A Little More About Adoption
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Posted on January 30, 2013 by

Ratty treeI’ve written before about how we, as a society, need to stop treating adoption as the booby prize. Stop viewing it as a second-class track to parenthood.

Then someone asked what I would recommend, then the best option is visit infantcore.com for the best advices about adoption. which got me thinking (always a dangerous proposition). So here it is folks. Five things we can do to support adoptive parents.

To start with, we can get clear on the terminology. Katie’s birthmother is not the real mother, or the natural mother, or the other mother. She is not the step-mother or the mother-in-law. (Yes, I’ve had people use these terms.) She is the birthmother, or if you prefer, the biological mother. It’s not wrong to say I’m the adoptive mother. (After all, I am that.) But it’s unnecessary. I’m simply Katie’s mommy.

Second, stop handling us with care. We’re adopting a baby, not attending a funeral. It’s a joyous occasion—even if something eventually goes horribly wrong. That can happen with biological children too, but no one refuses to throw pregnant moms a baby shower and buy them a accessories from Baby Monitor Town because something bad might happen at the hospital. So throw the damn shower already. Have a naming ceremony. Host a party. Do whatever feels right.

Third, help us out! Despite years of waiting, the typical adoption happens pretty fast. One minute you’re childless—and then, WHAM—a child falls from the sky and into your arms. We don’t have nine long months to prepare, nine months to adjust to the reality of having a child. We don’t even have time to take a parenting class. So share your expertise, if you have it. Offer support even if you don’t. We will thank you, even if in the chaos we forget to say it aloud.

Fourth, ask questions if you must, but please show some respect. An adoption is not a freak show. We may have gotten our children in a different way than most, but after that, the parenting journey is pretty much the same—which is to say that we are all simply doing the best we can at a tough but rewarding job that has no user’s manual. Do not treat us as if we are strange or different. We already feel different. Remind us of what we have in common.

And lastly, let go of your preconceived notions about adoption. Take me for example. I adopted a child, but I’m no saint. (My ex-husband will be happy to confirm this fact.) Nor do I view myself as a victim. I got as much, if not more, out of the transaction as my daughter. Yet people constantly tell me how wonderful I am for adopting a child. Really? How did you reach that conclusion? I think I speak for most, if not all, adoptive parents when I say we don’t want or need your pity, sympathy, awe, or admiration. Perhaps I should just call it what it is: judgment. Because isn’t that what’s really going on when we attach those emotions to an adoption? We’re passing judgment—bad or good—on the child and the parent(s).

No one wants to be judged.

Here’s the way I see it. I couldn’t grow my family tree the way most women can. I had to graft on a branch. That branch may look lopsided and the leaves may not match, but the branch is growing, and as a result, my tree is thriving. It may not be the prettiest or the most symmetrical tree, but it’s a tree filled with love.

That doesn’t sound second-class to me.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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January is IEP Month
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Posted on January 23, 2013 by

Stack of papers2It’s January, so that means in my house it’s IEP (Individualized Education Plan) month. In other words, as any special needs parent can tell you, it’s the least fun time of the year.

Some years are better than others. My daughter’s first IEP was completed in January 2007, just months after my husband and I split up. The process seemed to go okay, but now I suspect I was in a fog of denial. And fear. Or perhaps the IEP was simply less terrifying than the divorce I knew was coming.

Whatever the case, the IEP process went downhill from there until Katie was transferred to another school district. Then we had two blissful years in which I was able to more or less cruise through the year with only minor mishaps. But the current IEP cycle has been a struggle from beginning to end. There has been meeting after meeting, battle after battle. Now January has snuck up on me and my reserves are depleted.

Even worse, this year is Katie’s triennial IEP. Every three years the law requires that she be re-evaluated—partly to measure progress and partly to ensure that she still qualifies for special education services. This means more work for everyone, including me.

It’s been three years since her last triennial, so I had almost forgotten the unique challenges that all this testing presents to me. It’s hard to see my smart, funny, beautiful, autistic daughter boiled down to a series of raw numbers and weighted scores. The worst report by far, at least for me, is the speech report.

It’s not like I don’t know my daughter has a severe speech delay. I’m confronted with this fact on a daily basis when I struggle to communicate with her. But to see her speech boiled down to a precise number, an exact measurement of how far she lags behind, is always gut-wrenching.

It reminds me of the first time.

