Alison Hodgson

Expert on the etiquette of perilous times.

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Yesterday was hard.

I don’t have time to tell you about it, but suffice it to say that to be a parent is an exercise in surrender and trust and then at the same time a call to hold on tenaciously. Navigating which situation calls for what is where things get tricky. Of course trust is always needed, even when I think I’ve got it all under control.

It is painful to see your children hurt and to know that all you can do is listen and pray and offer your faith on their behalf, which is so very much but – in the short term any way – doesn’t feel like enough.

I was all for uniqueness, until I became a mother. Now I think it’s overrated. The other day I told Paul that it feels like we’re in a three ring circus – all three rings – all of the time.

Today I’m off to camp with Lydia. The middle school does a retreat for the seventh graders to help them get to know each other. I’m riding there with another mother. Initially we thought that there wasn’t room on the busses for the chaperones, but she called me yesterday to tell me that there was room and, in fact, the chaperones were urged to ride the bus. She wanted to know what I thought.

“Once we’re there we’re going to give our all.” I said.

She murmured agreement.

“But there’s no point in us arriving at camp with migraines. If you still want to drive, I would love to ride with you.”

She exhaled audibly. “I would love to drive.”

I need to quiz Christopher on some grammar and finish packing my bag.

Please pray for him to make a friend.

I hope everyone is happy and well.

http://alisonhodgson.com/2009/09/268/

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One week is done.

Everything is going well, but Paul and I have been running the gauntlet of orientations, curriculum nights and special meetings, basically the introvert’s Olympics.
We continue with our community service/home improvement which is painting the exterior of the house.
The days have been busy.  Tomorrow is my first day home alone.  I plan to cook, write and make a lot of dog hair angels on the floor.
Once last week I asked Christopher how math had gone that day.
“It did a little bit exceed expectations.”
When I asked how, he replied, “It was somewhat reasonable and interesting.”
He has been eating lunch with a young man who has a mohawk.
“It had to be the kid with the mohawk!”  Lydia teasingly moaned.
Well yes, apparently it did.

http://alisonhodgson.com/2009/09/269/

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Three packed lunch bags are waiting in the fridge. (1 Barbie, 1 Vera Bradley, 1 orange and nondescript.)

Three alarms are set for 6:15. (Eden and I are relying on the others.)

Four piles of carefully selected outfits sit on bedroom floors. (Paul is winging it.)

“Our last day of freedom! ” Christopher announced to Eden upon waking this morning.

Tomorrow is the first day of school for all three children and it will be the first time in 14 years that I have, at least during school hours, an empty nest.

http://alisonhodgson.com/2009/09/271/

This and that, some rambling, blah, blah, blah..you’ve been warned

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I know it’s been quiet around here at OTJ and I’m sorry about that.

As you can imagine it’s been quite loud on the actual homefront.

The wireless goes from bad to worse. Now, my only consistent coverage is if I press my computer against the wall right above Paul’s nightstand. That makes for less than comfortable circumstances and my online time is restricted to checking e-mail and reading the news. I even try to avoid replying to e-mails as this necessitates leaning way to the side or kneeling on the floor next to the bed. Ridiculous, I know, but figuring out the sitch is low on my list of priorities.

I have had three writing deadlines this month. I submitted an essay (Jackie Boy) to the editor of a book that’s a collection of dog stories and it was immediately accepted. The e-mail I received was the written version of Meg Ryan’s scene in the deli in “When Harry Met Sally”

“Yes. Yes. YES! YES!…” So that was good. I suggested another and I’m waiting to hear if it was accepted.

I also entered an essay in a contest and I’ve been writing quite a bit as I’ve been making all the preparations for Christopher’s schooling next year. This Fall will be the first time in fourteen years that I won’t have children home with me…except for Willa on Thursdays as Torey is quick to remind me. She (Torey) is positioning herself as my agent. She has several stories that she insists I could just “fart out in a day or two”. If only writing was as easy as passing gas.

The results from all the tests are in and the consensus is that C. Riley H. is a smart lad with a wickedly precocious vocabulary who needs to do a spot of work in math. We had the meeting with 8 specialists where we established his educational plan for next year. Everyone, except for one slouch was an absolute dream to work with. The OT phoned in her testing and only acknowledged some things when I pointed them out. In the meeting she said, “Mom only wanted me to do an overview in my testing…” and my jaw dropped. That was a lie. I wanted a full assessment and after dealing with her decided to hire a therapist we had worked with privately to come and help establish accomodations. The OT was more interested in getting Christopher off her book and I was happy to let her, but I am going to “love her enough” as we say in some circles to inform her supervisor that she tried to give me the run around and then put it on me. It’s one thing to play me, but to call me “Mom” when you’re doing it…no.

When Christopher first mainstreamed I didn’t know enough to advocate for him better. We threw him to the wolves. He was sent into the classroom with the only accomodation being a small speaker to amplify his teacher’s voice. He didn’t qualify for the resource room and I didn’t know to push for more. This time I understand some things that I didn’t previously and I have the diagnoses and technical terms that specialists seem to need to hear to take a person seriously.

At this meeting everyone was gracious and helpful and Paul and I were assured that this wasn’t written in stone, that as the year progressed we could always call another meeting. I know this is true, but I decided to have them write down every accomodation we agreed would be helpful, even if it wasn’t immediately relevant.

My biggest fan, the speech pathologist I wrote about last month took a moment to turn the spotlight on Christopher’s wonderful teacher…um, me. She actually swept her arm in a welcoming me to the stage gesture. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t just bask in that, I needed to minimize it. I’m certainly taking full responsibility for his lower math score. The truth is that Christopher’s education has been a four part invention: his intelligence and will (or lack) mingled with my teaching abilitity and will or lack thereof. I deflect the praise about the positives but take the fullness of the negatives and that sucks.

