Aftermath Part 2, in which I finally fall apart

“So what we’re doing is, you know, keeping things familiar in the classroom, showing him that he’s safe there.”

The school social worker is a nice lady. She told me that when she heard what happened to Kai, she was beside herself. She even came in on a day she’s not assigned to Kai’s school.

I asked her what she was doing to help Kai process what had happened.

“Well,” she said, “we’re keeping with his picture schedule*.”

Huh, I thought.

I’d sent an e-mail to the school, saying that Kai had been prone to violent outbursts, that he didn’t want to go to school at all anymore.

“As for him not wanting to go to school, maybe you could try a picture schedule before he goes to bed,” she suggested.

And although she was totally sincere, and it that was probably an okay (if uninspired) idea, it was at that moment that I got really, really, really mad.

:::

By contrast, the social worker that we see privately, Sue, had researched stories that we could read to Kai. She arranged a joint speech therapy/counseling session. She’d sent me an e-mail detailing her plan: we’d use a feelings board where he could identify how he was feeling at that moment, we’d read the story, we’d follow that up with some exercises that he could practice about what happens when Kai’s feeling angry.

I wondered why the school wasn’t doing this. Why wasn’t the school researching stories to reach out to him in this same way? Why, when that’s where Kai met this monster of an asshole of a paraprofessional in the first place? Shouldn’t they send in their A-game?

Jesus, was this their A-game?

Picture schedules?

Are you kidding me?

And the more I thought about it, the madder I got.

:::

At the session with Sue, Kai was asked to identify how he was feeling, and he chose two feelings: happy and sad.

“What makes you happy?” Sue asked him.

She reported that he said he liked going to the childcare at the gym.

“What makes you sad?” Sue asked.

“School,” he said.

:::

Traffic was terrible and it took me forever to get home from my meeting with Sue, and the sea of brake lights in front of me echoed the red pulsing in my brain and behind my eyes.

I thought about all of the IEPs we’d written for Kai. I’ve never been satisfied, I’ve never been able to get for him the things I think he needs. I get stonewalled. Or promised things that never happen. Feelings are hurt and relationships strained and finally we get this paraprofessional who was supposed to answer all of our prayers and he attacked my son on the playground.

My mother called me that night.

“I’m so angry,” I said.

“I can’t believe it took you this long,” she replied.

:::

My mother is a professor of social work. I told her about what was going on, and how disappointed I was in the school social worker, how I wanted to storm the principal’s office and, and…um…how I wanted to, uh…

“What do you want?” she asked me.

I paused for several long seconds.

“I don’t know,” I said

My mother and I finally agreed that simply sticking to Kai’s school routine was probably good for him, that he is in great hands with his teacher, Monica, who loves him with the same ferocity that I do, and that I should take him back to see Sue a couple more times, since she seemed to be able to get him to express himself.

We also agreed that I should send Sue’s bill to the school district.

:::

I went to spin class on Thursday and rode like the devil was chasing me. I couldn’t go fast enough or hard enough, my watts and cadence through the roof, which is spin-speak for OMG. My face was red and my heart was pounding and I was still angry.

Later, I drove through Chicago to an appointment and couldn’t turn the music up loud enough, my rearview mirror shaking every time the bass drum sounded.

And halfway to my destination, I started to cry, because I can’t lift heavy enough weights or run fast enough or drink enough wine or fire off enough angry e-mails to make any of this okay.

:::

So I’m angry. It feels awful. It makes the backs of my arms all red and gives me a headache and makes me all too likely to say something mean or rash.

I am a yoga teacher, damn it. I hate being angry.

Anger doesn’t really help anything. You nurse it. It feeds on every other grievance you’ve ever had, your past fights and your righteous indignation: My son was attacked by a monster on the playground and all you have to offer me is to suggest picture schedules? Screw you.

But I guess it’s like the sadness or the shock of it all. You get through it and try not to do anything stupid along the way.

And deep down, I know my anger with the social worker is just a stand in for the real issue, that Mr. X is a piece of shit and I'd like to do to him what he did to my son, and make him feel all of the shock and terror and helplessness and pain that he made a Kai feel.

But I can’t, you guys.

I can’t.

 

God damn it. I can’t.

 

 

 

*A picture schedule is a visual representation of what’s going to happen during a given period of time. Pictures representing the various activities (reading, maps, snack, outdoor time) are velcroed to a board so that kids like Kai, who are more visual than verbal can easily follow expectations and/or set them himself.

Comments

[Mom In Two Cultures]

I can imagine how that anger must tap into all of the other stuff, too--anger at a society and culture that Just. Doesn't. Get. Our. Kids.

We work day in and day out to make sure our kids are okay, that their educators understand what the challenges and risks are, and that they are getting every possible support. We constantly push against schools that never do enough. It's relentless, but we do it...And, then, some a** has the nerve to do what that guy did. I hope, for his sake, that you never run into him anywhere. Ever.

[Incidentally, I think that's why I fight my insignificant battles so fiercely (http://www.momintwocultures.com/2012/08/dear-toms.html ). Sometimes I just can't bear the fact that I can't ever really fix a lot of what happens to my son...]