Katie was diagnosed with a speech delay shortly after she turned 2. She was non-verbal, so I knew there was a problem. I had known it for the better part of a year. But when I saw the Regional Center of the East Bay’s report it felt like a kick to the stomach. It took my breath away. My mom called and I remember how hard it was to read the words over the phone. My voice shook, and when I got to the number, I couldn’t go on. I broke down in tears.

Mom waited until I regained my composure, and still it took everything I had to say what I already knew: Katie had the speech of a 9-month-old. Her chronological age was 26 months, but expressively she was only one-third that.

Mom said, “I don’t understand. You know she isn’t talking, and kids normally talk by the time they’re one. Why does this upset you so much?”

I didn’t have the words then. I still don’t. Not really. It’s like my head knows the number but my heart doesn’t.

My heart hurts when I see exactly how far Katie must travel in order to catch up.

In the early days, Katie’s speech was quantified on a regular basis, and each time I saw the number, I wanted to crawl into bed and hide. It took me days to recover my equilibrium. It’s gotten easier with time, but it’s still not easy. I suspect it will never be easy.

My daughter now speaks, give or take, like a 3 ½-year-old. It’s hard to type those words. I’ve sat with the number for several weeks, and here’s what I’ve come to realize: the number doesn’t tell the whole story. Yes, she is limited expressively, but the number doesn’t tell you how hard she works to master new words and phrases. It doesn’t tell you how creative she is when trying to communicate, how when combined with sign language and gestures and objects, she manages to convey far more than the sum of her words. It doesn’t tell you how funny she is—or how motivated.

The number doesn’t tell the whole story.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Comments That Drive Me Crazy #1
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Posted on January 17, 2013 by

CrazyPeople can say some incredibly stupid and insensitive things when confronted with autism. At first these comments offended me, but over time I’ve begun to see the humor in them. So I started a collection.

The first ten are listed below, along with the sarcastic responses that I do my best to keep under wraps.

Well, at least until now….

 

  1. Oh, I’m so sorry. How awful for you.
    How awful for me? Are you kidding?
  2. Just be thankful that she’s so pretty. Maybe no one will notice the other stuff.
    A cute face will help with many things, but I don’t think it will make up for a lack of verbal communication or social skills. And no one can see her face when she’s lying facedown in the parking lot having a tantrum.
  3. She’ll grow out of that, right? Then she’ll be fine?
    I think she’s fine now. I am not so sure, however, about you.
  4. She doesn’t look like she has autism. Are you sure the doctors are right?
    Shockingly, most pediatricians (as in over 90 %) feel they don’t know enough about autism to even make a referral, let alone an actual diagnosis. At this point, I know far more about autism than most doctors. And yes, I’m sure the specialist was right. You’d be too, if you spent any time alone with my child. It’s how they act, not how they look.
  5. If you wouldn’t baby her, she’d be normal.
    I had to stop “babying” my child a month after she turned two. From that point on, I’ve had to practice a form of tough love that would break your heart—assuming you had one.
  6. I just don’t know how you do it.
    I do it the same as you would if it was your child. You figure it out.
  7. Have you heard of Temple Grandin? She has autism and is brilliant … a professor and everything. You should watch her movie.
    Not only have I watched the movie, I’ve met Temple Grandin in person at a book signing. What does any of that have to do with my brilliant child?
  8. The autism isn’t the problem. It’s your poor parenting skills.
    Great! So if I take a couple parenting classes, will that make the autism go away?
  9. Sometimes I wish MY kids couldn’t talk.
    Really? You’d love for them to be sick and incapable of telling you where it hurts? Or what they want? Or what happened at school? Yes, I’m sure you’d love that. And not talking doesn’t mean they don’t make noise. A steady, high-pitched screech that lasts for 30 minutes is sooo much better than a kid who talks all the time, right?
  10. Have you tried a timeout?
    Umm, yeah. Maybe you should try one.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Happy New Year 2013
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Posted on January 2, 2013 by

Happy New YearHope you had a wonderful, relaxing holiday season spent with family and friends. Katie and I are enjoying the last few days of her winter break. Or at least I am. Since Christmas, my daughter has been asking me every day to wake her up early so she can go to school and see Tammy and Mr. F. If only it were that easy to schedule the kind of day you wanted!

While Katie kills time before returning to school, we’ve been cooking and clearing out clutter, rearranging furniture and recycling old clothes. For some reason I always get the urge to organize at this time of year and I’m indulging in it to the fullest during these few “additional” days of vacation.

