Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean...

Well, as joyous as the shenanigans of yesterday morning were, reality plopped down like a sandbag in the evening. I think it all started when I was trying to explain to younger daughter what will be happening this Thursday as her father and I attempt to attend this semester's "mini-time-table" at elder daughter's high school, an opportunity to meet elder daughter's teachers and get a feel for her day. Since the MTT starts at 4, this means I will need to rendezvous with elder daughter downtown, so I can pass younger daughter over for the home lap as we bus in from distant Nepean.

Apparently, this shook younger daughter's already shaky sense of security and she stomped upstairs and shut her bedroom door firmly. The Resident Fan Boy went up to check on her and was informed that she doesn't want to go to school, the work is too hard, the teacher won't help her, and everybody is mean to her.

Well. It's not as if we couldn't see this coming. Younger daughter's challenges will not vanish, no matter how small and willing the school is. All the same, I felt as if I'd been punched in the solar plexus. All I could do was promise her I'd tell her teacher what she'd said (with some minor editing), before another night of gremlin-wrestling. On the bus ride this morning, I gingerly checked with her:
"You told Daddy everyone is mean to you; is that how it is?"
"I don't think so..."
Sigh.

Just in front of me, a teen-aged boy plopped into a sideways seat. As he turned his head, I saw his eyes were full of tears. I just had time to give him a small, sympathetic smile before he turned away again.

Writes of Passage Number Four:

It was a summer night in Victoria, and the dark bus was crammed with university students returning to their digs near or at UVic. Being pushed into the space surrounding the rear door was a young couple, though something told me this might be a first date, if it was a date at all. She was on the short side, blond, not dazzling pretty, but attractive in a low-maintenance kind of way. He was very tall with a mop of dark curls, and certainly what I would have thought of as dishy in my own university days. The girl was being pushed into him by the press of the surrounding standers, but I rather thought she was not as crowded as she was trying to make it appear. He stood his ground, not exactly holding back, not really encouraging her either. His stop came first. I think he may have leaned down to kiss her before he vanished. It was too dark to be sure.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps

Yesterday, after a couple of false starts (no such things as "spontaneous" in this household), I took younger daughter to see "Under the Sea" (not the 3D version) at the IMAX theatre in the Museum of Civilization.

I wasn't sure how much she liked it, although the lack of fidgeting was a good sign. On the bus home, I mentioned that the movie was just like being under the sea, except, of course, we could breathe, and then I reminded her of the kids practising scuba diving at the community pool in Victoria where she took swimming lessons this summer. (And where, by the way, she moved up four levels in the Red Cross swimming programme. She completed Level Three last summer and Level Seven this summer. Just sayin'...)

Where was I? Anyway, her eyes lit up and she said: "Yes, that's what I was imagining!" And I realized it was one of those magic days when we get to hear what she thinks and when the words don't fail her. These days pretty well never happen at school, or when anyone outside of the family is watching.

That evening, when her dad asked about her day, she was ready: "I was imagining that I was scuba-diving and I saw all of the fish under the water and a sea lion swam up and gave me a kiss. I liked everything except when the turtle ate the jelly fish. That was disgusting. That wasn't in Finding Nemo...."

She even remembered the two songs in the film: "Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps" (sung by Doris Day; it's the theme music for Coupling, too) and "Octupus' Garden" (though not sung by The Beatles).

The words flowed and flowed...and then they stopped. And she struggled to get them back: "And I... and then I....oh dear!"

We get the tantalizing glimpse of this very different brain at work and the sliding doors shut. And I lie in bed in the morning, when the gremlins swoop mercilessly in on me and wonder if her new school will understand this and not give up on her as her last school did. Perhaps...perhaps...perhaps...

You'd Think by Now...

It isn't fair, it isn't right.
I've gone over and over the scenes in my head,
Lay here awake over half of the night.
No, it isn't good, and I can't let go.
Must have been someone or something I hurt
In some other life somewhere long ago.
I don't know how I started down this tailspin.
Why one more time I just did not see it coming.
And you'd think by now,
I'd have figured out the pattern.

About three weeks ago, I made reference to a devastating new development on the front lines at younger daughter's school. At the time, it was the eve of my birthday, the "eve's eve" of elder daughter's birthday, and I couldn't face trying to blog about what happened. Now, with younger daughter's birthday and Mother's Day out of the way....I still don't know if I can face it. But I feel I have to try.

