Special thanks to four special women, even if they have no idea why

I first want to say that this will be, by far, the longest blog post I will ever write (at least, for as long as I can foresee because frankly, I’m exhausted!).

Second, although recent blog entries have been about my experiences as a mother, I have no intention of turning this into a ‘Mommy Blog’. There are enough intelligent and compassionate Mommies in this world who fill their blogs with wisdom and humor. I don’t even want to try and compete. But the reality is, I’m a mom. So when I have an experience, such as I had tonight, I want to share it.

There are four women who turned my night from one of dread, to amazing and the funny thing is… they have no idea.

Admittedly, I haven’t been looking forward to this night – public school Kindergarten orientation for my 5 ½ year old son Quinn. Most parents dread it because it means their ‘baby’ is moving into a new stage of life, and their lives will change with it. But that’s not why I dreaded tonight… Quinn’s actually already in Kindergarten (a private one associated with our daycare center).

So why are we going through this again?

That’s easy– he’s going to repeat Kindergarten. Not because he isn't intelligent; in fact, in some regards he’s scary smart, a trait he inherited from his father. And not just because he's young for his current class (he'll be old for this one) and physically smaller than other kids his age. But because Quinn has, well, ‘quirks.’

I dreaded tonight because while these ‘quirks’ make him special; they make him more aware of the world around him, giving him an unusual capacity to sense others' emotions and physical presence, allowing him to share what an incredibly caring and empathetic person he is. But these 'quirks' also present noteable challenges in his educational future.

Of course, at first I didn’t realize his ‘quirks’ are what actually make him so special. In the beginning, all I saw was a kind, giggly, affectionate boy who'd turn into a raging, angry, emotional kid at the drop of a hat. I didn’t understand what we were doing wrong. None of the Super Nanny tricks worked; Time outs? Whatever. Counting to 5? Meltdowns worse than the problem itself. Why does my son hit? Why does he scream and cry at nothing? Why does he bounce around anxiously when other kids approach? And why does he cover his ears at the slightest sounds?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not embarrassed. I mean, seriously, why waste energy worrying that we’re not a perfect family - perfect families don’t exist. But for years my husband and I were beside ourselves; I read books, listened to other parents, watched television shows, and tried different disciplinary techniques… nothing worked. We even discussed the possibility of Aspergers, but his doctor ruled it out telling us it was a phase or simple social immaturity (common for boys).

We felt lost. No... more like desperate.

How can we help our caring, intelligent, compassionate, child overcome his ‘quirks’? Would he ever fit in? And what if he didn’t overcome them before he entered the public school system? Would he be labeled ‘that kid,’ passed from teacher to teacher with a record hanging over his head?

The first woman who made this night amazing was Quinn's incredible Pre-K teacher. When he was 4 ½, she saw Quinn struggling, wanting so badly to be good and fit in, but not knowing how. She saw beyond the explosive tantrums and recognized what a unique child he is. So she brought in a professional who observed him. This professional affirmed what we’d known, including that he was one of the sweetest little boys she had ever met, and referred us to a clinic. After a few more tests and evaluations, we finally had our answer.

And with that answer, came an invitation; a welcome into a community of people who ‘got it.’ The second woman who made this night amazing is Maria, Quinn's occupational therapist. She understands my son, she understands our struggles and she confirmed we’re not insane or bad parents.

Quinn's ‘quirks’ have medical reasons behind them.  He has a Sensory Disorder; something I’d never heard of until 8 months ago.

Sensory Disorders are hard to describe (without going into another 1,000 really long and important sounding words). In essence, my son doesn’t hear or feel the world the way others do. Noises are heightened; even the softest sounds can seem jarringly loud. His body doesn’t move or signal him the same way others’ do. When people touch him, he jumps, and, adding the absence of impulse control, he acts out, pushing or hitting as an immediate reaction, not one out of anger. For Quinn, touch lacks the same sensation, he feels pressure differently. In a way, he’s kind of numb to the world around him.

