Tuesday – IEP? How ARD can it be?
Dec. 7th, 2010 10:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
.
ARD stands for Admission, Review, and Dismissal. It’s what the state of Texas calls an IEP meeting. IEP stands for Individualized Education Program. I will attend my first one tomorrow to go over what his school things might help him learn and function a little better. I am neither looking forward to or nor dreading it. I guess, to borrow a phrase from Pink Floyd, I have become comfortably numb.
Sweet Pea is suspended from the YMCA After School care again for throwing a Lincoln Log at another child and hitting him in the eye. Jeff is on vacation this week, so we are okay as far as childcare goes. When I got the call from the Y today, I didn’t even ask what was wrong, I just said, “Oh, God,” and the girl spilled the beans on what had been going on. I called my husband and told him, “You need to go pick up your son.”
And then the numbness set in.
All the way home this evening, I thought about how I could really use someone like Mary Poppins to pop into my life and offer my son the right spoonful of sugar to make everything all right. Or maybe Nanny McPhee. I’ve tried all the practical stuff, so a magic nanny who can fly in and take care of my problem child to render him sweet and charming is all that I can think of. My favorite thing about them both is that neither seems to expect money in return. The thing I dislike about them both is that they are make believe and can’t do me a damn bit of good.
Sweet Pea was contrite when I got home, because he doesn’t like being in trouble. By bedtime, he was his usual cheerful self. The boy I know at home is impossible not to love.
The boy they see at school is impossible not to fear.
I will take printouts of the photo I look last Friday of my son’s arm. There was an incident last Wednesday in the cafeteria and he ended up eating in the Vice Principal’s office. Wednesday night I noticed a bruise on his arm that looked like he might have banged it into something. By Friday, there was an obvious impression of an adult’s handprint on his arm. Whoever yanked him out of the fray was none too gentle about it. I understand that when adrenalin starts pumping, even a reasonable adult may not be aware of how much force he or she is using.
I understand, but I want it documented that it happened and I want it on the record that I expect it not to happen again. He doesn’t even weigh 45 pounds; even in a state of agitation, there is no reason to use that much force on him. A better mother would be outraged; my rage is tempered by relief that the other child in the altercation was not injured.
Fear and horror and love and helplessness and anger are all vying for control of my emotions. No wonder I feel numb.
A magic cane, a spoonful of sugar, and little song and dance to make it all good. That’s Hollywood. But this is the real world, and tomorrow I will have an ARD time.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
ARD stands for Admission, Review, and Dismissal. It’s what the state of Texas calls an IEP meeting. IEP stands for Individualized Education Program. I will attend my first one tomorrow to go over what his school things might help him learn and function a little better. I am neither looking forward to or nor dreading it. I guess, to borrow a phrase from Pink Floyd, I have become comfortably numb.
Sweet Pea is suspended from the YMCA After School care again for throwing a Lincoln Log at another child and hitting him in the eye. Jeff is on vacation this week, so we are okay as far as childcare goes. When I got the call from the Y today, I didn’t even ask what was wrong, I just said, “Oh, God,” and the girl spilled the beans on what had been going on. I called my husband and told him, “You need to go pick up your son.”
And then the numbness set in.
All the way home this evening, I thought about how I could really use someone like Mary Poppins to pop into my life and offer my son the right spoonful of sugar to make everything all right. Or maybe Nanny McPhee. I’ve tried all the practical stuff, so a magic nanny who can fly in and take care of my problem child to render him sweet and charming is all that I can think of. My favorite thing about them both is that neither seems to expect money in return. The thing I dislike about them both is that they are make believe and can’t do me a damn bit of good.
Sweet Pea was contrite when I got home, because he doesn’t like being in trouble. By bedtime, he was his usual cheerful self. The boy I know at home is impossible not to love.
The boy they see at school is impossible not to fear.
I will take printouts of the photo I look last Friday of my son’s arm. There was an incident last Wednesday in the cafeteria and he ended up eating in the Vice Principal’s office. Wednesday night I noticed a bruise on his arm that looked like he might have banged it into something. By Friday, there was an obvious impression of an adult’s handprint on his arm. Whoever yanked him out of the fray was none too gentle about it. I understand that when adrenalin starts pumping, even a reasonable adult may not be aware of how much force he or she is using.
I understand, but I want it documented that it happened and I want it on the record that I expect it not to happen again. He doesn’t even weigh 45 pounds; even in a state of agitation, there is no reason to use that much force on him. A better mother would be outraged; my rage is tempered by relief that the other child in the altercation was not injured.
Fear and horror and love and helplessness and anger are all vying for control of my emotions. No wonder I feel numb.
A magic cane, a spoonful of sugar, and little song and dance to make it all good. That’s Hollywood. But this is the real world, and tomorrow I will have an ARD time.
