We picked up a couple of extra kids on our recent trip to Oregon. (Just kidding, these belong to some good friends of ours in Portland.)
I'm starting to think every entry here could very well just read something like I went to [fill in the blank] and did [fill in the blank] and then I cried.
Before you lose complete patience with me, I'm not sad. I'm not depressed. It's just--life right now is so very full. And it just feels like it's all going by so dang fast. The littlest, most mundane things (a seemingly dry description of Ellie's kindergarten reading program) feel somehow, poignant.
Last night was Back to School night for Leo and Ellie. Since they are at different schools, Erin and I divided and conquered, with Erin at Leo's school while I went to Ellie's.
I love Ellie to pieces, but I knew Erin got the better deal. (To be fair, Ellie's been at her school all of four weeks and she's on the bottom of the totem pole whereas Leo? He's a big, bad, known entity of a third grader! Look out!)
First of all, any visit to Leo's school is a huge mood lifter/self-esteem booster as a parent. I don't know how we got so lucky with this kid but teachers, therapists, school secretaries, the aides to the aides, nearly all of them seem to love Leo. I'm not fond of the mayor analogy (so many kids with Down syndrome get called the "mayors" of their schools or towns--but hey, those cliches come from somewhere, right?). But I can definitely see how someone would could call Leo a "mayor" of sorts. Of course, this wasn't a parent-teacher conference meant to tell us how Leo was doing but more a way for us to familiarize ourself with his new teacher, class and curriculum.
But lucky for us, people at Leo's school (especially Leo's teacher new Mrs. F) like to talk. And they seem to like to say mostly good things about Leo. So we'll take it.
Photo by Rick Regan
I absolutely adore Mrs. F. She exudes enthusiasm and energy, is no-nonsense, has a great sense of humor and she likes to use the word "Oy." Yes, she had me at "Oy." This year already feels so different than last. Leo's in a true third grade, as opposed to a split. Rather than coming home with homework that requires cutting and pasting, he's reading paragraphs and answering complex comprehension questions. Every night we sign his Homework Planner.
Photo by Rick Regan
Did I mention I almost had a panic attack when I realized Leo only has two more years (after this one) of elementary school?
Photo by Rick Regan
On the Ellie front, I bring her to school every morning but haven't actually stepped foot in her classroom since last June's orientation, so it was fun to sit at her little desk last night and get a peek into her day. It's funny to say, but you get a little spoiled when you have a kid in special ed. There's just so more communication. Emails home, little notes in his folder. Aside from a wave and a passing "Hello" in the morning when I drop her off, I've had no real contact with Ellie's teacher (which, I'm told by my friends who have kids without IEPs, is just pretty much how it goes.) I mean, I'm sure I'll have a bit more meaningful contact, but probably not to the extent that I have with Leo's teachers and therapists.
In any case, I think I now officially know why she is such a blubbering hot mess by 6:20 every night. My oh my, they keep those little people busy. Ninety minutes of language arts? Math Centers? No wonder most nights she actually asks if it's time to "go upstairs."
I was relieved to hear there are "only" twenty kids in her class. I can hardly handle one five year old so I'm still trying to wrap my brain around how one person can even handle twenty, but still, twenty seems far more human than 28-30 (which I've heard of for kindergarten).
And yes, my eyes welled up a little as Ms. M. went over the different reading and math and social studies and science programs. How did we get here? To Kindergarten? Will Lucy and Harry pad into this same classroom in three and a half years? Time just marches and marches on. And then it seems to march on a little faster.
