Good sports

This week, Bud brought home the school's Winter Sports preference sheet, with instructions that the completed form should be returned by the end of the week. I imagine that for most families, this quick turn-around was fairly easy; for us, it was a bit more challenging.

"Winter Sports" is a program at Bud's school that runs on five consecutive Fridays starting in early January. Students choose from among ten different activities and participate in the same activity each week for the entire program. In November, the school sends home a description of the activities being offered and families send back the students' top three choices. The staff uses the preference sheet to balance enrollment numbers and assign activities.

In first and second grade, Bud's Winter Sport activity was snowshoeing. I chose the activity for him based on several factors: it was close to the school and wouldn't require a long bus ride; it was something I thought he could do independently; and, it would likely be low-key and not an activity that would draw a lot of dysregulating screaming and jumping from other children. It played out exactly that way and Bud enjoyed the activity.

So, when the form came home this year, I thought about listing snowshoeing again and sending it back without discussion. As I thought about it, though, I realized that I was not being fair to Bud. The other children had options; he should have options too. And perhaps he'd be interested in trying something new. Last year, he was not doing well enough to take risks, but this year he just might be.

I approached Bud with the form in hand and showed him the description of his options. He was enthusiastic, and indicated an interest in a lot of things: bowling! wall climbing! gymnastics! SWIMMING! I asked about snowshoeing, but he said he wasn't interested.

I read the descriptions of the activities. Bowling involved a long bus ride. Wall climbing was for fourth and fifth grade only. Gymnastics, I knew, would not be what Bud expected (he would expect only trampolines; they would try to get him on parallel bars and balance beams). But swimming... Swimming is a favorite activity of Bud's. He's had lessons and he knows the basics, but he is not yet a strong swimmer. Put him in a life vest, though, and he is king of the swimming pool.

I read the activity description and saw that only students who could swim independently were eligible for it. I wondered though, if a life vest would be considered a reasonable accommodation, given the circumstances. I dashed off an e-mail to Bud's special ed coordinator before I said anything else to Bud.

As I waited for a response from her, I started playing the Winter Sports swim scenario through in my head. Bud is familiar with the pool, but not with the pool full of forty screaming children. He is confident in the water - but would he be too confident? Was he really ready to be in the water without an adult next to him, in an easily-removed life vest? And what about the whole locker-room issue? Would Bud be able to manage the clothing-off-suit-on process by himself? Would he be in the locker room surrounded by towel-snapping, wedgie-giving boys?

The very idea sent my blood pressure soaring.

So, I sat down with Bud once more to talk about Winter Sports options, and as we talked I realized quickly that he hadn't really understood the concept of "listing activities, in order of preference." Instead, he told me enthusiastically, "First I do bowling, then I do swimming, then I do gymnastics!"

I tried to explain "rank order," but fell flat. So, I told Bud, "Let's just choose one."

"Swimming," he said.

"Swimming?"

"Bowling."

"Bowling instead?"

"Yes. Swimming."

"Swimming or bowling?"

"Okay."

"We need to choose one, Bud."

"Swimming."

"Swimming?"

"Okay. Bowling."

"You like swimming AND bowling, don't you, Bud?"

"Yes."

"Let's put bowling on the paper."

"Okay."

So bowling it is. I think it's a good choice: a long but manageable bus ride, an activity he enjoys, and an opportunity for "parallel play" with peers.

And best of all? No wedgies.

Third grade's the charm

I had a conference with Bud's teacher, Mrs. Hanlan, and the special ed team this week. My sense going into the meeting was that the year is going well, that his teacher and he are a good "fit," and that the dysregulation that was a hallmark of his second grade year has faded substantially in third grade - and I was delighted to hear that the team felt the same way.

They told me about the progress Bud has made in the past few months - like the real conversation he had with a neurotypical peer about a class project on scientists and the stories he's added to his writing journal that are actual accounts of his life and not scripts lifted from Elmo's World (though, I must admit, Bud seems to prefer fiction over nonfiction, as he tends toward revisionist history. One account of a real hike we did together, in which I lost my sunglasses, ended with Bud saving the day and finding the glasses behind a rock. Alas, in real life, it took a trip to the pharmacy to get some new sunglasses on my face.) I also heard about Bud's challenges this year, and while they remain real and significant, there were no surprises and nothing that took my breath away. This, I have learned, is a sign that the school year is starting well.

