School conferences. You either love them or hate them. As you walk down that school hallway, it may feel like a slow, long walk to the gallows or a skip a dee do dah day on the Yellow Brick Road. Depends on the kid, depends on the year. It also depends on if you are one of those nauseatingly glass half full people or more like me, a neurotic, worrying, psycho who doesn't care what's in the glass or how full or empty it may be because my kid isn't a glass and last time I checked, school personnel and college recruiters don't compare educational success to how much liquid is in a glass. To he** with the glass, I just want reassurances that my kids will lead happy, enriching, successful lives and I'd like my kids' elementary school teachers to all, but promise me that by the time my kid is 8. Yeah, regardless of the kid or the year, walking down that closing in hallway to my designated school conference location, feels like a frenzied skip to the gallows. You throw in The A Word and the first year of middle school, and this year, on my way to Ryan's conference, I kept looking to see if Tom Hanks was next to me as I walked The Green Mile in shackles and handcuffs.
Whether you are crazy like me (very few people are) or not, I think the first school conference of middle school can be nerve wracking. After all, for many kids it's the first year they have a new teacher for every class, a school locker, bigger class sizes and to top it off, the teachers insist that we hovering helicopter mothers fly away and hover somewhere else. Hrumph! It can be a tough adjustment for any neurotypical kid (and their helicopter mom), but, for a child like Ryan, who loves routine, who has difficulty communicating his concerns and needs and who cried his heart out at elementary school graduation, well, it's no wonder his crazy mom, was just a little bit edgier on school conference night.
Every year since we heard The A Word, I worry that THIS year will be THE Year. THE Year it gets too hard. THE Year Ryan's different learning style becomes too different. THE Year a 504 Plan won't cut it anymore and Ryan will need additional support in the classroom. THE Year I have been waiting for since that late afternoon when we sat in a psychologist's office and heard The A word that would quickly attach itself to my son and his future. Every back to school night, when the teacher laid out the educational plan for the year, I would barely make it to the hallway, where I would find Denial waiting for me, when the tears would start to flow down my cheeks. Yep, this year will be too tough, this year the teacher won't "get him", this year will be different than last year. This year will be THE Year that I have spent hours wringing my hands over and now it will finally come to fruition. THE Year rears it's ugly head at me at the start of every single school year, bullying me and badgering me with the inevitable question, as Ryan's mother, did I do enough? Was a 504 Plan enough or should there have been an IEP in place? Were the accommodations appropriate? Did I push him enough? Did I expect too much? And on, and on, and on. And guess what? Every single year, Ryan takes his 3 inch three ring binder (which is very heavy by the way) and slaps me in the face (not literally of course...had to clarify in case Ryan reads this post) and proves me wrong...year, after year, after year.
As I walked The Green Mile a few weeks ago to meet with Ryan's English teacher, I felt a little nauseous. Although I was recovering from some hideous stomach virus that forced me to postpone the conference until I was able to get off my bathroom floor, it wasn't the dirty little virus that made me queasy, it was that fear...the "have I done enough to ensure the best path of success for my beautiful boy" fear that had me searching for the closest garbage can. As I sat down with Ryan's teacher, whose hand I did not shake for fear of contaminating her with the potentially still contagious stomach ache, not the self-induced one, I'm sure my nervous energy spilled out as I babbled in time warp speed. I assured the teacher that even though I looked like someone she might want to report to the CDC, much of my pale, clamminess was self-induced and not anything that required her to don a hazmat suit. She let me stay in her classroom, but, I'm sure between my ailment and the frenzied look in my eyes, this kind teacher kept her finger on the panic button under her table.
In middle school, you meet with one teacher who gives you a report from all the other teachers on your child's "team". I heard quotes from Ryan's teachers like, "Ryan is off to a nice start...", "Often it seem like Ryan's isn't paying attention, but when he is called on, he is on topic."...."Ryan is growing in confidence and is beginning to feel "safe" in class."..."Ryan asked for clarification and came during flex for additional help."..."Ryan prefers to work alone and seems content to do so." My favorite, was this one, "Ryan seems to be enjoying science and I love catching him smile!". What? No difficulty in adjusting to the new schedule? No misunderstanding of his funny quirks and facial expressions? No, I think he needs an IEP with additional support? No, occasional outbursts or scripting of Spongebob, The Grinch or Uncle Grandpa (It was reported that he occasionally does this, quietly and subtly after lunch and most kids don't notice....we hope)? Nope, not a word. When your son has a 94 GPA, I guess there isn't much doom and gloom to report.
