Sometimes the Truth is Stranger Than Fiction, Part 10
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Posted on March 20, 2013 by

broken-pencil-schools-jpg_021534Unlike many kids on the spectrum, Katie adores variety. This tends to make transitions go a bit more smoothly—at least on the surface. So it did not surprise me that Katie plunged into her new classroom without any hesitation. Just as I’d suspected, many of the boys had trouble making eye contact and saying hi. Katie, on the other hand, would hear the aide prompting the child and say, “Hi, Roshun” on her own.

But it was also undeniable that these people understood autism in a way that the staff at my school district did not.

Ms. Nav had planned a group art project to help ease Katie’s transition. Katie happily settled in and demonstrated her scissor skills. I asked Ms. Nav how the observation had gone. She sighed. “They were asking Katie to sit far too long without sensory breaks. That’s probably the cause of a lot of the problems. And when they got behavior, well….” She searched for words. “Let’s just say my aides will respond differently.”

“As in appropriately?” I said.

“Yeah,” she laughed.

The second case manager from my school district showed up. She had a copy of an IEP that she tried to get me to sign.

“I don’t want to sign this,” I said. “Not until my advocate has reviewed it. That’s why I have her.”

“Don’t you want Katie to start school on Monday?”

“Yes, especially now that we’ve told her she’s coming here. But you’ve had since Tuesday to get the paperwork together. This last minute scramble isn’t my fault.”

The case manager muttered some excuses about being sick and struggling with the new software. I told her Geri and I had planned to meet over the weekend so I could sign something that would allow Pleasanton to proceed. She didn’t like this idea. She continued to pressure me to sign the unidentified IEP document.

The case manager was unaware of the revised IEP, the one that included the school district’s agreement to pay for an independent behavioral assessment and psychological testing. She said she hadn’t been in the office all day, gesturing with her smartphone. I asked if she had spoken to Geri. She didn’t know Geri had called, because you know, she hadn’t been in her office. Ms. Nav said, “I’m pretty sure you can check voicemail from your phone.”

The case manager wrinkled her nose and bent over her phone. It took her a long time to access voicemail. She listened once, maybe twice, and then called Geri. The exchange started pleasantly, but slowly grew agitated. The case manager stepped outside.

“I kind of liked Geri,” Ms. Nav said.

I nodded. “Me too.”

Ms. Nav told me more about her classroom. The Pleasanton Behaviorist stopped by. She had a copy of the Dublin Behavior Intervention Plan (BIP), but it was the 2010 version. When I asked, she said that was the copy my district had provided. I said I’d forward the 2012 version. Katie periodically stopped her art project to use the trampoline. “We have embedded O.T. like the Dublin program,” the Behaviorist said. “That’s going to make all the difference for Katie.”

The case manager returned. I saw Ms. Nav helping her with her phone. The aides took the other kids off for mainstreaming. Katie wanted to go too. Before I could intervene, Ms. Nav suggested the playground, and Katie happily agreed.

As we walked to the playground, the case manager said she had no problem using the revised IEP. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ms. Nav smirk. We exchanged small talk as Katie climbed on the play structure. Ms. Nav said, “Do I need to worry about her up there?”

“Maybe,” I said, “when she interacts with other kids.”

“Oh sure,” said Ms. Nav. “She has autism. I meant did I need to worry about her falling off or getting stuck?” I shook my head. “Good, that will make it easy for Sharon. I picked an awesome aide for Katie.”

“You got to pick her?” I wanted the case manager to hear this, but she was engrossed in her phone.

“Yes, based on what I knew about Katie. The more I interact with her, the more I think I made the right choice.”

The case manager stopped fiddling with her phone and we chatted about autism. Finally Ms. Nav told her there was no reason to stay, and she departed.

Ms. Nav watched Katie swoop down the slide. “I know you wanted to keep Katie in her class. And once I visited, I could see why. Those kids are way more verbal than the ones in mine. But overall, my class will work far better for Katie.”

She looked at me and I said, “I know.”