Perhaps this drive to tidy my house is due to the fact that I’m feeling very clean and light emotionally. I released a slew of emotional baggage on New Year’s Eve at a Release Ceremony hosted by a local shaman and healer. I’ve attended this ceremony a few times in the past, and it’s such a positive and nurturing way to close out the old year and ring in the new. I always make at least one interesting personal discovery in the course of this exercise. This year I realized that I fear my power. I’ve spent years, maybe decades, afraid that no one will love or accept me if I truly use my gifts and let my light shine.

I’ve also been carrying a tremendous amount of fear and anxiety regarding Katie’s classroom placement and the upcoming IEP meeting. Letting that go was a tremendous relief.

Following the Release Ceremony, on New Year’s Day, I prepared what I will call, for lack of a better term, a Vision Board. It’s a collage of all the feelings, emotions, affirmations, and random “things” I want to invite into my life in the coming year. I started doing this in 2012 and it was an amazing project that really clarified my vision for my life and my writing. I was so happy with the Vision Board I created last January, I assumed I wouldn’t create another one. But after the Release Ceremony earlier this week, I realized I wanted something new.

Tonight I will put the finishing touches on my 2013 Vision Board. Some things will stay the same, but others, like life, will change and shift. In honor of my epiphany on New Year’s Eve, I’m calling this the Year of Embracing My Power.

Tomorrow I will turn my focus to my business vision and values, as part of the process of finalizing my business plan. (More on this in the next few weeks!) I’m also going to be setting some annual goals. One goal I’ve already set involves this blog. I’ve been at this for a little over a year now and have been something of a sporadic blogger. In 2013, my goal is to post here every Wednesday. You heard me: every Wednesday.

No matter how you kicked off the new year, Katie and I wish you success and prosperity in 2013.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Everyone Loves Mr. F
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Posted on December 26, 2012 by

HugI didn’t think my decision on my daughter Katie’s classroom placement could get any more difficult. Then something happened that, if anything, left me even more conflicted than before.

Katie adores her teacher, Mr. F. I adore him too. How can any parent resist a teacher with incredible enthusiasm for his job? After the first day of school, Mr. F said to me, “Wow, Katie is really smart. It’s going to be so much FUN teaching her!”

No one has ever said that about my autistic child. Not even close.

Mr. F is young and idealistic and almost cried at the first post-transition meeting when he reported that Katie had intentionally kicked him in the shin. He worried that she didn’t like him. I knew that wasn’t the issue and told him so. I said I suspected she was trying to get his attention. Katie was no longer the only girl in the classroom and was one of the least verbal. She didn’t know how to request his attention in words, so she was getting it through nonverbal communication.

“It’s pretty effective,” he said, rubbing his leg.

After that, we worked on appropriate ways to request attention and the kicking dropped off. Mr. F was thrilled.

One night in the bath tub, Katie said, as she often does, “I want a daddy please.”

As a single parent, I never know whether to laugh or cry when I hear this. As always, I promised her that I was working on it because I wanted her to have a daddy too. Usually that assurance ended the conversation. But on this night, Katie continued to play with her model horse and then said, “I want Mr. F to be the daddy.”

I laughed. “Oh sweetie, Mr. F is way too young for Mommy. He can’t be the daddy. But he CAN be your teacher.”

She smiled. “I like Mr. F.”

For the first time my daughter truly enjoyed going to school. I liked Mr. F too.

Shortly before winter break, I drove to Katie’s school to pick her up. Mr. F waited with Tammy (an aide) and Katie. As he talked to me about Katie’s day, Katie leaned into his hip and grabbed his belt with one hand. The other hand grabbed his upper thigh. He casually moved it to a more appropriate location. It drifted back down, and he moved it again. “What is she doing?” I asked.

“I think she’s trying to hug me,” he said.

Until then Katie had always backed sideways into my arms and tolerated me hugging her. This is a classic “autism hug.” She only allowed a few people to hug her in this way: me, my mom, a favorite sitter, her brother Danny, and interestingly, the school secretary who had no idea how rare this honor was. Katie had never given anyone a hug.

Katie’s hand drifted down again, and the adults laughed awkwardly. “Katie,” I said. “Hug Mr. F like this.” I shifted her to a straight-on position, and she squeezed his waist tight with both arms.

“Katie hugs,” she said. “Hug Mr. F.”

Tammy got a hug next. Eventually I got one too. She would not, however, hug Tammy’s six-year-old son, much to his relief. But this past week she has hugged a few random (and surprised) strangers. Afterwards she says, “I can hug.”

And I respond, “Yes, you can.”

