"I felt Oscar was unusual until I talked to other parents and teachers. Photograph: The Guardian/Getty Images
My son's behavior at the start of kindergarten was worrying. When I was desperately searching for answers, I realized that I was alone.
Hisfour-year-old son, Oscar, is a Covid child. Born in 2017, the boy was two and a half years old when the world was sealed off. Like the rest of his generation, he spent a significant portion of his formative years away from family, friends, classes and other aspects of public life.
Like everyone else at the start of the pandemic, we did our best: we pulled Oscar out of the nursery, at home he attended for just three months, and took shelter in place. I put my career aside and set up a pod with four other mothers. My husband and I took Oscar and his sister to the park, crossing our fingers, they wouldn't get too close to the other kids.
We tried to make up for it, but the challenge of meeting the social needs of our children and balancing our adult responsibilities is enormous.
I'm eager to get back to work - and our family needs income - so when schools reopened for in-person learning last September, we signed up for an Oscar at our local preschool.
From the beginning, our son exhibited behaviors that teachers and authorities described as related.
He couldn't write his name. This is the first issue they raise to get our attention. His teacher told me that he refused to hold a pencil in his hand, so she gave him a marker. Oscar took it and drew all over his face and desk. The teacher showed me photos she took with her phone, which she described as "documentaries."
I stood there, feeling a little on the screen. I don't know what to do with this information. Oscar wasn't a kid I described as obedient, but we got the job done and our indoor life was very happy and harmonious. He knows better than to paint on himself.
"Overwhelmed" is the word that the reviewer uses.
When they told me he wouldn't stand in line or sit at his desk, I thought, of course he wouldn't. He's 4 years old! Isn't it their job to teach him how to do these things?
And the day he stripped naked waited in line to go to the bathroom, I wasn't fazed. "I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner," I said. "My son hates pants."
The difficulties persisted, and so we cooperated with eight weeks of behavioral intervention. Chart stickers, rewards and penalties - none of which work on Oscars.
In the beginning, I wanted to chalk it all up to the aptitude. He's a talkative kid, growing up soon. Maybe he didn't get enough attention in a room of 20 kids. When I asked him why he wasn't just doing what was asked of him, he told me it was too boring. He wasn't excited, I think.
A few months later, we had a more accurate portrait of my son. According to an educational reviewer, he moves around the classroom, completely speechless, ignoring all the diversion. "Overwhelmed" is the word that the reviewer uses. Sometimes he sabotages and distracts the rest of the class. If an adult tries to redirect him, he becomes aggressive.
A week before the Thanksgiving holiday, Oscar's principal convened an emergency meeting. Through Zoom, she explained that the school lacked the resources to deal with him, and so they reduced my son's time on the program from five to two hours, starting the next day.
It was a necessary move for the school, but it wasn't the right intervention for our family — and it had a bad effect on Oscar.
After his working hours were reduced, getting him into the building every morning became a physical struggle. At the end of his abbreviation day, another paraprofessional would take my son out for me quietly, and he sobbed with himself the whole way home.
At home, my previously happy child became increasingly challenging. Normally kind and protective, he began to beat his sister. Although he did potty training nearly a year ago, he wet himself. He started chewing on his toys and clothes. He repeated odd phrases, such as "I like you but I don't like you" or "it's red but it's not red." He said, "I don't know what's going to happen" and "I like you" at least a hundred times a day.
After a series of assessments, our intelligent and sensitive child was diagnosed with unspecified anxiety and ADHD, as well as opposition challenge disorder, a discriminatory and suspicious diagnosis, especially for a child as young as my son. the educator and social worker used by the district who has never met Oscar - said he belongs to a small group of therapists that will support his socio-emotional development.
According to the committee responsible for finding him a program, the public options were full.
I'm alone.
My husband and I weren't wealthy, but we weren't as financially troubled as my parents did. We are both very educated and I have a number of advanced degrees, including a master's degree in childhood education. I spent three years as an elementary school teacher, teaching art and writing creatively for children. Prior to that, I worked as a research assistant researching the Touchpoints method, a professional curriculum focused on understanding the development of children under the age of three.
That's it.
Even with my resources and experience, navigating the special education system has been extremely difficult. Every teacher conference, every assessment my son suffered, eroded my confidence until I completely doubted myself and my core beliefs. I felt incompetent, as if I couldn't take care of my child.
In February, the White House released a fact sheet reminding schools of their obligation to provide appropriate assessments and services to students with disabilities regardless of the challenges they face as a result of the pandemic. But children with special needs continue to languish without the services they are entitled to by law.
I learned from other parents that Oscar had a legal right to services, but the district told me they couldn't find my child this year, and suggested I enroll him in a karate class to meet his social and emotional needs.
I had to solve the problem myself, so I created an Excel document of every public and private program within a 40-mile radius and emailed each program to see if they had room. I emphasize that the district has Oscar evaluated by an occupational therapist who discovers that in addition to his diagnosis, he has a sensory processing disorder and good motor delays.
