Yesterday we went to special school for little monkey's annual review and it was time to take a hard decision. He has been going for inclusion at a mainstream school once a fortnight and the teacher there had written a report which read like a list of all his 'wrongs.' How he draws on other children's work, how he lashes out when he is angry, how he sings loudly and covers his ears when other children join in. We had hoped he would learn to play with mainstream kids, and be accepted by them, but instead he's in danger of annoying and frightening them with his unpredictability. It's a hard thing to accept your child cannot cope in mainstream. It confirms all fears that he really is very disabled. It's a hard pill to swallow.
At the annual review meeting held at his special school we spent more than an hour talking to his class teacher and the head about his progress and goals for the future. They think the autism class will be the best place for him next year, with a high staff to pupil ratio and lots of outdoor activities to feed his hyperactivity. After the meeting we asked if we could see what he was doing, so the teacher took us through to the classroom. We stood at a darkened window and watched him play outside with his classmates and as we did, I witnessed a wonderful thing.
He was riding a little bike round and round in circles with a huge smile on his face, he got off the bike and handed it to another boy, inviting him to have a turn. The new boy got on the bike, and little monkey got onto a tricycle. They rode round in circles together, smiling and looking at each other. He was playing with another child. He actually invited this child to play with him. It brought a tear to my eye. For years we had hoped he would learn to socialise at mainstream school - yet here at his special school he was socialising very nicely with his real peer group. Children to whom he is equal in every way.
However much I wanted him to be like other kids and to cope with mainstream school, the truth is that at this special school he learns and grows and thrives. He learns to play with other children on his own level, and he is happy. And at the end of the day, that is priceless.
Friday 30 March 2012
Friday 23 March 2012
When to give up on inclusion
We're about to face a sad decision. We're coming to the time when we have to decide if we can carry on with inclusion for out little boy.
He's been attending our local school for one afternoon a fortnight for the last year and a half. They've done their best to accommodate his needs but it's getting increasingly hard.
We started there because we wanted him to have friends in our local area, friends who didn't have a disability. We wanted him to be visible in his local community and accepted by the children.
But it's in danger of backfiring because he doesn't interact with the kids in the classroom, and instead of learning to get along with them, he's scaring them.
When he gets cross he screams or runs round the classroom, and sometimes he knocks them over. Sometimes he scratches his carer, who's becoming increasingly worried about managing his behaviour as he gets bigger.
And as he gets older his autism becomes more and more apparent. He puts his hands over his ears to block out the noise, he sings loudly with no awareness of others, he parrots the same phrases over and over again.
"What do you want to achieve for him?" the teacher asked me, because it's clear our original aims are not working. I want to achieve inclusion and acceptance, but how?
It's hard to give up on inclusion because in a way it confirms my worst fears about his disability. That he will never cope in a mainstream school, that he really is that disabled. That he won't grown out of it or get better or any of those other things I hoped for once upon a time.
He will have to function in a neuro-typical world one day and special school will do their best to prepare him for it, but who will prepare the rest of the world, for him?
He's been attending our local school for one afternoon a fortnight for the last year and a half. They've done their best to accommodate his needs but it's getting increasingly hard.
We started there because we wanted him to have friends in our local area, friends who didn't have a disability. We wanted him to be visible in his local community and accepted by the children.
But it's in danger of backfiring because he doesn't interact with the kids in the classroom, and instead of learning to get along with them, he's scaring them.
When he gets cross he screams or runs round the classroom, and sometimes he knocks them over. Sometimes he scratches his carer, who's becoming increasingly worried about managing his behaviour as he gets bigger.
And as he gets older his autism becomes more and more apparent. He puts his hands over his ears to block out the noise, he sings loudly with no awareness of others, he parrots the same phrases over and over again.
"What do you want to achieve for him?" the teacher asked me, because it's clear our original aims are not working. I want to achieve inclusion and acceptance, but how?
It's hard to give up on inclusion because in a way it confirms my worst fears about his disability. That he will never cope in a mainstream school, that he really is that disabled. That he won't grown out of it or get better or any of those other things I hoped for once upon a time.
He will have to function in a neuro-typical world one day and special school will do their best to prepare him for it, but who will prepare the rest of the world, for him?
Thursday 8 March 2012
Mother's Day - a luxury only for some?
My little boy's birthday falls on Mother's Day this year. Long ago I decided to throw him a party with all his friends from his special school and from his mainstream inclusion school. He goes there just a few times a term but we felt it was important for him to mix with kids who don't have special needs. We wanted him to learn to play with them, and for them to learn to accept him, and so far it's been going pretty well.
So I booked this party and it falls on Mother's Day - the only day I could get the venue that was suitable - and I sent out the invitations. 10 kids from his special needs class, and 20 kids from his mainstream class, and I waited for the replies. From the special needs class 80% are coming to the party. From the mainstream class just 20%. The reason they all gave is because it's Mother's Day. I have no reason to doubt them (they all turned up to his last party and loved it), but I find it interesting that the families with 'regular' kids make plans to celebrate this day but we do not.
It is that Mother's Day is too much of a luxury for special needs families to indulge? Is it just not practical for Mum to take a day off? Or do we celebrate it, but just not in the same way? The thought of taking my autistic child for lunch in a restaurant on one of the busiest days of the year is madness, he would be overwhelmed by the noise and stressed by the waiting. Or maybe it is that the whole process of being a mother to a special needs child is so all-encompassing, so all-consuming that we can't allow ourselves to take any time off. Which is it then ladies?
So I booked this party and it falls on Mother's Day - the only day I could get the venue that was suitable - and I sent out the invitations. 10 kids from his special needs class, and 20 kids from his mainstream class, and I waited for the replies. From the special needs class 80% are coming to the party. From the mainstream class just 20%. The reason they all gave is because it's Mother's Day. I have no reason to doubt them (they all turned up to his last party and loved it), but I find it interesting that the families with 'regular' kids make plans to celebrate this day but we do not.
It is that Mother's Day is too much of a luxury for special needs families to indulge? Is it just not practical for Mum to take a day off? Or do we celebrate it, but just not in the same way? The thought of taking my autistic child for lunch in a restaurant on one of the busiest days of the year is madness, he would be overwhelmed by the noise and stressed by the waiting. Or maybe it is that the whole process of being a mother to a special needs child is so all-encompassing, so all-consuming that we can't allow ourselves to take any time off. Which is it then ladies?
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