Eight months ago, I sobbed in the parking lot of our town’s elementary school, sure that my daughter would be a special education student in that very building. I mourned the loss of the child I always thought I would have. I projected my own insecurities, a fair amount of assumptions, a couple of myths, and a world of things unknown onto my little girl. In those eight months, as you all know, we have been preparing for today. We have worked diligently to ensure Clara has access to the best supports. We have watched her grow, stumble, pick herself up, and grow some more. We have researched ABA therapists and eventually, special education. We educated ourselves on laws, rights, guidelines, expectations, and eligibility requirements. We scheduled assessments, and eventually, we scheduled meetings.
Eight days ago, my husband and I met with a wonderful team of educators who told us our daughter scored consistently in the range of a typical three-year-old and therefore, she wouldn’t need special education services. For reasons a bit unique to our situation, we were fortunate enough to sit down again with that same team of educators this afternoon to dive a bit deeper into that decision.
Eight hours ago (okay, you caught me… it was actually only six, but come on. It’s such a clever theme!) we found out that despite everything we have gone through, despite all our assumptions and yes, even our hopes, Clara truly doesn’t need modified instruction to access curriculum. Clara, in all her true, beautiful glory, has closed her developmental gap, at least for now!
This news, I admit, was not what we had hoped for. But then, after the initial shock and disappointment, I began to think about what that really means for us and for her. It means that Clara is actually not being put on an IEP. It means that her education and instruction won’t restrict her potential in any way. It means that Clara will be given the complete freedom to soar or possibly, to stumble. But it also means that there’s a team of people ready and waiting to help pick her up if that happens. It means that our fears of whether Clara will be accepted by her peers, whether she’ll be able to truly build relationships in meaningful ways, may not come to fruition. And ultimately, it means that Clara is freaking amazing!
Eight minutes ago, when putting her to bed, I tried to talk to Clara about everything in a way she would understand. I told her I try to be the best mom that I can for her. I told her that a long time ago, I thought she would have to go to a different school that would help her in special ways. But then, she did what she always does. She was (and still is) an unbelievable little kid! (“No Mommy. I a big kid!”) She learned so much. She showed us all how smart she is, how funny she is, and how ready she is to go to the best school for her! And she’s going to make new friends and have a new teacher and everything is going to be perfect for Clara! I stroked her hair, and I asked her if she thinks I’m a good mommy. Clara looked up at me, and for that one brief second, I saw deep into her little soul. In her big brown eyes, I saw the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. She smiled, and she responded, “Yeah Mommy! Great! I feel happier. I have a happy heart. And armpit!” Tears of joy streamed down my face while I assured her that sometimes people cry when they’re happy. I told her that this was one of those times, that I was so happy to be her mommy, and I was so happy that she has a happy armpit.
I told her that if eight years ago, someone had told me that I would be as fortunate and as happy as I am with the perfect family God has given me, I wouldn’t have even begun to believe it.
