The First Day of School... Kind Of

We all got up this morning, with big plans.

Mine was to get the kids off to school, send Pumpkin off with Mr. Wright to take pictures of some house a million miles away, enjoy an adult beverage or six, and take a bubble bath. Maybe crawl back into bed. Whatever it ended up being, it was going to be gloriously kid-free. (See photo.)

Yessssssssss...

So, I got the girls on the bus, and off to middle school:

And got the boys ready:

But I decided to take the boys to school, myself, rather than putting them on the bus, because Bravo had not yet been assigned to a teacher. 

Here we are, on the first day of school, and the kid DOESN'T HAVE A TEACHER, YET.

Let me back up a little...

Our district has a pre-K program available for kids who qualify for it. Basically, if their assessments show they're deficient by a certain percentage in one area, or a cumulative percentage over all areas, they're "in." Well, Bravo came to us with an IEP, so he was "in." He finished out the year with the pre-K program, and at the end of school, his teachers told him how much they would miss him, and how excited they were that he was now going to be a BIG KINDERGARTNER! Woot!

They may have also said something like I needed to fill out a packet for Kindergarten, if he was going to be in district when school started, but, you know, we're doing kinship care, and the plan is for him to go home, so back in June, I had no idea if he was going to be around when fall came, so I sort of filed the information in my "Think About It Later" file.

And there it stayed. Right up until Monday, when I was reminded that he still wasn't registered for school. Aw, firetruck...

So, on Monday, I packed the baby into the stroller, walked a couple blocks to the district office, and filled out the paperwork for him to be a BIG KINDERGARTNER, and turned it in (not without some struggle, because I don't have access to a lot of necessary documents, like his birth certificate, and so on). But, I got it done. 

Then, I was reminded that if I wanted him to attend the same school as his brother, I would need to "choice" him, and that was a completely different set of forms.

Let me back up a little further...

A few years ago, the boundary lines for our schools changed. Our house is in this weird little pocket that got changed from the school Curlytop and Snugglebug had been attending, to this other school. At that time, we sat down with the team, and determined it would be best for the girls to stay in the school they were already in, since their supports were already set up, we had a great working relationship with the team, and it was a familiar environment for them. So, we just had to "choice" them to the school they were already attending. And it was no big deal. 

So, when we got the boys, we "choiced" Alpha into the school Snugglebug was, and had been attending for years, because... one bus, convenience, and all that. (Curlytop had moved on to middle school by that time. Interestingly, she moved on to a middle school out of our boundary, because of the elementary school she had been "choiced" into. Snugglebug joined her, there, this year.)

Anyway, I filled out the choice forms, and was told we should have an approval by Tuesday, unless for some weird reason the superintendent decided to deny it. Good thing, since school starts on Wednesday, right?

Yesterday, I got the call that it had been approved, which was awesome. I asked who his teacher would be, and the district rep didn't know, but said the school should have that information for me. 

I was tied up yesterday for quite a while, and didn't get a chance to call the school until after everyone had already left the office, so I was a little anxious, knowing school would be starting today, and poor Bravo still didn't know who his teacher was.

So, this morning, I just drove the boys to school, and trotted into the office with Bravo. "Who's his teacher?" I asked.

"We don't have him assigned to a teacher, but we should have that information for you by tomorrow."

BY TOMORROW? I mean, this kid was sitting there, in the office, with his backpack on, and his shoes that weren't scuffed, yet, and his sweet little clean face, and all the other kids were heading off to their classrooms, and we would know tomorrow who his teacher was?

"So, what do I do? Do I just... take him home for today?"

I got a blank stare from the secretary. After a moment, she recovered, and said, "Kindergarten starts next week. You know that, right?"

Ohhhhhhh...

Anyway, here's what my plans have been changed to, today:

I think he's a little disappointed. I am, too.

I swear, Southern Comfort, we will see each other again, soon.

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Get Out of My Face with Your "Quiet Hands"

In case you're out of the loop, we have two amazing kiddos staying with us through kinship care right now. That's right -- two bonus boys: Alpha, 8, and Bravo, 5 (almost 6).

Anyway, I had to take Bravo into the school today to meet with the school psychologist for some cognitive testing, as his IEP review is due before his birthday next month. I haven't worked with this psychologist before, and he seems like a nice enough guy, but I'm pretty sure he hates me now, because... you know... I can never seem to hold my firetrucking tongue when it comes to the treatment and education of the kiddos in my care.

