Step Lady.

A year ago things were different. Very different. I was living alone in Oaktown. I went out every week with my single friend Betty. My grandmother had just passed away, my second niece born, and my best girl was about to get married. All of these events wrapped up in an immensely single red bow. My best girl promised me that if I was still single within a few months she'd move me into their spare room so I wouldn't have to live alone any longer. I mean, what other option would there have been if I wasn't already a happy cat lady? I liked her cats at least.

The plans always change. No matter what. We make choices, sometimes without thinking, seeing or knowing. But we do. My romantic ideals of being married young, having kids young all changed without me knowing the second I stopped going to church, moved to New York City, pursued an education and a career in Early Childhood Special Ed. I made these choices, and have not regretted a single step on that path. I mean, I could have done without that year the preschool I was directing flooded and all the kids got lice for three months... but such is life. I didn't shave my head and looking through hair with popsicle sticks became a consistent dramatic play theme in my classroom.

So a year ago.... I didn't know I was about to meet The Tim. No one knew. I existed in a state of wondering. Longing? Missing people who were long gone, working in a classroom that demanded my heart and soul, and as it turned out, blood. No reciprocity to balance the scales. Not yet.  I grew weary of it. Hit that proverbial  wall that one only knows they've hit when they run smack into it and fall down. Should I have been wearing a helmet? Perhaps. But things shifted with all the life events of those I love. I shifted too with the death of my Grandmother, the birth of my niece, the wedding of my best girl. Time to own  the choices I've made to be a really good teacher, to stay single, to have chosen the elusive men who weren't gonna be there for me in the long run. Maybe they wanted to- it doesn't really matter does it? Because one Sunday almost a year ago I met The Tim. At my favorite restaurant, eating my favorite food. He was wearing red shoes, a quick wit and he was really into my big teeth.

 This isn't a post about teaching. It's about how life changes to make all things possible when we most need it. At 20, 25, 28, 30, all these birthdays have come and gone and my "plans" for a family with them. And now I have one. It's not what I planned, or expected. I have The Tim everyday. I have his kids, half the week, and I adore them. They are not mine, but I am theirs. Plus, Step Lady sounds much more elegant than "my dad's younger girlfriend," Don't you think?

A Good Enough Goodbye

Sometimes there's no adequate way to end something, to say something that "sums" it up, or gracefully ties an appropriate knot.

The last days of school are a blur, they were over a month ago now, almost two. A visit to my home, to my city knocked the senses back into me. Daily yoga, naps, an attempt at reading a novel, several workers comp Psych visits, an MRI, Check ups and finally? A brain so relaxed that an appointment has been missed. I see myself in the mirror and I wonder, how did I get through those last months of school? I was injured, I was scared, I was anxious and I had a lot of work to do.

Sometimes theres no adequate way to say "Thank you", no words deep or wide enough to encompass the gratitude for those who made me returning to my classroom last January possible. My three Para's, my team, my hands, eyes, arms and voices. They were my steady beating heart in the midst of my anxiety and disequilibrium. These women did more than rise to the occasion, they made me being there possible.

After these several months of running on adrenaline, I am finally recalbirating back to my daily life. I will not miss the dread of a phone call from HR, my Principal illegally telling me to only make workers comp Dr. appointments, at the end of the school day (which I always did). I will not miss colleagues questioning why it's developmentally appropriate for young children to be resting at the end of their day, questioning what the children could possibly be learning in my classroom, a play based, child centered environment. No, I will not miss these things.

But I will miss the children. I'll miss hearing Alice say to herself "It's okay", even when it wasn't. I'll miss her saying my name spontaneously without prompting. I'll miss little Edward's joy as he barreled into Alice to greet her each morning. I'll miss the look on Lightnings face while he gleefully played chase, safely in the classroom without eloping into the world beyond. I will miss Francis earnestly requesting "Old Mac Donald", and starting to cry each and every morning when I asked him how he felt, only to see him smiling a few seconds later. I'll miss watching Sara blooming into a successful Kindergarten student who can paint mountains, make friends and speak her mind without hesitation or worry. I'll miss circle time, watching my kids come together daily to sit together and participate together in song, learning, in community. I'll miss lunch time, one child singing to another the words to Mr. Roger's song "It's You I Like", and the other child singing it back to him with eye contact, with intent, in shared meaning.

