The First Shopping Trip

Kindsay loves food.  When she wakes in the morning, she goes straight to breakfast.  (most of us will hit the bathroom first?) She gets her Pop Tarts, slams herself into the recliner, and devours them.  She gulps her milk down so fast you can hear it upstairs.  When she finishes with breakfast she secures her lunch for school.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, she gets dressed for school...hair thrown into a ponytail and clothes placed on her body without thought, such an inconvenience.  When she walks through the door at the end of the day she calls me.  It doesn't matter that every time she does I ignore it (if I'm close to being home) or answer it and tell her "I don't know," and hang up.  I know what she wants.  "What is for dinner?"  Boy, if I don't have that planned out...you can forget it!  I will suffer.  And if she finally gives up on me and eats something random, and I actually do cook dinner, I get an earful for not telling her.  I say, "I didn't know at the time.  I told you to just wait!"  But that's not good enough.  Why didn't I tell her?  Did I know she was going to go eat something else?  Why did I let her do that so now she is too full to eat what I've made?
Well, at least someone cares about dinner...my boys eat everything doused in ketchup so they don't care what I cook.
Kindsay finally got some money for her groceries.  She always told us that when she got her money for groceries when she turned 18 that she was going to buy her food and we were not going to be allowed to eat it.  We would not be able to have any of her food.  It would be hers and we would get in huge trouble if we touched it.  OK...uh-huh.  We know, Kindsay, we won't touch your precious food.
So she gets her money and we go to Target.  I get a shopping cart, and she comes up from behind with one of her own.  She has some big humongous blingy boots on with her maxi skirt swaying down the aisles like the food is being emptied off the shelves as we speak.  She is like a bullet train getting to her next destination.  Yikes.  I can't even tell people fast enough "excuse us" because she is blowing past them.  I stop worrying about other people.  If they can't get out of her way on their own, it's their problem.
I tell her, "I have to go grab a few things over there, so I will meet you in the food section.  Just for now pick out a couple of things you like."  I don't know that she cared if I was still in the store, she was already zoned into the food.  I asked Greg to follow her because...well, you never know.  Just follow her please.
I get my things and head back to the food section.  I can't see her but I can hear her bellowing, "Where's the _____?"  "Can I get one of these?"  "How many should I take?"  It's like she's never eaten before the way she is looking at the food.  I follow her voice to find her and Greg in an aisle.  I look in her cart.  No kidding--five 2-liters of soda, 3 bottles of sparkling cider, 1 box of hot cider packets, 2 bottles of sparkling flavored water, some mini wrapped cheeses, and a couple boxes of Pop Tarts.  Wait a minute!--I say.  I start putting things back, like 3 of the sodas, 2 bottles of sparkling cider...she starts protesting.  I look at Greg, "Really?  You couldn't say no to her?"  He tells me that what I see in the cart IS a result of him saying no.  "You should've seen the cart before I said no!"  Well, we need to say it some more because she is not going to drink through her grocery money and she's not eating like royalty out of Target (who eats baby cheeses?)  I tell Kindsay, "You have to keep your voice down, I can hear you across the store."
"That's nothing," Greg tells me, "You should've heard her earlier.  She was so loud while looking for things, a guy three aisles away hollered that what she was looking for was over by him."
Oh geez.  It takes a village, doesn't it!?
I finally get Greg to pull in the reins more, he's shooting down all her requests for this and that gourmet whatever, until she mentions seafood.  His eyes lit up and he floated behind her while she headed to the frozen food.  They pull out frozen shrimp and Greg loses his judgment completely.  I have to monitor both of them at this point.  It also didn't help that Kindsay's favorite food is steak..."Where's the steak?"  I explain that we can go to the Meat Market for steak, not Target.  That satisfies her only if I can give her an actual date that we'll go. Uh, Monday, Monday, okay?...I choose whatever day is enough away that I can get her to forget or at least hush about it for now.
So now we're up to a bag of bagels, flavored cream cheese, flavored oatmeal, frozen shrimp and fish fillets, mini powdered donuts, a few boxes of sugar cereal, some frozen pasta dishes, and mac n cheese.  I resign, but, I tell her...This is IT until next month!  You get one trip, then you have to eat it slowly or you'll be out of food in a matter of days.  I don't know that she is able to register what I say while her eyes are whirling looking at the food in such a new light.
We get home and I assign her a drawer in the pantry and a part of a shelf.  She can have those for her food.  Oh, thank goodness for sugary, salty, over-processed food--the factories are working overtime now that Kindsay has grocery money!  Manufacturers are partying hard--Kellogg's is treating their employees to a cruise...General Mills just wrote bonus checks to their employees, Kraft's processing plant just pushed the conveyer belt speed to "Kindsay's here!"  A new chapter in our lives.  And this one is going to be long.