One story, in particular, captured the essence of his third-grade classroom for me. Mrs. Hanlan told me that last week the children were working in their writing journals on pieces about something they do well. Bud was in the back of the classroom, behind a bookshelf and out of view of the class, writing his essay on the classroom computer with his aide, Ms. Brett. He was good, he told Ms. Brett, at singing. And then, to prove his point, he launched into the ABC song.

Mrs. Hanlan watched as the other children worked at their desks. At first, Bud sang low and the children paid little attention. As the song progressed, though, so did Bud's confidence, and soon he was singing at full voice. The children stopped what they were doing and started listening, looking up at the teacher to gauge her reaction. She knew that Bud couldn't see his classmates' response, so as soon as he finished, she said quietly to the class, "Now you sing back to him."

The children launched into the ABCs in response, and as Bud peered around the corner to watch them, his smile grew and his eyes gleamed. As soon as they finished, Bud, uncertain about how to handle the sudden attention, flushed a bright pink, turned to his aide and said, "Movement break?"

Ms. Brett stood with him and they made their way into the hallway, then Bud turned back, popped his head into the doorway, and said, "Thank you, everybody. Bye, now!"

A girl in the class, not sure what to make of the exchange, giggled the kind of nervous giggle that conveys discomfort - the kind of giggle that says, "That was not what I'm used to, and so I'm not sure if that was okay."

Mrs. Hanlan took her cue and addressed the class. "Bud communicates in a different way," she told them, "And we just had really good communication with Bud."

As she finished recounting the story, she said to me, "I hope that was okay to say. It felt like an important moment."

"It was more than okay," I answered, surprised that I was not too choked up to speak.

As we were wrapping up our conference, I raised the issue that had been on my mind, but that I'd been afraid to address: homework. I launched in, tripping over my words: "Homework is a battle for us. Bud fights it with everything he has. "Home is NOT school!" he tells me. It's not possible to do it during the week - he's exhausted after a full day at school, and by the time I get home from work we have just about an hour before it's time to get him ready for bed. So that leaves the weekends - which is our time - our only time - our Mom and Bud Days - and he resents the imposition of homework on that time - and I dread the battle that I know it will bring - and - and - and -"

Mrs. Hanlan understood completely. Even in the classroom, she said, she saw that she had much greater success when she engaged Bud in an activity without announcing that the activity was about to begin. Proclamations like "In a few minutes, we will write a story" prompted argument from Bud; sidling up to him with a laptop prompted cooperation. So we've decided to take an integrated approach to homework. We're focusing on reading - an activity he has always done at home, but has lately been fighting. And they'll keep me updated with the concepts that I can reinforce at home - for instance, they're currently working with him on the value of pennies, nickels and dimes. So, we can count change at home. Or play restaurant. Or buy candy at the store. But I won't have to clear the Sunday papers off the kitchen table and lay out a stack of printed worksheets and prepare for battle.

Bud's teacher and team also have great ideas about the direction to take with him in the months to come. Music, they said, is key. They will find more opportunities to build music into the classroom - perhaps call-and-response songs, or singing in a round - or dancing, which might appeal to Bud's musical affinity and also address his need for movement and strong sensory input in a way that includes the other children in the class. And they'll focus on peer interaction - one-on-one opportunities to play simple games, to have "parallel" play on the playground when it's not swarming with children, to have back-and-forth engagement and conversation. Bud's ready, they say, and the other children in the class will be eager to participate.

We've still got a lot to work on, of course, and Bud still has challenges, both academic and attitudinal. But there are glimmers there as well. I've mentioned before that Bud starts his school day the same way almost every day - by walking into the school lobby and greeting Ms. Brett, whom he adores, by bellowing "OH NO! IT'S YOU AGAIN!", before turning to me and pleading with me not to leave.

But Friday - coincidentally, the day after my meeting with Bud's team - Bud broke with his routine. We walked through the school doors and Bud approached Ms. Brett and said "Howdy!" I didn't want to give him any time to reconsider, so I gave him a very quick kiss and turned to rush out the door, as I heard his chipper voice behind me call out "Bye, Mom!"

I still don't know what prompted Bud's sudden change of heart and dramatic change in pattern, and I'm certainly not sure that it will last. But it's a start - a good start - and I'll take it. This year - this third grade year - I will gladly take it all.

November 4, 2008

"This is our moment. This is our time -- to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth -- that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes We Can."

I can't stop crying.

Beautiful day

Bud's school is just down the street from my office, but this morning after I dropped him off, I didn't head to work. Instead, I turned around and drove back to my neighborhood polling place. I could have voted after work, but I wasn't taking any chances. If I am hit by a bus this afternoon, my vote will still be counted.

