Fight or Flight

As parents of children with special needs, we orient toward fight or flight-one or the other-or sometimes both. We’re back and forth. When we send our children beyond the stretch of our arms, we do so with great caution. We are quick to anticipate what they need in the moment and provide it at the first sign of the rumbling stage before the outburst. We read the body. We see the eyes. We are on constant watch. We know what could happen. We respond before others see it. We respond so others won’t see it. We can catch it, scoop it up, control it, prevent it. The elbow drawing back, the side-look before running, the shirt jerked up over the face, putting hands in the mouth after digging in dirt patches on the sides of lacrosse fields while watching games, looking down while talking to other parents to see a muddy face and having a wet wipe ready to clean up before others notice. We know what can happen. We have sharp instincts and quick responses. We trust few to do the same. We come prepared. We understand. We notice when our child gets a second glance in public or when a childcare professional is describing an altercation as tactfully as possible but with some discomfort. Instinctively, when we see a look, sense a hesitation, or hear a concerning report from others, we draw our sword or lift our shield…ready for the charge..or the retreat…all for the sake of protecting our child’s dignity…and ours.

Last week, I held a mock IEP meeting with Diana and our graduate assistant on Zoom for special education student teachers who are currently quarantined instead of in classrooms in order to provide them an experience of attending an IEP meeting. I wanted them to be able to reflect on each component of the IEP and see a model of how to conduct a meeting with parents. It was smooth, very positive, and engaging. I became the case manager/special educator while the graduate student posed as Diana’s mom. I shared my screen of her current IEP and talked through her special education services that are now focused on transition in her post-secondary high school program that includes her participation in the Longwood LIFE two-year non-credit certificate program. Diana reminded me it was “her” IEP and giggled proudly on occasion throughout the questions prompted by her “mom” about how we collected data and used it to interpret progress in her performance. Afterwards, I thought of some of Erin’s IEP meetings with equally positive and engaging teachers and administrators; yet, hearing the realities of her behavioral struggles could sometimes prompt me to close up inside as I listened to episodes that were too familiar. It was painful to realize I couldn’t control how she reacted and wasn’t there to support teachers during the day; though, there were times teachers called Rob at work for Erin to get on the phone for a dad conference or have a hallway conference with me at the door of my classroom. We knew what they were seeing and were seeking any way to help Erin function better throughout the day. I’d waver between wanting to fight harder to support the team to help Erin be successful in school and wanting to pull her out of the situation to avoid probable frustrations of others before they reached exhaustion. I’d duck my chin focusing hard on the IEP draft reading every word; though, I’d already read it at home before the meeting, mostly to avoid those looking in my direction or trying not to directly meet the eyes of sometimes six to eight people sitting around the table. The process was methodical and somewhat scripted due to the complexity of the IEP, the time allotted for the meeting, and the legalities surrounding certain components where signatures were required.

I had an advantage in that I taught in the school system where Erin and Diana attended school. I worked to be supportive and vowed inside myself to always “stay in the same canoe” with those working with my girls. I knew of their support system as well and areas in which resources and circumstances were ideal and also where support could be stretched thin due to caseload numbers, sharing of paraprofessionals, and domino effects of clustering children with behaviors together in one self-contained classroom. When the girls were young, I dropped them off at school and picked them up each day around my teaching schedule. I had the advantage of having a quick face-to-face with Erin’s teachers at the beginning and end of every day during her primary years. Since Erin couldn’t tell me details about her day at school or tell her teacher on those mornings when she had not been able to calm down to sleep until midnight or had awakened in the middle of the night and was a bit out-of-sorts, I felt I needed to deliver the reality state of affairs when passing the torch. It helped to be on the same page, and, I believe, making that personal contact each day reminded each of us-the teacher-and the parent- that we were human. (Don’t judge me. I’m tired. I tried to get her to sleep or to nap. What worked yesterday did not work today…It’s your turn…) Seeing each other and sharing those bits of information about the schedule of events and behavioral data connected us and made us a team…not like the IEP team that met once a year and communicated on official documents with annual goals and objectives or nine-week progress reports.

Don’t wait to communicate…not lengthy details only in an email…not unloading tough revelations over a phone call…in person where you meet face-to-face. Offer it first. Not behind the barrier of the computer screen inputting the data during the meeting, but on a draft of notes on paper only briefly to keep the face-to-face nonverbal communication in the forefront.

I grew to love these teachers (and paraprofessionals). Though we were both assigned to Erin and to each other, we began to let our guard down and learned to depend on each other. It’s not about being right or wrong. It’s not about making the other one change. It’s about realizing that in order to “stay in the canoe” together as a team, we can’t stand up and tower over each other. We can’t jump out without tipping over the canoe and dumping each other in the water. We’ve got to pick our position, hear the other’s perspective, settle on a plan, and row in sync. Without blame, we adjust. It’s not about either of us anyway. We feel the pinch when we can’t fix it or we fail. We focus hard on fighting for the person (Erin) and the cause that is more important than being right or justified (her being able to function more independently and be successful).

When my oldest son was in elementary school, I once got a note from a teacher that had a “tone” that put me on the defensive. I read it in the car on the way home from school after picking him up. I was hot and immediately knew I would get angrier the longer I waited. I knew I would fester inside and replay the words again and again in my mind…

Sometimes I hate that I can’t NOT communicate.

With the teacher and the note, I knew I needed clarification, so I turned the car around and went back to school. I found the teacher and asked about what she meant, explaining I needed to ask so I wouldn’t get upset. To wait would have made me overthink the words in the note. I told her I didn’t want to misunderstand. It served me well to just ask.

When the stakes are high…When there is time, investment, and heart behind words exchanged, it can take everything inside to fight FOR instead of against the teacher, the system, the team and what you know in your heart will bring strength to the team on behalf of your child and the organization…

Once Erin went to school, I could no longer zoom into the moment and support her at a moment’s notice with what I knew worked for the most part. I had to learn to allow the team to help. That team was not just at school with one teacher in a classroom but spread down hallways to other staff members in the school who stopped to connect with Erin (and Diana) and across community settings, such as church and our neighborhood. Others learned to high-five and to smile when a “not so nice” comment might follow such as “You’re weird” or to grab a hand and lead her back into our yard if she wandered off or needed for some other reason assistance that only we could provide.

The team is always worth the fight.