The Last IEP or How A White Poppy Blooms

                                        

IEPs suck.
There's no other way around it.

I've thought about this a lot...having been through many, many, many.

It feels like we could make them easier on the mama's heart.
We could just stop talking about all of the many ways the student isn't measuring up and start considering the one-of-a-kind, unrepeatable gifts they bring to the class.

Why must we test and test and test...
using measurement tools that have not been created for people with intellectual disabilities at all?

I'm pretty sure I would fail a test in Chinese...it wasn't made for me.

Why do we force kids with Down Syndrome to take tests that weren't made for them and then act surprised when the scores reveal that the test wasn't made for them?

Why do we make educating children so hard?

Why do we sit as a panel of experts judging, critiquing, analyzing...
while the parent waits with dread at the guilty verdict:
We pronounce your child disabled.

Why do we see disability as brokenness?

Why can't we see the rare gift of the individual?



Before Patrick, I would have been bothered by that bold white poppy.
I would have disgustedly thought it should fit in.

Its difference would annoy me.

Today I see that poppy and cheer...or, in this case, stop and take a pic.

You, Go, White Poppy!

How did you become white?
Aren't you your bad self, standing there so bold and defiant.

Best of all, I marvel at the environment.
Somehow, some way, the circumstances were configured so that this white poppy could bloom...alongside the orange ones.

How can we help our classrooms be like that?

What does it take?

It sure doesn't take a panel of poppies sitting around a table pointing out the whiteness...
or should we say "severe lack of orange-ness"...the deficit in orange is noticeable.

Spoiler alert: it's never becoming orange.

And, yet, it is beautiful and capable of being a white poppy perfectly and
needs no panel of experts telling it what to do.

*****

I propose this for the next IEP you must attend:

Ask them to tell you about your white poppy.
Ask them to SEE the beauty in your white poppy.
Ask them to understand that the white poppy is never never turning orange and yet it must live among the orange bounty.

What can they do to ensure the vibrancy and flourishing of the white poppy
among so many orange ones?

Let's just start by valuing the white poppy.

Let's stop trying to make the white poppy anything else.

Let's just notice the beauty...and work to fertilize the soil and water it enough and offer sunlight.

*****

Today, we reached the end of a long long journey.
No more IEPs and panels and tests.

I can hardly believe it.

Patrick's journey through kindergarten to high school is almost complete.
Because Patrick is graduating with a high school diploma,
he will have no transition services
from 18 -21.

Somehow, miraculously, my white poppy has been able to grow/thrive/learn/live with all the
orange poppies.

Yes, there were people who thought that my white poppy didn't belong...
but there were way, way more gardeners who saw his unusual beauty
and created the climate for him to thrive.

I am so grateful to the teachers who said yes.
So grateful for the willing hearts.
So humbled by the gift of educators who found a way to welcome a white poppy
into an orange world.



Today, my 18 year old son with Down Syndrome signed his own damn IEP.

He shared his hopes and dreams - his strengths and his struggles.
He offered his vision for his future to a bunch of adults.
He acknowledged his heroes and dreamed out loud.

I sincerely doubt if I could have done anything close to that when I was 18.

It was a crystal clear moment of courage and clarity.

I was sidelined and in the cheering section...
as it should be.

*****

I can only echo the words that are at the top:
Believe in your child so much the world thinks you're crazy.
Then believe more.

The problem isn't that we dream too big...
I know that much.

Today, I am grateful for the grace of endings, the blessing of beginnings and the power of prayer.
Lord, hold him close.

Slip Sliding Away

"Darn the wheel of the world.  Why must it continually turn over?  

Where is the reverse gear?" 

-- Jack London

We negotiated.  She wanted a shower.  I wanted to give her a bath.  We compromised as we fortunately can often find our way to do: I'd wash her hair in the tub and chat for a minute.  I'd enjoy her hair, her little face wet with water, her closed eyes and lashes laden with dew drops. I'd notice her leaning her head way back, letting me rinse and rinse and rinse long after it was necessary.  I'd wash her face and touch those cheeks and suck up that smell of cleaning away the grime of the day and getting ready for the night.

After that, she'd get to have a shower on her own.  I'd set it up and hand her the soap and give her the freedom of water rushing down, time alone lost in her thoughts, the privacy and big-ness she is ready for and waiting for.  Darn.

I remember reading a long time ago that we make a big deal about the beginnings.  We take photos of the first day, the first time, the first class and we record them.  But no one gives us the memo on the last day, the last moment, the last time.  Hardly ever can we tell that it's ending.  It just slip slides away...morphs into something new and before we know it, it's over.

Because I've done this a few times, I'm more aware of the endings as they approach.  I'm on the look out now.  I know.
I can feel it and now I take the mental photograph.

I can't tell you how many baths I've given but I am my mother's daughter and she loves a clean child.  She scours the fingernails (I still remember my fingernails hurting from her own fingernail cleaning underneath mine), washes behind the ears and inside the corners of the eyes.  She gets in every nook and cranny and the result is a very clean child.  

I am the same. 