NOTE: For those of you who missed the earlier parts to this story (or simply want to refresh your memory), you can find them here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, and Part 9. My IEP stories are never short. :)

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Sometimes the Truth is Stranger Than Fiction, Part 9
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Posted on March 13, 2013 by

broken-pencil-schools-jpg_021534Geri, the kickass advocate, reorganized the disaster of an IEP and sent the revised version to my school district late on Thursday. The case manager responded Friday morning by stating that she wanted to go with the original, messed-up version. “That‘s the District’s offer.”

I didn’t want to sign a document that contained conflicting reports and left out important changes. I knew Geri would kill me if I even thought about it. But I was getting nervous. What should we do given the current stalemate?

At the IEP meeting on Tuesday, we had agreed that Katie would start her trial run in the Pleasanton classroom the following Monday. Pleasanton had already hired an aide for Katie, and we had scheduled a classroom visit for that afternoon to help ease the transition. But without a signed agreement, Katie couldn’t transfer to the Pleasanton School District.  Plus, when the case manager responded to Geri’s email, she confirmed the classroom visit—but at a different time than the one we had agreed to on Tuesday.

I called the Pleasanton teacher, the delightful Ms. Nav, and we decided to proceed as planned. She would visit Mr. F’s class that morning to do her observation. I would pull Katie out early and take her to Pleasanton to check out her new classroom and classmates. While waiting, I could fill out yet another stack of registration paperwork. Ms. Nav was thrilled that Geri had cleaned up the IEP. I think the term “hot mess” was used. Interestingly, Ms. Nav had been told the correct meeting time by the case manager.

I called Geri to fill her in and she informed me that the case manager was out sick. She said she would call the other case manager as soon as she got off the phone with me. She also sent an email, copied to everyone, that said she was “surprised at the case manager’s response.” A long paragraph filled with legal citations followed. The translation: We could file for due process immediately and you guys WOULD LOSE.

I picked Katie up at school as planned. Her aide, Tammy, walked her out to meet me so I never got a chance to say goodbye to Mr. F or the other aides. Tammy hadn’t been told it was Katie’s last day and she burst into tears when she tried to say goodbye. The speech therapist walked past and soon she was crying too. Later she would tell me that Mr. F was close to tears as well. I’m sure the children were confused and upset. I wondered if anyone had prompted Katie to say goodbye to them. I wanted to say goodbye as well. But it seemed the school had decided to pretend the transfer wasn’t happening.

We hugged Tammy and I took Katie to the office to sign her out for the last time. The Secretary managed not to cry, but she hugged Katie for a long time and Katie let her. The principal, who I hadn’t seen since the IEP meeting, came out and walked us to the parking lot. I told him about the IEP chaos and he asked me to forward him the entire email chain, as well as any future documentation I thought he might “have use for.” He said he was sorry that changes could not be made in time to help Katie. But, he promised, “I’ll do everything in my power to ensure this never happens again to another child in this district.”

I don’t know if it’s in his power to change this level of dysfunction, but if anyone can make it happen, the principal can. I wish all school administrators were as transparent and committed.

I cried as I drove to Pleasanton. It felt like I was admitting defeat. Katie, on the other hand, was bouncing with excitement. Ms. Nav had made a BIG impression during the classroom observation. Katie was so focused on visiting Ms. Nav’s class that she ignored all of the crying and sadness as she left her old school. She couldn’t stop talking about Ms. Nav. I felt bad for Mr. F, who’d been cast off like an old shoe. I also wondered when reality would set in.

To be continued… 

NOTE: For those of you who missed the earlier parts to this story (or simply want to refresh your memory), you can find them here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, and Part 8. My IEP stories are never short. :)

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Story Included in New Chicken Soup for the Soul Anthology
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Posted on March 10, 2013 by

Chicken Soup AutismI recently learned that my story, “The Most Popular Girl,” will be published in a new autism anthology called Chicken Soup for the Soul: Raising Kids on the Spectrum. One of my writing goals for last year was to have an autism story published, and I learned on December 31, 2012, that I had made the final selection round. It was a nice way to celebrate the new year. Last month I learned my story would definitely be included.

The Chicken Soup for the Soul series has been good to me. This is my fourth publication in one of their books. The autism anthology will be released on April 2, 2013, but you can pre-order it now through my bookstore. I’m thrilled to be included.