In the fall-out of an upsetting so-called "Student-Led Conference", I had sent, after three days of hard thinking, what I thought was a carefully-worded email to the principal, resource teacher, SELC (special education learning centre) teacher, and the educational assistants. That was a Sunday. The email resulted in a flurry of activity, many hall conferences, and a hasty twenty-minute meeting just before school the following Friday. This had mixed results. It had been a busy week, particularly stressful on younger daughter, but she had participated in class activities with a greater intensity, and I felt understandings had opened up, particularly with younger daughter's designated Grade Five teacher. The Resident Fan Boy and I were made uneasy, however, by an air of defensiveness at the meeting. I also felt that the meeting underlined how far communications had broken down between the SELC teacher and me. This was doubly distressing because we've worked with her for nearly three years, and of all the team, she probably knows younger daughter the best.

The Resident Fan Boy's lawyerly instincts were aroused and he promptly composed a follow-up email, sending it to me for vetting. Now, here I was a bit torn. I didn't think it was a good idea to send an email so soon. Also, the RFB has sent inquiries and comments before, usually to do with elder daughter who was identified as "gifted" in Grade Three. These also were phrased in crisp, formal, legalistic language and sometimes I felt compelled to check in with the teachers to make sure they weren't intimidated. However, this was a rare initiative on his part on behalf of younger daughter, who somehow always ends up being my area. So I had misgivings, but was loathe to say so. I made some non-commital comments, then held my peace, rather hoping he'd forget by the end of the weekend.

Of course, he didn't. Hiding my reluctance, I suggested a toning-down in a couple of areas. The final draft was a bit grim, but not vindictive and certainly fair. He sent it to all four staff members who had attended the Friday meeting. There was no response. In the meantime, as had been agreed during the staff meeting, I got emails detailing the upcoming week from both the classroom teacher and the SELC teacher. I responded with my thanks and mentioned that younger daughter had been invited to a birthday party during school hours the coming Friday, but, given that she had a speech therapy appointment that same morning, I hadn't told her about it and would wait for the teachers' preference. Classroom teacher responded promptly, saying he thought that wouldn't be a problem.

The next day, after school, younger daughter's "guardian angel" asked to walk home with us, and said, as we left the school building: "I have something bad to tell you..."

Oh dear gawd. She had overheard SELC teacher and classroom teacher's team-teacher (who teaches PE and Math to the Grade Fives, and who had not attended the meeting, so had not received the Resident Fan Boy's email) speaking in furious undertones during the afternoon math class. "They said she was doing as well as other Special Need students," said guardian angel. "They sounded really angry and Mr. (team-teacher) said that if they're not happy, they can go to another school. Then I heard Mr. (team-teacher) say it was just another excuse to get out of school. Then they lowered their voices...."

I felt as if I'd been punched in the stomach. Part of it was bewilderment and despair that we had been so misunderstood, and the worst of it was the thought of two supposedly responsible adults griping like two indignant adolescents within hearing of ten-and-eleven-year-olds. Who else beside "guardian angel" had listened in? I wanted to believe that she had misheard, but the comments tallied with the weekend's emails and the events of the previous week which the little girl would not have known about. Oh, excrement, excrement, excrement...

I shook my fist; I've leapt too soon.
The soft wounded animal inside of me
Stood up on its hind legs and howled at the moon,
Anger rises in a violent storm,
And when I am wisest I lie down beside it
And hum in its ear until it gets quiet
I don't know how I started down this tailspin.
Why one more time I just did not see it coming.
And you'd think by now,
I'd have figured out the pattern.

So this latest development pretty much ruined my birthday the next day. I vented a bit at younger daughter's music therapist, but was deciding that some kind of overture had to be made to the SELC teacher in the hopes of salvaging something of what had seemed to be a partnership. I was also coming to the conclusion that team-teacher (who will continue to teach younger daughter with the other classroom teacher next year --- groooooan) is....oh dear....a jackass... I mean, "go to another school"? What planet is he living on? Does he think I actually have options? And "another excuse to get out school?" Speech therapy and music therapy? Guardian angel reports that he speaks to younger daughter as if she's really really slow, and I haven't been impressed with his tone with her even when I'm present. Presumably, he'd prefer a classroom full of attractive, athletic, typically-developing students that will flatter his image as a teacher. I'm leaving him to heaven.

Another conference with the speech therapist that Friday as I plucked up the courage to write a letter to the SELC teacher. By the Sunday, I was rough-drafting it: . . . Over the past two weeks, I’ve been awakening in a flop-sweat, beset by the gremlins of two o’clock in the morning.
I feel I’ve failed (younger daughter) this year and I have a horrible feeling (if I’m any judge of body language) that I’ve failed you and alienated you.
Sometimes I wake up thinking, “She thinks I’m ungrateful and blissfully unaware of all that has been done for (younger daughter).” Sometimes it’s “She thinks I’m judgmental and critical, that nothing she does will be enough.” (Both not true, by the way --- I swear!)
I worry that you think I have no conception of how difficult and stressful your job is. I really worry that you think I want to interfere with what happens in the classroom. (Both really not true --- believe me!)
Most of all, I wake up terrified that, by failing to speak up earlier, I have ruined our cooperative relationship beyond repair. Or by saying anything at all. Geez . . . .
It seems to me that in my panic, bewilderment and plain clumsiness that I have broken protocol and made you feel that I am an adversary. This is the last thing you need at the best of times . . . and if there is anything I can say or do to repair the damage, please let me know. . . .

