Summer Update: On Endings and Beginnings and Tissues

Our first big "official" summer outing was trip to the strawberry patch. Yes it was raining, and yes it was about 55 degrees (no joke) but I'm proud to report it was the first activity like this that didn't feel like a complete disaster, with toddlers running in one direction and big kids frustrated because we couldn't do "everything." It just felt like, KIDS. Four of them. And it was fun! Imagine that. 

We are over halfway through summer (I think?). 

July 4 has always felt like the halfway mark to me.

Anyway.

I'm behind. As per usual.

Leo graduated. From fifth grade. Just like that, elementary school, DONE.

This was his reaction:


And this was mine.


It didn't hurt of course, that they concluded the "ceremony" with the entire graduating class singing "We Are the World." My baby! Off to big, bad (I hope not!) middle school. Endings are hard. Goodbyes are harder. Leo's elementary school has always felt safe and nurturing and well, familiar (it hasn't always felt familiar of course, but the beginning, when it was scary and new feels like a billion years ago). Now we know almost everyone and even though it bugs me a little, Leo is known as the "unofficial mayor" (Hello, cliche!) of the school (you know what? Cliche and all, it comes from a good place and you can't really argue with that). 

On the last day of school, a much beloved teacher Leo had from kindergarten through second grade sent home a small photo album with a collection of pictures of his years with her, along with a heartfelt card. There was five year old Leo at the pumpkin patch (sob!), there was seven year old Leo making (pudding?) and wearing a Halloween costume (Aww). Not only was it sweet to see pictures of him I'd never seen, it was such a gift to see him "in action" at school, which is this somewhat mysterious other life our children have, largely without us.




Yup, I cried.

I remember when Leo was born (and I ordered basically every book related to Down syndrome from Amazon) reading something about how when you have a child with special needs, you will have an even larger "village" than you would have with a typical child, and you will often connect to these people more deeply. The reasons are many: There are extra challenges and extra struggles of course. There's much more information that needs to be disseminated. Your child's frustrations are theirs, but so are their victories. Also, there is usually much more communication between teacher and parent (in Leo's first year of elementary school there was a daily journal home and many, many emails). You can't help but grow close to these educators that are in the trenches along with you. And so some of them, the really good ones, find a small corner of your heart, where I think Mrs. L. and Mrs. F. (the third grade teacher who told me that I was a "forever friend") will always remain.


Back in May I met with Leo's future teachers at the middle school. We had an informal meeting (not an IEP).  Can I pause to say that just once, I'd like to get through a meeting with Leo's school "team" without being a sloppy, teary mess? Bad news, good news--doesn't matter. When it comes to talking about my boy? Tears. This particular meeting was emotional for a variety of reasons. I'm still not completely sold on his placement, but I don't know that many people who have middle-school-aged children with Down syndrome who are. I'm trying to be positive and open minded. I really am. 

Thankfully, Leo couldn't disagree more.

A few weeks later Leo and I toured his middle school together. Leo arm wrestled the principal twice and succeeded in not hugging anyone (though you could tell he REALLY wanted to--there had been a stern conversation about hugging prior to the tour). He was disappointed when the visit came to a close and kept trying to extend it (yes, he met the cafeteria ladies, several guidance counselors and found the comic book section of the library where he would have happily remained for the rest of the morning). 

Pass the tissues, middle school here we come.