As I drove through the quiet streets of my small town, with the sun glaring through my windows on this unseasonably warm day, U2's "Beautiful Day" started playing on my iPod. It's a song that will forever remind me of the Obama campaign and of the feeling of hope it has inspired in me.

I turned up the volume and as my car filled with music, my eyes filled with tears. I knew the election was important to me - elections are always important to me - but I was startled by the force of my emotion. Admittedly, some of that emotion may be fueled by exhaustion - emotional and physical - as several busy weeks at work and home have meshed with an intense obsession with the poll data, political analysis, and pundit prose that all culminates today. But as I wiped the tears from my face, I realized that it was more than just exhaustion. I realized how tense I have been for weeks - for months - for years - about the state of our country, the state of the world, and what it all means for Bud's future. There is so much at stake in this election - politically, economically, environmentally, educationally, medically. There is so much to lose. There is so much to gain.

I have been hopeful throughout this election season, but I have also been cautious. I have hoped before and have had those hopes crushed. But today, for the first time in a long time, I started to feel like it might really happen. I started believing - not just saying, but really believing - that change might be coming. Right here, right now, today, in polling stations across the country, we just might be changing everything.

Vote wisely.

Vote well.

Vote Obama.

Bud the plumber

It seems that Bud is supporting John McCain.

The other day I asked him who he thought the next President should be and he answered "Hillary Clinton." I explained that Hillary is no longer running and that the next President would be either Barack Obama or John McCain. Bud said he wanted John McCain.

"Really?" I asked him. "I'm voting for Barack Obama. He is a very good man."

"John McCain is not a nice man?" Bud asked.

"Oh, no, Bud," I said. "John McCain is a nice man. They're both nice men. But I think Barack Obama is a nice man and would be a good President. John McCain is a nice man, but I don't think he would be as good a President. They have different ideas about being President, and I like Barack Obama's ideas better."

"I like John McCain," Bud answered.

Bud is standing by his candidate, even though he has gotten confirmation that his father and grandparents are also supporting Barack Obama and even though he lives in a house that sports an Obama/Biden yard sign (we did get a new one, though I'm beginning to have suspicions about who took the old one...)

Luckily, Bud is only nine, so I've got some time before his votes start counting. But make sure to check in here before the Presidential election of 2020. By then, I imagine that one of two things will be happening: either he will have started embracing his Democratic roots, or he and I will each be travelling to the polls to cancel the other out.

What's not to like?

As Bud gets older, I find myself worrying because he is still drawn to toys and videos geared toward the preschool set. I worry that the gap between Bud and his peers is growing, and that before long his interests will inspire teasing - or bullying - from other children. I watch carefully when I bring Bud to school - watch for knowing glances between other children, for rolling eyes, for snickers and elbows in ribs. And so far, I see none of it. Instead, I see children - from his grade and from other grades - go out of their way to say hello to him and give him polite space when he's having a difficult transition to his school day. Everything I see tells me I have no reason to worry.

And yet, I do.

I was struck, especially, last month when Bud turned nine. His very favorite presents - the ones he cherished above all others - were two Elmo's World DVDs and an Abby Cadabby doll. I watched him from across the room as he sweetly cuddled and chatted with his stuffed Muppet and I thought about what the other nine-year-old boys at school got for their birthdays. My hunch is that few of them would be happy with a stuffed Abby Cadabby. As I watched him, I had two strong, simultaneous, opposing reactions - the first, gratitude that such simple things can make Bud so happy, that he is not tearing through childhood at breakneck speed, that sweetness and innocence radiate from him; and the second, fear that someday my son would be a twenty-year-old man, still sweetly innocent, and still cuddling his Abby Cadabby doll and watching Elmo's World. I've been working on holding tight to the gratitude and letting go of the fear, but it's hard. It's hard.

The other day, Bud popped in a Teletubbies DVD and giggled as he watched it, as delighted as he was the first time he saw it, many years ago. The fear crept back in, and I wondered if Bud made the same sorts of comparisons with his peers that I do - Did he know they liked different things? Was he interested at all in trying them out?

"Hey, Bud," I asked, keeping my tone as matter-of-fact as I could, "you really like the Tubbies, don't you?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Do the kids at school like the Tubbies?" I asked.

"No," he answered, definitively.

"Oh!" I said, feigning surprise. "What do the kids at school like?"

"Me," he answered.

Also definitively.

And he's right; they do. So maybe that means there's only one thing for me to do. Maybe, for now, I just need to kill ouch.

It's a girl!

Warm congratulations to Dierks and Cassidy Bentley on the birth of their daughter, Evalyn Day Bentley!

