The Remedial Son - Conclusion?

I have gained 2 lbs, all due to the pints of Häagan Dazs Ice Cream that came rolling in. Can I sue Haagan Dazs for the weight gain?

But it’s not about me, it’s about L. Well, actually, it’s about my reaction to L’s issue. After conversations with: one specialist, one school principal, one husband, and multiple friends, we have come to the conclusion that there is nothing “wrong” with L. He is simply on the late side of the curve.

What tipped the scale? A comment from my husband, while having a conversation with L’s principal: “Ya know,” he said “if we were having this conversation last year, it would have been about reading.” I was dumbfounded.

My husband had walked into my head, turned on the fan and blew out all the dense fog.

Last March, my son was “behind in school standards” for reading and didn’t seem much inclined to change his standing. For him, reading served no real purpose, especially since we read to him. Then one day we got Dragon Ball Z. When we couldn’t read it to him as often as he liked, he found a reason to read. Now, he’s reading above grade level. Ya know, it hasn’t even been a year yet! Whether or not this happens to his writing doesn’t even matter. He’ll get it. I know he will. Watch, he’ll be the next Thoreau or Langston Hughes at which point I will look back on this and laugh.

After my husband’s insightful comment, I struggled to write. I was full with embarrassement.

Did I over react? Did I just humiliate myself? I mean after all, L doesn’t appear to have any real learning issues. Why didn’t I remember to defend my son? Why did I just roll over and wail? Since when have I taken what “experts” say so seriously?

After the woe is me party, I asked myself a question I need to ask more often, especially around parenting. Did I do anyone any real harm by my reaction? Judging from most of the comments, all the personal emails I received PLUS the ice cream, I think not.

For me, the fear of being “real” is that I am the only one with these particular thoughts, and foe and friend alike will stand in a circle, pointing at me, cackling cruelly. The reality of letting it all hang out is I inadvertently shared a common anguish or something like that. I can’t really put my finger on it, but that last entry…went all over the world, England, Australia, France, Columbia, Brazil and Dubai. Plus three countries I had to look up. So, obviously I was not alone in my chick flick, ice cream eating, just love me mood. It felt so damn good to shut down like that.

The other truth of being real is that people want to help. Being on the receiving end of a lending hand, especially one with ice cream, feels really, really nice. Not a luxury commonly allowed among mothers. We should all take more advantage of it.

Hmm, there’s a lesson somewhere in all this. Keep the comments coming.


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The Remedial Son - Part 2

Met today with the head of the lower school and the curriculum director. Ya know, in this case, the people who decide whether or not to let my child into their school.

I saw, for the first time, two things. First his test scores from the not very helpful No-Child-Left-Behind-Mandatory testing. This test was administered to him last year and WE NEVER RECEIVED it. (I'm saving that topic for another entry.) I know test scores show how well you take tests. Still when your child, your beautiful, personable child scores just above the below basics level…

Second came the sample writings of other 8 – 9 year olds. Compared to his average peers, L’s writing looks like that of a first grader. He will be 9 in a little over a week.

They will not accept L for next year.

Before you get angry at me for "counting" test scores, before you tell me not to label my son, and before you tell me it will all be OK, I need to make you aware of something.

Today…I am on strike.

I will not be accepting recommendations, input, or phrases that start with any of the following:

• “Well, at least…”
• “When this happened to me, I did...”
• “He’ll be fine and…”

I will be accepting, however, notes of “I’m sorry for what you’re dealing with,” Vanilla Hagen Daz Ice Cream, and recommendations for good chick flicks.

These are the things I know to be true for today.

I am scared, disheartened, and sorry. I will cry when I see L today and I will cry for much of the remainder of the day. All of this crying is ok, too. I know that having a “good” life does not preclude, or take away my right to feel sad.

I know a piece of me has died. The perfect older child dream is now smaller. And whether you admit it or not, and as silly as it sounds when voiced, as mothers all we want is for our children to do well in everything for the rest of their lives. It hurts to loose that dream, as unrealistic as it is.

I know that for the first time since my oldest has left toddlerdum, I am helpless to fix “it” for him. I can’t redirect his attention, take the harmful object out of his way, or drill him on his shapes. My physical and somewhat mental freedom comes with emotional constrains I can’t even fathom. Remember bringing home your baby? Did it matter that you were like the gazillionth person over a life span of millions of years to give birth? That same fear of uncertainty, responsibility and being unsure of how it would all work is how I feel right now. That is exactly how I feel.

And now just like then, I don’t want someone telling me how to do something, I don't want suggestions or comments.

What I want is someone to cry with me, and to nod his/her head when I talk. I want someone to let me grieve my loss, sit in the fear with me and to understand intrinsically that this isn’t about information, this is about life.

Life lessons don’t get fixed, they get lived. And maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after I will live this one but for now, I just need a tissue...and some Hagen Daz.

The Remedial Son

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” said the director of the school we wanted my son to attend next year.

A quick, surprised “Sure.” was the response mustered.

I followed him into the office.

Words, words and words. I caught them one by one. “We don’t want to set him up for failure. Has he had an IEP? Is he in a remedial program at his present school?” They came to me, floated in my ears and landed denting, binging, cutting my mother confidence.

And then all those dings bled.

What? What? What? I wanted to scream. Set him up? Set him up? He’s perfect, he’s perfect, he’s…..perrreeeecccctttt!!! I’m his mother, his attentive loving ‘know-my-kid’ mother. This isn’t happening. You’re wrong! He’s fine

“This is a sample of the work he did today.” I looked at it. It looked the same all his writing did only now, now, now, I knew I was looking at the writing of a kid who was not up-to-par, up-to-snuff, not-within-the-wide-boundaries even this school draws.

I asked for samples of other kids writing just so I could see, see, see for myself that yes in, fact, he was, he is, he is, he is so painfully behind.

How could I be so stupid? How could I not see his development falling so far behind? How could I claim to love a child when I can’t even see him, see him, see him. I can’t see him, he’s a mass of brown softness through my tears.

What’s wrong with me as a mother? What kind of mother would not recognize, act upon, defend, get help for her child? What kind of $^#%*@ mother?

I espouse that in the end, it won’t matter what we do. In the end, our kids will be just who they will be and we have little control. What I forget about is the guilt, the thought that somewhere, some step in his short almost 9 year life span I screwed up and it’s my fault, my fault, my fault.

And God, if I can’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t see this then what else am I missing? What else? What else?