Even with my husband's support, I felt completely alone.
I also paid thousands of dollars to a private reviewer to make a more accurate diagnosis. She confirmed her initial diagnosis of ADHD and anxiety. She also diagnosed him with social pragmatism communication disorder, which is a persistent difficulty with verbal and nonverbal communication in social situations that cannot be explained by low cognitive abilities. SPCD is a trait of autism, but he was not found to have autism, nor did this psychiatrist diagnose him with ODD but, instead, she agreed with my intuition that his defiance was a response to his anxiety.
I did all this around 4:30 a.m. when one of my children first woke me up, in the evening after the children's bedtime routine, and sometimes in the middle of the night.
Even with my husband's support, I felt completely alone.
I was recently reminded of a news story I heard when I was a child, about a mother tying her child to their car seat and launching a family car into a water grave. The exact details are unimportant, because many similar tragedies exist. They capture our imagination because the idea of a mother doing something so pointless is appalling.
Until recently, I also found such actions completely incomprehensible. And then I lived through the last year of my life, and to some extent, it made sense. Now I see how a mother struggling with her mental health can break through under the pressure of the social message that no one else can take care of her children, and that no one else can keep them safe but her.
For nine months, I spent my life taking care of my special needs son. Instead of earning an income or maintaining a career or cleaning the house, taking care of my daughter or connecting with my husband or taking care of myself, I fought for the care he needed.
I felt so anxious, hopeless and frightened that I, myself, committed suicide.
Photograph: lovethephoto/Alamy
The impact of the blockade is not entirely known, but researchers can predict that measures taken to curb the spread of the virus have created certain risk factors (economic insecurity, parental depression) while depriving children of protective factors (relationships with friends and friends and family, engagement with their community). Children at risk of developmental delays and differences are even more likely to be negatively affected.
I felt the Oscars were unusual until I talked to other parents and teachers. A second-grade teacher I spoke to for an article about teacher exhaustion described her class as "wild." She said at the beginning of the year, they all bit each other, rolling around. "Forget the scholars," she said. In the middle of the school year, "we still teach only the basics: how to sit, listen, and ask questions."
In March, my husband and I visited a public therapy program from the district's list. It's not like any class I've ever been in. There is no sign of learning. There are no books. There is no art. There are no toys. It looks more like a crib than a kindergarten.
These facilities are the most restrictive environments, and are designed for children with severe disabilities. His peer group would be just children who couldn't speak with learning disabilities. They don't fit in with a child with high speech, high energy like my son.
For better or worse, there is no place anyway.
We stopped sending him to school, Oscar's behavior changed almost immediately. He stopped chewing on his belongings and wet himself and beat his sister. As long as he's taken care of by me, he's as pleasant and disciplined as you'd expect from a four-year-old.
Of course, babies need to learn to be around other children and adults, and stay away from their mothers. Teaching him how to be a part of the world without me is a job I couldn't do.
That's why, after months of waiting, my husband and I decided to enroll in an Oscar in a private school for children with special needs. One of the spots available in a show within a 40-minute radius just happens to be an Oscar paradise: 200 acres of unspoiled forests, biological gardens and effervescent streams where my son would float homemade boats, climb apple trees and bake bread.
The cost of the program is nearly $70,000 per year, accounting for more than 80% of our family's income. We have hired an attorney and intend to sue the county for reimbursement - we are optimistic that we will win.
Photograph: PhotoAlto/Alamy
Apart from negotiating with his new friends and learning to sit on his bottom in anticipation of a snack, little else is being asked of him. For kids like Oscar, this requires enough. Even in a smaller class, Oscar calls a lot of attention to himself. He struggles to get along with the group and takes direction from adults. He was impulsive, and running away was a concern — meaning that when he felt bored, anxious, or scared, he would simply run away — so they assigned him a one-day assignment (this accommodation represented $30,000 of his tuition bill).
On the second day of school, they celebrate the Dandelion festival, the first day of spring when those are released from the cage. Oscar had a crisis on his way to the meadow because he wanted to get back inside. Hiding throughout his life, he only now learns to play and be himself in a whole new and alien world.
In addition to the cost of the program there is also pain and prolonged injury. He had begun to open up about his experiences at his alma mater, and some of the information I received added to my anger toward our local school district. He told his new teacher that he had attended another school but "it wasn't the right school for me, because I couldn't write my name." Hearing this really breaks my heart.
There's fun, too. We are now part of a new community dedicated to supporting kids like Oscar, as well as their families. There were fewer crises during the school day, and he was more involved than not. He seemed calmer and more confident in the morning when he dropped off and when I picked him up, this made me feel significantly calmer and more confident.
Set aside, I was finally relieved of the enormous burden of having to do it all on my own - but it shouldn't be this way.
* Nguồn bài viết Tư vấn du học Anh Quốc - Quốc Tế Du Học Đồng Thịnh dongthinh.co.uk (+84) 96 993.7773 | (+84) 96 1660.266 | (+44) 020 753 800 87 | info@dongthinh.co.uk
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