According to People magazine, baby Evie was born just before midnight last night, October 4. It's a date that's dear to my heart, as October 4 was Bud's due date - though, determined to do things his own way from the start, he was born two weeks early.

And thanks to reader M, who keeps me up-to-date on breaking Bentley news as it happens and who dropped me a line this morning to let me know.

Talk about soft on crime

If you read the political posts on my blog, then you already know that I'm a capital-L Liberal - a Ted Kennedy Democrat who falls somewhere to the left of the left. It probably won't surprise you that shortly after Barack Obama became the presumptive nominee of the Democratic party, I put an Obama yard sign out in front of my house.

About a week ago, the Obama sign disappeared from my yard. My mother and I commiserated over it, dismayed that this could happen in our rural little neighborhood. "Who would do such a thing?" I wondered out loud.

My mother was quiet for a minute, then said thoughtfully, "I just hope it was taken by Obama supporters who didn't want to spend money on their own sign."

Yes, I'm sure that's it. It was a needy Democrat. Or maybe it was someone who couldn't afford heating oil and needed to burn it in his wood stove.

At least now I know where I get it.

Third grade or bussed

Bud's been in third grade for over a month now and he seems to be off to a terrific start despite a few - er - speed bumps we encountered early on.

Let me back up. It all started sometime in early August, when I got a letter from the school department notifying me that because of a necessary shift in bus routes, Bud's school day would be starting a half hour later than it had in the past. Like most people, I had a knee-jerk reaction to the unanticipated announcement: "That won't work. I can't get to work that late." So, before I did a moment of problem-solving, I dashed off an e-mail to the special ed department inquiring about the accommodations that are made for students like Bud who take the bus - Is there a bus aide?, I wondered. Is there a "special ed" bus? I wanted to gather as much information as I could as I formulated a plan. I got a quick response from the inclusion coordinator, who said she'd look into it.

The weeks passed and I realized that my initial reaction was the kind of panic that's borne of unexpected change, and was not routed in any real need for me to arrive at my office at a particular time. I rearranged my schedule to accommodate a later drop-off for Bud, and promptly forgot about my earlier inquiries.

Fast forward to August 26, Bud's first day of school. I was unsure about what to expect from Bud. For the entire second half of second grade - from January till June - Bud cried nearly every day at drop-off - big, soggy, woeful, sad goodbyes that started each day with a broken heart for both of us. I'd seen a turn-around, though, in summer school - four mornings a week that Bud enjoyed and looked forward to. By the end of the summer, most of our drop-offs were tear- free. And besides that, Bud seemed to be looking forward to third grade; he seemed ready for it.

He was in a cooperative mood as we got ready for school that morning, and I was feeling hopeful about making an easy transition. It was just about that time that I looked out the window and saw it: there was a full-size school bus in front of my driveway. I walked outside tentatively and the bus's big doors opened.

As I walked toward the bus, I called to the bus driver, "Are you here for Bud?"

She said she was.

I walked to the door and said, "There must be a mistake. I didn't know you were coming. Bud's autistic - he can't really manage a bus."

"Yes, that's why I'm here. He's the only child on my route."

I stared at her, blinking, while the sentence registered. Then I stepped up and glanced down the long, vast expanse of empty bus.

"This whole bus is for Bud?" I said.

"Yes," she answered.

I looked down the long aisle again. The seats and floor were pristine. I sniffed. The air was full of new bus smell.

"Is this a brand new bus?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered.

"They sent a whole brand new bus just for Bud?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered.

I stood dumbfounded, struggling to make sense of what was going on. I knew I couldn't plop Bud down on the bus and send him merrily on his way. But, my goodness, they'd sent him his own bus, for heaven's sake! It felt ungrateful to simply send it away.

"The thing is," I said, "Bud is a kid who needs preparation. He needs to know what to expect. And I didn't know you were coming."

"Somebody should have called you," she said.

"Right," I answered, "but they didn't. And so I've never even mentioned the possibility of a bus to him. We haven't talked about it at all. I mean, there is just NO WAY that he is getting on this bus today."

"Well, maybe he'd like to just come and look at it," she suggested.

My mind raced. Was that a good idea or a bad one? There was no way to know.

"I'll go get him," I said.

I went back inside and approached Bud. "Hey, Bud," I said as jovially as I could. "There's a school bus outside! Do you want to see it?"

"Okay," he said, following me outside. As we hit the driveway he began to suspect that something might be afoot and he added, "I don't want to ride a bus."

