No One Knows The Words A Child Cannot Say

The disability world has its fair share of inspirational quotes. Some are actually inspiring, some are trite, and  a few are downright dangerous. The quote below (popular among some mothers of nonverbal children) falls solidly into the dangerous category.

"A mother knows the words her child cannot say."

First, this is inaccurate. While I wish that I knew the words my children could not say, that's just impossible. Come over any day this week and watch my almost-two-year-old rage against my ignorance by tantrumming loudly on the floor when I hand him the not-the-one-he-was-thinking-of toy from the too-tall-to-reach shelf. He'll be happy to point out that parents are not always accurate mindreaders. And he's only two. If I can't even predict which toy he wants when he's pointing and whining, how could I possibly predict the complex (and sometimes random) thoughts of my 6 year old, who has very limited speech? 

But more than inaccurate, there is a danger in quotes like this. This says "Mom, you've got this. Be secure in knowing that your connection to your child is stronger than language. You know what s/he can't say. Don't worry." But, well, that's clearly not true. I'm not a mindreader, and neither are you. And by sharing and promoting images like this one, we are (unintentionally, of course) spreading the idea that a) the child's thoughts are simple enough to be consistently accurately predicted and b) we shouldn't be (doggedly, enthusiastically, urgently) pursuing some sort of AAC that can provide them with a way to say exactly what they want to say, all of the time, to anyone.

So if this isn't an ideal image to share, what would be? I have a few ideas:

This is a bit more accurate:

Because it's not just about moms:

Because 80s rap enhances any meme:

In case you're not familiar with 80s rap:

This is certainly true for me:

And to include dads, too: 

And here's one if you're a really big fan of details:

For the dads, too:

And guess what, SLPs? While researching this post, I also stumbled across this dangerous saying, targeted at you and yours:

Don't worry---I made a new one for you, too:

Because the bottom line is this:

There. Much better.

Edited to add: The Facebook album of these memes also contains several others: for friends, teachers, therapists, SLPs, caregivers, ones that say "mum", and few others. 

These will be up in an album on our Facebook page, and also have their own board on Pinterest.

Perceptions Drives . . . Everything

from the smart people at www.praacticalAAC.org

Perception

Maya loses her balance and falls regularly. She walks the way a bowling ball rolls down a lane with bumpers---diagonally, occasionally veering into a wall and bouncing back to continue crookedly the other way. She seems unaware that her mouth often hangs open, which leads to drooling issues. She often has a hand or fingers in her mouth. When you speak to her, she may or may not look at you, or in your direction. If you talk to her when she is involved with something else it’s quite possible that she won’t even look up, and you’ll wonder if she’s hearing, or able to process, anything that you’re saying.  She may or may not answer yes/no questions reliably (favoring “yeah”) and so when you speak to her you wonder if she’s able to understand what you’re saying or just answering automatically.  You may know her (alleged, per her mom) favorite topics, and try to engage her in conversation, only to be met with blank, open-mouthed silence.  You may have heard that she can (allegedly, per her mom) use a fancy communication device, and you turn it on (thinking “this is way too complicated, with far too many buttons”) and put it in front of her and she looks away, and you say “tell me something with your talker” and she stares at you or slumps in her chair and smiles, teetering too close to the edge and looking sure to fall.

-----------

When Maya is excited, she can move with speed that I never would have imagined a few years ago. I hold my breath when she runs, each unsteady step seeming sure to lead to a vicious fall, but I am impressed with the way that she usually manages to steady herself. The surge in speaking that has happened over the past 10 months tells me that she’s starting to coordinate her mouth muscles in new, wonderful ways. Maya is clever and surprisingly funny. She likes to laugh and to make people laugh and will tell “jokes” that are only funny to preschoolers (like telling us that it’s rainy on a sunny day, or telling us that she wants an alligator for dinner---each followed by a cackle). She is creative, pretending that she’s taking her dolls for a walk not to the grocery store or the doctors, but to the amusement park where they all ride roller coasters. She has a memory that consistently surprises me (if I tell her before school that she can have a cookie after school, you better believe that her first words off the bus in the afternoon are “cookie, please”). I wish I knew how her brain processes things----all too often I see her focused on something so intently that I’m nearly sure she can’t hear me at all, only to have her suddenly turn and answer my question a minute or two later  . . .  as if I were rudely interrupting earlier and now that I’ve given her some space she’ll comply and answer my question.  She has reminded me about numerous appointments that I would have forgotten (“Monday! Speech therapy!”).  She is a master manipulator, and has learned to avoid questions and demands by creating a situation that requires the adult to abandon their request and responded to her instead----like threatening to drop something important, or dangling off furniture so that she needs to be repositioned, or putting her head down and acting as if she’s so tired that she couldn’t possibly continue. She keeps us on our toes. 