It's you I like, It's not the things you wear, It's not the way you do your hair-- But it's you I like. The way you are right now, The way down deep inside you-- Not the things that hide you, Not your toys-- They're just beside you. But it's you I like-- Every part of you, Your skin, your eyes, your feelings Whether old or new. I hope that you'll remember Even when you're feeling blue That it's you I like, It's you yourself, It's you, it's you I like.

It's You I Like By Fred M. Rogers © 1970

I do not wonder or question or doubt what these children have learned by being in my classroom. They are as a whole, more flexible, more adaptable, better able to make transitions, make friends and they are better communicators because I  and my team were on the floor, in their faces reflecting, talking, and laughing with them.

I say goodbye knowing that it wasn't my best, I probably should have been wearing a helmet and a hazmat suit, but it was more than good enough.

And I am grateful. There are quite literally Blue Skies ahead.

XO

"Goodbye Miss Amy! Good luck and be careful not to bump your head!" - Max, age four and attending Full Inclusion Kindergarten this coming August.

From the Cradle to the Classroom

"All of us, from the cradle to the grave are happiest when life is organized as a series of excursions, long or short, from the secure base provided by our attachment figure(s)"- John Bowlby 1998 

The day the towers fell I was a twenty- four year old preschool teacher on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. We were told to keep away from the windows, to keep the children indoors and wait for their parents to arrive. In my classroom all of the parents who worked in the Trade Center were late that day, or had a meeting somewhere else. A father was missing for several hours as he wandered the streets of Manhattan in shock.

I walked home to my nest of friends, feasting on provisions (primarily cheese). We sat around our apartment on West 108th street and watched the television in disbelief at the havoc and horror of what was occurring downtown. We could smell the ash, our eyes were thick with it. Few cell phone calls made it out, the ones that made it in were treasured. Returning to work for several months after I operated in a state of mild panic. I struggled with a very large question, "How can I provide a secure base for the children in my care, when I myself do not feel safe?" When I knew for certain I was not? This day, made me a New Yorker perhaps more than any other single moment spent in that great city. Family was forged, survival a common thread... grief and loss in the air, and in our blood. As days, months and years passed equilibrium returned. I began to feel effective again, constant. A stable provider of quality Early Childhood Care. And now, many years later I find myself shell shocked on very different ground, but asking the same question, "How can I provide a safe base for the children in my care when I am not in fact safe, at all?"

I made it to last Friday feeling triumphant in my beginning re mastery of my classroom. Gentleness with self, awareness of others all falling into place once more. Seeing again who my children are and the best way to get them where they need to go. And then Friday happened. One of my assistant teachers was out sick, and no substitute was sent in to replace her. I was short staffed. I felt the anxiety and panic begin to quicken my pulse, my words were sharper, my patience scattered. Hyper vigilance, cortisol over riding other brain functions as I attempted to remember to breathe, to stay focused, and calm. You see, I cannot teach the way I used to. I cannot be the teacher with eight arms, and eight voices reaching every child at once when needed. I am just one. Delegating as best I can. A child reached up, or rather jumped upon my back from behind. He squeezed my neck and pulled me to the ground. 

What has ensued since, a series of frustrating communications with workers comp ( a very special kind of hell), a very sore neck, mid and lower back pain, raging head aches, and fear. Doubt. Anxiety about returning to work tomorrow. In my experiences thus far very little is done on the part of the school district to keep the teachers safe, protected, supported to do their work. Will I be an exception now? Will the absence of my aids be covered so that I am not short staffed? Will measures be taken to protect me from bodily harm by impulsive Autistic students?

 This is one of those moments when I would like to quit. To say "No More." I want to put my own safety first. I want to stay in my bed tomorrow watching Alias, eating chocolate and lying on the heating pad my mother loaned me. I do not want to put myself in harms way by teaching in my own classroom.  But I will. I will stay away from the windows. I will pretend I have eyes in the back of my head, and I will ask for the support that all teachers, not just special education teachers deserve. It is important to feel safe, to be safe, to provide safety. From the cradle to the classroom, this is a non negotiable right, the safety to learn, to be protected in order to thrive, to grow, and to provide the highest quality education possible. Tomorrow however, I am going to show up. And this will need to be enough. 

