Is It Okay to Laugh Now? No? How About Now?

Oh. My. Gosh. I just had the biggest and most totally inappropriate laugh. A copy of the "multidisciplinary team report" and notice of findings from evaluations done on Sky by specialists in the community school system arrived today in advance of our case conference meeting. You'll remember it took exactly three tries to convince them to evaluate him at all (I wrote about this here, here and here), so I have been super curious to see the results of their observations.

They essentially determined what we already knew which is that Sky is borderline Asperger's (supporting his PDD-NOS diagnosis). They also found that he is average to above average academically but that he requires support for social and behavioral issues stemming from his problems with pragmatic language and sensory integration (again, no surprise to us since that's what we've been trying to tell them). Anyway, the important part is that they agree that he requires special education support. It will be interesting to see what that means in practice. I've been told not to expect much.

But this post is not about that. It's about the good (and totally inappropriate) laugh I had when I read the report.

Part of the report gave detailed descriptions from classroom observations of Sky. The report is brilliantly descriptive and made my love of Sky's teacher increase exponentially. The observing psychologist wrote:

During classroom time, Sky was observed to be very fidgety, and had difficulty remaining in his chair, was loud at times, and was often off task...He tapped or swung his feet back and forth, rocked back and forth in his chair, and, at one point, jumped out of his chair and ran around it while the teacher was instructing the class. He blurted out questions and comments, interrupted others, and made various noises. He played with objects in his desk, sometimes engaging in fantasy play. His fantasy play included various actions and noises including hand movements and rather loud sounds of "explosions" with the "explosions" occurring while the teacher was instructing the class. While Sky was very fidgety, had difficulty remaining in his chair, was noisy at times, and engaged in some obviously inappropriate behaviors, he did participate in the lesson being presented by volunteering to answer questions, and did complete his work as assigned when given a worksheet to complete. His writing was neat and his teacher complimented him on his work.

I know. Right? I mean, who doesn't have the urge to get up and run around their chair from time to time? Seriously, though, his teacher rocks. She has not once expressed exasperation with him and what is clearly disruptive behavior from him. Instead, she constantly reminds and redirects him and keeps the school experience positive enough that he is able to enjoy school, do his school work, and do it well. Later in the report, the observer notes that Sky's fidgeting and noises don't seem to bother the other students. Also pretty amazing, right? Somehow, his teacher and his classmates have learned to accept him for who he is.

My favorite part of the report described how Sky misheard the name of the lead investigator (Mr. Elliott) and thought the teacher called him an idiot. According to the report, he exclaimed, "That's a bad word!" before his teacher explained that it was merely someone's name. I don't remember where Sky picked up the work "idiot" (though I guess it was probably from the summer in Japan when the only English channel we could get was Cartoon Network--Blast you, Cartoon Network!), but ever since he's known the word, he has mispronounced it. Elliott, idiot. Idiot, Elliott. Totally sounds the same to him.

And so, reading the report reminded me of all of the awesome and totally aggravating things about my son. And it reminded that a lot of that which is aggravating is also that which is awesome. Most importantly, though, the report assured me that, for now at least, he's in pretty good hands at school.

Related posts: Accidental Advocate Redux, The Best Offense is a Good Defense

Halloween is Coming, Panic!

"Pink P, what do you want to be for Halloween?"
"A pink princess ballerina."
"Are you sure you don't want to be a monkey or a dragon, or maybe a doctor or a professor?" I ask, hoping that a) she will agree to make use of one of the costumes we already have, and b) choose to be something a little more self-sufficient.
"Ballerina. Princess."
(Sigh).

Sky was a frog, a samurai, a dragon, a doctor, a SWAT team member. In fact, we avoided being a superhero of any kind until last year when I found a Bumble Bee costume on sale. Last year, I have to admit, Pink P was a princess. That costume was on sale, too. Yes, all of my parenting ideals swiftly crumble at the sight of a sale. But that's beside the point. This year, my resolve is in tact, and I'm desperate to have Pink P dress like something a little more respectable than a pink princess ballerina. The problem is, I don't know how to pull it off.

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It has never been easy to costume Pink P. Her first Halloween, we were in Tokyo. Even by American standards, Pink P was big for her age, so she was downright monstrous in Japan. I looked everywhere for a cute costume for her. Baby costumes are adorable, after all, so I looked for something, anything like what you see in the Pottery Barn Kids catalog. Maybe she could go as a lady bug, or a bumble bee, or a banana, or peas in a pod. Or maybe she could be a baby lion or a puppy dog. I looked, and looked, and looked. In the end, I swear, all I could find that fit was a Mike Wazowski costume in Japanese 3T size.

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That year, the only trick-or-treating opportunities were in the ex-pat communities of Minato-ku. So, we dressed the kids up and took the train across town. Baby Mike Wazowski, Dr. Sky, Ren and I boarded the train in Ikebukuro and settled in for our 20 minute ride. Because Pink P traveled by stroller, the full effect of her costume was lost on the casual observer. But people stared at Sky. Not just the occasional second glance or lone starer to which we'd become accustomed after several months in Japan, but a train-full of downright staring. "Wow," I thought, "they must really dig the kids' costumes. I did a great job." (I'm never one to miss a chance at self-congratulations, particularly when the task required even the slightest bit of creativity.)

As we got closer to Minato-ku, the staring got less and less. I didn't piece things together until the ride back, though. This time the phenomenon occurred in reverse. When we got on the train, no one gave us the time of day, but by the time we were two or three stops from our destination, everyone was looking at Sky. Finally, an older woman leaned over to me and said, "Did you know your son looks an awful lot like a doctor?"