Perception drives expectation

When Maya was two and a half she was evaluated by the preschool section of the DOE (among other things, these evaluations determine whether children have impairments significant enough to qualify for a center-based preschool, where all therapies would be provided on site).  Her scores qualified her for services across all domains (speech, physical therapy, etc) but one number stood out: her cognitive functioning was in the 0.04^th percentile for her age. This meant that out of all 2.5 year olds, Maya was in the lowest half of a percent, cognitively speaking. Based on the data from these evaluations, it seemed that Maya was severely, severely impaired . . . a reader of these reports could expect a child that was close to vegetative. Unable to walk, unable to speak, with almost no receptive language (about 2 words), leaving her unable to understand anything said to her. The lowest of the low. She needed a therapeutic preschool, where they will hopefully be able to make some kind, any kind, of progress.

-----------

When Maya was two and a half she was evaluated by the preschool section of the DOE, strangers who arrived with a flourish, loudly asked many questions, and then disappeared. She was shy, and her responses ranged from nervous to puzzled to noncompliant. The woman who would go on to determine her “cognitive functioning” was late, unengaging, and, well, not very good. The results come in the mail a month later, and while it’s never fun to get crappy test results, we see them for what they are (biased, ridiculous, a means to an end and nothing more).  Maya is signing, making animal sounds, playing in an imaginative way (little animals go in the barn, little people sit in chairs for a pretend birthday party, etc), and shows clear understanding of a million little things all day long. She’s got preferences and opinions, and she is determined.  She needs to go to a therapeutic preschool, where they will hopefully be able to recognize her amazing potential, and have the skills to work with a child with a sharp brain but an uncooperative body, to help her gain movement, knowledge, and the ability to communicate what’s going on in her head.

Expectation drives opportunity

Before Maya met her preschool teacher, the teacher had already met Maya. Although we didn’t have the concise, powerful sound bite that “expectation drives opportunity,” we had that understanding (Dave and I were both teachers, and we watched students rise to high expectations year after year) and we were certain to help Maya’s staff set the bar high for her. Prior to the first day of school, they received a packet of information about her, and video clips that showed some of her skills and translated her signs. We had already exchanged emails about her, and the main messages were “don’t let her trick you into thinking she doesn’t understand you---she always does” and “push her---she will keep impressing you if you keep pushing her.”  Maya had been assigned to the smallest class, the class of kids who are, by and large, the neediest of the school (that’s where those evaluations put her, and it turned out to be fortuitous, because the staff in that room was fantastic). Her teacher saw the strengths in all of the kids, and pushed. When she showed me ideas for a communication board, we ran with it at home, and turned it into a word book. The teacher embraced the word book and then supported our quest for assistive tech, despite never before having used a full, dynamic communication system in the classroom.

-----------

When the assistive tech evaluator (L) met Maya, she didn’t expect much at all. L assigned her a low tech device, despite our insistence (and Maya’s demonstration) that she needed so much more. L said “I only give these devices to students who can show me during the course of the evaluation that they are able to use it to make sentences.” This boggled my mind, as I couldn’t imagine preschoolers picking a system up so quickly---yet I was sure that Maya could do it eventually. “How old are the kids you typically give it to?” I asked, and she replied “9 or 10, usually.  Some are a little younger.” 

-----------

We were not willing to let L’s expectations control Maya’s opportunities, and fortunately, Maya’s teacher agreed. She kept her expectations high (and we hoisted the bar up a giant notch when we came into school with a new, huge AAC app, set the iPad on the table, and said “Yeah, we’re sure she can do this.”) . . . and because of this, we laid resources in front of Maya and let her try it all.  She had opportunities, particularly the opportunity to be pushed and supported into a large AAC system, that the majority of 3 year olds simply do not have (although I’d like to change that).   

Opportunity drives achievement

L, the assistive tech evaluator who determined that Maya should only use a simple device, had a plan for Maya. She explained that we shouldn’t overwhelm her with a system that would be too big, or too complicated . . . it would only lead to frustration for Maya, who then might reject the system and cease trying to communicate with it at all. We should start small. Maya would have a device that gave her access to 32 words at a time, a number that was small and manageable. Because the teacher could create 8 sets of 32 words, she could have a set for art, a set for lunch, etc. It might take time, but over the next year Maya would learn how to access the words, possibly even achieving some success with creating simple phrases and sentences.