The Special in Special Olympics

You know you've become desensitized to something when it occurs and you stop blinking.  My extra special guy, I'll call Buddy (because that's actually what a lot of adults call him, even though it's not his real name,) continues to hit, grab, and chase staff and students.  What I don't think I mentioned is that when he realizes we aren't going to react to his shenanigans (yes, I said it) he will do something more drastic.  Like...dropping his pants and underpants.  I can count on both hands how many times he has stripped to nakedness on our campus during school hours when other students are out, especially during lunch.  It's like dinner and a show when Buddy is on one of his episodic rants to get out of being at school.  It got to the point where we put a belt on him and tighten it pretty snug so he can't pull his pants down.  He knows which buttons to push--and when, smart kid.
So I'm actually doing a little teaching last week when Buddy decided to get my attention--once again, away from the other students.  I'm at the white board helping a student write the date.  He keeps making his Ds look like Qs.  I figure I'd better do a dot-to-dot so he can trace on top of mine.  While I do that, Buddy darts up to the front of the room and starts slapping me open-handed on the back.  Smack! Smack!  I don't even look over my shoulder (is this what the district is hoping for?...that I learn to just live with this?)  Buddy's attempts to get me riled up go no where, so in front of the classroom, with three students at their seats and one at the board, Buddy pulls everything down.  The belt was on the second-to-last notch...see how we have to keep it tight?  He stands there with just a tee shirt on, still smacking me.  Smack!! Bam!! on my back, I'm still teaching the other student how to write the name of the day.  I turn to look at him and see that his pants are down, the bare moon risen, and I turn back to the board.  Funny thing is...the students didn't react either.  Snooze, yawn they say.  Is that all you got Buddy?  they think.  I pull the radio from my pant waist and call for the other teacher to come pull up his pants so I can continue teaching, which is a rare event these clogged days.  Smack!  All the while my back is on fire from being slapped.  But hey--the other student traced the D with much more accuracy this time.  Good job.
But we aren't here for Buddy today.  Kindsay has begun Special Olympic swim training.  She loves to swim. Physical activity is not on her top twenty of things she loves to do.  I don't even know that it's on the top thirty.  But when it comes to swimming, it jumps to the top ten.  She's been swimming since she was two.  I took her into my grandpa's pool and laid her on her tummy and off she went.  Little polly wog.  The only thing that kind of bites is that the swim training is being done across town...bleh...other than that, it's over two hours twice a week that she is swimming laps.  Take that Mac 'n Cheese microwave packs!  She will burn you off with a flip of her foot!  (she probably eats three of those a day.)  The problem we are having is that she isn't understanding the concept of competition.  "Mom...I want a gold medal, do I get a gold medal?  What do I have to do to get a gold medal."  Well, Kindsay, you have to win the race. You have to beat all the other kids in the race.  "If I can't get a gold medal, I don't want to do swimming.  What about 2nd or 3rd or something, am I going to get that?  oh...I don't want that, I want 1st."  Again, I say, you have to win the race, and that will require you to practice.
We are at the pool for the first practice.  There must be thirty athletes ranging in ages from fourteen to twenty-four.  They jump into the warm water with their goggles, swim caps, and uniform suits and wait for the coach's call.  Kindsay doesn't have goggles or a swim cap and her pink and black Speedo swimsuit was from Dick's Sporting Goods (Kindsay calls it the Inappropriate Sport Store.)  Nevertheless she jumps in.  Coaches line the lanes as they prepare to assist three lanes full of athletes at a time.  Their shouts of swim strokes "free stroke!" "butterfly!" "dolphin swim!" "back stroke!" fill the evening air.  Kindsay is hanging on the ropes going, "Eeeeeee, Eeeeeee, Eeeeee..."  If I can't find her among the athletes in the water I just have to follow the noise.  Finally I verbally nudge her, "Kindsay!  Start doing laps!"  Off she goes, doing a little free stroke, and then a dip, feet up, and on to doggy paddle or her sea bass swim wear she pops up and cruises on her stomach.  The other athletes are feverishly working to get to the end of the lane.  Kindsay pops up, "eeeeeeee, eeeeeeee" and continues on.  Midway through the lane she stops to hang on the rope.  "Kindsay!  Keep swimming!"  I call to her.  I'm trying to get her to take this seriously but she thinks its July at grandpa's pool.  Okay, I tell myself, she's out of shape and this is hard work, let her body adjust to the rigor.  "Eeeeeeee!"  I want to jump in the water and pull her tugboat style down the lane to finish.  The athletes then go to the edge of the pool to await more commands from coaches.  Kindsay cruises up, hangs on the rope watching the "hot" guys on the dive team next to them.  She then hangs on it to stare at the athletes next to her with their goggles and caps and stern swimming faces.  "Eeeeeeee..."  She's not mimicking a dolphin, though it does sound like Sea World.  She makes the noise because she just makes noises--it's what she does.  Coaches are asking if she's okay...what, have you never seen a special needs child?  like mine?  Just when I think she is getting the hang of the laps and lanes and spirit of the practice I look up to see her on her back, kicking her feet, hands floating beside her.  I think I saw her spout water from her mouth too.  Just la-dee-da'ing down the lane, running into athletes who see her coming because they have goggles while she heads straight for them on her back.  And then when she does her dip and cruise her four-foot long legs are bumbling around in people's faces while they are working on their gold-winning strokes.  I gave up trying to quasi-coach her from the bleachers.  I found it better to act like I'm there for someone else.  Go! kid in the scuba goggles....Go!..girl with the swim cap...uh, go! athletes that are swimming and not leisurely strolling down the watery lane.  I have to remind myself that these aren't regular Olympics, these are Special Olympics.  Everyone better get a medal, or I'm in big trouble.  Actually, none of us will ever hear the end of her torment, so we'll all be in trouble.  With that in mind, I might as well cheer her on.  Go!...girl with the best float form and dolphin imitation.  Go! Go! GO!...seriously, just go.  *sigh*

Now What?