A big thank you to Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing for publishing my work (four times!) and getting my work out into the world for others to read.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Sometimes the Truth is Stranger Than Fiction, Part 8
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Posted on March 6, 2013 by

broken-pencil-schools-jpg_021534My back was getting sore from hunching over the low-slung kiddie table. The room was hot and stuffy, despite an open door. Both case managers were in attendance. After Pleasanton’s show of confidence, they attempted to steer the discussion to the change of placement, but Geri insisted that we discuss goals first. “The goals drive placement,” she said. “Not your convenience.”

Katie’s teacher, the adored Mr. F, had been worried that his goals would not pass Geri’s scrutiny, but he passed with flying colors as did the speech therapist. Others did not fare as well. The meeting dragged on.

Geri had already discussed the placement options with the case managers. There was the classroom in Pleasanton, the life skills class at the Dublin middle school I had already rejected, and a few non-public school (NPS) options that all involved lengthy bus rides outside the Tri-Valley region and would provide no opportunities for mainstreaming with typically functioning peers. None of these options felt right for Katie, but I’d been impressed with the comments made by the women from Pleasanton. I also knew that the suspension on Katie’s birthday had been designed to send me a message. Katie would be suspended over and over until I agreed to one of the alternate placements. I didn’t want to prolong the inevitable. 

In private, Geri had said she was tempted to insist on the NPS in order to inflict maximum financial pain on the school district. But in the end we agreed to a thirty-day trial in the Pleasanton classroom. Geri requested an independent psych evaluation to provide the missing cognitive data as well as an independent behavioral analysis because the FAA conducted by the school district was invalid. Besides, she argued, Katie was transferring to a new program so the behaviors would be different. She also requested that Katie be evaluated for alternative communication technology. This last request lead to a heated exchange in the hallway, but in the end, Geri prevailed.

There was a whispered conversation between Geri and me in the nurse’s office. Then we eased our way back into the cramped meeting room and Geri told them we had a deal. The majority of the team dispersed, but Geri and I remained to sign the IEP documents.

The case manager couldn’t figure out how to print the IEP document from a remote location. Geri and I waited for nearly an hour, but no document was produced. The case manager assured Geri that she would email the document as soon as she got back to her office that afternoon.

No IEP document arrived that afternoon. Nor did it arrive that evening. Or the next day.

When it finally arrived, two days late, Geri responded to the case manager by saying, “I mean no personal disrespect, but I have to say, this is the most disorganized IEP document I have ever seen.”

And it was. The school district had just bought software, like most school districts, to help manage IEP preparation and documentation. But it was clear that no one had received any training on how to use the software. Old IEP goals, with their progress reports attached, were intermingled with the new goals for the upcoming year. There were duplicate reports, and in some cases, conflicting reports. Goals that should have been deleted were not. New goals had not been modified as agreed. Copies of suspension paperwork were intermingled with everything else. In short, it appeared as if someone had thrown 96 printed pages into the air, let the wind blow them around, gathered up the resulting mess, and then scanned everything in whatever order it happened to be in.

Yes, it was that bad.

Geri spent three hours—that I paid for—cleaning up the mess.

To be continued…

NOTE: For those of you who missed the earlier parts to this story (or simply want to refresh your memory), you can find them here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, and Part 7. Sorry, but as you can see, my IEP stories are never short. :)

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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The Writer’s March Challenge 2013
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Posted on March 4, 2013 by

old typewriterMaybe it’s the lawyer in me, but I’ve always been a sucker for a good challenge. So I’ve decided to particpate once again in A Writer’s March as a way to get myself back into a more consistent (i.e., daily) writing routine. A Writer’s March is the brilliant idea of Samantha Tetangco, a writing friend and former classmate of my writing friend Jennifer Simpson. I guess you could say Sam is a writing friend once removed.

I participated in A Writer’s March last year (and the year before that), and both times it was a great way to help me generate writing momentum and make a little more progress on my memoir. And it was fun. I’m all for anything that makes writing more fun and less isolating.