This December Katie successfully navigated her first encounter with Santa AND started to hug. Katie’s current placement might not be working well from a behavioral standpoint. But from a social skills perspective, I think it’s working out just fine.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Sometimes the Truth is Stranger Than Fiction, Part 4
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Posted on December 17, 2012 by

broken-pencil-schools-jpg_021534Last week I visited the classroom in Pleasanton. It’s a good program, at a nice, well-maintained school. I liked the teacher. But when all is said and done, I’m not sure it’s any better of a fit for my daughter than the classroom she’s currently in. Both programs have distinct advantages and disadvantages—at least as far as Katie is concerned. I wish I could take parts of each program and create something that would truly work for her. Unfortunately I’m fairly certain that’s not going to happen.

On the plus side, the Pleasanton class is smaller (seven students) with a better student-teacher ratio (at least 2:1). The aides and teacher clearly have experience with autism. I’m confident they could handle whatever behavior Katie dished out. In fact, given that this class is located in the Pleasanton School District, rumored to have one of the best autism programs in the East Bay, it’s quite possible the entire IEP team would be superior to the folks I’m dealing with now.

But the alternate placement is not a mixed moderate/severe special day class like Katie is in now. It’s an autism class. They use the standard ABA-based teaching method that has never worked well for Katie. The seven students are all boys. Three of them are non-verbal and the other four appear to talk less than Katie. I suspect Katie has better social skills than all of them. So even though she will be the youngest child in the class, no one will model better communication or social skills.

The difference between the two classrooms when it comes to speech is staggering. Her current placement may contain children with a host of disabilities and learning differences, but it terms of communication they are way ahead of my daughter. Katie loves going to school with these kids, who to her, probably seem pretty close to “normal.” And because of that, the alternate placement will not be nearly as motivating. In fact, I think she might view a transfer as something close to punishment.

The new class has some nice mainstreaming opportunities for 4th and 5th graders, but nothing has been worked out for a 3rd grader like Katie. And while I think Pleasanton would do a better job handling Katie’s sensory issues, they do not have a dedicated “sensory gym” like Dublin did. The school doesn’t even have a swing. Sigh. But I did see a well-used trampoline.

In other words, there were some pluses and minuses. I left the class feeling totally conflicted.

Should I jump at the chance to get Katie into a great autism program even if the program wasn’t a perfect fit?

Did the benefits not only outweigh the negatives, but also justify a second major transition in a single school year?

I wasn’t sure. A week later, I’m still not sure.

I suspect my district thinks the transfer is a done deal. They’re busy preparing the necessary reports for Katie’s triennial IEP, and I’m sure every one of them will discuss how her current placement is a poor fit because there are far more kids in her current class and it doesn’t have the number of aides that the program in Pleasanton does—as if somehow the district has no control over classroom size or the number of aides it hires. Or the lack of training they receive.

So that’s how I’ll spend part of my winter break with Katie: reading through a stack of reports, hoping I’ll stumble across something that will make my decision easier. Because right now, it’s not feeling easy at all.

To be continued…

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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The Feel of Summer, Part 2
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Posted on December 9, 2012 by

SummerBesides her significant speech delay, sensory issues remain Katie’s greatest challenge. Furthermore, the two issues are intertwined. In addition to autism, Katie probably has what is called speech apraxia. Her brain has difficulty coordinating the 250 moving parts that are required for speech. So in a sense, her speech delay is caused, at least in part, by her sensory challenges. Which is why when Katie jumps on the trampoline, she talks more. Put her on a swing, and she talks more. This also explains why adaptive horseback riding for the disabled is so beneficial. Riding a horse is like swinging is three directions—front to back, side to side, and up and down—simultaneously.

About the time Katie started speech therapy, my friend Barbara Soules began to dream of establishing an adaptive riding center. She pestered me to enroll Katie in her pilot project, but back then I didn’t understand how sensory issues were tied to speech. I was busy learning sign language and shuttling Katie from one therapy session to another. I was distracted, and didn’t really listen to what she was saying.

Plus I’m not one of those women who grew up wanting a horse. I’m a small animal person. Dogs and cats I can handle. Horses have always intimidated me.

But Barbara was persistent. She pestered me for months. Despite an autism diagnosis and a separation, she managed to convince me. Finally I agreed to try it—one time—not expecting much. I told her Katie already had far too much therapy and I wouldn’t make her ride if she didn’t enjoy it.

We had to drive a long way into the country to reach the ranch where Hoofprints on the Heart Adaptive Riding Center was located. We walked into the covered arena and the instructor held out a helmet for Katie to wear. I could barely keep Katie dressed at that point in her life. The helmet was a deal-breaker.

