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?