The Next Right Step
Sometimes you don't know the right move, but you damn sure know the wrong one.
I had to pull my 4-year-old out of a preschool that he loved due to reasons he doesn't know and would not understand. He's going to dearly miss his best friend, an extrovert who has helped draw him out of his shell. He's going to be discomforted by a new environment, new people, new routines, new rules. But I can't leave him in a situation created by adults who, I really believe, refused to work with this child's best interests at heart.
There is no manual or how-to guide for making the right choices for your one beautiful, unique, loved child. Every choice has repercussions -- good and bad. Some I can see right now, some I won't be able to see for years. It's terrifying and enormous that what I do today will reverberate within him for the rest of his life. If I deliberate too long, I'm paralyzed. So many what-ifs. So many could-be's.
I'm a strong believer in Glennon Doyle Melton's theory that in a crisis, when you don't know what the answer is, "just do the next right thing, one thing at a time, and that will take you all the way home." I practiced this long before she popularized it by sharing her "brutiful," damaged, wonderful life. It's served me well, and I pray it will serve my little boy too.
I hope we're making the right decision.
We had a rough start to 3-year-old preschool. He was anxious and scared. He refused to let go of his baby doll, hid in his cubbie and cried instead of joining the other kids in circle time. The teacher and the principal were initially gracious. We had a meeting and worked to find a middle ground, a solution that met both his needs and their needs. Slowly he began to give up the doll during class time. But other behaviors emerged: he was reluctant to sit on the carpet, instead crawling over and around others or fidgeting with computer cords. He had no interest in writing his name or coloring inside the lines. He began throwing tantrums at pick-up time, falling to the floor at the door of the school, crying, refusing to walk down the steps and to my waiting arms. At a routine conference in January, everything seemed okay. Some concepts were being introduced, and others had already started to take hold. But in February, when we tried to register for the following year's 4-year-old pre-kindergarten program, the current teacher and prospective teacher and principal met with us to express concern. It's a kindergarten readiness class, they said, and they're not sure it's the best placement for him. He's "atypical compared to his peers," they said. Academically he's okay, but socially/emotionally he's behind, they said. I'm no expert, but have you had him evaluated, they said.
He just turned 4, I said. Only 4.
I cried and worried and panicked. Was there something wrong with my son, and I couldn't see it? He seemed normal to me. He was meeting all of his milestones. He just had some social anxiety, and a general disinterest in writing or coloring. And besides, there is no evidence that early reading and writing skills actually help a child long-term. I wanted to let him be what he is: a carefree little kid.
But I took their suggestion to heart. I talked to a retired child/adolescent therapist and former school psychologist. She assured me he was normal, just a little immature (also normal for a boy and a first born). She said he'd get there in his own time. I took a standard diagnostic screening questionnaire designed to ferret out developmental delays. He scored normally, except for fine motor skills (like coloring and writing) where he was in the "monitoring zone." I spoke with the early intervention (formerly known as special education) team at our school district, who screened him. They said he had no speech/language issues but they couldn't rule out anything behavioral, and offered a full evaluation. The child psychologist strongly recommended against it. She said the younger the child, the more inaccurate the diagnosis unless it's classic autism or speech/language issues. She said 4 is too young to accurately diagnose a behavioral disorder like ADD or ADHD, and far, far too young to medicate anyway. It would only be a label -- a possibly inaccurate label -- we couldn't do much to address, which would follow him for the next 13 or 14 years of school.
It was the end of the school year. We declined a full evaluation. We moved toward the pre-K program, and the school didn't bring up any more objections. He began to write his name willingly and moved past the tantrums. We were making wonderful progress.
Over the summer, my kiddo seemed to blossom. He gave up the doll on his own, began leaving my side at the playground to play independently with other children, started introducing himself to strangers. At home he could work on a puzzle for 10 minutes or play trains for 30 minutes. He can ride his bike outside for an hour. We worked on tracing letters and shapes several times a week, and using scissors to cut open his squeezable yogurt tube.
We spoke with his doctor at his well-child check. The doctor said he had no signs of autism or any other developmental issue. He noted my child is an active, energetic kid. He echoed what the psychologist said: too young to suspect or diagnose with any behavioral problem. Just a happy, healthy 4-year-old boy.
