education

My kids schools have started sending me mail. The contents vary in detail, but the general gist is “School is coming, this is what you need to do to prepare.” I collected the letters and pinned them to my bulletin board because I wasn’t ready to think about it yet. Then I looked at my calendar and realized that August arrives half way through this week. School starts in three weeks, ready or not. So this morning I began thinking about the school year to come and talking to my kids about what we need to do in the next three weeks to transition smoothly.

Kiki is going to be a senior this year. I find it fascinating that the minute people hear this, they begin to ask all sorts of questions about career plans and then to spout advice. The only other time in my life that I’ve heard so much unsolicited life advice was when I was pregnant. The trouble is that people keep asking questions for which we do not yet have answers. This is not because we haven’t considered the issues, but because it is not yet time to have answers to those questions. I can’t tell you how we’re going to pay for college because I don’t know yet which school or what scholarships. Kiki is still considering schools and weighing options. She is still in the open possibilities stage of this process, the time of imagining her life in a hundred different ways. Yet all the questions are focused on narrowing down options and picking a path. As if picking a single path now determines her entire future. As if adults never change direction or readjust their lives.

Often I’m not actually a participant in these conversations about Kiki’s future, I just get to listen to them. Kiki does not seem to mind having them most of the time. Perhaps they are helping her see her choices. The truth is that I am not particularly stressed about college admissions for her. I know her and how competent she is. She will find a way through to good life solutions. Her solutions will be a better fit for her than any solutions that I can give her. It just falls to me to decide the quantity of financial support we can provide as she furthers her education. Those conversations and stresses will hit late winter. I’ll be stressed about it when the time is right, not now.

It is also possible that I’m in denial about how stressful this “applying for college” process will be. In which case I will snuggle my comfy denial close and keep it for awhile. My brain is already quite occupied with unpacking the school stresses that I put away last spring and now must pull out to examine. In the first few weeks of school I need to conference with Link’s teachers to make sure that his IEP reflects the diagnosis we made at the very end of last school year. We need to make sure that Link has the resources he needs so that he can take control of his life. Patch’s teacher sent a letter emphasizing the importance of multiplication tables. Those were the bane of his existence last fall and threw him into a pit of self doubt. I am hopeful that this new year will not trigger a similar emotional crisis, but I need to watch carefully. Gleek is headed into sixth grade. In Utah that is still elementary school, but the hormonal and emotional shifts which girls go through at this age can cause them to make really poor decisions. I’m not so much worried about Gleek choosing awry, but I really hope she doesn’t suffer because someone else decides to alleviate her own self doubt by being mean.

These are the thoughts that I shoved into the back of my brain last May and have not touched since. School is coming. It will bring me six hours of quiet house each week day. I’ll be able to re-separate my work time from my parenting time. That will be a blessed relief. School will also bring all of that other stuff. My fears will be appeased or shown accurate. My biggest fears revolve around the crisis that I don’t yet know the shape of, the new thing which shows up and blind sides me with its unexpectedness. Last year I didn’t know to worry about multiplication tables or a new diagnosis cycle. This year there will be something else. I can’t prepare for it because I do not know what it is. So I spend extra energy on the thing I do know. Patch will practice his multiplication tables and we’ll buy him new clothes because he shot up this summer. I’ll call Link’s teachers in advance of school starting. Gleek will go through the contents of her summer homework packet. In between all of that, I will take my kids out and do some fun things. We will try to grasp the last pieces of summer and hold them tight for as long as we can.

