The Meeting

It’s hard to say what I’m feeling right now. I just got done with Andrew’s first school meeting at Lakevue Elementary, a school in the Vallivue district. The meeting was to determine whether or not he should be placed in the preschool for special needs learners, which he would start at age three.

I am overwhelmed with feelings right now. I can’t seem to stop crying. The specialists and administration there were very kind, asked their questions very professionally…but I felt even in that setting the reticence they must be feeling about getting a child who has already been labeled “a runner” and “a screamer” and autistic. I could see them considering the exits, and watched as each tried to convince Andrew not to leave the room.

I feel overwhelmed because I now see each side of it. I was a teacher who looked at the inconvenience of having any child with a behavior problem. To have an autistic child prone to meltdowns was positively frightening. I have called them runners, screamers, throwers, biters, scratchers, and severely autistic, and rarely meant that in some sort of positive way. It was simply something to try and avoid at all costs.

And now I live with a human being, my own son, who does and is all of those things. But to think that those words could possibly encompass who my son is, is not only deeply disturbing to me as a mother, but is also so mistakenly misleading. He does those things…but that is not who he is. My Andrew is a snuggler, my Andrew is a smiler, my Andrew is a dancer, my Andrew is a jabberer, my Andrew us a singer, my Andrew is affectionate, and my Andrew is MY ANDREW. He is my son, he is my boy, he is the child who wakes me in the night to help him get back to sleep. He knows me, loves me, and never questions whether or not I will take care of him. It is as natural to him as it is to breathe.

It is heartbreaking to think that the words I used before are all that some people will ever know of him, and all that some people will ever care to know. He will be an inconvenience to them, a sighing morsel of gossip in the staff lounge, an exasperation in their classrooms and hallways, and a mystery not worth solving.

And I don’t blame them. The classroom in and of itself can feel like an impossible place to succeed for these teachers when the numbers get high, the behaviors get chronic, and the test scores don’t raise. Add in an Andrew, and the situation will feel unbearable.

So that is my dilemma. I want the best for my son. I want him to be surrounded by those who love him and want the same for him. I want him to be able to excel at something the world will find valuable so that he can be accepted more.

Pray for me in my struggle and agony as a mother, a teacher, and an advocate for my dear son.