The pre-K year began. At parent orientation I reviewed his summer progress with the teacher and principal -- the same who joined in meetings last year -- recounted his successes and reiterated that he's just a tad immature. He had made such great strides, and I had -- and still have -- no reason to think he won't continue that trajectory. He knows colors and shapes, recites the alphabet, can count to 50, has mastered a glue stick. He's very kind toward other people. The rest will come in time.
Almost immediately, the pre-K teacher began meeting us at pick-up with things that needed improvement. Sitting on the carpet. Standing in line. Completing a worksheet. Impulse control. Keeping his hands to himself. Needing a lot of redirection.
He's 4. These are standard 4-year-old behaviors. Some kids are better than others, some are worse. Professionals say there is a wide continuum of childhood development, but it seemed the school took a more myopic view.
This is when I started to question whether this school is right for him. I told myself I'd not worry about it until January. He's happy and enjoying school. Give him some time to grow into this, adjust to the new environment, and stretch to reach new goals. While I hoped this was the right decision, I started to dread picking him up and seeing the teacher. When her class updates appeared in my inbox I could feel my heartbeat in the pit of my churning stomach. Anxiety started to eat at me.
He had been to exactly seven classes -- two full weeks of school -- when I got an email from the teacher. At 10:15 p.m. on a Sunday she wrote a bulleted list, very detailed, of all the things my child needed to work on. She used the phrase "not typical of his peers" twice in five paragraphs. She included that he struggled to work independently on a worksheet with four directions. During the 10 minute exercise, she said, he had "47 assists by the teacher."
He couldn't swim so they counted how many times he tried to say "help."
Noticeably absent from her email was any description of what she and her aide had tried to change his undesirable behavior besides redirecting him, which apparently wasn't working. Had they done any positive reinforcement, like earning a sticker? Had they done any negative reinforcement, like three strikes and you get a time out? It's a Catholic school; had they put the fear of God in him? Also missing was any suggestion to meet and collaborate on how to help him going forward, so that by the fourth and fifth and 22nd weeks of school we could be heading in the right direction. Should we move him to the five-day-a-week class? Back into 3-year-old preschool? Nothing. She merely said she would continue to observe and update me.
I know a lot of words, but none can accurately describe the way that email hit me. I was furious, I was shocked, I was sick. It made my heart hurt. I cried for two hours. I don't doubt my son is doing things in class that she finds undesirable, but I strongly questioned whether a list of behaviors and no suggestion of help was the correct way for it to be handled. This is when I began to think the school is not right for him, or me.
Still worried that the school was seeing something I'm not, I sought out and completed a second diagnostic questionnaire, this one focusing exclusively on social/emotional health of a 4-year-old. Even scoring the highest possible numbers for their areas of concern, he still came up normal. I reached out again to the child therapist, who is probably tiring of me, but who again said nothing about his behavior is abnormal. He's just being 4.
I cried a lot. Tears of frustration, concern, and upset. My son saw me crying and asked what was wrong. "I'm sad," I said. "Sad that you're having a hard time in school." "But I'm not sad," he said. I cried even harder. I didn't know what to do -- he's happy now, but how long until he realizes they think he's "atypical"? Who's overracting here, me or the school? The anxiety was crushing. I had a panic attack at the sight of his school folder on the kitchen counter.
The next right step, I decided, was to respond to their email. That was the only immediate decision I had to make. I could do that. It took me a day and a half and a few drafts, but I wrote a calm, polite, detailed response. I explained that two experts and two diagnostic tests said he's not atypical. I explained experts had advised me he's too young to accurately suspect a behavioral disorder. I told her we don't see these behaviors at home, but I believe her when she says it's a problem. I said he loves school this year, is making progress, and we want to help her help him. I asked for a meeting to come up with a plan. I sent my email on Tuesday night.
On Wednesday morning, the principal cornered my husband at drop-off, asking if he had a moment. He said he did not want to discuss anything because he wanted me to be present. Undeterred, she suggested a full evaluation by the early intervention team, this time with both the school's psychologist and our public school district's people. She said public schools could provide our son with in-class assistance. She said they don't have the resources to help our child.
