Thursday – The Permission Slip
Oct. 7th, 2010 09:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
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My husband is handling my son's problems with a lot more grace than I am. We have switched roles: he is usually the broody one, now I'm the one who broods. I am usually the calm one, but he is as placid as a sunny spring day.
Our son's pending evaluation and the 4-page psychological observation report that we were given have given Jeff permission to not get angry when Sweet Pea has a bad day in school. Before, when a report came home about a biting or a kicking incident, Jeff would get frustrated and his tone would get sharp and he would raise his voice, making Sweet Pea curl up in a miserable ball, with his face pressed against his knees and his arms wrapped around his head.
"Why?! Why do you do these things? This has to stop!"
"Sorry!" Sweet Pea would say in a small, shrill squeak.
On the day that these reports came home, Sweet Pea would whisper from the back seat of the car while I read his conduct report, "Don't tell Daddy, okay?" He worships his father. Disappointing Jeff is something that Sweet Pea hates more than anything.
Now, Jeff has permission to be calm. The professionals have given it to him. After we read Tuesday's conduct report, which did include 3 incidents of kicking and one attempt to bite his teacher, Jeff pulled him onto his lap so that they were facing each other. They have designed a special report for Sweet Pea that breaks down his day into 16 parts, where they circle one of 3 face icons (a smiley thumbs-up face, an "oh no" face in the middle, and a frowny thumbs-down face) to tell us how each part of his day went. Sweet Peas day looked like a roller coaster. He was great, or he was horrible. Moments of middle ground are few and far between.
"Okay, you got 8 smiley faces, which is good, but there were 7 frowny faces and one Oh No. Tomorrow, I want you to try to get at least 10 smiley faces, got that?"
"Okay," said Sweet Pea.
"But you know what?" Jeff smiled at him when he asked the question.
Sweet Pea smiled back a cautious little smile. He was, as he usually does at home, making eye contact. "What?"
"I know you're trying. And we're going to figure out how to help you do better. And even if you mess up, we're still going to love you no matter what. Did you know that?" Jeff pulled him close for a hug, and Sweet Pea turned his head to the side and rested his cheek on his father's shoulder. He grinned.
"I know that. I love you, too," he said.
"Good! Don't you ever forget it!"
I sat off to the side and let them have their shared moment. I have read the report several times now, and all it granted me was permission to worry and wonder what the future is going to hold for my son. The counselor, after we signed all the consent forms, told us that in spite of everything, they love having our son at the school. She was the only one left in the room by that point, so no one else was there to roll their eyes or choke when she said it. I appreciated her prudency to wait until there was no one left to contradict her. Unlike the sympathetic expressions on most of the other faces, the faces of the teacher and the principal – the two women who work with my son the most – were also weary and fearful. That is not a good sign.
I marvel that my husband read the same report and found something completely different: permission to be understanding instead of judgmental, and permission to reassure instead of rant.
For the record, Sweet Pea did get 10 smiles on Wednesday. There were 3 trips to the office covered in the 6 frowny faces, but 10 out of his 16 parts to the school day went well. Office interventions or not, the day had more good than bad. Around my house, that's cause for celebration.
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.
.
My husband is handling my son's problems with a lot more grace than I am. We have switched roles: he is usually the broody one, now I'm the one who broods. I am usually the calm one, but he is as placid as a sunny spring day.
Our son's pending evaluation and the 4-page psychological observation report that we were given have given Jeff permission to not get angry when Sweet Pea has a bad day in school. Before, when a report came home about a biting or a kicking incident, Jeff would get frustrated and his tone would get sharp and he would raise his voice, making Sweet Pea curl up in a miserable ball, with his face pressed against his knees and his arms wrapped around his head.
"Why?! Why do you do these things? This has to stop!"
"Sorry!" Sweet Pea would say in a small, shrill squeak.
On the day that these reports came home, Sweet Pea would whisper from the back seat of the car while I read his conduct report, "Don't tell Daddy, okay?" He worships his father. Disappointing Jeff is something that Sweet Pea hates more than anything.
Now, Jeff has permission to be calm. The professionals have given it to him. After we read Tuesday's conduct report, which did include 3 incidents of kicking and one attempt to bite his teacher, Jeff pulled him onto his lap so that they were facing each other. They have designed a special report for Sweet Pea that breaks down his day into 16 parts, where they circle one of 3 face icons (a smiley thumbs-up face, an "oh no" face in the middle, and a frowny thumbs-down face) to tell us how each part of his day went. Sweet Peas day looked like a roller coaster. He was great, or he was horrible. Moments of middle ground are few and far between.
"Okay, you got 8 smiley faces, which is good, but there were 7 frowny faces and one Oh No. Tomorrow, I want you to try to get at least 10 smiley faces, got that?"
"Okay," said Sweet Pea.
"But you know what?" Jeff smiled at him when he asked the question.
Sweet Pea smiled back a cautious little smile. He was, as he usually does at home, making eye contact. "What?"
"I know you're trying. And we're going to figure out how to help you do better. And even if you mess up, we're still going to love you no matter what. Did you know that?" Jeff pulled him close for a hug, and Sweet Pea turned his head to the side and rested his cheek on his father's shoulder. He grinned.
"I know that. I love you, too," he said.
"Good! Don't you ever forget it!"
I sat off to the side and let them have their shared moment. I have read the report several times now, and all it granted me was permission to worry and wonder what the future is going to hold for my son. The counselor, after we signed all the consent forms, told us that in spite of everything, they love having our son at the school. She was the only one left in the room by that point, so no one else was there to roll their eyes or choke when she said it. I appreciated her prudency to wait until there was no one left to contradict her. Unlike the sympathetic expressions on most of the other faces, the faces of the teacher and the principal – the two women who work with my son the most – were also weary and fearful. That is not a good sign.
I marvel that my husband read the same report and found something completely different: permission to be understanding instead of judgmental, and permission to reassure instead of rant.
For the record, Sweet Pea did get 10 smiles on Wednesday. There were 3 trips to the office covered in the 6 frowny faces, but 10 out of his 16 parts to the school day went well. Office interventions or not, the day had more good than bad. Around my house, that's cause for celebration.
