The Teacher

My heart stopped for a second when I got the phone call. Not again. Not another one. I politely thanked her for calling after assuring her that I'd be present at 11am Monday morning. We almost made it 2 weeks. Two weeks at a school without the call. The call from an administrator saying we needed to have a meeting. These meetings start off with 'we want to help your child' and end with 'so please take him somewhere else.'

My son just turned 4. He's a sweet little snugglebug who loves helping mom cook, playing baseball, and hot wheels cars. He has a big heart, a big appetite, and a big personality. He's self-assured and confident and has a strong sense of how things should be. When life deviates from his plan, his emotions overwhelm him and he needs some extra hugs to cope. He struggles with bladder control and has a milk protein allergy too. I can see why teachers don't want him; he's not the easiest kid to teach. But he's one of the sweetest, most rewarding little humans out there - at least to me!

So I spent the weekend researching more preschools in an ever widening radius, wondering if 4 is too young for counseling, and rereading the school's tuition refund policy. By Monday morning I was sick from the lack of sleep, heartburn, nail biting, and anxiety. I could barely drag myself through a shower and getting the kids to school. I spent the hours between 8 and 11 volunteering at my daughters' school, wondering if I would ever get to do the same with my son. Wondering if there exists a place where he would be wanted, valued, and loved. A place where they would want our family as a part of their community.

I walked in the school a few minutes early, bracing myself to receive the disparaging looks from the receptionists and preparing to hear another list of reasons why I am a failure as a parent. I've always treated my kids like people, not pets or robots. They have thoughts, feelings, needs, and ideas too. Learning to engage in the world and express themselves appropriately is hard. Understanding expectations and rules in new places is hard. Dealing with other people is hard. For my son, he has to do all these things with only a rudimentary understanding of how the world works and very little life experience. He also has to do it separated from his closest supporter - me!

Gently I push open the door with a pasted smile on my face and the tears hidden deep in my eyes. The receptionist is friendly. She must not know. We talk about her cats. The assistant principal appears and greets me with a big smile. Here we go again. Maybe I should have skipped this meeting and just unenrolled him. I follow her down a maze of hallways between walls covered with cute artwork and tiny water fountains. Our neighbor, my son's little buddy, spies me. He runs and gives me a big hug.

We arrive at a door and she pushes it open. I'm greeted by my son's teacher and the school counselor. "We're meeting in here because you haven't seen the classroom yet and I know you wanted to see it." Wow. She remembered that. As I take in the large, bright room filled with toys, books, and tiny furniture she shows me around and explains about sitting on the rug, the calendar, the coat hooks. I try to take it all in without thinking why does this matter; he won't be here long anyway.

We sit down in tiny chairs and our knees come up to our chests. I sit on the side of the table across from the 3 staff members. His teacher looks at the situation, gets up and moves to the chair next to me. The assistant principal steps in and starts the meeting like usual, "Thanks so much for coming. We're here to talk about helping your son be successful. Let's start by having his teacher tell about how he acts in class." I brace myself for the torrent that is about to be unleashed: stories of him hitting, kicking, crying, rolling in the floor, peeing his pants, refusing to follow directions, and generally being a disturbance. Instead his teacher says, "He is a sweet boy."

In that moment, I don't dare to hope, but she started with a positive. She goes on to list his faults, but the list is shorter than usual and is interspersed with positives. Then she asks me to tell the group a little more about him, his educational past, and his home life. What? They want to hear about him? And our life? In a daze I blunder through some basics: he has 2 older sisters, his montessori school shut down, he went to a new school with a brand new teacher, he's never had more than 8 kids in his class, he just turned 4 last week, etc. I leave out the part about getting demoted at gymnastics due to behavior and that another preschool told me not to consider them if he had behavior problems. I focus on his love of trucks, trains, and anything that moves. How he likes to help me and how we give hugs when he needs to calm down.

The counselor jumps in with an idea about how they could use a calming technique at school similar to what we do at home. She offers to create a 'calming kit' for the classroom and do some lessons with him on how to use the strategies. The teacher looks pleased. She says that she can offer him the calm down hugs at school and suggests a spot he could sit when he needs time alone. The administrator offers ideas too. We all start to talk, sharing thoughts on how we can connect home and school behavior conversations. We discuss his folder and the colored stamps, the phone calls, where he sits, holding his hand to help teach him hallway procedures, using the same language he's used to hearing,  . . . the conversation keeps flowing until we have a wealth of ideas and strategies. As the conversation wraps up, she the teacher can't resist telling me one more cute story about him. She's glowing she's so happy with all these ways to help him. The counselor excitedly chats about lessons she can use to help him. The administrator asks more about our family as we walk back to the front door. I leave the school in a whirlwind of giddiness.

When I climb back in my van the tears start to fall. Not the aching tears I've cried all weekend, but tears of relief. After so many similar meetings, conversations with a coach or administrator, or the quick negative remarks in the carline, this meeting was something different. That woman convened an army to help my son. 

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It's been a few weeks, and we've had our ups and downs, but overall it's getting better. I still can't get over what his teacher did. Rather than getting frustrated, giving up, and sending him on to someone else, she did the opposite. She dug in her heels and committed to making my son successful. Good days and bad, she doesn't give up. And she's teaching my son the same things - how to work through a problem, how to ask for help, how to create a plan in a difficult situation, how to persevere, and most importantly how to care about other people. I could not have asked for a better teacher, role model, and friend for my son.