What help does he need exactly, and how did you determine this? What resources does he require that you claim to not have? Why are you discussing this in the school parking lot? The only, ONLY thing the principal should have said standing outside that school was a date and a time to meet and discuss further and figure this out. Her approach was unprofessional, inappropriate, and distasteful.
Two hours later, she sent an email letting me know she had reached out to both her psychologist and our public school district's people, "as discussed with my husband," and they could observe my child on the following day. All we had to do was sign the paperwork. She had included both people in question on this email thread.
I know a lot of words. Incensed and livid don't even come close.
This is when I knew the school was wrong for him, and me, and our family. I firmly believe (and the experts back me up) that at this point in his life, at this point in the school year (two weeks!), all my son needs is a little time and a little grace.
I told her how inappropriate it was to ask us to make major decisions about our child's education while standing in a parking lot. How inappropriate it was to keep talking to my husband about it after he told her I needed to be there too. I told her we would consider her suggestion and we would be in touch about next steps.
She responded tersely, suggesting we all meet. Finally, a meeting. Too little, too late, a meeting. After she had already proclaimed that they don't have the resources to help him, no matter what those resources may be.
I blithely ignored her email. I began researching other pre-K programs and preschools. I had made the next right step decision that he needed to be in a different environment. Now I needed to decide when to make that move.
Meanwhile, my child happily attended school unaware. He woke up in the morning asking if it's a school day, and before bed at night told us he's trying hard to listen and sit still. He told us stories about school with deep belly laughs. At home he's been overhearing a lot of tense, hushed conversations with big words. He's seen me cry. "I know you know something is not okay," I said, "but I promise we're working to make it better." With the wisdom of a 4-year-old, he replied, "Chocolate would make it better." Yes, honey, it sure would.
I never should have answered the phone on Thursday. I don't know what made me do it, besides habit. The principal called me. It got ugly. I reiterated, beginning to raise my voice, that we were considering our options and would let her know our decision and in the meantime to leave my child alone. She claimed they were trying to do what's best for him, and I said yet again that I would let her know what's best for him. She said it doesn't work that way; if we don't meet to make a plan in the next day or two, my kid can't continue to attend school, especially since I've gotten hostile. While Sunday's email was taking an I'll-keep-watching approach, suddenly on Thursday they needed immediate resolution or else.
I had a lot of words, and I gave them all to her. (Minus the profane ones. I showed, surprisingly, some restraint.) I told her what I really thought -- that they aren't interested in investing the time or effort to help my child reach the goals they have set or cultivating the behaviors that they demand. That they only wanted to see him helped if it meant he got that help somewhere else. I reminded her she'd already expressed that they can't or won't help him. Deeply angry, I said my child is only atypical in one classroom in one school, and is completely normal compared to a larger universe of 4-year-olds. He does not need special education intervention -- not at this time, and maybe not ever.
Nothing can break your heart like your children. While kids themselves are resilient, discussing them can be a delicate subject with parents. Nearly everything about the way they had approached us since the start of the school year (TWO WEEKS!) had been wrong. And, from talking with child psychologists, most of the school's expectations seemed based more on their own goals than on actual childhood development. Not all 4-year-olds are capable of waiting patiently in line or completing worksheets. But rather than gently guiding him, they wanted to label him as deficient.
I made the next right step that this situation was no longer tenable. I no longer had faith in this school. On Thursday afternoon I sent an email informing them that we were withdrawing our son from their pre-K program. I told them Friday would be his final day. At pick-up, the teacher -- who had counted how many times he needed help -- said bye to him for the last time.
My son doesn't know that yet. The next right step is to tell him we're going to a new school where he'll make new friends and continue to learn things and continue to have fun. The next right step after that will be walking him in to the Montessori preschool and explaining that we'll pick him up in a couple of hours, just like at his old school. The next right step after that will be to breathe deeply, in and out, all the way home.
I don't know the next right step after that. Hopefully he'll flourish in a play-based, self-paced setting with people who are more understanding that not all 4-year-olds are alike. Maybe he will continue to struggle, and we'll determine a different path is better, and more help will be necessary. Maybe a heretofore unseen meteor will strike the earth and preschool will be the last of our worries.
I'm trying (not succeeding, but trying) not to think about any of that. Like Martin Luther King Jr. said, you don't have to see the whole staircase. Just take the first step.