“Are you okay mom?” Gleek asked, and I realized that I had just made a large sigh while surveying the contents of our pantry. The lack of enticing food had been some sort of sigh trigger.
“I’m all right.” I answered, “Just tired. It has been a long day.”
“Aren’t all days the same length?” asked Patch. “They all have the same hours.”
I turned to look at him, his blue eyes wide. “Yes, but some days seem long. Today felt really long to me.”
Gleek and Patch continued to munch on their cereal, which was my simple-as-possible bedtime snack effort for the evening. It was all I could muster after having to scold Gleek for ignoring me and turning the scolding into a lecture on how she should respond when I say “stop” in a commanding voice. Perhaps the scolding and lecture will make tomorrow’s conflicts a fraction easier, no guarantees. Before snack and the scolding had been the mediation over whether Gleek could play her music in the kitchen even though Kiki had been there first. That had been preceded by a cub scout pack meeting full of running and shouting children. Then ever-so-long-ago at the beginning of the day had been the ninety minute long meeting with Link, two of Link’s teachers, an administrator, and the school psychologist in which we hammered out his Individual Education Plan (IEP) for next year. Nothing said in the meeting was news. I’d already seen all the results, knew what we were going to say. But it all needed to be said out loud so that everyone could hear all the words. Most of all so that Link could hear. Half the information was new to him. He needed to assimilate it. It also needed to be written down on paper so that next fall when we’re all attempting to settle into a new year we can just read our instructions to ourselves.

I asked Link later, how he felt about me blogging about his diagnoses. (Yes, plural).
“That would be good.” he said. “It could help people.”
I agree. I began planning out a big, beautiful post which would clarify everything and put it all into an emotional context. I stopped writing notes halfway through, because I’d run out of emotional energy. It is just possible that 14 years of worry is a bit much to try to pull into a single blog post. Maybe I’ll write that post later, or a different one.

The short version is this: Auditory Processing Disorder (APD) and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). The ADHD we’ve been treating for years. The APD…I’ve also known for years. I just forgot that I knew it because treating the ADHD made such a huge difference. I guessed APD back when Link was in Kindergarten because it was the only thing I could find which explained the patterns of development I was seeing. I keep thinking that perhaps I should feel guilty that it took us this long to diagnose the APD. I ought to feel guilty, but I don’t, and I feel vague guilt about not feeling guilty. The truth is that we’ve all been doing the best that we can. Link just needed this comprehension now so we tested and found it. Link’s ears work fine, but his brain scrambles words, so that Link has to work hard to comprehend what is said. Combine that with the working memory and processing speed challenges which are common with ADHD, and you begin to understand that Link has to be brilliant in other areas or else we would have found this long ago. He’s like a deaf person no one knows is deaf because he reads lips so well. Link has distinct areas of brilliance. I’ve got test data showing that too.

So none of it is new, but all of it is now official in the school paperwork. Making it official is exhausting, as if writing it down makes it more real. This I think is why many parents shy away from diagnosing their kids. I think it is why I did. As long as it is only a suspicion it could be wrong, everything could be fine. Knowing the auditory processing diagnosis shifted things in my head. It shook up my thoughts and they settled in ways that will be much more beneficial to Link. Now when I slow down and simplify my sentences for Link I know that it is because he physically needs that, not because he can’t comprehend complex concepts. I knew that before too, but this knowledge has also become more real and that is a good thing.

Or so I tell myself. I’m finding it oddly difficult to click “publish” on this post, as if that too is a line to cross, making things more real.

It has been a long day, and it is time for bed now.

Kiki came home from school with four colorful brochures. They extolled the virtues of an art college with campuses in Georgia, Hong Kong, and France. Kiki flipped through the pages and rattled on about how good it would be for her to get out where she can really be grown up and how nice it would be to surround herself with other students who loved art the way she did. My response was to ask the question pounding in my brain.
“How much does this school cost?” The response, $30,000 per year, led us into a discussion about cost and benefit. Then into talking, once again, about advantages that are available to Kiki because of the quantity of working artists with whom we have business contacts. Then I looked over at Kiki. She was closed down, clutching the brochures to her chest. I remembered the light in her eyes when she’d first unfolded them. Howard and I back-tracked.
“Show me the page about the horses again.” I said. Kiki flipped open the brochure and described the things that the college representative had explained to her AP Art class. This time I listened.

