A long story that involves my kid, so it just might bore you

I’m about two steps from coming completely out of my skin.  The boy starts preschool tomorrow.  More specifically he starts a developmentally delayed program tomorrow.  I haven’t been this anxious about the boy and parenting since he came home from the hospital.  What’s circling like buzzards in my head space right now:

  • What if he hates it, and everyday is a fight to get out the door and to school?
  • What if he doesn’t eat lunch?
  • What if he doesn’t take a nap during nap time (the day is long–from 9 to 3)?
  • What if the teacher or assistant is mean?
  • What if he learns to say f*** or s*** from the other kids?
  • What if he climbs up the ladder on the playground and falls off, breaking a limb or splitting something open?!

thanks John Watson (Flickr)

  • What if he’s NOT THERE WHEN THE HUSBAND GOES TO PICK THE BOY UP!!!!????

JESUS CHRIST!  How do we let our kids OUT of the house EVER?

Ok.  Breathe.  Breathe.

Ok.  I’m ok.

I’m trying my best to accept the fact that this little boy is growing up, but it’s not easy.  How did we get to the first day of school ALREADY?

And what on earth is this developmentally delayed stuff all about?

The boy wasn’t really talking much, so the husband and I had him evaluated by Early Intervention/Infant & Toddler Connection of Virginia.  He qualified for speech therapy, and that started up in January.  A speech therapist came every other week.  We also received visits from an “educator.”  It was pitched something like this, “We’ll have a speech therapist come in, and we’ll also have an educator come once a week.  She’ll do some speech and play activities.  It’ll be like preschool.”

The boy has made some big strides this summer.  But he’s still not putting words together.  No “Blue cup.”  No “Me tired.”  None of that stuff.  It’s still really just the ends of words.  Cat is “at.”  Flag is “ag.”  So on an so forth.  Because he’s pushing three (that’s when toddlers age out of the early intervention program and into the local school system here in VA), it was time for another evaluation.

This evaluation took place this summer.  This evaluation did not go well.  The boy cooperated for about 15 minutes, and then flipped his… you know.  It has been told that the boy crawled under a table and yelled clear as day, “GO AWAY!” to the evaluators.  The results of this evaluation:  “Significant developmental and cognitive delays.  He qualifies for preschool under autism.”

Wait.  What?

What does that mean?  How do you get all of that from an evaluation that went south after 15 minutes?  The boy is supposed to go to best private schools and become a master of the universe.  “Significant developmental and cognitive delays” will not look good on the résumé.

That was about six weeks ago, and here we are.  The Lightning McQueen backpack is packed.  The boy has his glue sticks and jumbo crayons.  I haven’t met his teacher.  I haven’t observed any of the classes at the school (they operate during a regular school year, so there were no classes this summer).  I’m sending my kid off into the unknown, and I’m not comfortable with that seeing as how most of the world is run by incompetents.

Are you asking, “Why are you sending your kid off to this place?”  Good lord, are you still reading?

There are a couple of things that put my mom gut (the instinctual one, not the paunchy belly) at ease.  In November 2008, I waited in a very long line in this school to vote in the presidential election.  I looked at all of the art work in the hallways,  I peeked in the empty classroom windows, and I thought, “Yes. I would consider this as an option for my son.”  This summer, after the evaluation that went bad, my husband and I went into the school for the boy’s IEP meeting.  As we were leaving, a little boy around my son’s age walked down the hallway to his individual speech therapy session with a plastic dinosaur under each arm.  He didn’t walk with apprehension.  He walked with his therapist like he was walking with a friend.

I have a feeling that my boy is going to be just fine at school.  I’m the one who will have the hardest time adjusting.

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