I had to pull my 4-year-old out of a preschool that he loved due to reasons he doesn't know and would not understand. He's going to dearly miss his best friend, an extrovert who has helped draw him out of his shell. He's going to be discomforted by a new environment, new people, new routines, new rules. But I can't leave him in a situation created by adults who, I really believe, refused to work with this child's best interests at heart.
There is no manual or how-to guide for making the right choices for your one beautiful, unique, loved child. Every choice has repercussions -- good and bad. Some I can see right now, some I won't be able to see for years. It's terrifying and enormous that what I do today will reverberate within him for the rest of his life. If I deliberate too long, I'm paralyzed. So many what-ifs. So many could-be's.
 |
| Not atypical. Buds just haven't bloomed yet. |
I'm a strong believer in Glennon Doyle Melton's theory that in a crisis, when you don't know what the answer is, "just do the next right thing, one thing at a time, and that will take you all the way home." I practiced this long before she popularized it by sharing her "brutiful," damaged, wonderful life. It's served me well, and I pray it will serve my little boy too.
I hope we're making the right decision.
We had a rough start to 3-year-old preschool. He was anxious and scared. He refused to let go of his baby doll, hid in his cubbie and cried instead of joining the other kids in circle time. The teacher and the principal were initially gracious. We had a meeting and worked to find a middle ground, a solution that met both his needs and their needs. Slowly he began to give up the doll during class time. But other behaviors emerged: he was reluctant to sit on the carpet, instead crawling over and around others or fidgeting with computer cords. He had no interest in writing his name or coloring inside the lines. He began throwing tantrums at pick-up time, falling to the floor at the door of the school, crying, refusing to walk down the steps and to my waiting arms. At a routine conference in January, everything seemed okay. Some concepts were being introduced, and others had already started to take hold. But in February, when we tried to register for the following year's 4-year-old pre-kindergarten program, the current teacher and prospective teacher and principal met with us to express concern. It's a kindergarten readiness class, they said, and they're not sure it's the best placement for him. He's "atypical compared to his peers," they said. Academically he's okay, but socially/emotionally he's behind, they said. I'm no expert, but have you had him evaluated, they said.
He just turned 4, I said. Only 4.
I cried and worried and panicked. Was there something wrong with my son, and I couldn't see it? He seemed normal to me. He was meeting all of his milestones. He just had some social anxiety, and a general disinterest in writing or coloring. And besides, there is no evidence that early reading and writing skills actually help a child long-term. I wanted to let him be what he is: a carefree little kid.
But I took their suggestion to heart. I talked to a retired child/adolescent therapist and former school psychologist. She assured me he was normal, just a little immature (also normal for a boy and a first born). She said he'd get there in his own time. I took a standard diagnostic screening questionnaire designed to ferret out developmental delays. He scored normally, except for fine motor skills (like coloring and writing) where he was in the "monitoring zone." I spoke with the early intervention (formerly known as special education) team at our school district, who screened him. They said he had no speech/language issues but they couldn't rule out anything behavioral, and offered a full evaluation. The child psychologist strongly recommended against it. She said the younger the child, the more inaccurate the diagnosis unless it's classic autism or speech/language issues. She said 4 is too young to accurately diagnose a behavioral disorder like ADD or ADHD, and far, far too young to medicate anyway. It would only be a label -- a possibly inaccurate label -- we couldn't do much to address, which would follow him for the next 13 or 14 years of school.
It was the end of the school year. We declined a full evaluation. We moved toward the pre-K program, and the school didn't bring up any more objections. He began to write his name willingly and moved past the tantrums. We were making wonderful progress.
Over the summer, my kiddo seemed to blossom. He gave up the doll on his own, began leaving my side at the playground to play independently with other children, started introducing himself to strangers. At home he could work on a puzzle for 10 minutes or play trains for 30 minutes. He can ride his bike outside for an hour. We worked on tracing letters and shapes several times a week, and using scissors to cut open his squeezable yogurt tube.
We spoke with his doctor at his well-child check. The doctor said he had no signs of autism or any other developmental issue. He noted my child is an active, energetic kid. He echoed what the psychologist said: too young to suspect or diagnose with any behavioral problem. Just a happy, healthy 4-year-old boy.