So, I'm filling out the ABAS-3 (Adaptive Behavior Assessment System, Third Edition) while Mr. Psychologist gets out some puzzle pieces to begin testing. He's working in tandem with the SLP (Speech & Language Pathologist), and they're tag-teaming... Mr. Psychologist performs one part of his test, and then Ms. SLP performs one part of hers, and so on.

Everything is going fine -- I'm working on one side of the table on the ABAS, Mr. Psychologist, Bravo, and Ms. SLP are working on the other side. Mr. Psychologist has killed the fan in the room because the noise is distracting to me, and it's all good, until I hear it: Bravo, "quiet hands," please.

They were in the middle of testing, and Mr. Psychologist had asked me not to intervene with the testing process, so I lifted my head, gave the psych a look (he was too engrossed in the testing to notice), and went back to the ABAS.

When he finished the test portion, I butted in before Ms. SLP could begin her portion.

"Is this a stopping point?" I asked.

"Sort of," he said.

"May I speak, frankly?" I asked.

"Errrr... of course..." he ventured.

"Okay. So, we're a house full of neurodiversity and neurodivergence. We don't subscribe to ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) therapy, its tactics, its goals, or its dictionary. We don't use phrases like, 'quiet hands.' We believe physical stimming is healthy and productive, and we don't force children to refrain from it, hide it, or minimize it."

There was a brief moment of uncomfortable silence, and Mr. Psychologist cleared his throat. "I understand that. That's great. I actually didn't even know that 'quiet hands' was an ABA thing."

Like, this guy wanted me to believe that he pursued an education in psychology -- presumably, with an emphasis on child development, at some point? -- to the point of receiving a degree, but had NEVER HEARD THE PHRASE "QUIET HANDS," IN THE CONTEXT OF ABA? I gave him the benefit of the doubt, in any event.

"Gentle redirection to return focus to the task at hand is fine," I said, "but I don't endorse attempts to restrict physical stims."

I let it go at that, but I wanted to scream, "BUT IT SERVES THE SAME PURPOSE, DOESN'T IT?! Does it even MATTER where you heard it, when what you want the child to do is stop his physical stimming?!""

Let me explain.

Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) is compliance-based "therapy" popular with parents of autistic children, which includes goals such as "reducing inappropriate behavior," "increasing socially acceptable behaviors," and "increasing appropriate and effective communication." Its primary goal? To "fix" autistic children, "correcting" their behaviors, so they appear more neurotypical ("less autistic"), drawing less attention to themselves and their caregivers, so those caregivers and society at large can feel more comfortable around them.

If you're not grasping why ABA is harmful to autistics, try reading "Quiet Hands," by Julia Bascom.

Is that too artsy for you? Try this one from Amy Sequenzia, of the Autistic Women's Network.

Want to see what this compliance-based indoctrination looks like as it carries into adulthood? Read this post from Neurodivergent K.

Anyway, so I was trying to explain to Mr. Wright that the new school psychologist hates me, now, and I started telling him the story, and when I got to the part about hearing "quiet hands," he fell out of his chair, laughing.

Not because he thinks ABA is funny, but because he's been in IEP meetings with me, before.

He said, "Ohhhhhhhhhh, hell... QUIET HANDS? Did you lose your ever loving shit? Were you standing on your toes? Were you doing that? I can just see you, standing on your toes! You do that, you know!"

Well, no. I was sitting down, actually. Mostly, anyway. I may have been slightly out of my seat. Reaching across the table. With my hands ready to snap the guy's neck.

But mostly, I was sitting. Technically. Pretty much, anyway.

Mr. Wright asked what I hoped to gain from the exchange, and suggested that I simply wanted the guy to acknowledge that I am right about this issue. I thought about it, and replied, "No. I want people to earnestly consider the weight and implications of the ideals they hold dear, and I want them to come to the conclusion on their own that what they've learned or been taught may be wrong. I want them to realize they've got it all wrong, when it comes to the autistic community."

"In other words," he said, chuckling, "you want to be right?"

Well, yes. And, also, no.