"No, not today," I said. "Today we're just looking at it." Bud climbed on board and the bus driver introduced herself. He walked down the aisle and looked around. He remained calm.

"Maybe someday you'd like to take a bus," I said.

"No," he replied.

"Well, not today," I said. "Maybe someday." We said goodbye to the bus driver, then piled in the car, now running late on the first day of third grade. As we drove, I could feel Bud's anxiety rising.

"I don't take a bus to school," he said. "I just ride with Mom." I assured him that he was right, and I didn't push any further. Despite that, his anxiety was high enough to produce tears at drop-off, so I left his classroom quickly and went off in search of someone from the special ed team. I found Bud's OT in the hallway and gave her the run-down on the bus situation. We quickly brainstormed - Would riding the bus be a good thing for Bud? Was there a way we could make it work? Could we create a social story? Maybe I could ride with him the first time? Or even the first week? The team set to work creating a plan and said they'd contact the bus company.

As the morning progressed, my anxiety grew. Questions and fears raced through my mind. Did the bus have seat belts? Would somebody be waiting for Bud when the bus pulled up at the school? What would the bus driver do if Bud started crying, started panicking, started screaming, started throwing himself around the bus? What would happen if there was a thunderstorm while he was on the bus? And what about global warming for heaven's sake? Could I really justify the use of a whole school bus just for transporting my child to school???

After a few agonizing hours, I called the special ed team back and left a lengthy voice mail message. We didn't need a bus. We didn't want a bus. What we needed was a smooth transition to third grade, and we didn't need to complicate it by throwing Bud a bus-shaped curve ball. I told them to stop the preparations and to call off the bus.

The next morning we were into the final stages of getting ready when I looked out the window and saw the bus back at the end of the driveway. I said nothing to Bud, but slipped out the door, gave the driver a hundred apologies, and sent her on her way. She asked what my concerns were and I gave her the run-down, but told her that, ultimately, it was just too big a change for Bud right now. Someday, maybe. But not now. She was terrific, and said she understood completely. She said she'd let the bus company know, and gave me the manager's phone number in case I wanted to call to talk about options for the future - in a month, in January, next year. I thanked her again, tucked the phone number into my bag, and promptly forgot all about it.

The next day was bus-free and Bud and I finally started to establish a new third grade drop-off routine. Over the next few weeks, we fell into a regular - though perhaps not yet easy - pattern to transition him to his school day. Things finally started to feel predictable.

I was more than a little startled, then, when one morning about three weeks later, as Bud climbed into the car to go to school, I opened the garage door to find a mini bus parked at the end of my driveway.

"I don't want to take a bus!" Bud cautioned. I just shook my head and walked down the driveway, sure that somehow the driver had made a mistake and was at the wrong house.

She hadn't, and she wasn't.

I told her about our earlier bus confusion, about the concerns I'd had, about the decision we'd made to scrap the bus idea entirely.

She knew about my concerns. She said they'd sent a small bus because they knew that a large one was too scary for him. They'd created a three-child route because riding alone was too overwhelming. What else could they do, she wondered, to make this work for us?

My friend Kiki would call this "too helpful by half."

I thanked her profusely, gushed at their accommodation, and gave her the old "it's not you, it's me." I told her that he just wasn't ready to take another big step, then I sent the bus away and drove behind it all the way to school.

Later, the manager of the bus company called me. She apologized and said that she'd intended to call me the previous week to talk about the new plan, but had obviously forgotten. She wanted to know if there was anything else they could do, and then told me she'd make a note in the file that said that I would call them if I wanted to revisit the transportation issue.

That was two weeks ago. Now Bud's back into the new routine - the one in which he greets Ms. Brett, the wonderful paraprofessional who requested to stay with him in third grade after working with him through a very difficult second grade year, by walking through the school door each morning, seeing her, and groaning in a loud voice "Oh no! It's YOU again!," then tugs at my sleeve and pleads half-heartedly "No, Mama, wait, Mama, no, no, no," until I leave and he cheerfully walks to his classroom with his good friend Ms. Brett, ready to start another great day at school.

So, as I said, all things considered, Bud seems to be off to a terrific start in third grade. I can't help myself, though - now that a couple of weeks have passed and we're into October I keep peeking out the window as we get ready to leave in the morning. Call me crazy, but I just feel certain that any day now they'll be sending us a chauffeured limousine.

Truth is stranger than fiction

I'm not sure which was more outrageous - the brilliant SNL parody or the real thing:


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All I know is that this is the first time in recent memory that I've found myself in general agreement with a conservative columnist.