The pre-K year began. At parent orientation I reviewed his summer progress with the teacher and principal -- the same who joined in meetings last year -- recounted his successes and reiterated that he's just a tad immature. He had made such great strides, and I had -- and still have -- no reason to think he won't continue that trajectory. He knows colors and shapes, recites the alphabet, can count to 50, has mastered a glue stick. He's very kind toward other people. The rest will come in time.
Almost immediately, the pre-K teacher began meeting us at pick-up with things that needed improvement. Sitting on the carpet. Standing in line. Completing a worksheet. Impulse control. Keeping his hands to himself. Needing a lot of redirection.
He's 4. These are standard 4-year-old behaviors. Some kids are better than others, some are worse. Professionals say there is a wide continuum of childhood development, but it seemed the school took a more myopic view.
This is when I started to question whether this school is right for him. I told myself I'd not worry about it until January. He's happy and enjoying school. Give him some time to grow into this, adjust to the new environment, and stretch to reach new goals. While I hoped this was the right decision, I started to dread picking him up and seeing the teacher. When her class updates appeared in my inbox I could feel my heartbeat in the pit of my churning stomach. Anxiety started to eat at me.
He had been to exactly seven classes -- two full weeks of school -- when I got an email from the teacher. At 10:15 p.m. on a Sunday she wrote a bulleted list, very detailed, of all the things my child needed to work on. She used the phrase "not typical of his peers" twice in five paragraphs. She included that he struggled to work independently on a worksheet with four directions. During the 10 minute exercise, she said, he had "47 assists by the teacher."
He couldn't swim so they counted how many times he tried to say "help."
Noticeably absent from her email was any description of what she and her aide had tried to change his undesirable behavior besides redirecting him, which apparently wasn't working. Had they done any positive reinforcement, like earning a sticker? Had they done any negative reinforcement, like three strikes and you get a time out? It's a Catholic school; had they put the fear of God in him? Also missing was any suggestion to meet and collaborate on how to help him going forward, so that by the fourth and fifth and 22nd weeks of school we could be heading in the right direction. Should we move him to the five-day-a-week class? Back into 3-year-old preschool? Nothing. She merely said she would continue to observe and update me.
I know a lot of words, but none can accurately describe the way that email hit me. I was furious, I was shocked, I was sick. It made my heart hurt. I cried for two hours. I don't doubt my son is doing things in class that she finds undesirable, but I strongly questioned whether a list of behaviors and no suggestion of help was the correct way for it to be handled. This is when I began to think the school is not right for him, or me.
Still worried that the school was seeing something I'm not, I sought out and completed a second diagnostic questionnaire, this one focusing exclusively on social/emotional health of a 4-year-old. Even scoring the highest possible numbers for their areas of concern, he still came up normal. I reached out again to the child therapist, who is probably tiring of me, but who again said nothing about his behavior is abnormal. He's just being 4.
 |
| Cutting, gluing, matching, writing. |
I cried a lot. Tears of frustration, concern, and upset. My son saw me crying and asked what was wrong. "I'm sad," I said. "Sad that you're having a hard time in school." "But I'm not sad," he said. I cried even harder. I didn't know what to do -- he's happy now, but how long until he realizes they think he's "atypical"? Who's overracting here, me or the school? The anxiety was crushing. I had a panic attack at the sight of his school folder on the kitchen counter.
The next right step, I decided, was to respond to their email. That was the only immediate decision I had to make. I could do that. It took me a day and a half and a few drafts, but I wrote a calm, polite, detailed response. I explained that two experts and two diagnostic tests said he's not atypical. I explained experts had advised me he's too young to accurately suspect a behavioral disorder. I told her we don't see these behaviors at home, but I believe her when she says it's a problem. I said he loves school this year, is making progress, and we want to help her help him. I asked for a meeting to come up with a plan. I sent my email on Tuesday night.
On Wednesday morning, the principal cornered my husband at drop-off, asking if he had a moment. He said he did not want to discuss anything because he wanted me to be present. Undeterred, she suggested a full evaluation by the early intervention team, this time with both the school's psychologist and our public school district's people. She said public schools could provide our son with in-class assistance. She said they don't have the resources to help our child.
