Please remember to pray for Regina Doman Schmiedecke and her family as you go about your daily round this week and in the weeks to come. Regina has given us all so much that is good and beautiful with her books. Please offer your prayers as we mourn the loss of four-year-old Joshua. Information regarding the funeral and donations can be found on the prayer thread. Join us there to pray a novena for the Schmiedecke family.
Many years ago, when I was fresh out of college, I took my first job teaching in a public school. The entire school was a "special needs school." I didn't apply for a special needs job. I wanted to teach kindergarten, preferably in the neighborhood school near my home. Instead, I was in a special needs school, teaching first grade to 21 students. I had an aide for one hour a day. My principal had a strict policy against teachers talking with one another (I'm not kidding). I was on my own.
Have I mentioned yet that I was 21, I got married the first week of school, was pregnant by the end of Christmas break, and didn't have a degree in special ed?
My friend Jan reminded me that the special ed majors had all the same classes we did except for a very few. Perhaps I could do this...The children were, with few exceptions, from very needy and broken homes. There were days, almost every day actually, when I just wanted to take them home with me, feed them good food, give them baths, read them stories, and tuck them in bed. I definitely had classroom management problems. The school psychologist told me it was because I was too available. I didn't distance myself enough. She was probably right; how do you distance yourself from need? I could never get parent volunteers for anything from chaperoning field trips to classroom parties. My new husband, bless his heart, was the de-facto room mother. It was there, in the utter chaos of that sad classroom, that we decided to homeschool.
Our first child was born and eighteen months later, I was diagnosed with cancer. That experience cemented the decision. We were not sending this child out of our home for the better part of every day to let strangers shape his heart and mind. There is something about being reminded that you don't know how long you have to love your child that makes you want to be certain that every day is lived according to its precious worth.
They warned us we'd probably never have another child. Our second son was born eighteen months after I finished treatment. Apparently, "they" didn't consult God.
This child was wired differently. High need, certainly. "Special needs?" I had my suspicions, but I really didn't know. We bumped along with him until he was just four. Then, I was certain that there were special needs. We had him tested, eager to learn if the diagnosis was Attention Deficit or Sensory Integration Disorder. No, the reply came, there's no problem here at all. Academically, he was right on track. And the experts all scratched their heads at that, given that he had had no formal preschool.
We continued on, learning and living together and adding a new baby every two years. He struggled. Things that made most kids smile--birthday parties, theme parks, big holiday gatherings, play groups--all made him cry. So we avoided those. We adapted and compensated and persevered. It just became integrated to our lifestyle.
It took a very long time, but he learned to read. And all along, he had been listening. He heard all the stories read aloud, all the great language and literature, and he took it all to heart. He has the soul of a poet, but simple things evade him. And numbers are his nemesis.
With adolescence in full bloom and things like driver's ed and SATs lurking in his not-too-distant future, we decided we needed to know more precisely what his challenges are. We began this summer with a battery of tests. The scores surprised us; his deficiencies were far beyond what we'd imagined. The tester puzzled over his "inconsistencies."
He didn't behave the way most kids did who were tested by her. He wasn't rude or poorly behaved or non-compliant. Despite substantial reading difficulites, he has a good grasp on stories and an amazing sense of literature. Though handwriting was literally painful and spelling evaded him, he can compose. Boy, can he compose! "Still," she suggested with a knowing smile and a bit of a condescending air, "you need a team to help you with your boy. He needs a special needs classroom or a special needs school." I shuddered. She kept referring to him as "your boy," as if she couldn't remember his name. I kept nodding and blinking back tears.
Oh, but I have a team, and it's growing every day.
When I read the extensive report at home, I discovered that in some places, she did, indeed, get his name wrong. And, I think she got him wrong. There is no doubt we have serious needs here. But she missed the blessings entirely. She failed to see, from her institutionalized paradigm, how well home education has served him. She missed his gifts entirely because they don't fit into her neat little boxes. She missed my boy.
But I didn't. And I won't.
Lissa is reviewing planners at the Lilting House and she has found a real gem today!
I was recently talking with a massage therapist. She had three degrees, including an MBA. I asked her how she ended up doing what she does. She told me that she had given massages at a fancy spa to work her way through grad school. Then, she went out into the corporate world. She quickly grew tired of the lifestyle and sat down to make a list of all the jobs she'd done. She found that massage was the one way she had literally "touched" people. In her experience, most people are starved for touch and that contact is essential to the well-being of all of us. So, she decided to go to work every day in a room with candles and classical music, literally touching and healing.
Ann at Holy Experience has written a series of posts on touch that give us much to ponder, particularly as our children grow older. The need for touch doesn't go away. I remember a child of mine who needed to be held constantly. Until he was six or seven or maybe eight, he could not go to sleep without rubbing and holding my upper arm. Now, I'm not even sure he gets a hug a day, every day. What happened there? He's 5'9", for one thing. He goes to sleep much later than I do, for another. Still, there is so much in Ann's posts that is convicting. Children need our touch well beyond their early years. For that matter, their daddies need it too.
Need some inspiration? Rebecca recommends a heavenly talc-free powder. Trust me, the coordinating apricot baby oil is too heavenly to be limited to babies.
Here's a very simple way to make some beautiful fireworks of your own, safely inside.
Water down a little tempera paint in several different colors and put each in a shallow bowl. Cover one end of a straw with your finger and dip the other end in the bowl. Put the straw over your paper and release the paint. Blow the paint in several directions. Before it dries, sprinkle with glitter. Don't pick it up until it's completely dry.
I'm Elizabeth. I'm a happy wife and the mother of nine children. I grab grace with both hands and write to encourage myself and others to seize and nurture the joy of every day. I blog here with my daughter, Mary Beth, a wholehearted young lady on the brink of adulthood.
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