For a child with a Sensory Disorder, and no words to express how they feel, they do what comes natural… they seek external stimulation. They hit, bang their head against hard objects, spin in circles and when they hug, squeeze with such ferocity, it actually causes pain. He doesn’t understand consequences; he doesn’t make the connection between action and reaction. And when external stimulation fails, emotions take over -  his world falls into chaos.

Children running around, kids screaming and laughing loudly, clumsy friends bumping and falling into each other, activities that create challenges, boys enthusiasm about wrestling, and girls just wanting to hug… all this causes Quinn anxiety. His mind can’t handle the stimulation; it overloads, scrambling the signals.

As you can imagine, a classroom (especially Preschool and Kindergarten) is my son’s personal hell.

So why did I just spend so much time trying to explain my son when I actually started this blog talking about an amazing experience?

Well, as a parent of a child with ‘quirks,’ the thought of forcing him into his personal purgatory, every day until he’s 18, is downright cruel. And, in all honesty, I viewed the public school system (not its staff) as the 7th ring in Quinn’s hell… one that wouldn’t understand him. One that would think I was an overbearing parent just trying to get special treatment, one that would label him a trouble maker or undisciplined, one where he and the Principal became very familiar (not for good reasons), and one where he had little hope of success.

So I went into tonight worried. What are we embarking upon? Will Quinn come out unscathed?

Then fate stepped in.

Around 5:30, my neighbor and I happened to arrive at the orientation at the same time. We stood in line, got our materials, and went to the first room (of three) on the list. But it was absolutely packed with hyper kids, loud parents, and cheery teachers (my son immediately started showing signs of sensory overload). I turned to my neighbor and she agreed to go against the grain - we headed to the last room on the list - with fewer parents and kids, though just enough to occupy the teachers full attention. We did the small assignment, allowed the kids to play a little, then headed to the next room, then the next (some more successful than others).

When we arrived at the last room – the first room on the list – only the teacher remained. After a pleasant chat about developing handwriting skills, we got ready to head home. But then my neighbor stopped me and pointed out the Principal - she happened to be walking out the other door, alone. Without bothering to ask if my neighbor would watch my son, I quickly ran after the Principal.

I don’t remember the Principals name (yet) but what I will never forget was the way she stopped, looked me in the eyes and listened to what I had to share. I tried to be eloquent; I had even rehearsed what I would say so I wouldn't create an immeditate, negative impression of Quinn. But instead, it all just tumbled out of me. And as I talked, I was surprised. I saw no judgment in the Principal’s eyes, no irritation, and no disbelief. She asked thoughtful questions, answered my random ones, and told me she understood. She explained the programs and resources they have available, talked about personalized pictorial schedules, weighted vests and even how they'd show him the least noisey bathrooms. She told me about headphones for assemblys and a quiet room (NOT in the Prinicpal's office) where Quinn can go when he needs a "break." Then she asked if I wanted to see the sensory room they set up specifically for other kids, just like Quinn.

Just. Like. Quinn.

When my eyes filled with tears, she assured me that we weren’t alone, they were our partners, and they’ll do everything in their power to help Quinn be successful.

And I believe her.

But I mentioned four women made this night amazing. That last one is my neighbor. We’ve known each other for over six years and have experienced the highs and lows of our kids growing up together. She probably doesn’t see anything special about what she did. But to me, her actions were a silent, selfless, loving act of support.

She knew I was anxious about this next phase in Quinn’s life, and she recognized the one person I really needed to talk with. For 20+ minutes, without once questioning the effort or time it took, she followed two, 5 year olds around a classroom, picking up after them and redirecting their obnoxious amount of energy. Then she walked with me and the Principal to the Sensory Room and stood by my side as I exposed one of my family’s biggest vulnerabilities and fears. And she did it all without hesitation or a single hint of judgment.

Quinn is special and tonight I learned there are people, some who just met him, and some who have known him his whole life, who truly care about giving him every opportunity to show what an amazing person he is.

That’s a gift I will treasurer, forever.

Oh, and a little something extra for my Quinner: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QGJuMBdaqIw