Picture this scene:
It's 1996 and a Year 8 lesson is in progress. The teacher has to leave the room for a while, and one boy, let's call him Olly, boldly goes up to the teacher's desk and starts rifling through the drawers, and comes across the special needs paperwork. In these pre-computerised, pre-GDPR, days this is a system of cards kept in a box. Olly starts dabbling dirty fingers into the box and reading out the names and diagnoses, laughing and calling the students 'retards'. Then he comes across his own name: dyslexic. He pauses, closes the drawer, and slinks back to his place. It would make a great scene in a film, perhaps.
I'm guessing that unless you've been through the 11-plus, grammar school system, it's hard to comprehend the sense of complacent superiority that comes from being at the 'clever' school. During KS3, we were frequently reminded of our places there being a privilege, and unscrupulous teachers sometimes threatened bad behaviour with transfer to the high schools, which was clearly a Fate Worse than Death (they were single-sex, and had derogatory nicknames).
One unfortunate side-effect of spending seven years in a grammar school followed by four years of Oxbridge, is not really mixing with anyone who isn't academic. That's not to say my school was completely homogeneous (this was Manchester!) and for example our neighbours who attended the school were recent Bosnian refugees. And clearly very academically gifted if they could flee conflict, travel to a new country where they didn't speak the language, and, in the case of the older girl, almost immediately pass selective exams. So whilst there were no doubt students with varying needs, SEND students (a boxful, at least) we weren't really aware of them. Or at least I wasn't.
So other than that scene with Olly, SEND just wasn't on my radar.
It's perhaps ironic that Oxbridge likely holds a higher than average number of neurodiverse individuals but lower than average who would identify as SEND (my guess, zero evidence). One night over drinks at the Plaza after a civilised evening of ballroom dancing with lots of maths-y PhD students (see? neurodiverse!), a friend reflected on the fact that had we been at other institutions, we might have 'normalised' under healthy peer pressure, but here it was ok to be weird.
In my own recent readings I've come across various labels I could perhaps pursue and apply to myself (apparently this is a common experience for parents of SEND children), but what would be the point now? My husband is pretty tolerant of my quirkiness, my wellbeing is fine, I've found my tribe, I'm ok at my job. I remember school best friend Alexis telling me fondly, "Well, you are a bit weird." I'm ok with that; I can embrace weird as a label. Another good friend, an academic high flier recently diagnosed with ASD and ADHD herself told me, "You know, I've never met anyone who thinks so much the same way as me as you..." It's funny.
But it turns out having a quirky child is another thing.
I claim no insight into parenting a child with severe needs. Hence the blog title 'dabbling'. My parenting has been more a process of suspicion and uncertainty and guilt (What am I doing/not doing wrong?) and of feeling out of my depth. Every child has different needs, no child comes with an instruction manual, but a child with heightened emotions, strong reactions, keenly felt needs, chronic low-level medical conditions, well, they might not fit the general tried-and-tested child-rearing advice. In fact, well-meaning friends gave suggestions which I tried to follow, which turned out to be the exact opposite of medical guidance (note: NEVER make a child with a tic disorder apologise for their tics or try to deter them from doing it; it is counter-productive and stressful). Hence the recent dabbling, and searching for support.
It turns out accessing support is a strange and murky world. Murky in that I haven't got a clue what's going on. At one point, our regular pediatrician suggested I contacted my GP to access support for another issue. The GP suggested the SENCO, who referred me to the Early Intervention Worker, then the school nursing team, then the Health Visitor got involved, only to be eventually told that none of these services dealt with this particular issue and I should go back to my GP, who then referred me back to a pediatrician at the original clinic. By which time I was beginning to wonder if I was some pushy mad woman who was wasting everyone's time, especially my own.
The world of online forums has been a revelation too. I'm in a few Facebook groups, and these groups are great for sympathy and support. 'Movicol mummies' is an excellent source of toilet humour and photos to make you vomit. But I've discovered that some SEND support forums are where the Momma Bears hang out, ready to rip each other to shreds for making the mistake of using ableist language, like 'normal' (it's 'typical') or tantrum ('meltdown'). I'm all up for linguistic awareness, but, please go gently, ladies.
There are no grade As, no certificates, for parenting a baby who won't breastfeed, cries a lot, doesn't sleep, and vomits from undiagnosed food intolerances, or a toddler with delayed milestones who has an above average number of tantrums (sorry, meltdowns), or a school age child who still sometimes has to wear nappies. Thankfully there are also sympathetic older mums at church who would tell me I was doing a great job, and a particularly lovely lactation consultant who once told me I deserved a medal. I think I cried. Having a high-needs child makes you a high-needs mum. It's awfully humbling.
But parenting a child with additional needs also seems to make me a better, more compassionate human. When I started teaching I was attracted to teaching the top sets (ie people like me). My dissertation was on 'stretching the most able' and my previous school created a position for me in enrichment/gifted and talented. But since I've had children and worked part-time, my timetable has been more likely to include interventions groups, additional English, alternative provision, etc. - a whole jumbled bag of different needs. Which was not exactly my comfort zone, having lived in denial that these individuals even existed for the first 20 years of my life. But it's different now. The other year I taught a cheeky boy who clicked and called out and thumped his stretchy banana and needed breaks, and I looked at him in lessons and just loved him, because he reminded me of my own little restless soul at home. And while advocating for and suggesting accommodations for my own child, how could I not then redouble my efforts to understand the needs of the individuals in front of me in the classroom? I've surprised myself; I am gunning for the underdog.
I recently worked with a trainee teacher who had a disability which means he couldn't use his hands (couldn't write, type, or carry). He was great in the classroom, and outside school used dictation software to meticulously do all his planning, marking, and emailing. Couldn't schools do with more teachers like him? And he was a writer - had recently published a book of poetry. And maybe he was the final push I needed to finally start blogging.
Next week is diversity week, and whilst you wear your rainbow ribbons, I'll be over here quietly celebrating my wonderfully neurodiverse family.
My bedtime reading now includes books like this catchy title (in the intro, they explain they did consider the title: "Well what did you expect when you married your spouse?")
コメント