Now is the time for Kiki to be excited about the possibilities for her future. She needs to picture dozens of paths for her life. There is no choosing to be done yet, just the growing process of possibility. All the years before this Kiki’s life has been dictated by others. Adults have guided her path, told her where to go and what to learn. The realization that she can choose for herself is both exhilarating and frightening. The very process of picturing herself in Georgia, or Hong Kong, or France changes the way she thinks about who she can be. Next year, after applications, acceptances, and rejections, will be plenty of time for us to talk about specifics and logistics. Then Kiki will be ready to begin narrowing down and weighing which path is most likely to take her to a destination that she wants.

This year is also a learning process for Howard and I. We’re beginning to imagine a future in which our oldest is launched out into the world. Rather than just generally knowing that at some point college expenses will come, we’re beginning to view our financial picture to evaluate what is possible. We have to make careful decisions about the level of financial support we are able to extend, because whatever we do for Kiki will set a precedent for three children to follow. We need to choose something sustainable across four college educations, some of which will over lap each other. A friend has decided to sever all financial ties once her kids hit college. Other friends support their children all the way through. We don’t know what our balance needs to be, but we are beginning to picture possible choices.

All three of us are learning about the emotional processes involved with the launch into the college years. For one thing, we need to let Kiki dream as big and as far as she wants this year. A week after the brochures, Kiki returned to saying that perhaps she wants to go to the local college and live at home to save money. She is alternately thrilled by adventure and wants to stay comfortably close. Sometimes the impending application process makes her stressed, other times she is calm and confident.

We try to stay in “Calm and Confident” land as much as possible, but there is so much frantic urgency regarding college applications. School teachers, counselors, and other advisers all hand out lists. They give long lectures on what colleges look for. Students and parents end up with the impression that everything must be started right now and done exactly right. The truth is that anyone who and figure out how to pay for college education can have one. The high pressure is only necessary if the student hopes to enter a career for which an Ivy League college is required. Along Kiki’s educational path we’ve made decisions based on her current educational needs first and how it will look on a college application second. It is possible that will affect which colleges she is accepted to attend. I still think all the choices were the right ones.

We attended a scholar’s night which had sessions about standardized testing, college applications, financial aid, and a host of other post-high school possibilities. I noticed that the representative of one college pointed at the list of recommended classes and emphasized that they were not required for acceptance. He told us that GPA, SAT/ACT scores, and the quantity of AP classes had more effect than whether a student had two years of language classes. He said that the recommended list was simply there because it was this sort of a balanced academic curriculum that was most likely to help students be prepared for the sorts of work they would be expected to do in college. Yet if you talk to the average school counselor, they will get quite intense about the need to get every class on that recommended list. It is fascinating how the drive to give students every possible advantage creates stress where it need not exist.

It helps me see that the application process is actually a useful tool for students. If you are not accepted at a particular school, it is possible that you simply aren’t prepared for it anyway. It takes a certain sort of academic focus to thrive at Harvard, and it may be a kindness to keep out the ones who are not ready. I find this thought calming. If Kiki is accepted at a college, it is because the registrars believe that the education paths we have chosen have suited her to succeed at their school. We’ll continue to make our best choices at every step, because that is all we can do.

Our next college preparation step is almost upon us. Registration for her senior year will start in a week or so. We’ll have one last opportunity to choose classes which will be on her transcripts for college applications. We’re also beginning to look up college websites and request more information. Standardized testing looms as well. Each of these things is new, but none are worth the level of stress which is often attached. Yes they have an effect, but none is the make-or-break point for her entire future. As long as we can continue to see that, we’ll do fine. In the meantime, we’ll be flipping through more brochures and picturing what is possible.

The time you face something harder than you’ve ever done before is the time when you either crumble in despair or discover that you are stronger than you thought you could be.