-----------

We downloaded the big, full AAC app, and we had a plan for Maya. We would present words slowly, but (because of the very smart design of the app) she would always be able to touch a button that made every single word available to her. We would model as much as we could. We wouldn’t force anything, but we would become AAC users ourselves, immersing her in it, and we would leave the door open for her to follow us through (and maybe we would nudge her along a bit, too).  Grammar, mistakes, times when she pushed the talker away, a favorite word pressed ad nauseam . . . none of it mattered if she would be able to say things that were on her mind. We so wanted to know what was on her mind. If we were painting, we wanted her to be able to say “grandpa” if she wanted to paint grandpa---not to be limited to a predetermined set of 32-words-that-someone-else-thinks-Maya-might-want-to-say-when-she’s-painting. We wanted her to have all of the words, to be able to choose her words at any moment, the same way that any other 3/4/5 year old speaking child can . . . and she did.

She told us about the weather, she counted, she spelled her name. She told us her ideas about what we should do on a given afternoon, what we should eat for dinner, what song we should sing. She told us that she loved us, and who she played with at school, and that her ear hurt (it was an ear infection), and who she wanted to Skype with.  She showed creativity, the ability to analyze information, the ability to make connections, (kind of impressive) memory, wittiness, kindness, and sarcasm.  She could communicate, truly.

Achievement drives perception

In the fall, Maya will start kindergarten and leave the security of preschool behind. To find the classroom that will be the best possible fit for her next year (the most perceptive leading to the highest expectations and granting the greatest opportunities, so to speak) we have been assessed, evaluated, and interviewed within an inch of our lives.  In recent months we were asked (by the DOE) to tour certain schools, and several requested that I bring Maya for the tour/interview.  We toured the facilities, heard about class sizes, visited potential classrooms (with Maya wandering right into the middle of the action, of course).  The school personnel had looked over her case, watched Maya boldly step into the classrooms, and smiled in a satisfied way that said yes-this-will-be-a-good-fit.  Until we returned to their offices, and I put the talker in front of Maya, then ignored her and spoke with the other adults. It only takes a minute or two of ignoring before she starts speaking up (although if you try to interrogate her she can hold onto a stubborn silence for.ev.er.) . As she tapped out a full sentence to request a snack or a drink, I could see a flicker---“oh, wait a second . . . “---and as I gently led her into more creative territory (what do you want to do today, who should go with us, what do you think we’ll see there, hold on---what day is tomorrow, again?) the flicker grew, and they were wide-eyed, surprised by this quiet girl who had tricked them.  And maybe (hopefully), surprised by their misassessment.

And, in a mere minute, a huge perception shift. In the following minutes, the comments that Maya “was too advanced” and “wouldn’t be a good cognitive fit here” and “clearly needs to be somewhere where she will be challenged” and “is full of potential, wow!”

In the space of only three minutes Maya’s achievement with AAC reshaped their perception of her as a learner which raised their expectations for her academic potential and offered her the opportunity to not be relegated to an ill-fitting, limiting classroom . . .

In a month-ish, she’ll start in a new school, with a new staff and new classmates and not a single person that she knows. And so the cycle starts again . . . and I’ll be sending over a new packet . . . because I know that my girl isn’t easy to read, and I’m going to try to shape their perception, to show them Maya that I see---manipulative, sassy, stubborn, clever, and full of potential.  

We Are More Thankful Than You Are

(By "we" I mean parents of kids with special needs.  By "you" I mean parents of normal/ average/ typical kids.)

Ok, so thankfulness probably isn't supposed to be a competition.  And before parents of typical kids stop reading---or start sending hate mail---let me quickly say that for a few months I was a parent of a typical kid, and I sure was grateful.  I celebrated her first smile (right on track at 6 weeks), gleefully welcomed her first laughs (which we even have on video) and appreciated the heck out of my lovely, growing, happy, healthy baby girl.  Had some parent of a kid with special needs tried to tell me "We're more thankful than you are" I would have bristled like a porcupine, shot some eye daggers, and thought passive aggressive things.

But really, it's kind of true.

A parent of a typical child has the luxury of "taking things for granted"-a phrase so overused that it's worth taking a minute to really break that down.  In taking something for granted, one accepts something as a given or true, often without showing appreciation.  While all parents wonder and worry about the future of their child, the worries of a typical parent have an undercurrent of things-taken-for-granted.

