Earlier this week I sacrificed my morning sleep time for Cordy’s annual IEP meeting. (If you’re not a special-needs parent or don’t understand the letters, the link provides more info.) These meetings always stress me out. I trust her teachers to give accurate information on Cordy’s abilities, but I always worry that they’re not pushing her hard enough or we’re not pushing hard enough to get more services for her. But then I worry if I set up unrealistic expectations that Cordy will fail and suffer as a result.
So I always arrive at these meetings conflicted and nervous. Add in 20+ hours of no sleep (from working the night before) and I probably looked like a crack addict at this meeting.
It started with her teacher telling us that Cordy is incredibly smart. This was the running theme of the entire meeting, so get ready to hear it a lot in this post. She’s testing at a 1st grade level for reading and executing 2nd grade level reading work in the classroom. Her math skills are advanced. She’s getting individual instruction in her special-needs classroom and is attending a mainstream kindergarten classroom for a few hours at a time three days a week.
Social skills, of course, is where the problem lies. She can be disruptive and shriek or scream if she has to do something she doesn’t want to do. She has trouble transitioning from one activity to another. And she’s not very good at making friends – she sometimes gets confused and doesn’t know what to say when talking to other kids.
When it came to planning out academic goals, the teacher had none in mind because she’s already well beyond her kindergarten curriculum. I pointed out that if Cordy is doing so well, it’s my goal that she continue to be pushed academically – to stay ahead of the curve. If she has trouble socially, I’d rather her at least be advanced academically so she has something to keep her self-esteem up.
The mainstream kindergarten teacher came to the meeting as well, and told us that Cordy is doing great when she’s there. We knew this, though – Cordy always tells us how much she likes going to that room, and describes having good dreams at night of getting to visit that class.
Of course, one goal I wanted to see in her IEP was more mainstream time. They said they would work on that gradually, and committed to start including her in art class with the mainstream class. They’re also going to try letting her sit with the other kindergartners during lunch – this is a big deal because there are no adults sitting at the table, so she’d be on her own in an unstructured social minefield. I suggested that they arrange to let her sit next to one of the kids she knows, so at least she doesn’t feel surrounded by strangers.
Finally, the principal of the school joined us at the end of the meeting. She again told us how impressed they are with how smart Cordy is, and mentioned that they would like to explore the possibility of formally testing her for the gifted ed program. The challenge for this is that Cordy must test without any accommodations – no extra breaks, etc – or the scores won’t count. This is problematic because Cordy doesn’t have a lot of patience for being tested. She likes to do schoolwork, but she hates having to prove what she knows.
The principal said they could seek an exception to have independent testing done in place of the standardized testing. Then the testing could be done on her own time, in her own way, and with people she’s comfortable around.
It all sounded great, but then I asked what sort of programs they had for gifted students. (Assuming she tested into gifted, which is not a guarantee.) They told us that due to budget cuts and new state guidelines, they actually don’t have any gifted ed programs until fourth or fifth grade. What’s the point of rushing to get her tested then?
The only truly frustrating part of the meeting (other than my trying to stay awake) was the realization that even if she’s fully mainstreamed next year, they still aren’t sure what to do with her. Should she be in a mainstream first grade class, she’ll likely be ahead of the curriculum for reading and math. Keeping her in the class for these subjects would be letting her down academically, but sending her up a grade for these subjects might then introduce more problems with transitioning and new situations that could get her put back into a special-needs class.
There doesn’t seem to be an ideal situation. OK, well, I suppose there’s homeschooling or a private Montessori school, but those require either me to not work as much or us to make a lot more money, respectively. At the moment, both options are not available to us.
It probably wouldn’t upset me as much if I didn’t partially understand what Cordy is facing. I was never in a special-needs class, but I did test into gifted ed as a kid. I had to go up a grade level for reading class, and I hated feeling out of place with the older kids. In my own class, I was constantly bored and I had trouble connecting with my peers. The only time I ever enjoyed elementary school was the one day a week I got to spend in the gifted education class. I was in a much smaller class, I was challenged, and I genuinely liked the coursework and the other kids I was with. But that gifted ed program started in second grade, not fourth. If I had to wait until fourth grade, I might have been a lost cause by that point.
Part of going to school is learning to put up with other people and situations you don’t always like. But I can’t imagine that every kid felt the same as me in school, and I don’t want my daughter to go through that as well. If she’s as smart as they believe she is, she’s going to need a lot of support to stay challenged and interested in school. Aaron and I can provide some of that at home, but we can’t be at school with her every day.
So the meeting generally left me feeling even more uncertain about Cordy’s education. There’s a lot of good going on, and quite a lot of possibilities, but just like my daughter I want something a little more concrete. There are some good options, but if there’s an ideal option, I’m not seeing it at the moment.
To sum up: I’ve got a smart, socially-awkward little girl who doesn’t fit the system. I think we can all now agree that she is most certainly MY daughter.