Katie studied the horse, a blonde mare named Summer. Then she grabbed the helmet and jammed it on her head. She marched up the four steps to the mounting platform and allowed a stranger—a total stranger!—to lift her onto the horse. Summer took a few steps, and Katie’s face split into a huge grin. She loved it!

I would have continued to bring Katie for riding lessons for that reason alone. But ten minutes into that initial lesson, a miracle happened. The instructor, Peggy James, stopped Summer and then signed “go” to Katie. She wanted Katie to make the sign. Katie did, but she did something else as well. My nonverbal daughter said her first word: go.

Six years later, the memory still chokes me up.

So of course we went back. Every week while riding Summer, Katie added several new words. In two months she had a spoken vocabulary of 25 words. In four months, she had 50. For several years she continued to use sign language in conjunction with speech, but from that point on, she was verbal.

I’d waited three times longer than the typical parent for those priceless words. I became as passionate about Hoofprints on the Heart Adaptive Riding Center as Barbara, and volunteered in any way that I could. I gave my time as a side-walker, helped with PowerPoint presentations, wrote grant proposals, even served as the MC for the Open House when the organization finally found a permanent home at the historic Hagemann Ranch located in Livermore, California. I still can’t tell you exactly how adaptive riding works. I only know that it does. For a child like Katie with sensory issues, adaptive riding has been the key to unlocking her potential.

While Katie has reached many milestones with the help of her evolving equine team—Summer, Hershey, Danny, and Ahote—nothing can compare to that first day. I would have been grateful for one word, but as she was slipping down off of Summer, at the end of her initial lesson, Katie patted Summer’s neck and said her second word: bye-bye.

I looked at Barbara with tears in my eyes. She grinned and said, “I think everything’s going to be fine.”

I didn’t know if I believed her then. I wanted to, but I wasn’t sure.

Six years later, I do.

Whatever happens in Katie and my future, everything’s going to be fine.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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The Feel of Summer, Part 1
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Posted on December 6, 2012 by

Too LoudLike one child in eighty-eight, my daughter has autism. While many people do not fully understand autism, awareness has improved. What really confuse people are problems with sensory integration, also known as sensory processing disorder or sensory dysfunction.

Sensory integration is the normal neurological process of organizing sensations for use in everyday life. Typically, our brain receives sensory information from both our bodies and our surroundings, interprets these messages, and organizes our response. For the most part, we don’t need to think about this process. It just happens.

Our sensory system includes the five senses we learn about it school—vision, hearing, smell, taste, and touch—as well as three hidden senses that develop early in the womb:

  • Tactile—which gathers information through the surface of our skin, from head to toe, and tells us how we are touching or being touched.
  • Proprioceptive—which gathers information through our muscles, joints, and ligaments, and tells us where our body parts are and what they’re doing.
  • Vestibular—which gathers information through the inner ear about gravity and space, and tells us where our head and body are in relation to the earth. It helps us keep our balance.

You can think of these hidden senses as the more primitive senses, the ones that trigger the fight-or-flight response. Others have described them as the “lizard brain.”

Speaking as someone who has lived with this issue, a lizard brain is great when it works properly. An improperly functioning lizard brain is no fun at all.

 ___________

Sensory issues are difficult to explain, but we all have them to a certain extent. The best example I have involves a horrible mustard gold sweater my grandmother bought in Nova Scotia when I was eight. The fact that my family lived in the San Francisco Bay Area and had no real need for a heavy wool turtleneck did not deter my grandmother, and so my mother dutifully forced me to wear the hideous cabled monstrosity on the rare winter day that allowed its use. I hated this sweater. Not only was the color ugly, but the sweater made me sweat. Even worse, it itched.

For me, ultra-soft Merino wool is scratchy. The hideous gold turtleneck was pure torture. I’d wear an undershirt underneath which increased my sweating, but was the only thing that made the situation even remotely bearable. I’d fidget in school, unable to concentrate on anything the teacher said. It was all I could do not to claw at my neck and arms. It was as if my brain was so filled with unpleasant tactile sensations, that there was no room left over for anything else.

I imagine this is how it must be for Katie nearly every day. Except for her it’s not just tactile overload. She also has problems with her proprioceptive and vestibular systems as well as hypersensitive hearing. And worse, she doesn’t have the ability to communicate her discomfort.