• Will she get good grades?  Of course she'll recognize letters and numbers, and learn to read, and do math, and understand abstract ideas like weather and history.  And obviously, she will be able to hold a pencil and learn to write and sit in a desk and listen to the teacher (sometimes, anyway). 
• Will he play sports?   Of course he'll stand independently, and walk, and run, and jump, and climb stairs, and not need a walker or a wheelchair or a cane. 
• Will he be teased?  You know, not "when will he be teased" or "will he understand when he's being teased" or "will he ever have friends who will just accept him as he is" or "will he have the strength and resiliency to rise above the kids who tease him, because, oh yes, there will be kids who tease him."
• Will she get married?  Of course she'll have relationships and date and all that jazz.
• Will he go to a good college?  Will he stay on the path to college?  Of course he'll go through K-12 like everyone else, graduate high school and be college-ready, if that's the path he chooses.
• Will she make good friends or fall in with the wrong crowd?  Of course she'll have meaningful friendships and relate to other people and get phone calls from her friends and have sleepovers and hang out with people besides her mom and dad.

Parents of kids with special needs lose some of those things-taken-for-granted (some families may lose all of them, others may only lose select ones---like if their kid can walk and run just fine but may not interact with other kids).  Realizing that nothing is a given for your kid . . . not even the simple ability to someday say, "Hey Mom, what's for dinner?", well, it makes your heart implode. 

But then . . . over time . . . progress happens. 

When a new skill emerges you are thankful----and then you see that what you thought was truly "thankfulness" before was just a shadow of the real thing.  Like the way you think you've had good apples, but then you have one fresh from the tree and are like "Holy crap!  That's an apple!" or how you thought dial-up internet was perfectly great and then you got a modem and were like "Whoa---this is a whole different world!"

This is a whole different world.

Maya has been walking for nine months now, and to this day there has not been a single time that I've watched her walk/run down a hallway without think "I can't believe she's really doing it."  A week ago she started eating waffles by herself (she holds the fork in one hand and feeds herself with the other hand, but whatever) and it was the first time in 3.5 years that she's eaten a full meal by herself.  I didn't have to sit and feed her.  It was amazing. 

Walking down the hallway?  Eating a waffle?  These would, without a doubt, be things that my former self would have taken for granted from my typical child.   But I notice them, I celebrate them, I am thankful.

I am so thankful.

There are other things---stepping-stone-skills, I think---that are totally life altering for us.  When I first realized that Maya was learning to recognize letters, my entire world shifted.  If I were a typical parent, I might have thought:  Awesome---what a smart girl!  She's already learning letters.  Maybe she'll be an early reader, we could read stories together, etc

But as a special needs mom, seeing her recognize those first letters sent up a giant, shining, exploding firework-of-a-thought:  She will be able to read someday.  And then, not far behind:  If she can read, someday she will type . . . so even if she never talks, she will type and people will understand her. 

What a typical parent would mark as a stepping stone on the given-road-of-progress, I saw as a game changer. 

That difference brings with it a more profound level of thankfulness.  It just does.

2 years ago today, Maya had her brain MRI.  2 years ago tonight, we found out that her brain was normal.  2 years ago tomorrow, at the thanksgiving table, we were thankful for her normal brain . . . that's a profound level of thankfulness.

Yesterday we went to a "Thanksgiving Feast" at Maya's preschool.  The parents all came and brought food and sat with the kids and celebrated . . . and I noticed one of the moms excitedly chatting with the teachers and aides and watching something on the teacher's cell phone.  It was a video, taken by the teacher.  Earlier in the day, her son had taken his first unassisted steps.  Ever.  Her little guy has been kicking butt with his walker for a few months now, but yesterday he let it go and took a few steps.  And while we were there, he did it again, with both of his parents excitedly looking on.  He's almost 4 years old.

And I watched him take steps, and I watched his mom & dad watching him, for the first time, take independent steps and I thought about how lucky I was to get to watch that moment.  That moment that takes them from "I hope that someday he'll walk" to "He walked."  From hoping that someday he would be walker-free to seeing that there's a good chance.  From "Let's keep working towards independent steps" to "Let's work on more steps."

They are more grateful for those first steps than the parent of a typical child. That's just the way it is.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone---near and far, old and young, typical and not-quite-as-typical.  For the parents of kids with special needs, I hope that you can look back over the past year and remember some of your own game-changing moments, big and small.  And for the parents of typical kids, I hope that you can look back at some of your stepping stone moments with fresh eyes and realize how much you have to be profoundly thankful for.
 