A State of Imperfection

“Love isn't a state of perfect caring. It is an active noun like struggle. To love someone is to strive to accept that person exactly the way he or she is, right here and now.”
― Fred Rogers, The World According to Mister Rogers: Important Things to Remember

Finding grace in the imperfection... finding gentleness in the shifting sands...being comfortable when one is afraid... releasing guilt for time not spent... rebuilding trust in the face of anger...seeing a child now, accepting a child now, and facing my own new limitations as a teacher... No, love isn't perfect. This situation is far from perfect, the return to a classroom left abruptly after that swift kick to the head many months ago. Everything has changed since then. We have all struggled and have arrived in this present moment. Children, parents, teachers, and me.

I am changed. I stand in my classroom observing the children I have not seen since October. They are taller. Some of them are more engaged, productive, they have made friends. Others are more withdrawn, anxious, rigid in their play and behaviors. There is new "artwork" on the walls, teacher cut out trees with snowflakes the children were instructed to shake silver glitter onto glue, tiny caterpillars all the same. The handmade, haphazard collages I had posted so proudly are long gone. The schedule is the same. The children know what to expect and when. My assistants have done a phenomenal job at keeping the day moving, bringing the children along safely.

I notice I am afraid. The child, the Lightning boy who kicked me is one of those regressed. Playing with his back turned to others. Organizing cars, picking up a few letters from an alphabet puzzle, resistant to interaction and other's plans. I am afraid of being hurt again. He is too tall to be the toddler that he is at heart and in his mind. He is too strong, impulsive, reactive. I am wary.

The day passes in a haze for me. A cloudy looking glass. I write with my finger on the fog, a series of negative statements: "I cannot be here anymore",  " I cannot get hurt again", "I am weak", "I have so much less to offer." The day warms, the fog slowly evaporates hiding my fears from the glass. I try and coach the substitute on how to interact with Lightning, and suddenly I remember. I remember what it means to see him, to know him, to imperfectly figure out loving him. I help him to pick up a marker he has thrown, I praise him for doing so, I continue to shower him with the attention he lacks, and for the first time on this first day he sees me, and I see him. "Hug" he says. And gently, without force or aggression, he hugs me. He smiles at me. "Hug" he says again, smiling, seeing. Healing.

This is a new beginning. I will continue to struggle with my new limitations, with the feelings of anger, fear and instability. I will stay away from Lightnings feet. I will show up, care for myself and keep trying to see, to accept and like Mr. Rogers, to greet each child openly and warmly and to say "hello neighbor, I'm glad we are together again." And imperfectly together is better than being apart. This much I know.

Sometimes You Get Kicked In The Head... And Sometimes You Don't.

"The development of the social individual proceeds through a series of phases, from the first weeks when there is little awareness even that some stimulation emanates from the outside environment, through a dawning awareness of self and others, to reciprocal relationships, to a responsive partnership in the preschool years, wherein the child has internalized social values and the beginnings of self-control"(Sroufe,1995. p.151).


Sometimes you get kicked in the head... and sometimes you don't. Unfortunately for me, I did get kicked ... by a very strong, playful five-year old boy. His brain you see is making social connections at a rapid rate, connections that are typically (in optimal situations) made in infancy within the context of his primary caregiving relationship. This didn't happen in the way it could have. At five he is learning joint attention, the pleasure of a shared activity, a gaze. He is at the very beginning of what clinicians describe as "mutual" or "co-regulation", that magic dance between adult caregiver and young infant, that quite literally maps the infants brain, teaches the child how to be, how to respond, and ultimately how to regulate his nervous system. He is learning how to modulate arousal in multiple settings outside of his primary relationship. The encouraging thing is that he is five, and this is really happening for him, it's not too late. His affect, his emotional expression has brightened, he is all giggles, and laughs, and constantly seeking positive playful interactions from myself, from my assistants, and in moments? From his peers, which in turn stimulates his cognition, his communication abilities, his sense of self.