So if any of you writers out there are in need of a little kick in the butt, come join us! The month has just begun.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Sometimes the Truth is Stranger Than Fiction, Part 7
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Posted on March 3, 2013 by

broken-pencil-schools-jpg_021534When the principal suspended my daughter Katie on her birthday, he created a problem. I’d agreed to the upcoming IEP meeting assuming Katie would be in school. But if she was suspended, then I couldn’t attend. The principal said we needed to have the meeting and asked if my parents could babysit. I said no. I refrained from telling him that there was no way my mother was going to make this easy for the school district. He said he would figure something out.

The following week, on the night before the IEP meeting, I received an email from the teacher. He wanted to know if I’d arranged childcare. I told him no, the principal had said he’d arrange something. The teacher responded that he was sure he had. I spent the night tossing and turning, wondering what, if anything, had been arranged.

In the end, the school decided to simply put Katie in her classroom. This was a good thing because no matter how one did the math, Katie had already missed too much school. There had been eleven days of suspension, only ten of which were documented, plus another five days of “non-suspension.” The law is pretty clear that after ten days, the school district must either return the child to the classroom or else find an alternate placement. So far neither of these had been done.

There were far too many people crammed into the speech therapist’s office. Geri, the advocate, and I had to practically climb over the table to reach our seats. I was surprised to see that both the Pleasanton teacher and behaviorist were in attendance. No one had bothered to tell me that they were coming.

Before the IEP meeting could start, the team needed to conduct a manifestation determination. Because Katie had been suspended for more than ten days, the school district needed to assess whether or not the behavior leading to the suspension was a manifestation of Katie’s disability. The school psychologist had prepared a report that no one bothered to read. The entire team voted yes without any discussion. The mood was, well duh. She has autism.

Geri pointed out that since Katie had missed more than ten days of school, the school district was obligated to provide her with an interim alternate placement for the remainder of her suspension. The case manager said, “You mean, like provide a sub?”

Geri said, “Do you have credentialed special education substitutes?”

The case manager stammered and admitted no. She insisted this wasn’t necessary. Geri said it was. They went back and forth until the principal stopped them. He said Katie was at school anyway, so she might as well stay. Unless the case manager found an appropriate substitute, he was going to allow Katie to return to school.

Next was the updated behavior plan. At the previous IEP meeting, Geri had asked why the behaviorist had not conducted an FAA given that Katie had begun exhibiting problematic behavior. In the subsequent three weeks, the behaviorist had finally conducted this analysis, but did so without my having signed the mandatory parental consent form. Oops!

The FAA data showed that the aides required more (or better) training, although the behaviorist did not seem to know this. The questionable pie chart from the original report was missing.

The look on the Pleasanton behaviorist’s face as she reviewed the report was priceless. She asked if Katie exhibited any of the behaviors at home and I said no, not even during her in-home therapy. She nodded as if she expected this answer. What about when Katie attended school in Dublin? I said there had been behaviors when Katie transferred to Dublin, but they had quickly gotten them under control and after that negative behaviors were fairly rare. Plus many of the behaviors Katie was now exhibiting were new. The Pleasanton teacher and behaviorist exchanged a look. They asked about Dublin’s behavior plan. They asked how Katie regulated her sensory system and whether she did this independently. They asked about schedules. Every comment they made increased my confidence in their abilities.

Finally the Pleasanton teacher said, “I’m certain we can handle this in my classroom.” She looked at me across the table and smiled. Her smile said trust me.

Only later would it occur to me that the Pleasanton team never asked anyone from my school district any questions.

To be continued…

NOTE: For those of you who missed the earlier parts to this story (or simply want to refresh your memory), you can find them here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, and Part 6. Sorry, but as you can see, my IEP stories are never short. :)

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Sometimes the Truth is Stranger Than Fiction, Part 6
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Posted on February 27, 2013 by

broken-pencil-schools-jpg_021534After two-and-a-half hours, the IEP team had finally made it through all the triennial evaluations. It was clear we wouldn’t have time to finish. To my relief, we had not discussed the alternative placement in Pleasanton. For 30 minutes the team struggled to find a date for the follow-up meeting. They finally settled on January 29th, during the school day. The principal requested that one of the case managers schedule another classroom visit for me during the intervening three weeks.