 I never minded giving baths.  I loved the forced opportunity of stopping and slowing down and cleaning and caring for my babies.  I cherished the smell of a fresh-from-the-the-tub child.  I snuggled in bath towels as long as possible, giggled at the naked adorableness, watched those bouncing booties...but now, twenty years into it, my time is running out.

I know.  I know.  Get over it.  

It's not that big a deal.  But for me, it's another reminder that the joy of babyhood, toddlerhood, preschoolerville and yes even early elementary school is on its way out.  My chickadee is turning seven in just a few weeks and her patient tolerance for my intensive mothering in the bath department is going down the drain...the final whirlpool is beautiful.  It's all very very good.  I'm just noticing.

So, today, I'm grateful for the few baths I have left.  Grateful that I have had the joy and chance of bathing four kids.  Grateful for the bounty of clean water that I so often use with the barest of acknowledgements, knowing there are millions of mothers who would love nothing more than to put their baby in a hot bath and scrub them clean.

Today I'm grateful for my baby and my ability to finally see the bend in the road and know that it's all changing...as it should be...

in all the right ways.

The Tenderness of Teachers

Fresh crayons and pencils awaiting their students.

"One looks back with appreciation to the brilliant teachers, but with gratitude to those who touched our human feelings.  The curriculum is so much necessary raw material, but warmth is the vital element for the growing plant and for the soul of the child."  

-- Carl Jung

My kids have started school, just barely, and some of my student teachers from last year have classrooms of their own -- these bits of my heart are in classrooms all over the place -- and I want to acknowledge the beginning point.  We've got clean slates right now.  No huge transgressions have happened, no bad choices, no impulse control issues.  That is the beauty of the new year and I am grateful for it.

I'm grateful for the fresh pencils, the stacks of construction paper lovingly ready for art projects, the tubs filled with books or crayons and the clean desks.  I'm grateful for the fresh start of every single new year in school...it's one of my favorite parts of teaching.  We all get to start over, make new goals and create new dreams.

Caroline is in first grade this year.  She's pretty easy going and pretty non demanding...after all she's fourth in line in her family so she's used to waiting her turn and helping herself.  The third day of school though, life was hard for Caroline.  She was scootering to school, fast and frenzied, the way she likes to do it and she bit the dust...full on wipe out.  The girl is quick on her feet and pretty steady on a scooter so she was shocked, sad and hurt.  We ditched the scooter and I carried my crying girl the rest of the way to school.  We stopped at the front office and I cleaned up her scraped knee, placed the ever-crucial band aid and walked over to the first graders lining up just outside of their classroom.  

Caroline tried to get it together.  Her red face and tear stained cheeks gave away that it had been a rough start but she was trying to calm down and then, she saw her teacher and the tears started all over again, and the quiet sobs.  So sad.  My mother's heart was aching with the wish of whisking her away but I knew I had to keep with the routine and get her to class.  Her teacher came up to her and wrapped her arm around her while I told the story of the sad scooter wipe out.

Her teacher looked her in the eyes and said something so comforting, so simple and so brilliant: "Caroline, I have a special chair in my room for times like these.  You can sit in it and feel better.  I'm sorry that happened.  Come with me."

A special chair. 

 Even I, a veteran teacher and wise to the ways of teacher tricks, wanted to spy the special chair.  What did it look like?  Could I get one for at home?  Where is it?

Caroline composed herself and set off in search of the special chair.  She barely looked back.  And I had to be satisfied with the comforting and healing of the special chair.  I had to put my faith in a kind teacher and let my baby girl go -- skinned knee and everything.

As I walked back home with a scooter, I pondered the special chair.  We all need moments of tenderness and kindness.  For a teacher, we ache to soothe the owies and help our students but we feel the time pressure of so many needy students and we worry about anything taking away from class time.  The special chair is a beautiful way to give that tenderness and acknowledgement without skipping a beat.  It lets the student feel heard and helped and yet it takes nothing away from the others.  

When Caroline got home I asked her about the special chair.  She said it was the rolly, comfy chair that the teacher sits in at the reading table.  That's it.  No decorations, no fancy paint...just a chair...provided in a difficult moment.

And that's when it struck me.  That's the difference between great teachers and the rest of us.  They are regular people doing their job but they know when to pause and offer the special chair.  They recognize that not much learning can get done if the heart is wounded.  They find ways to reach the heart of the student before trying to teach the brain.  If a student knows and feels that the teacher truly cares, tremendous things can happen...crazy amounts of learning and incredible amounts of personal growth. If not, students stagnate or worse, they wither. 

Today I am grateful for the tenderness of teachers.  Beginning teachers, veteran teachers and even grizzled college professors, I'm blessed to know so many truly gifted teachers.  Teachers who offer the special chair at just the right moment.  Thank you for your hard work, your kindness and for taking the time to truly see your students.  You make the world a better place.