See, I didn't come to enlightenment by nature. Nooooooo... I actually thought the "professionals" who were overseeing medical care for my children had all the knowledge, and I didn't really question their advice, until I hit a roadblock. ABA was one of many therapies suggested for Curlytop when she was diagnosed, and it wasn't available in our area for her. At first, I was devastated. Like, I didn't have the benefit of any type of interventions when I was growing up, so I wanted to make sure she had EVERYTHING that could possibly help her to succeed, so I went on a wild crusade to find an ABA provider, and did a ton of research to help find one.

It was that research that led to my enlightenment. I talked to actual autistics who had been subjected to ABA therapies as children, and learned that some of them had PTSD as a result of their experiences.

I thought about my own experiences, and my own struggles, and how difficult extended eye contact was -- and is -- for me, and how I always got poor grades in speech class because I couldn't look at my audience, and how I deal with that now (by simply saying to people, "Eye contact is really difficult for me. Please don't think I'm not listening to you if I'm not looking at you. I can actually listen better by NOT looking at you."), and how I'm actually existing pretty successfully in the world. I realized that if Curlytop doesn't get forced to initiate eye contact she doesn't feel comfortable with, it's going to be okay. She will be okay. She'll be better than okay... she'll feel safe, and comfortable, and accepted.

I thought about how I was always getting in trouble for having "fidgets" in class (my old-school favorite fidget was a retractable ballpoint pen with a button on top which I would click until my Spanish teacher took it away and gave me detention), and how we've come a long way in recognizing that fidget objects can be healthy devices which can help people concentrate.

I thought about how my fourth grade teacher called me out in front of the whole class for scrunching my nose like a rabbit, repeatedly, while I was silently reading, and how humiliated I was, and I was proud that my daughter felt safe enough to engage in her verbal "squawking" during times of stress and excitement, because we've never shamed her or tried to restrict it. It's just a really sweet, cute part of who she is.

And, just like that, ABA therapy was off the table for us, and for our children. We'd rather spend our time helping others to understand, accept, and embrace neurodiversity than spend it trying to mask the neurology and personalities of our children, who are amazing and perfect, as they are.

So, it's not so much that I want to be right about ABA as it is that I want others to consider that they may have it all wrong, when it comes to educating and serving autistic children. What if there's a better way? What if -- rather than trying to force them to be "less autistic" -- the best way to help them is to educate everyone else around them about neurodiversity? What if promoting autism ACCEPTANCE is superior to downplaying autism "SYMPTOMS/BEHAVIORS?"

Anywayyyyyyyyyy... I have to go back at 11am with Bravo tomorrow.

What do you want to bet that Mr. Psychologist will be all too keenly and freshly aware of my own personal hand-stimming (specifically, "clicking" my fingernails by placing my thumbnail under one fingernail, then pushing up and down, creating a satisfying series of  "clicks" as the nails pass over one another)?

Say "quiet hands" to me ONE firetrucking TIME... I dare you.



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In Case I Don't See You for Another Ten Years...

My senior picture, alongside a snap from our 20-year reunion.
Senior pic by Parson's Photography, reunion snap by young Azalea Solari.

High school reunions are—in my opinion—the key to proving to the misfits of the world that who you are in high school does not define who you are for life.

My twentieth reunion gathered a decent percentage of our 24-person class, along with spouses, significant others, and families. We gathered at a classmate’s family home—the location of many high school parties—for swimming, watercraft activities, potluck and barbecue.

In my usual fashion, I was hours late due to parenting distractions and saw a few people for only a moment as they were leaving. I hung out on the deck with Mr. Wright, wishing I hadn’t been so terrified of my own cellulite I’d failed to wear a swimsuit. The lake was lovely and warm as we kicked off our shoes and walked at the water’s edge.

Dinner for the adults followed, and our significant others were treated to stories from school. Assuming the statute of limitations had run on our high school misdemeanors, the tales of sneaking out, drinking in the student parking lot, skipping school and weekend parties flowed freely.

I must say, I was shocked to learn who cheated on the senior Spanish final. ¡Increíble!

There were head-shaking moments, like when we talked about the sixth-grade teacher who molested girls in our class and lost his teaching credentials years later, after more victims, but was never criminally charged and remains engaged in the community.

We relived class pranks, memorable school assignments, sports highlights and more. That night, high school wasn’t the scary, lonely place I remembered. It was, instead, a vibrant reminder that I am who I am today because of my past—and parts of it weren’t quite the train wreck I’d assumed they were.

