really great ideas to help J navigate the classroom a little better and hopefully in the long run, gain some more independence. This is the idea I’m the most excited about right now:

This is an example of J’s daily sheet. There are personal responsibilities like taking care of himself and his property that are set daily expectations. Then there are two expectations in each class that the teacher and para decide are appropriate for that day that J needs to meet. Classroom expectations are the difficult ones to anticipate because they change on a daily (sometimes even within the classroom time). This way J knows that he can strive to meet two expectations each class. The percentage at the bottom is how many items he completed (which helps me gauge what he’s motivated and doing at school).

We’re also working on modifying his classwork. Through our IEP discussion we discovered that J’s academics boil down to two big things. 1) He’s great at memorization and facts and 2) He really really struggles with applying knowledge and abstract thinking.  So he may be able to tell you every capital city of every country in the world, but he won’t be able to tell you why people build economies around certain natural resources. So we’re modifying some of his assignments a little. For example, if a classroom teacher expects the class to, say, understand 3 abstract concepts during the week, J might be expected to understand 1. This idea is still in the planning stages, but I think it’s a great modification. J gets really frustrated when he’s overwhelmed with a list of things he feels he “can’t do.” If we narrow that list down to a few things, then he can work at understanding those concepts a lot better.

I know this kid can do this. This summer he could barely scribble color on a Mario coloring page. Now he colors in countries on maps in Geography. Yes, he’s delayed in many ways–but this kid has got potential. It may take him days, weeks, months, even years to figure something out. But he’ll do it. That’s why I can’t give up on him. That’s why I have to make sure the system doesn’t give up on him.

J’s latest geography test. he got 37/40 countries correct. (I’m embarrassed to say I wouldn’t be able to do that). But the thing that really, really gets me excited–CHECK OUT THAT HANDWRITING!!!

We’ve come from this last year:

Copying out one definition

To this!!! (Be still my heart!):

J, if you promise not to give up trying, I’ll make sure other people won’t give up on you.