The thing no one ever told me before I became a parent is that sometimes I would have to be the one who was inflicting the hard things on my own children. I faced it first when my two month old baby girl had to be vaccinated. I helped hold her down, looked into her eyes, and let the nurse stick a needle in her leg. That was not the end. Dozens of vaccinations followed and they only got harder as the children got big enough to resist. They would not have believed it, but helping with those vaccinations was every bit as hard for me as it was for them. They calmed down and were done. I stewed for days with a mix of fear, guilt, and relief. I’ve only got two 12 year booster shots to go. I rejoice at the thought.

Vaccinations are a clear case of “we must do this for your health and safety.” They are also accompanied by either a doctor or a nurse to help bolster my flagging spine. Then there are days like yesterday when I have to stand over my 8 year old son and require him to finish the work he did not do in school. It took three and a half hours to finish 18 math problems and five sentences. Less than thirty minutes was actual work, the rest was distraction and tears. When you include the two hours of classroom time he did not use, it was five hours spent on thirty minutes of work. I stood over him and tried to determine whether I was watching Can’t or Don’t Want To. In the end it was some of both. When my son stopped fighting me, we were able to identify the blockages and devised some very simple strategies which he can use next time to boost himself over. I rehearsed the strategies with him three or four times, “When you get to a word problem, skip it and complete everything else, then come back.” He rolled his eyes at me. I watched his face, unable to know whether he would actually remember. My children have amazing memories, but they do not always focus on the things I know would help them. Please let him remember, because I can not bear another afternoon like yesterday. If he comes home with his school work done, then I can know that yesterday’s hard challenges were beneficial. If he doesn’t complete his work, I have to consider whether to stay the course or to adjust my expectations.

I say I can’t bear another afternoon like yesterday. I can. I will. If I know it is right, I can deal with a lot. I can do it even if it leaves me exhausted and weepy for the rest of the evening. My fatigue is less important than doing right by my son. The part I don’t know is what kills me. Until he either steps up and becomes strong in the face of adversity, or crumples under the pressure, I can’t know whether I’m helping or hurting. During all those hours I alternately cajoled, scolded, encouraged, slathered on guilt, and extended praise to my son. Through it all I loved him. All of my words were tools focused on getting him to sit up, take control, and try. The work got done. I can only hope that he also learned lessons which can be applied to new work. The lessons were the point, not the work. If the lessons weren’t learned, we’ll have to do it all over again. The thought makes me weary.

Weary though I be, this is nowhere near the hardest thing I have ever done. I can do this.

Gleek’s 5th grade teacher carefully established a classroom economy at the beginning of the school year. About three weeks ago, she started to give the kids taxes. At the same time she started having them memorize the first part of the Declaration of Independence. Then she raised the taxes. She separated the students into patriots and loyalists, then she pulled spelling words from the Declaration of Independence. This week she started levying fines and applying unfair rules. Today the kids were required to recite the Declaration of Independence.

This afternoon the teacher sent around an email saying in essence “Help! Your children are wonderful and obedient. I need them to revolt and declare independence before Christmas break. Please talk to them about unfair dominion and public responsibility.”

Gleek had a hard day in class today. She wants very much to remain a loyalist, but can not help seeing that the rules have become impossible to keep. (For example: You must maintain the quality of work, but I will no longer give you supplies and you are not allowed to bring any supplies from home.) My brave girl sneaked a notebook out onto the playground and wrote a note to the principal. Tomorrow Gleek will arrive at school with a backpack full of school supplies to share. This is in direct opposition to the new “bring no supplies from home” rule. Gleek will share these supplies openly and take whatever consequences come. My little girl is learning about conscientious objection. By the end of the day tomorrow I suspect the newly independent classroom will be ready to start their own constitutional convention.

I admire the courage of this teacher to follow through on such an ambitious educational plan. It is working and these kids will never forget.

Dec 18, 2011 Update: The kids had their revolution the very next day and the unfair taxes were repealed. Gleek loves her teacher again and learning will continue after the Christmas break.

I should also note that while I truly admire this teacher and this method of teaching, it must be handled with great skill and advance forethought. It puts a big strain on both the teacher and the students because the emotions involved are real. It can go very badly. In this case it did not.