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.