Another IEP Meeting Under My Belt

This morning I attended a meeting to renew Hannah's IEP (Individualized Education Program) for her kindergarten year. When I look at how far we've come, I'm awed. This is the little girl who, on her first day of preschool just before her third birthday, could not walk and could not speak. She only attempted verbal interaction with a cat. Now Hannah runs and jumps and sings along with Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals. She's possibly the only child in her class who can dribble a basketball (which, by the way, is nearly as large as she is) and she can hit a t-ball like a pro. When she meets people in a store or on the street, she approaches them and asks, "What's your name?" Every employee at our local grocery store knows Hannah by name. I wouldn't be surprised if everyone in our TOWN knew her by name.

Something about Hannah is both disarming and engaging. I find myself hoping I can bring her along when I know I will be in stressful situations because she has a way of relaxing tension with her innocent and genuine affection and outgoing personality. At least, that is, until she has a public meltdown.

Hannah is bright and intelligent with one little problem. She is easily distracted, and that's an understatement. Rather, she is continuously, perpetually distracted. Lately I have taken to shooting instructions at her like an automatic weapon: "Hannah, get your socks get your socks get your socks get your socks" until she finally has her socks in hand. Somehow I don't think that will work in a classroom setting. So how will she succeed in kindergarten?

First, she will have a para. Not her very own para, but a para in the classroom to help the special needs kids. I think there will be 3 or 4 special needs children in her class, but I don't know for certain. In preschool Hannah is seated with five other children and a teacher. When she's distracted, the teacher can immediately redirect her. In kindergarten there will be one teacher for 20 (give or take) students and instructions will be given to everyone at one time.

I imagine Hannah's classroom experience to go something like this:

Teacher: "Everyone take out your...(Sally sneezes)...and a piece of...(Timmy taps his pencil). Now write...(Susie's paper falls on the floor). Draw a...(Rhonda raises her hand)...and color it...(the para walks across the room).

As I understand it, the para will be with Hannah to ensure that she hears and follows all of the instructions. So why do I have a huge knot in my stomach and a sense of impending doom? Who worries about their kid flunking kindergarten, for goodness sake?

What do I do? Surely I'm supposed to DO something. Right? Where did I put that Hannah manual? I think they forgot to give it to me when we left the hospital the day after she was born. Should I be changing her diet? Instigating consistent scheduling at home? Giving her additional schooling at home? Relaxing her home environment to compensate for the highly sensory school environment? Surely there's some strange tea found only in the Amazon jungle that would solve all of our problems. Where do I get some of that?

Right now I simply want to stick my head in the sand...or maybe just in my laptop. I have no answers and no clarity about the situation. When I try to think about it, my cranium fills with cotton and I lose the sense of confidence I've come to rely upon.

For now I'll fall back on hope--hope that the summer will bring refreshment and maturity as well as a sense of simplicity that is right now clouded by a complicated day.