The question has been asked, "Did he mean to kick you?" Yes, yes he did. But it is important to note, that while he was trying to kick me, his intention was not to hurt me. He wasn't anticipating that I would yell, and have to leave the room quickly to put ice on my face.  When I returned to the classroom that day, he was watching the door when I opened it, I beckoned to him, and he sat in my lap, with his hand on my face. Precious child, stronger than he knows, and well on his way to modulating his own arousal levels. He wanted a response, but his intention was not to make me leave the room, and as it has happened, to not be at school for several weeks recovering.

And for me, this has been a very different thing. That one swift kick in the head resulted in what my Doctor calls a "traumatic brain injury." Things are fuzzy. I lose focus quickly, am inundated with consistent headaches, foggy thoughts, clumsiness. I cannot be in noisy, bright places. Noise, and bright lights flood, overload my system. The patience that I exhibit daily at work in my classroom feels out of place when I need to focus that patience on myself. It will get better. My brain will heal, realign, regain footing so to speak. And in the meantime I am the other side of the caregiving relationship for perhaps the first time. Vulnerable. In need of help, and in many ways being too weak not to take it in, the care being offered me.

Learning, growth does occur in the context of our relationships. Even in painful moments, a kick to the head for me is resulting in a more open heart. A willingness to let go, to worry less, and trust in the goodness and presence of the people close to me, willing to do for me, what I do for that five year old boy. For this, I am grateful.

Waiting to heal requires a different kind of strength, patience with myself, a conscientious choice to focus on positive outcome and interactions, things that will ultimately I hope, make me a stronger practitioner and teacher when I am given the green light to return to my classroom. Until then, to those  caring for and educating my students in my absence, and my loved ones who are taking very good care of me I thank you from the bottom of my brain, and my heart.

* For those interested in reading further about emotional development in infancy check out the following book (quoted from above): L. Sroufe, A (1995). Emotional Development: The Organization Of Emotional Life In The Early Years. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press.

Dear Alice, I'll be your mirror. Love, Ms. Amy

Dear Alice,

You are a wonder. At five years old you are in many respects the center of this classroom universe. Last January when you were moved to my room mid year from a neighboring classroom, you quite literally burst onto the scene, and changed everything. Alice you are an event, a force of nature, a brilliant anxious sweetness. And since the very first time I met you, when you screamed in the public bathroom because you were so worried about the automatic flush going off before you sat down on the toilet, (and I helped you change your wet clothes) I wanted to be able to help you, to ease your fears of the loud sounds, and all things out of your control.

Before there can be learning, there must be trust, a safe base established for you to venture out from. Last year, I carried you everywhere. I felt like it was important to stay close to you, to help you manage your new environment like I would a much younger child. I was consistent, I was thoughtful, and I stayed calm even when you screamed, hit and kicked at me when you were upset. With the implementation of a consistent behavior plan to help you with your tantrums and aggression (which our Behavior Analyst crafted to help you),  and with the the support of your family, you have been learning to calm down on your own. And yet, the use of the public restroom at school was still sending you into a tailspin of anger, tears, and screaming.

 After weeks of your distress permeating each part of your day, and your cries and screams ringing in all of our ears I realized that you are five! You know how to use the toilet. You know how to control your bowels, and you are also very capable of telling me that you need to go on your own. We had a little talk you and I. I told you the new plan and asked you if we had a deal. "DEAL!" When I ask if you need to use the bathroom you tell me, "No Pee, No Bathroom!" very clearly, and I tell you that I believe you.

 I am in awe of your ability to adapt, to change, to grow, and to trust that you will be okay, even if you don't know what is going to happen next.

 Each day, you are more confident, you try new things that you never tried before. Now? I see you walking into the room every morning with a happy joyful spring. You sit next to me at circle time instead of in my lap.  You made a craft project for the first time ever, on your own. Last week I saw you reach for a peers hand while walking. When you hold a baby doll close to your chest and come to me to re wrap the doll in a blanket, I think about last year, when you would stand in the dramatic play area for a few moments pretending to cook. Today you shared space with several peers block building. You said "No blocks please" when I offered you one, but you didn't walk away. I built a small tower, that looked like a chair. You tried to sit on it, and when it fell down? You didn't scream, you tried it again. A few moments later I watched you build a tower on your own for the first time ever. You giggled watching your peers. I am so proud of you.