And I stuck it in a card and delivered it to the office mid-week. (Having checked my horoscope first. I clearly need all the help I can get.)

No it isn't fair, it isn't right,
I've wished on a million or billion bright stars,
Prayed like the devil with all of my might.
And somebody said, "What's really true.
Yeah all of this stuff is different I know.
But what is in common has always been you."
I'm starting to see and the heavens are starry.
And if I'm not too proud I’ll learn to say I'm sorry.
You'd think by now I'd have figured out the pattern.

How sorry am I really? The emails have gotten results; I feel better informed and I really think Grade Five teacher is reaching out. But these are people under stress, and they can't criticize me to my face. I cringe thinking what's been said in the staff room, but am livid about what was said in the classroom. However, as painful as it's been, younger daughter has been making steady progress; I simply can't afford to get in a shooting war.

Nothing was said about my note, but I physically felt the tension ease the next time we passed in the hall, and the smile seemed genuine. (I'm not so sure about the principal, but maybe he's just preoccupied.) Last week, I watched the team-teacher glad-handing and schmoozing his way around parent/teacher functions. He's probably aiming to be a principal himself. At least that might get him out of the classroom....

(The quoted song lyrics are from "You'd Think by Now" from Carrie Newcomer's latest album. The link is in the first verse, and at the website you can listen to this ballad which has been haunting my thoughts for the past three weeks.)

The one I've loved the longest

Yesterday, I sat in a café just off the campus of the University of Ottawa, waiting for elder daughter to finish her interviews connected with her participation in an adolescent girls study. It was a warm windy afternoon, and I watched the twenty-somethings pass by, swept up in term finals. Young girls look as pretty and varied as ever I remember, but, I dunno, guys these days look remarkably unprepossessing and all the darn same: baggy pants, short gelled hair, tee shirts. A young girl with dark hair, summery green top and jeans, and a comfortable, confident gait emerged from the throng of Sunday sidewalk strollers, and with a shock, I realized it was my daughter who just turned 16 last week. She could pass for someone in her twenties, which grates with her no end. (So could I, when I was her age --- until I opened my mouth.)

Both the Resident Fan Boy and I have had similar small shocks over the past few years when we've arranged to meet her somewhere, and for a split second, fail to recognise the tall, self-possessed young woman waiting for us.

I worry about her because she seems so all right. So articulate, centred, together. I was such a mess at her age. I've just dug out my diary from when I was 15 going on 16. It makes for depressing reading, my sixteen-year-old psyche.

She had the whole of our attention until age four, and really the bulk of it until age eight; her younger sister was pretty well a camp-follower until we realized there was a problem. Then, it became all about younger daughter: the meetings, the consultations, the therapies. I sometimes think elder daughter copes by being the "one we don't worry about"; she gets top grades, is pleasant company (aside from the odd adolescent hiccup).... I can count the crises we've had with her over the past eight years on the fingers of one hand.

How does she feel about having a special needs sister? It's hard to tell. I think her attitude towards those with "differences" is marginally more enlightened, but she clearly finds classmates with ADD, Aspergers, etc. a bewilderment and an exasperation. I remember a passionate discussion when she was about to turn twelve, when I was pleading the case of two classmates with learning difficulties. "This will be your sister in a few years." Her response was heated: "People like my sister!" "They like her because she is cute," I replied sadly. "She won't be cute forever."

A mother of one of her pals told me that she was surprised to learn that eldest daughter had a sister, because she never mentioned her. (In fact, this woman told me this every time we met. After a while, I wanted to hit her.) My heart broke a little when I saw that elder daughter's best friend had listed herself as her "sister" on Facebook.

And see? This damn post has become about younger daughter again.

In trying to give equal time, equal resources, equal care to two or more children, there's bound to be guilt and short falling. Do I love one child more than another? That's like saying I love ice-cream more than chocolate. The best answer I ever heard of in response to the inevitable who-do-you-love-best from an elder child is: "I love you both the same, but I've loved you longer." My elder daughter is my beloved first-born, the one I've loved the longest. All evidence to the contrary, I think about her and worry about her every day. She is everything I wanted to be when I was a teenager, from her self-discipline and assurance right down to the straight, heavy hair (mine was wavy). I wish her many happy returns.