Tim's IEP, Part 2: Done has a price; however Done is its own sweet reward.

The IEP for Tim was a mixed bag. On the positive side, in a surprising twist, we had a relatively brief meeting, ending within about 1-1/4 hours (some kind of world record). The other miracle was that he's staying at his current middle school, "retained" in 8th grade by my request.

The ugly side was that I had unforecasted water-works. Not only do I hate-hate-hate crying, but I really don't relish doing so in front of a dozen virtual strangers.

The meeting was not going well...and I was highly irritated by the round-about conversation. For example, the school psychologist raised his social/emotional needs and when I jumped -- perhaps too enthusiastically (as his scores/age-equivalent for instruments like the Vineland put him solidly in the sandbox with the other kindergardeners) to make my case. She said, no, not his functioning levels -- he should still be with his same-age peers. I felt like opening a door, inserting my head and slamming hard.

The case manager, in a clueless effort to mix it up, asked me to tell the team about my long-term goals for Tim-- you know, where I see him. "Let's talk about transition to adult services." I was not at all prepared for the "transition discussion" as California law mandates the IEP begin this at age 16 and Tim is not yet even 14. So I started to answer but was interrupted by the very woman who'd asked me to talk. Just about this time my brain caught up with my mouth warning, "DANGER! EMOTIONAL TAR PIT! DANGER! THIS TOPIC IS TOO SAD-ASS FOR YOU TODAY!"

Too late. The wah-mbulance had arrived. I bolted out the door and leaned against the stupid school wall, wondering in equal parts why I'd ever want to have to come here again and why they'd want to delve into the Second Most Painful Topic on the Planet (What Will Happen to My Baby When He Is an Adult). *If you are wondering, the First Most Painful Topic on the Planet for a Parent of A Person with a Severe Developmental Disability is, naturally: What Will Happen to My Child After I'm Not Here to Care for Him/Her Anymore.* So there I am, watching "typical" middle schoolers wander about, and flashing on both the 2nd and 1st most painful topics -- because they are filed together, at least in my brain cabinet.

Within 45 seconds, from a roomful of women, the ombudsperson (a man) comes outside, grabs my shoulders and sternly delivers a series of short question/answers.
Do you want to continue the meeting?
Do you think you can answer the question?
Do you understand why you need to be the one to answer the question?
Do you want to finish talking about retention?

Boo-hoo for 2.5 more minutes to this former Navy officer who I know is only outside with a sobbing mom out of allegiance to Ben. Yes, I whimper, "I can do a lot of things by myself but I did not sign up to talk about the Big Future sitting alone."

Naturally, he is neither amused nor particularly sympathetic -- especially since the obvious beach ball in front suggests that one of the things I can do is birth a baby without Ben in the room.

I re-entered the room, apologized for my most unfortunate (and suspiciously hormonal) tear-fest, and proceeded to expound on my hopes for Tim:

1. To live as independently as possible.
2. To contribute something to society.
3. To find work that he found rewarding.
4. To be a lifelong learner -- I believe my words were "I'd like to see him take community college classes...I don't care if he takes writing, or music, or macrame, or mumblety-peg if that's the one that appeals to him." (There's that mumblety-peg again!)
5. To have at least one meaningful relationship with someone who is not a blood relative.

Next I detoured on a lecture to the team that discussing something that is 9 years away (age 22) when we cannot even make a decision about where he will attend school in 2 months makes me cringe. That the programs this District has to offer after high school will change, that what they call the programs will most certainly change, that we don't know what the funding streams and legislation will be, etc. Most importantly, I reminded them, he is a Regional Center consumer already, meaning that the Dept. of Developmental Services of the State of California -- if we even live here when he ages out of Dept of Education -- knows him and will share in the responsibility of transition. (I left Everyone looked at their respective toes.

Cue that celestial theme music and the team goes around in a tidy circle of turn-taking, each person giving a perfectly lovely and valid reason that Tim should stay in 8th grade. Unanimous.

Flip the tape and keep singing because then the District administrative designee renewed last year's summer arrangements to add 2-hours to his school day through the summer (when services would otherwise be 8:10-12:10 only).

One more time, keep going, because then the Non-Public School kept all of his direct services intact, which is a freaking home-run.

All I have to say is that for the simple price of undergoing an emotionally-exhausting experience, the IEP is signed with no dissent in about 4.5 hours of total meeting for a child who is enrolled in 2 schools, has a Hughes Bill Behavior Intervention Plan, receives OT/SLP/Music Therapy/Vision Therapy, has an FM trainer for his auditory processing problems, receives non-public agency 1-1 support services for the entirety of his general education "mainstreaming", bus transport, and has 4 Individual Health Service Plans in effect.

In behaviorspeak, the team positively reinforced my negative behavior.
In reality, we all got out the door.