Needing More Hellos

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together?  I guess that wouldn't work.  Someone would leave.  Someone always leaves.  Then we would have to say good-bye.  I hate good-byes.  I know what I need.  I need more hellos."  ~Charles M. Schulz



It's been almost two weeks since I had to kiss my firstborn good-bye. Two weeks.  That's not that much time at all and yet every time I see him on Skype, hear his voice or read his words I know it might as well be a decade.  Already so much has changed for him...navigating the world -- yes that big wide world -- pretty much on his own with three stumbling and bumbling room-mates for companionship.  He seems older already.  He seems more worldly and yes, more moments have happened in these two weeks where his eyes have been opened.  I love it and I hate it in pretty equal doses.  I'm so thrilled for him to be on this adventure and so sad for me that our adventure with him in our daily life has ended.  


He's fine.  No, actually, he's pretty great.  He likes his room-mates, he has averted disaster and he's found his way to class and to food and to friends all relatively easily.  Heck he's even done his laundry!  


I can't help but reflect on my own going away moments.  I really don't remember being fearful at all -- although I'm sure I must have been nervous.  I just remember the adrenalin.  I remember being excited and ready and so curious about all of the new places and new people and new things I was seeing and learning.  I was thrilled and hopeful.  I knew I could do it and I wanted to go for it.  I couldn't get over the people...so very different and yet so very much the same.


I remember the kindness of strangers: that first day on my bike searching for my Classics class when out of nowhere a fellow biker pointed out the correct building I couldn't figure out from my map.  I remember the professors who told good stories and recited lines of poetry from their passionate hearts.  I remember feeling super cool hanging out in the Coffeehouse after class with my 75 cent bagel and cream cheese. I remember the parties and the craziness and the FUN!  Mostly, I remember the new friends who made me laugh and think and wonder about things I'd never thought about before. 


So...when I wish for more hellos from my big guy, I just remember how many, many, many hellos he is getting everyday. It's tantalizing to think about all of the paths he is crossing and all of the experiences he is having each new day of his adventure.  


And, it makes me want to have more hellos too.  I look a little longer for those confused faces trying to figure out a new school, a new team or a new town.  I find myself reaching out...pointing out a building, a person who knows the answer or a website that might help.  


A few years ago during the summer I had an itch to go to the beach.  My baby was weeks old but that didn't stop me; the beach was calling our name.  It was a little reckless but I packed up a picnic, good sunscreen and lots of sand toys and we started our adventure.  Two freeway exits down the road I got a flat tire.  I was close enough to home that I didn't freak out but it was a very vivid, deep feeling of vulnerability and suddenly I felt like a jerk on the open road with three kids and a tiny baby. What was I thinking? 


Two young hispanic guys stopped their car in front of ours.  I told the kids to be silent and I opened my window.  One of them offered: "I'm a mechanic, I know how to change a tire.  I'd like to help you change yours."


I was shocked and thrilled and very emotional.  He changed my tire like the expert he was and I sat in awe at a skill I needed to have.  Within  ten minutes we were ready to go.  I searched through my purse and tried to pay him.  He shyly smiled.  He refused and said: "I just got married a few weeks ago.  I would hate to have my wife out on a freeway like this and I would hope someone would help her the way I am helping you. "  That sacred moment of silent connection between us was all we needed:  I thanked him, and vowed to pay it forward.  He just smiled.


Often I think of that good deed...that kindness because he could see his wife in me.  Without effort, I can see Jack in all of the college kids around my town and I begin my hellos.  I can see myself in the new teacher and it dawns on me that that's the secret.  Seeing ourself in others gives us the willingness to say hello, to reach out and break down barriers.  Knowing it could be you gives you the grace to be patient, forgiving, understanding and most of all kind.  You're a little more tender and a little less ready to pounce.


So...deep breath...it's time for fewer good-byes and more hellos.


Hello world -- you're pretty beautiful.  

Welcome to my little corner of the internet!

For quite a while I have been wrestling with the idea of having a blog.  I wanted it to MEAN something on a grand scale and then I got stuck.  Then I just wanted it to be a place to think...that helped a bit.  Today I realized that this whole process is a lot like getting a dog.  You have to be willing to take it on walks (or post), you have to be careful that your dog doesn't act too crazy around others (your words aren't offensive) and you have a to take a leap of faith.

I have a little corner of the internet all to myself!  I'm excited.  I want to use this spot to acknowledge the grace that is in the ordinary.  Sometimes it may just be a photo.  Sometimes a crystallized moment.

Today's is about Buddy...which is of course, cosmically correct.  This morning I was hours late for his regular old walk.  I was feeling guilty and lame.  I was hesitant to even look at him since I thought he might have that...Hey-you-lame-human-have-you-noticed-yet-you-owe-me-a-walk look.  But, he didn't.  Instead, he hung out by me as I was getting ready.  Just for the sheer joy of hanging around with me.  Yep. I'm that good.  He rolled around on his back on the floor as I made my bed, twisting and fully enjoying the chance to play by himself on his back in a big open space.  It was at that moment that I paused and realized for the millionth time that maybe we can learn profound truths from dogs.  They sure know how to live: greeting every single person with warmth and wild abandon, napping frequently and always ready for a walk around the block with a friend. More than anything, they live in the moment.  Right now is exactly right.  Today's grace: You really are enough, perfectly enough.  Buddy's shown me so and I believe him.