Sometimes, mothers needlessly worry

In the summer, Andrew's father and I sought out some advice about some behaviors that Andrew was (and still is) exhibiting. He has this thing about bare arms - he likes to smell, touch, and squeeze them. He's still small and cute, but left unchecked, this action will one day get him tossed in jail.

We didn't accomplish much on that subject, but one pyschometrist we met with wanted to reassess Andrew because she thought he was not as severe as his initial diagnosis suggested. He was first diagnosed about two months before he turned five and the agency was unable to determine his cognitive (intellectual) ability. I remember sitting on the other side of a one-way mirror, watching him perform a battery of tasks. I remember thinking, "What are you doing? You can do that. Now they're going to think you're stupid!"

I cried and fretted for hours leading up to that first report and it lived up to all of my anxiety. It stabbed me like a knife, not once, but each word pierced my heart and soul.

I was less nervous for today's assessment. Of course, if I had been equally or more stressed, I would have needed some sort of medication. I was, however, still worried. How would he react. Would he attempt to squeeze the arms of the testers? Would he clam up and refuse to answer. Just two days ago, he had a giant temper tantrum, would that rear its ugly head?

Events go best if we preview everything for Andrew,so we talked briefly about what would unfold today. I told him that some people were going to ask him questions and to do things so we could learn more about his autism. That way, we could help him handle any rough patches. He's pretty self-aware; we've never hidden his diagnosis from him and he has encountered people who are more severely autistic than him. He wonders how they function. Anyway, I told him to go in there, be a good listener and show the ladies just how smart he is. To make the day feel special, I made buttermilk pancakes for breakfast.

While he was being tested, his dad and I were being gently grilled. The psychiatrist asked us about some current issues and to fill in a little history (adoption, etc.). Then the psychometrist asked us very specifically about how Andrew was when he was four and five, when he was first diagnosed. Questions like, did he ever repeat things he heard from television or movies - as a default conversation piece. Or how he interacted with same age peers. We really had to strain our brains to answer most of these questions. Andrew is a vastly different boy than he was three years ago. He is more social with his peers, he makes better eye contact, he spontaneously tells us he loves us. Yes, he will ask total strangers to immediately supply him with a six-syllable word. And yes, he will stare longingly and someone's bare biceps. With a long talk about acceptable behavior before going out on adventures, he will hold it together and act like any neuro-typical child.

The people at this agency were remarkably pleasant and I felt completely at ease, even as I was mentally transported back to Andrew's first year of school - a terrible year. Andrew was across the hall from us and we could occasionally hear his laughter drift under the door. Such a different vibe than that first time, three years ago. Two hours into the process, everybody was done. We had no more questions to answer and neither did he. I tried to ask him about what kind of questions he was asked. All he told me was that the ladies asked him what made him angry. I said, "So, what does make you angry?"

Andrew softly replied, "When I don't get my way."

His dad and I smiled at each, shook our heads in agreement and drove off to lunch. We'll get the follow-up report in about two weeks.

At a crossroads

I am 44 years old. I have a mildly autistic son. I live in a foreign country, that has universal healthcare, where I know nobody. I cross the border every day (to the tune of $8.00/day) to a job that is under assault and I will not likely have in five years. And, at this moment, I should be dividing my time between grading papers and washing dishes.

I feel like I have written this post before. I'm sorry for repeating myself. I just need to figure out my next move. It is likely that within 2-5 years, my school will be labeled a persistently low achieving school. Once that occurs, there will likely be a wholesale firing of many staff members, most likely the most expensive ones. That would be me.I don't wish to wait around for the bloodshed, so I need to take some concrete action. I haven't had time to take care of myself lately, mostly because I usually whipped at the end of the day, but inaction is no longer acceptable.

I could remain in teaching and just beg Ontario to let me have a teaching certificate. I will of course do that. I just wonder if I will have soured on the profession after the debacle in America.

I could move to America and find a job in a safer district, with a bigger commute. While I truly miss my home country, living without Andrew is out of the question. My hand may be forced.

Beyond that, I am clueless. I don't know what I am qualified to do. I don't have enough degrees to teach college. I'm a little past the prime trophy wife age, though this option has been urged by a few people. I'd love to find a publisher and I know I need to move my rear on that dream. I'd also love to find an investor to back me in starting a bed and breakfast.

Sigh. I'm tired of dodging bullshit everyday. It's funny to me how "it takes a village to raise a child," but apparently, it's only the teacher's fault when one fails.

End rant. Now to the dishes.