A meeting with the Special Educator

As most readers of this blog would know, the brat receives concessions from his school and help from a special educator. For those who came in later, the brat was diagnosed PDD/NOS when he was 19 months old and received two and a half years of intensive speech, occupational and physiotherapy. He is in Grade 1 now and receives special help and also has daily tuitions at home to help him cope with his syllabus. Which is rather tough for him, if I may say so myself. He doesnt go for therapy anymore, his last trip to the pediatric neurologist resolved that he is fine now, except some emphasis on phonics and writing. The last the school conducted an IQ test on him, they found he had an above average score, although they couldnt get an exact score because he tired of sitting for the test midway and stopped concentrating.
Therefore, I worry for him. But not as much as I used to. I know he will cope. I try not to pressure him too much. I want him to gravitate towards books and studying and have the compulsion to learn come from within him, rather than me turn the screws.
I received a call from the special educator yesterday that I was required to come in for a meeting on his case. My heart sank like a stone to the pit of my stomach. And if possible began beating at thrice its normal speed, and at a volume so deafening it was impossible to hear what the poor lady was trying to communicate to me over the line. At the appointed hour, pappa and I, spit and polished were stationed before the special educator. Turns out we needed not have panicked so much. This was just a regular meet up to discuss his syllabus and the areas he needed extra attention. And where I needed to work with him at home. Pincer grip activities because of his handwriting, which though a little shaky, is perfectly legible according to me but then I'm a doting mother. Mathematical skills which had been outsourced to pappa, but since pappa has slackened on it, mamma needs to take it up again with redoubled force. I know how the brat has struggled to reach where he is today. From a child who didnt respond to his name, to a child who asks me about life pre-brat and post-brat. From a child who could barely speak a few words till the age of three to a child who argues logically with me today. From a child who was so unsteady I couldnt trust him to descend a flight of stairs on his own till he was almost four, to a child who now climbs the jungle gym the fastest of his gang of pack dog six year olds in the park. And who is undisputably the best dancer amongst his peers. I'm proud of him because I know the odds he has struggled against. And I will not let him be defined by an insane curriculum designed to suit the creamy layer of the class. I will not spend all my waking hours drilling his syllabus into him. He has school. And he has tuitions. And I do fun stuff. And try to weave in some stuff while I do the fun stuff. Thats all.
Which is why it gets my goat when folks around me go all righteous and horrified when they learn the brat goes for tuitions. And start edging away from me in the manner one would edge away from rabid hyper-mom. Tuitions! For a First Grader!! What are you thinking? I get this so often it isnt funny anymore. Why dont you sit with him, they ask me, it will barely take an hour, and you can teach him much better than a tuition teacher would ever be able to. This is the nice version, the more scornful version is the one I got another day by a mother of a twelve year old, "You mothers today, you dont want to take the effort. My son is 12 and I take all his studies myself, and he tops his class." And when I replied that the brat needed extra help and already had a special educator at school, she replied, "Oh, I didnt know. He doesnt look retarded." I was a minute away from breaking her kneecaps with a hockey stick. Seriously. But better judgement prevailed and I just walked away. I'm delighted her son tops his class. Mine might never top his class, but thats not something that I'm losing sleep over. I'm good with him graduating by the skin of his teeth. I'd rather he makes a life for himself beyond percentages. I want him to find something he is good at and get passionate about it. It could be art, dance, sport. Anything. And in the meanwhile, if he gets a graduation certificate that would be nice. And if he doesnt, it doesnt matter. I would rather he became street smart. And a survivor. He can always blame his lazy mother, who tried to get him an education and not a degree.And look to Richard Branson and Bill Gates and Thomas Alva Edison for inspiration.