I was an Outdoor Education teacher for two years. I was a summer camp counselor for 2 summers. I taught in a classroom for 11 years. I have been an Education Specialist with a Charter School for the past 4 years.
I don't say this to brag. But I simply to say, "I've seen it all". And no, I probably haven't seen as much as the educator who has been in the classroom for 20 plus years, but I feel like I have seen it all.
I know what the initials ODD, GATE, IEP, RSP, SDC, ADD, and ADHD mean. I know how to spot signs of Asperger's or Autism. I know when to deal with an angry parent or student, and when to run away. I know how to make phone calls regarding bad grades, bad manners, bad upbringing, bad lunch, bad whatever. I've melted parents like cold, hard butter on a hotcake with my sweet words of reassurance. Yeah, I'm that syrupy.
I have buzz words, techniques, books, and websites that I can pull out of my back pocket.
Until last Thursday, I was that Superhero.
Now I'm the "on the other end" Superhero. And it has driven me to tears. And to my knees.
I'm just being honest here, and it hurts to be this honest. Because now I have THAT kid.
And it's not just that he got kicked out of Day Care. As my husband said, someday we will look back on this when Ian is older, and laugh and tell him how he got kicked out of Day Care. We will look on it like a badge of honor, almost. As in, "I know I run a company now, am a great boss, and make enough money to send my parents to Maui every year, but would you believe I got kicked out of Day Care??"
And I will tell him about all the times he scared the heck out of me by throwing his head against the floor when he got upset when he was an infant. Or how he threw his head back so far when he was screaming when we were holding him that we were afraid we would drop him.
Or how he would throw things.
Or how we can't let either of his grandmother's watch him by themselves because we are afraid he would cause them injury. Or break something. Or just really freak them out.
And then there was that one time when the babysitter was watching him and he got so upset he took off all his clothes, threw them over the second floor banister and yelled, naked, "YOU'RE BREAKING MY HEART!!"
But then...
There are the numerous phone calls that I have received over the past several months. The increasing desperation in the teacher's voice as I am told about all the screaming fits, the throwing chairs, and the scratching of arms as she tries to hold him down.
And I don't blame them for kicking him out. I really don't. He totally deserved it.
His teacher is on the "older" side. The kind of "older" side that when she receives an injury it actually causes bruising on her arm. And she called me the day before he got kicked out and said on the phone, "I won't give up on him."
I guess when he scratches enough to cause bleeding on another teacher's arm and throws a chair in the direction of other little day care kids, that negates the whole "I won't give up on him" line.
But, oh, how it hurts.
Of course, his sister is in 7th heaven because it wasn't her. And I know she is thinking "I look pretty good compared to him", because that is what I used to think every time my brother did something stupid.
Oh, good. Now my parents are mad at him. That takes the pressure off me for awhile.
And this is what makes me angry...in my thought process. And now I can see how other parents were angry. It's not the teacher's fault that my three year old couldn't follow the routine and rules of day care. It's not the teacher's fault that my son might have ODD or a sensory processing disorder, or whatever the special needs flavor of the month is.
BUT...
I was never invited to observe in the classroom. I never saw what words the teacher used with him, or what tone of voice. And I know, as a teacher, you can't cater to every kid all the time and sometimes your patience wears thin and you say things you don't mean, or you use a tone you know you shouldn't use, or the bubble of words above your head suddenly bursts and comes out of your mouth.
I once told a class they were going to drive me to drink.
I once put a big L on my forehead in desperation when I was on recess duty. A kid said, "Did she just call me a loser?"
But still...why couldn't I observe what he was doing?? Maybe I could have helped. And I didn't ask if I could because everything about the place said, "No parents allowed past this point".
Why wasn't I given notice? They could have told me that they were documenting incidences so that they could kick him out. Instead, I was told they were documenting incidences to help us with information to give the counselor we were going to take my son to see. I wasn't given a "if we have this many incidences, than this will happen" type of speech. I was given a "come get him and don't come back" phone call.
Harsh. This is my baby we are talking about.
And now I get it. And that is why I am a different type of Superhero. I wish I could say that I was the kind of Superhero like Linda Carter as Wonder Woman, because then I would be so intimidatingly gorgeous with an invisible jet and a rope of truth...
I digress again.
I am the Superhero with the swollen eyes because I've cried myself to sleep about my son. I am the Superhero who has gained 5 pounds because of stress eating. I'm the Superhero who has gotten very little sleep over the past week because all of a sudden I was stuck with the "I HAVE to work! Now what do I do?" questions running through my head. (Another Day Care? Not an option. I can handle getting kicked out of one...barely. Two would kill me). I am the Superhero that interviewed five potential Nannies in a 6 hour period and prayed that one of them will see how awesome my son is.
Because he is. And I'm crying as I write this.
Stupid Day Care. They don't see what he is like when he comes to you at 6:30 in the morning, throws himself on you, smiling, and says, "Mommy! Wake Up! The sky is awake!"
They don't see how he can count to twelve...and then jump back to seven.
He knows all the words to "Let It Go" and "Do You Want to Build a Snowman?"
He knows what a heart looks like.
He says "I love you" just because. He giggles when you pinch his little rear end.
He will only eat yogurt and Dinosaur chicken, but he can scream the ABC song at the top of his lungs.
At night, he can't go to sleep until my arm is wrapped around him.
He freaks out when he can't find me in the house.
He is not afraid of getting dirty, heights, squirt guns, monsters, or pirates. He is afraid of spiders. If you ask him how big a spider is, he will stretch his arms wide and say, "this big".
He demands your eyes are on him when he talks, not on the iPad, computer, or Facebook.
He could care less if laundry is in a neat pile. He sees it as an "opportunity to throw caution and clothes to the wind".
He knows how to beg for a donut.
I am a Superhero because I gave birth to this kid. And he is mine. Well, really, he is God's. But we get to borrow him for awhile.
And I am a Superhero because now I get it. And I wish I could go back and apologize to all the parents that I talked to about their kid who was badly behaved. I want to tell them that I know how bad it hurts to hear those words. I want to tell them that it hurts for days afterwards and you want to scream at the person who told you your kid wasn't good enough because they Just. Don't. Get. It.
But I do. I get it. And I am in the club of Superhero women.