What help does he need exactly, and how did you determine this? What resources does he require that you claim to not have? Why are you discussing this in the school parking lot? The only, ONLY thing the principal should have said standing outside that school was a date and a time to meet and discuss further and figure this out. Her approach was unprofessional, inappropriate, and distasteful.
Two hours later, she sent an email letting me know she had reached out to both her psychologist and our public school district's people, "as discussed with my husband," and they could observe my child on the following day. All we had to do was sign the paperwork. She had included both people in question on this email thread.
I know a lot of words. Incensed and livid don't even come close.
This is when I knew the school was wrong for him, and me, and our family. I firmly believe (and the experts back me up) that at this point in his life, at this point in the school year (two weeks!), all my son needs is a little time and a little grace.
I told her how inappropriate it was to ask us to make major decisions about our child's education while standing in a parking lot. How inappropriate it was to keep talking to my husband about it after he told her I needed to be there too. I told her we would consider her suggestion and we would be in touch about next steps.
She responded tersely, suggesting we all meet. Finally, a meeting. Too little, too late, a meeting. After she had already proclaimed that they don't have the resources to help him, no matter what those resources may be.
I blithely ignored her email. I began researching other pre-K programs and preschools. I had made the next right step decision that he needed to be in a different environment. Now I needed to decide when to make that move.
Meanwhile, my child happily attended school unaware. He woke up in the morning asking if it's a school day, and before bed at night told us he's trying hard to listen and sit still. He told us stories about school with deep belly laughs. At home he's been overhearing a lot of tense, hushed conversations with big words. He's seen me cry. "I know you know something is not okay," I said, "but I promise we're working to make it better." With the wisdom of a 4-year-old, he replied, "Chocolate would make it better." Yes, honey, it sure would.
I never should have answered the phone on Thursday. I don't know what made me do it, besides habit. The principal called me. It got ugly. I reiterated, beginning to raise my voice, that we were considering our options and would let her know our decision and in the meantime to leave my child alone. She claimed they were trying to do what's best for him, and I said yet again that I would let her know what's best for him. She said it doesn't work that way; if we don't meet to make a plan in the next day or two, my kid can't continue to attend school, especially since I've gotten hostile. While Sunday's email was taking an I'll-keep-watching approach, suddenly on Thursday they needed immediate resolution or else.
I had a lot of words, and I gave them all to her. (Minus the profane ones. I showed, surprisingly, some restraint.) I told her what I really thought -- that they aren't interested in investing the time or effort to help my child reach the goals they have set or cultivating the behaviors that they demand. That they only wanted to see him helped if it meant he got that help somewhere else. I reminded her she'd already expressed that they can't or won't help him. Deeply angry, I said my child is only atypical in one classroom in one school, and is completely normal compared to a larger universe of 4-year-olds. He does not need special education intervention -- not at this time, and maybe not ever.
Nothing can break your heart like your children. While kids themselves are resilient, discussing them can be a delicate subject with parents. Nearly everything about the way they had approached us since the start of the school year (TWO WEEKS!) had been wrong. And, from talking with child psychologists, most of the school's expectations seemed based more on their own goals than on actual childhood development. Not all 4-year-olds are capable of waiting patiently in line or completing worksheets. But rather than gently guiding him, they wanted to label him as deficient.
I made the next right step that this situation was no longer tenable. I no longer had faith in this school. On Thursday afternoon I sent an email informing them that we were withdrawing our son from their pre-K program. I told them Friday would be his final day. At pick-up, the teacher -- who had counted how many times he needed help -- said bye to him for the last time.
My son doesn't know that yet. The next right step is to tell him we're going to a new school where he'll make new friends and continue to learn things and continue to have fun. The next right step after that will be walking him in to the Montessori preschool and explaining that we'll pick him up in a couple of hours, just like at his old school. The next right step after that will be to breathe deeply, in and out, all the way home.
I don't know the next right step after that. Hopefully he'll flourish in a play-based, self-paced setting with people who are more understanding that not all 4-year-olds are alike. Maybe he will continue to struggle, and we'll determine a different path is better, and more help will be necessary. Maybe a heretofore unseen meteor will strike the earth and preschool will be the last of our worries.
I'm trying (not succeeding, but trying) not to think about any of that. Like Martin Luther King Jr. said, you don't have to see the whole staircase. Just take the first step.
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