 When you are upset or worried you scream "It's okay! While clapping your hands and looking to me for confirmation. I want you to know that I have complete faith in your ability to move through your difficult emotions. Alice you can be worried, and upset, and angry when things don't go your way, but now you are learning you can be safe,  successful and you can try new things. I am privileged to be your teacher as you turn six, as you find your feet, your voice in this classroom world.

There will still be times when you may ask me to pick you up, when you need a quiet moment of calm togetherness. You are worth every second I have spent structuring the day and my thoughts around your learning. We recently lined up with your peers to run with all the other kids in the school. You were scared, you were nervous, you clung to me and cried. I told you you could do it? And you did. You ran, happily. I see you Alice. You are brave, you are strong, you Alice, are okay. 

Love,
Ms. Amy

At The Round Table... Proximity is Precious

The only piece of furniture I really wanted for my classroom was a round table. The "kidney shaped" tables, the classic rectangle can communicate messages of separateness,  an imbalance of power with an adult on one side and the children on the other. A round table however inspires a very different kind of conversation.  Partial to them perhaps because I grew up in a family where we ate dinner every night  all together at a round table.  In a time when families often no longer eat together, the value of how my parents chose to raise us around that table is not lost on me. It didn't matter that my mother's feelings about cooking were ambivalent at best, or that my brother had to have cheerios and quesadillas every night instead of what the rest of the family ate... What mattered was that every single night, we all sat together. Looked at each other. Talked, argued, laughed. Yes, my youngest sister was given permission to stand on her chair to get a word in edgewise... a feat she miraculously only tried once. But that round table is where we learned to communicate, to take turns, to listen, to share, to be together in a small space where there was enough room for everyone in our family, and room for everyone we invited to share a meal with us.

The round table is the ultimate way to tell my students "We really are all in this together." Everyone is equal, everyone has a place, and one cannot avoid another when seated directly next to and across from each other. This is how we create community. The clinical aspects of this furniture choice are as follows... Myself and my assistants model conversation with the children, with each other. If a child  looks up, there will be another person in front of them to meet his gaze. If a child has difficulty sharing space, it's an opportunity to stretch ones comfort level with other peers so close at hand. Labeling food items, noticing if a child likes or doesn't like a food item, commenting, questioning and encouraging vocalizations are all ways we are supporting speech and language development. And my personal favorite... the opportunity to develop essential self -help skills such as opening and closing containers, asking for "help", for "more", and being responded to quickly and consistently is communicating a sense of personal agency, autonomy and ultimately? Pleasure, joy, a precious shared proximity to each other.

One may wonder, what does this sound like, look like? A group of Autistic Pre-K and Kinder students eating together? To be a fly on our wall you will hear  humming, squeals of laughter, silence if everyone is particularly hungry, a shout, an adult prompting "more" and "please" (yes it's never too early or too late to learn manners), and applauding when the child approximates or signs the word. Sometimes someone sings practicing circle time songs, or plays peek-a-boo after eating has finished. One may hear a small boy saying "Ms. Amy, Call me me Princess Kate!" "Princess Kate, you need to finish your lunch your mom made for you." "No, Ms Amy, Princess Kate's mommy did not make the lunch, Prince William made it for her."

Proximity is precious. Circles of Communication. There is a place for everyone at our table. If one day someone needs to stand on a chair to be heard? I'll think of my little sister, and instead of saying "Get down that's not safe!" I will say, " What would you like to tell us _______?"

A Boy Like Lightning

I think I will call him Lightning. You see, this child, this magic little person is fast and sudden in his ability to be here then gone around the corner, smiling a big toothy and toothless grin to make sure a preferred adult is in hot pursuit of him. Lightning is five now. The youngest of three boys, all of whom have an Autism Spectrum Diagnosis. Lightning runs to gain attention, to feel the specialness of being chased, and the safety of being caught.

 Slow to talk, (but he IS talking now!), Lightning relies on this elopement to communicate what he needs. Slowly, slowly he is gaining new skills to have the kind of interactions and support that he is craving. When he was four, I learned that he realistically, was actually a toddler. A consistent, nurturing, highly responsive method of teaching was required to meet his particular needs. It's important for me as his teacher for the second year, to remember that even though he is five, he requires a different kind of support than his same age peers. My expectations need to shift in order to create the best educational environment for Lightning.

