Tuesday: Tim's Award Assembly

Tuesday was a lark, if you enjoy a little physical therapy with your son, a quick drop-off at preschool (Last Official Day before "Summer Fun"), and a speedy zip down to Tim's nonpublic school.

So the first rule of engagement among special education mothers appears to be some bizarre form of who-contributes-the-most. When I arrived, there were about 3 or 4 other moms arriving, all toting massive contributions to the school picnic. (More arrived later, likewise schlepping). One was bringing special activities, one was bringing special food and a ginormous jug of water, and another had overflowing bags of gifts for staff. Then there was me, empty-handed save for a security book (in case I didn't want to engage with my peer group...hmmm, who's on the spectrum now?) and my camera. It is like a perfect lob in tennis -- they are schwacking away at the perceived game and I entered with the finesse shot of not needing to play.

The second rule is to establish dominance. I excel in the indirect version of this game, since Tim was the school's first (and only,for months) student. I have known the staff longer and don't bother interacting in the competition for who knows the most scuttlebutt. Frankly, my dears, I couldn't give a rat's fanny. The pinnacle of my ultimate queen-bee-liness was when the PhD opened the window into the waiting room to have a little conversation about Jack, Tim, LLGA, and ended with "you are just so amazing." Game over.

And the third rule is to compete for who-has-the-specialEST-kid. This is such an unbecoming little requirement. By this point, we had been escorted to a different waiting room in the new building (next door). Now there were 9 or 11 of us. I know it was about ten and I know I was the odd-mom-out. I could overhear snatches of conversation about whose kid's bus ride was the lengthiest (snore), whose kid was seeing what outside person for extra therapy (HUGE snore), whose kid was having some medical test run (IMMEDIATE onset of narcolepsy here...after all, I have a blog so I don't bore strangers like that!), etc.

Enter the Director, who hugs me and has me go on up while the others prattle on. Game, set, match AND my pick of seating. :-)

There's the boy, rather hunched up and eyes semi-closed but in the back and without obvious aide support. Says "hi, Mom" which is about all one can expect given that my presence violates the sacred precept of Separation of Family and School. He sits like a plaster saint, claps for each award-winner. This is a nonpublic school for mostly kids (all boys) with autism (except one) so there's an award for everyone. (Besides, no award and no sporting mommies bring special activities, food, and presents!)

Tim received the last award from the teacher (vice an aide). Alas, I'd prompted him to wipe his chin because the one competition I totally own is the Most Vain about My Kid. My camera falls to the deck and batteries go careening under folded chairs. So during the Why Tim is Great speech, I'm frantically trying to insert batteries the correct direction. Fortunately, I had this distraction so that I didn't fully focus on the verklempt-ness of the teacher as she talked about how proud they are of Tim going to general ed for half of his day and doing so well. I did hear her mention -- for the benefit of the newbies -- that he's been here since they opened their doors.

The best part was that after he took possession of his certificate (pictured below), he brought it to me and decided that I was as good a neighbor as anyone else. This was a huge step over the Family/School Separation barrier. And it gave me a chance to prompt for tissue use. His and mine.

Which brings us to the annual slideshow-to-music. Now last year it was to peppy ditties like the Kinks' "Picture Book". Alas, this year the songs included "What a Wonderful World" (oh...yeah) and "You've Got a Friend". That's right, slow, meaningful, and lyric with the sad-ass photos of one kid after another that didn't ever get a shot at normal along with one staff member after another who's doing the same thing day after day in order to measure a percentage-improvement. Of course, this is within the live studio audience of drooling, head-banging, yelling-out, rocking, and so on.

Naturally, in conjunction with a little stress in one's daily life and a whole lotta hormones, I went for the silent tearful sob with the Clintonian lip-bite. Remember that at least 3 of the staff were present for my tear-fest at Tim's IEP meeting a couple of weeks ago so I'm now firmly ensconced in the Gallery of Weepers. Ugh.

Escaped as soon as possible, skipping the school picnic in order to fetch Charlie.

Anyway, hooray for Tim. The Sand Crab will be proud of his eldest son's "Work Ethic" award.



Postscripts:
* Admittedly, this posting has been rendered a bit more HBO-edgy than it might have otherwise been. Think of the show Dexter...it wouldn't be so clever if he were just your average joe inspecting blood-splatter patterns -- way more entertaining that he dissects people on the side.

* I preferred to view the prelude to the awards through the lens of competitive spirit rather than consider that the other moms just don't like me. However, upon mentioning the goings-on to Patty Xena, she gently explained that the other moms she knows with kids there (none of whom were present during the waiting room scene) all say that Tim is the reigning Valedictorian. She continued, with her Marriage/Family Therapist training, that I need to understand that they wish their kids looked that good and that it was unreasonable of me to expect good cheer / overt friendliness under such circumstances. I tried to protest that mine only looks this good under these precise conditions and she firmly announced that this is the burden of parenting the Prom King/Class President.