The relief I'm sure was apparent on my face (green, sickly pallor aside) as I told Ryan's teacher of my fear of THE Year. And there, as I sat with this teacher who has taught hundreds of kids before mine and who has only known my son for approximately 88 days, she said, "Maybe THE Year will never come." Six words, six standard, nothing to put on the SAT vocab list words, were strung together to make such a powerful sentence that it took my breath away. A sentence that this helicopter mom needed to hear in order to finally ground me. Yes, this was an English teacher and words are her medium, but, I assure you this teacher had no idea the impact her grammatically correct, beautifully connected words had on this mother. "Maybe THE Year will never come." Maybe, like pretty much everything I worry about (my mother once told me that 90% of the things you worry about never come true, but, I'm not sure that is a statistical fact or something she said just to shut me up), THE Year won't come to fruition. Maybe as Ryan continues to mature and grow, he will adapt to each passing school year with pride in his work and a desire to continue to prove his nutty mom wrong as he has done year, after year, after year. Maybe instead of worrying about THE unforeseen, may never come to pass, Year, I should look back collectively at the YEARS...each and every one that Ryan has taken my fears and stomped the he** out of them.
In the brief 88 days that I knew this teacher, I knew she was the perfect choice for Ryan in a subject that has proven to be difficult for him in the past, but little did I know, she was the perfect choice for me too. I wanted to hug this woman. In a moment when my son was no longer the student, this wise teacher gifted a teachable moment to a worried, anxious mother. I swear, I felt my arms start to reach out and hug this teacher, however, I feared that hugging her might have been a little creepy and, since I looked a little like I just stepped off the set of The Walking Dead, I feared my touch would have resulted in a call to the CDC. This wonderful, fabulous teacher had no idea what those six simple words did for this anxious ridden mother. I wanted to tell her, but the full impact had not quite sunk in yet, and other parents were lining up on The Green Mile outside her doorway. I left the conference, no longer feeling like "Dead Man (or should I say Mom) Walking", but, instead I felt like someone who just received a pardon from the governor, and I hope one day, a pardon from my son. As the cool night air hit my cheeks, then and only then, did I allow the tears to fall. This time, Denial was not beside me, I was alone and this time, they were tears of joy, not tears of worry.
It's not that I doubt Ryan's ability, it's just all those years ago when I first heard The A word, I was broken and scared. It has taken me years to heal and to try and shake the words that traumatized me on Google. Words like, "lifelong disability", "neurological impairment", "Refrigerator Mother", and "group home" (shudder). It's hard not to worry, not to awfulize, when those words painted such a bleak future for your child.
When I was in Graduate School, we learned about Labeling Theory. This is a theory based on "how the self-identity and behavior of individuals may be determined or influenced by the terms used to describe or classify them" (thanks again Wiki). A sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. For example, had Ryan spent the hours on Google like I did, reading words about all the things he wouldn't be able to do, shouldn't try to do or never dream about doing, then according to Labeling Theory, Ryan would have internalized those descriptors and believed he wasn't capable of what others without an ASD label are capable of, therefore, Ryan would never try and would wind up being less....just like the label predicted. Fortunately, Ryan has never Googled autism, he has never spent hours worrying about his future, and although he knows there are things that are more challenging for him than for others, Ryan tends to focus on what he excels at, and fortunately school is one of them. Clearly, labeling theory did not address what reading those "terms" would do to a borderline crazy mother.
When I was in Graduate School, we learned about Labeling Theory. This is a theory based on "how the self-identity and behavior of individuals may be determined or influenced by the terms used to describe or classify them" (thanks again Wiki). A sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. For example, had Ryan spent the hours on Google like I did, reading words about all the things he wouldn't be able to do, shouldn't try to do or never dream about doing, then according to Labeling Theory, Ryan would have internalized those descriptors and believed he wasn't capable of what others without an ASD label are capable of, therefore, Ryan would never try and would wind up being less....just like the label predicted. Fortunately, Ryan has never Googled autism, he has never spent hours worrying about his future, and although he knows there are things that are more challenging for him than for others, Ryan tends to focus on what he excels at, and fortunately school is one of them. Clearly, labeling theory did not address what reading those "terms" would do to a borderline crazy mother.
I was thrilled to leave Ryan's conference being worried for nothing once again (it really may be 90% of the time, especially when you worry about EVERYTHING). Although I know I will still worry....I'm a mom, it comes with the label....the powerful words of an incredibly wise and kind teacher have helped me gain some perspective of my fear of THE Year. Just like any child, Ryan will have ups and downs in any given year, but, his diagnosis, his label, does not predict his future anymore than a child without a designer label. So, thank you to this wonderful teacher whose six words changed the way this anxious mother will approach all of the years to come. Thanks to you, Mrs. M, next year at back to school night, if Denial is waiting for me in the hallway, I will be prepared. I will carry Ryan's very heavy, 3 inch, three ring binder to slap Denial upside the head if she opens her ugly mouth. There will be no tears as I anxiously fret over, "Will this be THE Year?". No, next year I will remember, that the progress Ryan has made, the goals he has achieved, and how hard he has worked to overcome challenges in YEARS past, are more indicative of what ALL the Years ahead of him will look like, than a single label and the terms used to strike fear in a mother's vulnerable heart. "Maybe THE Year will never come", indeed.
I worried about Ryan's adjustment to 5th grade and as you can see, Ryan loved it and was reluctant to "graduate". Ryan has proven once again, that 6th grade is not THE Year either.
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