I've probably had the most trying year as a teacher.  It's been over eleven years since I began my teaching career, first with students with learning disabilities.  These are students who have normal intelligence, but are unable to learn like typical peers without support to tap into their learning styles.  Then, I made a leap to the moderate/severe spectrum, requiring me to get another credential, which in California meant another two plus years of schooling.  All in all, I spent thirteen years in college to become a teacher.  Odd as it sounds, right?  Shouldn't I be a doctor?  I could've spent less time and be earning significantly more money!  Hindsight...tsk tsk. 
But I can't complain. I've birthed four children and been able to see all their firsts and be with them until they went into school.  I had my first child and went to get an administrative assistant certificate...what a waste of time.  I flew through that eighteen month program without a blink of the eye.  What a bore.  Did I need that to be able to answer phones?  I was hired at a produce procurement company that brokered produce for companies nationwide and into Canada.  Three months I spent there answering phones.  I was moved up to assistant buyer and was eventually placed on the largest account.  I worked with some terrific people, and some not so terrific.  I remember one day looking at the gentlemen next to me.  They worked there many, many years, most of them without college educations, and there I sat among them, topping out at twenty-two.  What was I doing?  I didn't love the job, got paid very little, and had almost no respect being one of two women doing what I did.  It was time I did more.  With my oldest age four by then and my second child, Kindsay, just nine months old, I headed to college.  I gave birth to my first son between semesters, and then had my youngest three weeks into my credential program and returned after missing only two classes.  I barreled through, accomplishing my bachelor's, master's, and two credentials with two levels, and only two Bs the entire thirteen years without a drop of sweat from my head.  (I don't get on myself for the Bs.  One was in Calculus, and I took it at the same time I took pre-Calc, and the other was in an online pilot class for level two statistics.  It was a challenging class to do online.)  Hmph...whatever, right?  So I worked my tail off to get where I am.  Ahhh...finally--right where I want to be.  Teaching children with intellectual disabilities how to manage their lives, be independent, learn to navigate their ways into adulthood...it truly is rewarding when you see a child with Down syndrome accomplish a task that was foreign only months before.  I used to want to go into administration, but I've since learned that you can't be a mom first.  You have to give up many hours, uncompensated, to keep up appearances that all is well when in fact the school is a mess because higher ups lose touch with the work in the trenches.  Not only that, but the lawmakers make it more and more restrictive for school districts to do what is necessary to graduate students who are truly ready to tackle life in the way they are most suited for.  That is waaaay too frustrating for me to have to see up close.  As a teacher, I can see it from a distance, and it doesn't feel so ugly like I imagine it does from the front row. 
Snooze, bore...come on Yvette...blah blah blah, me me me.  No, I'm not great, I'm no hero, I'm not one of the noble ones (although if you haven't been in a classroom, particularly in the communities I serve, then you have absolutely no idea what awaits teachers every day unless you watch Dangerous Minds or something...there was no exaggeration in that movie whatsoever--except leave out the heart-warming ending.)  I'm not here to talk about my accomplishments--those are mediocre and done out of necessity.  What I do want to say is that I went through all that education, spent the money, time, energy to be where I wanted to be--and now I want out.
Typical job boredom?  No.  Ready for more challenging work?  No.  Feel like it isn't me?  No.  Tired of getting my butt kicked and life threatened every day?  Yes.
Here is the criminal part of teaching, especially in California, in the United States--teachers have no rights...only the students have rights, even their parents have more rights than the teachers.  What is considered appalling to many civilians is what I face daily.  I am slapped, spit on, hair-pulled, violated, and scratched just about daily, and there is nothing I can do about it.  There is a lot I've said already, so I won't go on any further at this point, but I will share with you in subsequent entries what I am dealing with this year, and probably from now on, so that you understand what the teaching trenches are burdened with.  All I ask of you, reader, is that you refrain from judging me or my fellow teachers, as we do the very best we can with what resources we have.  Unfortunately, there are no resources grand enough to subdue a student who wants to go home and will stop at nothing to make it happen, including taking me by the hair and yanking me to the ground.  I must offer this student a full day of education whether I want to or not. 
Thirteen years...thousands of dollars...to get spit on?  Sounds crazy?!  That's just the tip of it.

scratches received by a student...just another day at the office

I will be writing more frequently on this--I'm a bit overwhelmed and frazzled these days, but venting through my blog releases enough to get me by.