Perspective

7:45am.  We're awake, looking out the windows at the pouring rain and bummed that we won't be going to Sesame Place.  It just doesn't seem worth the drive when most of the stuff to do is outside.  Also, I've been miserably sick (allergies?  I'm not sure) for a few days, and hanging out outside doesn't seem like the best option.   At 7:45, my biggest problem is that our big Sesame Place adventure was cancelled.

10:00am.  We decide to go to the mall.  The mall is indoors, they have a carousel (it's as close to a Sesame ride as we're going to get) and Maya can walk around.  Maya seemed pleased with the plan:



Good times for everyone :)

Maya & Daddy

Maya & Mommy

The mall also brought one of the high points of my day, a new zebra-y cheap plastic cell phone cover!

:)

At the mall, my biggest problem was that I felt pretty winded and run-down. 

1:00pm.  Naptime.  Maya is sleeping, coughing occasionally.  I'm trying to upload some pictures, but my laptop screen is periodically crackling (like an old rabbit-eared TV) and then going black.  Uh oh.  This isn't a good sign for the future of my computer (or the blog).  My biggest problem is the apparent start of my computer's swan song.

2:25pm.  Still naptime.  Why is she coughing so much? 

3:00pm.  Weird sounds on the monitor make me jump up and rush into Maya's room, where it's clear that she's having trouble breathing.  Dave holds her, I set up the nebulizer, she is in semi-shock from being woken up so quickly, and the stridor noises and gaspy breaths are scary scary.  From 3pm on, my biggest problem is Maya's breathing.  It makes all of the other "problems" of the day seem ridiculous.  

A missed trip weeks in the making?  The death of my computer?  Small potatoes when asthma/croupy/she-can't-breathe stuff makes an appearance.  Talk about perspective.

We've talked to the doctor, done 2 breathing treatments, started oral meds, and at one point debated a trip to the ER (which, thankfully, wasn't necessary) .  On this yucky, humid day the biggest trick for us was running the air conditioner in her room and letting it get cold and dry in there---some people do well with warm and moist, others with cool and dry, and she seems to be the latter.  Times like this make me grateful for my own asthma, and for the fact that I remember getting croup as a kid (I had it a bunch of times).  With Maya unable to talk, I'm glad that I can understand what she's feeling, and predict what might help based on what would feel better to me.

Breathing stuff is scary.

I guess the silver lining is that I'm really glad we didn't try to tough it out and go to Sesame---I think her breathing would have worsened faster if we were out in the rainy air, and I would have been panicked at being far from home and without our nebulizer. 

And poor Parker . . . we barely got to celebrate his Gotcha Day :)  It was 1 year ago today that we went and picked him up in CT  (he's a new big brother, by the way, as his lovely breeder just welcomed 7 new puppies 2 days ago!).   He's been Maya's faithful sidekick ever since.  After she was tucked into her crib, Dave & I sang "Happy Anniversary":

*PS-Did you see Maya's new big girl haircut?  She got it yesterday and I put a picture up on the FB page.  I haven't had time to upload them all yet, I was going to do a post today, but other stuff got in the way.

A very long retelling of Maya's preschool playdate

The play-by-play
We went to a little waiting room (with a big fish tank and some toys) to wait with another family who was also there for their playdate . . . but shortly after Maya was freed from the stroller she wanted to go explore.  I would let her toddle into the hallway, then grab her up and bring her back to the room.  The school director (which it seems is preschool talk for "principal") and head teacher came in to meet with us.  The school director started speaking with the other mom, and the head teacher started chatting with me.  When she realized that Maya wanted to wander, she said "Let's just follow her and talk" and Maya was happily allowed to roam the halls.  She stopped to peek in doorways, checked out the art on the walls, etc.

Eventually we went into the classroom that Maya will (hopefully, hopefully, hopefully) be in next year.  She pointed at the moon and stars that were on the windows (she loves to point out the moon in the sky or in books) and touched their toys and bookshelves.  She went over to the kids and checked them out.  She walked into their little coat closet area.  People were shocked that she's only been walking for a few weeks :)

Eventually we meandered back out of the classroom and into the hallway.  I continued chatting with the head teacher, and another teaching supervisor joined us.  Maya was totally amused by the hallway PT sessions (the hallways form a big square, and therapists would walk by with kids pulling wagons---or in wagons, on tricycles, etc) . . . once a little class walked by and Maya tried to follow them down the hallway :)

At the end of the playdate, we went back to the fish tank room and I spoke with the school director for a bit.  I gave them copies of the evaluations that I had, we talked about what happens next and that was that.