It was clear that the team considered the transfer to Pleasanton to be a foregone conclusion. I suspect some of them were annoyed they had to wait three weeks to hand Katie off and wrap everything up. I, in contrast, was not.

The following week I read and re-read all the various reports. Katie was making excellent progress in so many areas. It seemed ridiculous to move her. But the report I kept coming back to was the behavior report. There had been some improvement since the beginning of the school year, but overall her behavior was highly variable. The truth about the program that I could not ignore was that despite its successes, this team could not seem to solve Katie’s behavioral issues. I suspected this was in part due to unmet sensory needs and in part due to a lack of training and experience with autism.

As a wise friend had said to me many times regarding my ex-husband’s drinking: you don’t have to like a crappy situation in order to accept it. I had to accept that my school district simply could not (or would not) deal with this issue. It sucked, but refusing to accept reality wasn’t going to change it.

I stared at the behavior report for two days. If they hadn’t figured it out in five months, they probably never would. But accepting this fact still didn’t make me like the alternative.

The case manager never set up the second classroom visit. The updated behavior report never arrived.

Katie’s ninth birthday fell a few days before the scheduled IEP meeting. She was excited to have not one but three parties to celebrate. The first party was at school. The night before we made a big batch of delicious gluten- and dairy-free cupcakes. Katie’s favorite: chocolate with chocolate frosting. The morning of her birthday she agonized over what to wear for her party. The pants I had picked out simply would not do. She opted for a skirt with tights and her well-worn boots that we had retired the week before.

It was her birthday, so I didn’t fight it even though it was raining. She had been in a strange mood since the previous morning. Laughing one minute and then weepy the next. She could barely sit she was so excited about the cupcakes and the party.

I spent the day working and buying a few last minute gifts—that I then had to wrap. The principal called as I was heading back to school. He said that Katie had washed her hands after painting and “instead of heading back to her desk as she was supposed to do, she snuck up behind the teacher and violently pulled his hair.”

The teacher is a strapping 28-year-old man with closely cropped hair. My daughter is willowy, just barely nine-year-old. How she managed to pull his hair at all, let alone with anything approaching violence is a mystery. The other mystery was where her aide was when all this was going down—or any classroom aide for that matter. Or where the O.T. was who had just been working with Katie. Or how any child can sneak around in a supposedly highly supervised special day class.

But the bottom line was this: Katie had been suspended on her birthday for five days.

To be continued…

NOTE: For those of you who missed the earlier parts to this story (or simply want to refresh your memory), you can find them here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5. Sorry, but as you can see, my IEP stories are never short. :)

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

Posted in Autism, My Life | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

Comments That Drive Me Crazy #2
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Posted on February 20, 2013 by

CrazyPeople say some incredibly stupid things when confronted with autism. This is the second installment of insensitive comments that people have said to me regarding Katie’s disability.

You can find the first installment here.

Enjoy!

 

  1. But she’s so happy.
    Yeah, she is. Lots of kids on the spectrum manage to be happy. I know this will shock you, but their families do too.
  2. Maybe she just needs a shorter day at school while she adjusts.
    Adjusts to what? Autism is a life-long condition.
  3. You know, you’re lucky. Most of “them” can’t talk at all.
    It’s called autism, you pinhead, and all of “them” communicate in some way—even if it’s nonverbal. I wish my daughter talked more, but I really wish you talked less. Much, much less.
  4. Have you read Jenny McCarthy’s books? Why not try her doctor/diet/therapy? She cured her son.
    Yes, I’ve read some of Jenny’s books. I’ve read LOTS of books on autism. But nothing is going to “cure” my daughter or anyone else affected with ASD. Her brain is wired differently. I like that about her.
  5. A good spanking would stop that tantrum.
    Right now the only person I want to spank good and hard is you.
  6. I’m so sorry for your loss.
    You’re sorry for my LOSS?? Several guys I’ve met while online dating have responded this way when told that my daughter has autism. Others make up a lame excuse (Oh, I just realized, this very second, that I’m not ready to date…). Sorry, dude. You’re the one losing out because me and my amazing daughter have better things to do than waste our time with you.
  7. How does it feel knowing you will never have grandchildren? Oh, I forgot. You couldn’t have your own kids so maybe you’re okay with that. I know I wouldn’t be.
    This one is just plain cruel on so many levels.
  8. I could never raise a child with autism. I couldn’t deal with it. I just couldn’t deal with all the strange behavior and that annoying echoing thing she does. You’re such an amazing person.
    Right now the really amazing thing is that I’m not punching you in the mouth.
  9. She’s too pretty for there to be anything wrong with her.
    Are you sure about that? You’re pretty and there’s something clearly wrong with you.
  10. Most people in your position would give her back.
    My soon-to-be ex-husband said this to me first, but many others have said it since. I’d like to think this statement isn’t true; that most people would NOT in fact give an adopted child back when diagnosed with autism. But even if it is, I’m not most people. This statement simply does not compute for me.