Nobody talked about how weird I was back then; how I always had my nose in a book, how I wrote truly terrible poetry, how I always wore the wrong thing, how I adopted a devil-may-care attitude to hide how insecure I was. No one remembered how skinny and gawky I was—even though we all remembered spiral perms and “mall bangs,” with much embarrassment.

Stories were shared, and I was part of them (except senior English, because Mr. McClure sent me out of class for the year, told me to write a book, and check in with him before graduation). Girls I admired back then told me they envied how I was never afraid to “do my own thing” in high school. If only they knew how terrified I was, how “my own thing” was a feeble attempt at not caring that I didn’t fit in… Maybe we weren’t so different back then, after all.

The truly miraculous part, of course, is how none of it really mattered—and, at the same time, mattered so much. I was a writer in high school, and today I’m a published, best-selling author (okay, so my book topped out at number two on a genre list on Amazon, but it still counts). Sometimes, deep down, I still feel like that awkward, skinny girl who couldn’t dress right and for the life of her couldn’t figure out what to do with makeup. Now, I can take comfort in the fact that no one probably even notices.

To the class of 1992:

Thank you for remembering me, and for reminding me.

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Beware the Kindergarten Teacher

Curlytop woke up excited this morning. She knew today she'd be starting kindergarten.

Bring on the recess and school lunches!

It's been a long, hard road, readers. Curlytop spent last year as the only preschooler not potty trained and, while we suspected she had the ability to go diaper-free, she was sadly lacking in desire.

We finally resorted to bribery and outright lies to get her out of her pull-ups and into panties: We told her she couldn't start kindergarten if she went potty in her pants. Somehow, it was the motivation she needed. She hopped up on the toilet, did her business, flushed, and exclaimed, "I get to go to kindergarten, now!" And so it went, all summer long.

I'm wearing panties. No, you can't see them.

To tell the truth, I'm relieved that school finally started, because I feared she'd start backsliding with her backside care if she heard "Soon, Sweetheart, soon" one more blessed time.

She has no idea how we've manipulated her. I say it's worth it.

Snugglebug will be commencing preschool this month, but it doesn't start until the 20th. Poor Snuggles was miffed to learn that she wouldn't be catching the big yellow bus today with her sister. Suddenly, the excitement about school took an ugly turn...

"I'm going to kindergarten, Snugglebug!" said Curlyop.

"I go to preschool," Snugglebug countered.

"No," I corrected. "Not today, Snugglebug. Your school isn't open, yet."

*glare from Snugglebug*

"But my school is open!" Thanks, Curlytop. Twist the knife, why don't you?

"You not like kinnergarben, Curlytop. It make you cwy (cry). Your teacher will bite you and kick you and make you bleed. You will bleed, and come home 'cause you'll need a band-aid. Kinnergarben is not nice, Curlytop!"

Left behind, and a bit bitter about it, too.

Huh. High marks for creativity and detail, but where on Earth did she get that idea?

Nonetheless, Curly remained excited and giddy about starting kindergarten, in her big girl panties, this morning.

She's adorable. Who's the haggard mommy-type with her?

She really is a bit of a masochist.

There is No Japanese Word for “Vegan”

Mr. Wright and I have been collecting every bit of information we can find about Japan, in preparation for our trip this month. We’ve Googled; we’ve Wikipediaed; we’ve talked to friends who lived in or traveled to Japan.

A study guide we found advises we will be expected to remove our shoes and wear slippers when visiting a home in Japan. The slippers are to be worn at all times indoors, except when using the bathroom, where “house slippers” are to be replaced with “toilet slippers.” Care must be taken not to forget to change out of the toilet slippers before returning to other rooms of the house. A girlfriend from college, who lived in Japan for several years, added that it’s regarded as unsanitary to put a nude or almost-nude foot into guest slippers; and she suggested I take footie socks along to slip over my stockings.

The same guide discusses after-hours business meetings, which may include dinner and drinks, which our hosts will insist on paying for. The guide gave a warning that “hostess bars” are not a good idea for businesswomen to attend, but didn’t say exactly what a hostess bar is.

I mentioned this warning to Mr. Wright, and suggested that Japanese hostess bars may be akin to American “gentlemen’s clubs.” Mr. Wright disagreed, opining that “Hostess bars” were probably establishments where Twinkies, HoHos and Ding Dongs were served.