 ____________

It is important to remember that there are different “flavors” of sensory dysfunction. Some people are hyposensitive (under sensitive). Some are hypersensitive (over sensitive). And others, like Katie, are called sensory seekers. These children crave additional sensory input, especially from the hidden senses (i.e., tactile, proprioceptive, and vestibular). This is why Katie loves to swing, spin, jump, crash into furniture, and run laps on the playground. She is a movement addict.

Except unlike most addictions, this one cannot be denied. It must be fed.

Without movement, Katie can’t learn.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Story Included in DimeStories’ Inaugural Showcase
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Posted on November 26, 2012 by

DimeStoriesDimeStories is a cool little nonprofit organization that hosts monthly prose open mics in various locations around the country. Founded by novelist Amy Wallen in San Diego, DimeStories is now managed by Jennifer Simpson, an awesome nonfiction writer living in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Jennifer, and the entire dime-sized staff, run on 100% volunteer power.

DimeStories are concise, 3-minute stories read by the author. They can be funny or heart-wrenching, fictional or factual, but they’re always true.

In honor of  the National Day of Listening, a project of StoryCorps, DimeStories launched its Virtual Open Mic on November 23, 2012. The Inaugural Showcase includes my story, “First Friend.” You can listen to my recording (a first for me!), along with eight other tiny literary gems, at DimeStories Inaugural Showcase. I’m thrilled to be included. Thanks, Jenn!

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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Sometimes the Truth is Stranger Than Fiction, Part 3
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Posted on November 23, 2012 by

broken-pencil-schools-jpg_021534At the end of the three-day it-feels-like-a-suspension-but-isn’t “non-suspension,” the school district held a meeting. The meeting started with the Principal and the Special Ed Director debating whether or not Katie had been suspended. The Principal insisted she hadn’t. When asked why this distinction mattered, no answer was forthcoming.

The District then presented behavior data that demonstrated there were behavior problems. Well, duh. No one wanted to admit that this was due, at least in part, to the missing swing—despite the fact that the Dublin School District had told them, many, many times that unmet sensory needs would lead to challenging behavior. The other reason is that neither the teacher nor the aides have any experience or training in autism. No one wanted to admit that either. Or that the class size had almost doubled. Instead they blamed Katie. Since two days with a swing hadn’t magically cured the problems that had arisen in the previous 6 weeks, their only option was a change of placement.

The Special Ed Director urged me to consider the independent life skills class at Wells Middle School. This is a class filled with thirteen-year-old autistic boys, many of whom are not yet potty trained and still working on basic self-help skills such as dressing and tooth brushing. They are also boys that can, and do, take down an adult on a regular basis.

When I visited the classroom, I noticed very little talking or social interaction. The schedule devoted almost no time to academics but the word diapering was used. Katie would have no access to age-appropriate peers or playground equipment. There would be no opportunities for mainstreaming. In short, it was a fine program—for a child on the other end of the spectrum.

I was fighting tears when the teacher, who I liked, took me aside and whispered that she WOULD NOT put an eight-year-old in her class. Then she gave me a look that spoke volumes. I’d already vowed that Katie wouldn’t be placed there, but the teacher’s actions convinced me.

The Special Ed Director insisted it was an appropriate placement. I strongly disagreed and reminded him that the Dublin IEP Team had agreed with my position. The meeting rambled on. When it became clear that the behavior plan wasn’t being fully implemented, I was asked to keep Katie out of school for an additional two days so the classroom staff could be brought up to speed. I reluctantly agreed.

After five “non-suspension” days, Katie returned to school. A week later, the Principal suspended Katie for scratching a child’s hand in a dispute over a crayon. She scratched the aide and was suspended again. The Principal and I met with the Assistant Superintendent to seek clarification on the suspension policy. I said it wasn’t fair to suspend my daughter because the school district couldn’t figure out what to do about autistic behavior. The Principal asked for guidance. None was given.

Two more suspensions followed, along with more meetings. The Principal argued with the Special Ed Director and said that while he knew very little about special education, he agreed that the Wells program was inappropriate. A heated discussion followed. The life skills program was dropped.

I met with the Superintendent and told her the story. She didn’t exactly say there wouldn’t be more suspensions, but she did ask me to give the district another chance. She said the Special Ed Director wouldn’t be handling the case and mentioned removing roadblocks. What we did not discuss was the fact that I’d already requested a copy of Katie’s school file. This is standard procedure when a lawyer has been retained.

When the IEP Team met a few days later, suddenly there was a new possibility for an alternate placement: an autism program in Pleasanton that the Dublin team had mentioned a year earlier.

Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?

To be continued…

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton

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