The stuff that matters
1.  Maya loved it there.  She's such an observer . . . whenever she's in a new place she just wants to see every piece of it, examine everything, before she shows any interest in the people.

2.  The people there totally "got" her right away.  First, every adult who walked by (and some who just poked their heads out of doorways) were all like "Oh, she's so adorablllleee!"  (obviously).  :)  But more than that, they could see her intelligence pretty quickly.  They could see her responding to the things I said ("Wipe your chin, please" "Let's walk back to the room with the fish tank" etc) and trying to tell me things too (pointing at the moon and stars, signing "eat", pointing and babbling for me to put her down).  The teachers said things like "Look at how observant she is" and "She really understands everything you say".

One of my biggest fears about school was finding a place where they really know that there's more to a kid than meets the eye----Maya will wander with her tongue protruding and drool dripping down when she's in a new place.   She's intently focused on the stuff around her and looks like a total blank slate . . . but even though she looked totally glazed over for half the visit, they could see.  They understood.  They won't underestimate her.

3.  They know how to teach everyone.  The school runs the gamut from children who are totally "typical" to children who are not independently mobile, nonverbal, etc.  They have dealt with eating issues, assistive technology, intensive PT, etc.  I have confidence in their teachers and therapists. 

4. I like their classroom philosophy.  Since they teach children with such a range of needs, they have a bunch of classrooms.  If things work out, Maya will start in the smallest classroom (where there are nearly more adults than children in the classroom, with a 6:1:2 ratio, and paraprofessionals/aides as well).  I love that the teachers and school director all said (independently) "Let's start her in X".  They often move kids into other classrooms, if they feel like they would be able to work in a larger room or with less scaffolding or whatever . . . and I like that plan (they start by moving the kids for an hour a day, and progress from there).  I also love the fact that they want her in the smallest room to start with . . . although I guess some parents might feel badly about that (maybe disappointed that their kid is one of the "neediest" at the school?) I think it's great because I want her to feel successful at school, and I think that a larger room would be overwhelming right now. 

5.  I like the vibe.  What can I say?  I'm an energy-reading type of person.  I felt great about all of the people that I spoke with----they all totally love the kids, which was evident in every hallway interaction. 

6. We were on the same page.  If I could have picked her classroom for next year, I would have picked the one they want her in.  Similarly, when I gave them the evaluations with the warning "These aren't really that accurate, just so you know" I kept my ears open.  I could hear them (the 2 teachers and school director) glancing through them saying "This doesn't make sense.  She clearly understands mom, and mom said she even knows some shapes and colors."  They picked up on the stuff that bugs me the most (that her receptive language on the evaluation was listed at basically none) right away.   The school director struck me as very kind, and slightly blunt . . . just like me!  I think that the school is a good match for Maya, and the adults aare a good match for me.

What happens next
We like the school, the school likes Maya.  They don't legally "hold spots" for kids, but right now they do have spots open.  Our meeting can't happen before April 15th (in terms of signing papers to hold a spot for Sept, that's the first day it can happen) and must happen before Maya's 3rd birthday (May 30).  Hopefully the guy will agree that it's a good fit and will approve the placement, and then during the meeting he'll call the school on the phone and say "Do you have a spot" and they'll hopefully say "Yes" and we'll sign and I will be immensely relieved that this is done.

The stuff that matters the most
My friend has a child that currently attends this school, and a few months ago she told me this story.  (Her son has just started to walk with a walker, but does not walk independently.) (I'm using italics to indicate that the story is told from her point of view---because it's easier to write it in the first person---but the words are mine, this isn't copied from an email or anything.  And the story is shared with her permission :) )

Last week we got a notice home from the school about an after school soccer program, which I tossed, seeing as -child- doesn't walk yet.  Then a few days later when I picked him up from school, the teacher said "He did great at soccer today!"  and I was like . . . "Um, what?"

Turns out, soccer was also happening during part of the school day.  And when I asked how my kid was possibly playing soccer, the teachers were all nonchalantly like "Oh, I just hold him on this side . . . and she holds him on that side . . . we count '1, 2, 3, kick!' and swing him.  He loves it!

And that's when I was like "I want Maya at that school."

That's possibly the sweetest story you've ever heard, right?

And that sums up the vibe---a school run by intelligent, creative, loving adults who I know will challenge Maya (and assist her) to learn and do all kinds of great stuff. 

If we get in.