“Probably not a good idea for businesswomen who are watching their weight,” he said. “The book probably just left that last part out.”

One of our Japanese colleagues who will be traveling with us tells me “hostess bars” are simply high-priced clubs that provide expensive atmosphere and sake, but I’m not sure I believe him.

If he and Mr. Wright head out to a hostess bar, Mr. Wright had better come back smelling like chocolate and cream filling. Enough said.

Business cards have a level of importance and regard in Japan not seen in the United States. We may be accustomed to casually handing over our business card, or taking an acquaintance’s card and haphazardly slipping it into a pocket or handbag. Not so, in Japan. The Japanese regard business cards with particular reverence. A business card is a serious thing, recording the bearer’s credentials. It is to be offered – and accepted – with two hands and a slightly bowed head. The receiver of the card should take a few moments to study the card, absorbing and carefully committing to memory the information contained upon it. We will be expected to solemnly study and “understand” the card, even though we don’t read Japanese.

It’s all about ritual.

I was relieved to hear that many of the Japanese read some English, even if they don’t speak it; and some may even attempt to speak English with us. While I found the knowledge comforting, it made me regret my lack of foreign language education. Most developed nations in the world have at least a basic understanding of our language. How arrogant are we Americans to assume that everyone else in the world will speak our language, when our schools – with the exception of a small percentage of bilingual and immersion schools – only teach foreign languages as a college-prep offering?

I feel rather ashamed that I speak no Japanese, yet will be interacting with the people of Japan for a week.

At a pre-travel meeting with our team, I asked our Japanese colleague, “Is there a Japanese word for ‘vegan?’ Or is it such a strange concept in Japan, no one ever needs to say it? Will I be able to eat in Japan?”

After a moment of consideration, he answered, “It’s really the latter. You might want to pack some food to take along.”

If you’re in Japan this month, stop by and say, “Kon'nichiwa.” Or, “Hello,” if you want me to understand you. I’ll be the ignorant American with footie socks and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, peering in the windows of the hostess club.


Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/24443965@N08/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Bad Gratitude Monday: School Days with Curlytop

Curlytop is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get.

Some days, she wakes up like a lightning storm, all flashes of anger and tantrums. Other days, like today, she's full of wit, smiles and playfulness.

She was excited to go out and wait for the school bus today.

She was really happy to find a patch of snow left to stomp in.

Can you guess what her favorite game is while waiting for the bus?

She loves to hide when she sees the bus coming. The bus driver plays along, asking, "Have you seen Curlytop this morning? Is she coming to school?" Then Curlytop pops out, saying "Here I am!"

Mommy's big girl!

Today, I'm grateful for smooth and cheerful mornings.


What are YOU grateful for?

Part Time… No Problem!

Fall is always stupid-busy for the Wrights, and it’s not just the beginning of the school year… fall also means the beginning of Princess’s soccer season, Pockets’s football, and—for me—teaching journalism to fourth- and fifth-graders for six weeks.

Add to the usual chaos these new twists for 2008:

• Mr. Wright was elected President-Elect for the Washington REALTORS®. appointed to a presidential advisory group on climate change for the National Association of REALTORS® and appointed as a trustee for the Center for Real Estate Research and Development at WSU
• I decided, in all my wisdom, to begin publishing an independent parenting magazine
• Pepper started volleyball
• Curlytop started her preschool IEP at a public school in Douglas County
• Snugglebug started group therapy/preschool in south Chelan County

Naturally, the five oldest kids go to school in north Chelan County, so I’m driving all over the state every day. I openly laugh at whoever created the “10 Year/100,000 Mile Warranty.” Get real! I drove over a thousand miles this week alone.

What better time for me to take an additional job, right? I love my local librarian to the extreme—which must explain why I offered to sub for her while she was on maternity leave. Without much thought as to the impact, I became a part-time librarian. Why not? Part-time… no problem!

I knew things had changed for the kids and me when I found myself at work, stricken that I’d forgotten Pepper had a volleyball game. Mr. Wright was out of town and wouldn’t be able to attend. Someone had to go to her game! But, who?

In desperation, I sent a text message to Princess:

can u go to pepper’s game after practice? pls?

Her response?

um, i am @ my soccer game ... sorry!

Worst. Mother. Ever.