_______________

I’ll post Part 6 of the school placement drama (trauma?) next week. My apologies to those who have been impatiently waiting.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Random Acts of Self-Love
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Posted on February 13, 2013 by

wood heartAs I’m sure most of you are aware, Valentine’s Day is just around the corner. Since 2006, I’ve been a single parent. And while I’ve written in my blog about my angst over never having someone (read a man) shower me with love and attention (and breakfast in bed) on Mother’s Day (you can read those posts here and here), for some reason I’m okay with the fact that whatever happens on Valentine’s Day is entirely up to me.

Maybe that’s because even when I was married, I “celebrated” Valentine’s Day in some unusual ways.

In 1997, my then sister-in-law Patty died unexpectedly on Valentine’s Day. Whatever my ex-husband and I had planned got canceled, and I spent the day packing and booking a red-eye to Philadelphia so we could help plan the funeral.

In 2000, I was deep into my first round of in vitro fertilization. I celebrated with not one but four hormone injections. The drugs turned me into someone resembling a crazy axe murderer. I’m fairly certain we did not leave the house, and this was a good thing.

In 2004, I spent Valentine’s Day at a rehab facility known as the Big Yellow House. I sat with my ex during visiting hours and watched the other guys give their wives and girlfriends balloons, flowers, candy, and cards while mine, who had been sober (once again) for exactly twelve days, wallowed in what I called the F-You Stage. Instead of balloons, flowers, candy, or even a card, I got cursed at. Our daughter was less than a month old, so I was just a teeny bit sleep-deprived. I listened to him rant for as long as I could. When a counselor commented that a fine-looking wife such as me would only tolerate that kind of treatment for so long, I snapped out of my stupor long enough to say, “Yeah, why am I tolerating this?”

I left the Big Yellow House five minutes later, and because my sister- and brother-in-law were babysitting Katie and not expecting me for another hour or two, I stopped by the mall and bought myself a gift. They were earrings—diamond earrings. Okay, the diamonds were small and at sixty percent off, not even expensive, but still, they were diamond earrings. While I was there, I picked out a gift for my upcoming 40th birthday. It had diamonds too.

For the next two years I continued the trend of selecting my own gift—although I stuck to more modest purchases. I was learning the art of self-love.

In 2007, I celebrated Valentine’s Day by filing for divorce. Admittedly, neither I nor the attorney realized this until the paralegal pointed it out later, and then all three of us had a good laugh. Given how I spent Valentine’s Day 2004, and most of the following two years, this truly felt like a gift. In hindsight it was a far more expensive gift than the diamond jewelry, but a necessary one. It was an act of self-love.

In 2008, as my divorce was dragging on, I hired a life coach to help me reconstruct my shattered life. This was another act of self-love.

Since then I’ve taken myself out to lunch on Valentine’s Day and gotten a massage. I’ve joined a yoga studio. I bought myself a pair of absolutely-to-die-for, sexy heels.

None of these things were “practical” for a single mother with an autistic child. But they were essential nonetheless. As the years progressed, these acts of self-love have gotten easier. They’ve begun to spread. I call them Random Acts of Self-Love. They happen organically, often without a lot of thought. But when they happen, I honor them.