I’m rambling.

This meeting was called the IEP: Individual Educational Plan. We have had many for Christopher through the years. The first one was September 17, 1997 – the day before Lydia’s birth. In those early years we didn’t know what to expect. No one could say if Christopher would be able to speak. We chose an Oral Deaf school because I had taught English overseas and was keenly aware what a difficult language it is to approach as a non native. I could accept that Christopher might never be able to speak English, his immediate circle might be limited to those who sign, I could accept that, but I could not accept him being unable to read vociferously and to write eloquently. I wanted English to be his mother tongue, even if he couldn’t physically speak it and Paul agreed. What made the decision easier was the obvious superiority of the Oral Deaf school to the Total Communication school, at that time.

After the speech pathologist had her “One Shining Moment” for me, she gave her report and then the Hearing Consultant, a teacher from Christopher’s former school who will check in on him and keep working with his listening and speech gave her assessment. At the end the speech pathologist jumped in again and made us have a moment of silence (I’m almost serious!) to acknowledge the singularity of Christopher’s achievement. I think she wasn’t satisfied with my polite demurring and everyone else’s ignorance. She kept making us look at the extraordinary nature of this event. She wanted everyone in that room to take note and I think it frustrated her that only she and the hearing consultant, and Paul and I understood what it meant. She knew. For a moment I got it and I realized that we were THERE, the other side. Of course we’re still on the journey, but we are so far from where we were 12 years ago when these Plans first began. For a moment I remembered sitting around that other table, great with another child, trying to make a way for our first, trying to trust God for all of us. I remember not knowing. That day I didn’t know if Christopher would ever say, “I love you” if he would ever speak at all.

We couldn’t see to this meeting, where it would be established that Christopher nolonger qualifies for speech therapy and is years beyond his chronological age in vocabulary and he can speak. He can speak.

I am thankful for Rose, the speech pathologist, even though she embarrassed me at the time. We should be thankful to anyone who makes us stop, who isn’t afraid to interrupt things, who pulls our chins until we see what she has been pointing to all along.

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Christopher is preparing for school in the fall or rather the school is preparing for him.  We are busily scheduling and attending assessments to create a plan and determine necessary accommodations.  Accommodations is special ed speak for a little help.  
Yesterday he had his first assessment, this one for speech and language.  Before we left I was talking to my sister Torey on the phone.  I told her I was a little worried.
“As well you should be,”  she said.
‘I’m afraid they’re going to tell me I’m a rotten teacher – no they won’t even give me that, they’ll go right to, “You are a terrible mother!'”  We laughed picturing me crumpling to the ground sobbing.  My potential humiliations are a minefield for our amusement.  
At the school the therapist assured me that it wouldn’t take long.  She left me in the lobby and bustling off to her office, Christopher loping after her.  Before I knew it they were back and she was beaming.  His speech (meaning his ability to speak, i.e. his pronunciation and articulation) was great and his language (vocabulary) was fantastic.  The therapist has never had a child with hearing issues score as highly as Christopher did.  She was almost giddy when she showed me the results.  “YOU have done an excellent job teaching him, ” she said, clutching my arm.
I didn’t quite swoon into the river of adulation remembering that his math skills had yet to be considered.
She explained the test to me.  To start she had administered it the normal way.  She would say the word in question and he would point to an appropriate picture.  He wasn’t doing terribly well, which wasn’t a surprise to her, but I think she was having to repeat herself, so she changed her approach.  She decided to write the word down and allow him to read them.  From that point he knew every one and he almost completed the list before the time ran out.  The therapist has never had a student get that far before.  
“He is very bright!  We just need to make sure he can hear what is being said.”  Bingo.  We talked about possible accommodations.
She showed me the words he had missed: carpenter, canister and appliance.  These were right before she began to write the words.  I was surprised that he didn’t know these, but knew it was possible.  He knows every appliance in our home (and read many of the owner manuals) but I wasn’t sure I ever referred to them collectively as appliances and that was the sort of word he might not come across in his extensive reading.  
I explained this to the therapist.  “Do you have canisters?”  She asked.  We don’t, at least not on the counter and it’s possible that word has never been used in our home either.  I called Christopher over and pointed to the list.
“Do you know what this is?”
“Oh,” he said gesturing with his hand as he does when he’s searching for words, “it’s a container you use when you want to seal something.”  
“He knows it!’  The therapist hissed.
I pointed to the word carpenter, “What’s this?”
“Someone who cuts wood,” more hand gesturing, “and builds things, like houses.”
“Do you know any carpenters?”  I asked.
“Uncle David.”  I nodded.
I looked at the therapist who was beaming.  “His score is even higher!”  He knew appliances too.
We showed Christopher where his age was recorded as well as the age he was assessed for language.  “You won’t need to meet with me!”  The therapist said.
Next week he has several more assessments and then there will be the formal meetings where everything is taken into account and plans are made.  I have been his mother for over 13 years, his special ed advocate for 8 and his full time teacher for 4.    I finally feel equipped to interpret all the testing, consult with the specialists, consider recommendations from the administrators and discuss and pray everything over with Paul.  And finally, this is what I truly believe; that God is going to guide us because Christopher has a hope and a future.  It’s not all up to me.  
I have travelled the long way round to this conclusion, but I can’t look back and shame myself.  I’m just happy to be here now.
 

http://alisonhodgson.com/2009/04/304/