For instance, today he built with blocks. He started his work time at the easel  where he painted by tapping so hard and fast with a paint brush in each hand, specks of blue paint dotted his face. When he finished painting Lightning walked past a very tall, block tower that his peers had just finished creating. He stopped, stared at it, walked around it, and faster than fast kicked it over with both feet until all the blocks lay scattered on the ground. I spoke to him about cleaning up, he complied and sat down with me to pick up blocks together. After putting several blocks away Lightning began to build with the remaining blocks on the floor. Completing a small tower, he grinned at me and began to scoot back giving me the "I want you to catch me look." I responded, "I am going to catch you and bring you back." Laughing he allowed me to bring him back, then grinning at me again quickly kicked his tower over laughing hysterically.

 I pressed pause in my mind... My expectation for Lightning's peers is that they will not intentionally knock blocks down when building, which is an age appropriate expectation for four and five year olds, but not for a toddler. I smiled, and started to play his game with him. Lightning built and kicked, built and kicked gleefully with my assistance for several minutes. He was completely engaged, productive and learning what all toddlers need to learn, cause and effect. I am powerful when I cause this noise to happen. And what a sight, blocks of all shapes and sizes scattered around ones feet moments after carefully erecting a tower.

 It is not possible to build a tower without first laying a foundation, and the same is true in education. No matter the age, or the preferred outcomes we must start as educators where a person is. We cannot skip developmental steps in order to meet academic goals that may be age appropriate, but not developmentally. Provide the safe base first, build second, and relax when something carefully constructed comes crashing down. The beauty of block building and teaching, is that we can always build, we can always try again tomorrow. And tomorrow, the tower may be taller, the crash louder, and one day? Lighting will build with blocks for the pleasure and cognitive challenge of construction, confident in his abilities to affect the world with his mind, and his hands.

An Unexpected Art Class: The Gift of Reverse Mainstreaming

When school began several weeks ago three third grade girls ran into my classroom during their recess in search of the teacher whose classroom this used to be. "Can we help? Do you need help?" They chorused loudly, enthusiastically. I told them I didn't need help with chores, but I did need help teaching my preschool children how to play, could they help with this? They can, they do. A gaggle of five girls has become anywhere between ten and thirty third graders knocking on the door "Can we play? "Can we use the clay?", "Can we paint?" And my favorite request, "is the art class open?"

 My attempts at providing developmentally appropriate, open ended sensory, art and literacy experiences for my preschool children with Autism, has expanded to serve a need I wasn't anticipating, a creative experience for grade school children. They rush into the room, lining up at the easels to paint, to create structures out of duct tape and card board. "It's a kite", "I made a filter for my fish tank", "I made head phones because it's so loud." Art has become the focus, the foundation on which this classroom community is being built. "Can this be our art class everyday?" "Can I take this painting home to my mom?" "Can you get us more ribbon and cardboard boxes?" "See, I told you it was fun in this room", one girl remarked to her friend.

 The social aspects of this reverse mainstreaming surprise and encourage me. If Alice, my oldest and perhaps most rigid student can practice her cutting skills with scissors and construction paper while sharing space and materials with an unpredictable, loud group of older children? Fantastic. Frequent "gift giving" and letter writing, small connections are being made. "It's okay if she doesn't smile when you give her the letter, the important thing is that you wrote it", I tell the children who are thinking hard about ways to interact with my students.

 Vernon, age four asked an older boy to read aloud to him, and gave him a high five when the book was complete. Sally ran to the door and grabbed the hand of the girl who played playdough with her the day before. Frances who does not speak, ran into the center of the older kids who were jumping on the trampoline laughed, flapped his arms, and joined them. When Frances observed the older boys pretending to be Doctors? He sat down next to them, put on a stethoscope and imitated their play. 

Occasionally in stressful moments the need to contain, or limit the "art class" recess time for the third grade comes to mind, but the thought is fleeting as I consider the value of free, creative, expressive play for eight- year olds. Having their own self made art class, and the opportunity to learn about other kinds of people is filling a hole in their academic curriculum, well balanced day. What these third graders are bringing to my students is of irreplaceable value: their ability to connect, interact and yes teach, my Autistic students how to play. It really is fun in this room. Pass the duct tape.