As Valentine’s Day approaches this year, I’m debating what I want for a gift. But I can guarantee you it won’t involve balloons, flowers, candy, or a card.

What will you do on Valentine’s Day to show yourself some love?

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Sometimes the Truth is Stranger Than Fiction, Part 5
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Posted on February 6, 2013 by

broken-pencil-schools-jpg_021534On Monday, my daughter switched to a new classroom placement. This will be her fifth elementary school, and third school district, in six years. It will be her second mid-year transfer. Does anyone other than me think this is a bit much for an autistic child who struggles with change?

For those of you who missed the earlier parts to this story (or simply want to refresh your memory), you can find them here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.

I concluded Part 4 by stating that I was extremely conflicted about Katie’s current placement in our home district versus an alternative placement in the nearby Pleasanton School District. I wasn’t sure if the alternative’s benefits outweighed the negatives, let alone justified a second major transition in a single school year.

After I wrote that post, I received feedback from several friends, including two with extensive special education experience, who all recommended that I keep Katie in her current placement. They felt that the gains Katie had shown in speech and social skills outweighed the other factors. I was inclined to agree.

I had expected to receive all of the reports for Katie’s triennial review before winter break. At the previous IEP, the team had committed to producing the reports by December 5th. When the subsequent meeting was rescheduled, everyone had already completed the necessary testing and assured me that the reports would be ready “soon.” I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of digesting six or seven reports and test scores over the holidays, but given that the IEP was now scheduled for January 8th, the second day back at school, it was better than the alternative.

Katie’s classroom behavior continued to improve in December. I began to think maybe the discussion of a change of placement had been premature. I contacted the case manager in Pleasanton who made it clear that she was busy and not really interested in answering my questions. I had what can only be called a “weird feeling” when talking to her. I decided that I wanted to make a second visit to the Pleasanton program. I hoped this would help me decide. Neither of the two case managers in my district responded to my calls and emails.

On the last day of class before winter break, the teacher apologized and said his report would not be ready. He asked if he could email it to me over the break, and I said yes. I asked if the other reports were completed. He didn’t know.

No reports were delivered on the last day of class. I emailed the teacher, the principal, and the case managers to tell them that I was concerned I couldn’t review six or more triennial reports plus annual progress reports and proposed goals for the upcoming year in a single night. I asked for everything to be emailed to me over winter break. No reports were emailed. The teacher’s draft report arrived late on Sunday, containing big chunks that he was unable to complete without the school psychologist’s report.

Most of the reports trickled in Monday afternoon and evening. The IEP was Tuesday afternoon. Despite my assertion that I WOULD NOT pull an all-nighter to read a bunch of reports that were supposed to be completed a month earlier, I stayed up late so I could at least skim through what I had. The results confirmed my gut instinct that Katie was better off where she was. Katie had made more progress academically in four months than she had in the two prior school years. Her speech was accelerating as well. From an academic, speech, and social skills standpoint, the current placement was working far better than I’d ever expected.

The behavior report never arrived.

The IEP meeting lasted three hours. My attorney/advocate from Community Assistance for Special Education (CASE) was there. As a result, the school staff was very cautious, and we barely got through all the triennial reports. Geri, the advocate, took issue with a few things, but mostly the reports were adequate. Geri asked the behaviorist about her credentials. A really uncomfortable moment followed. The behaviorist stammered and finally admitted that she had completed the coursework but no, had never been certified. Even I could see that the report was filled with holes. There was a pie chart depicting the antecedents (causes) of Katie’s negative behaviors. Fifty-two percent was categorized as “Other.” This was in addition to a chunk labeled “Other settings.”

Geri questioned why Katie had been suspended (and non-suspended) for 14 days without the district completing a new FAA (behavioral assessment). The behaviorist responded that the Dublin School District had done one. Geri reminded her that that assessment was done three years earlier in a program that the behaviorist had described as “very different” than the class Katie was currently in. Geri also pointed out that the behaviors had changed, and according to the pie chart, the district didn’t know the cause of the majority of them. The behaviorist insisted she had data to flesh this out.

Geri smiled and said she looked forward to receiving the updated report.

To be continued…

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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