As the day of my son’s Turning 5 meeting drew closer, a cloud of anxiety hovered over our New York City apartment. I had braced for a fight several months before, when our school-appointed social worker refused to observe Noodle at pre-K because she was “too busy.”  Just applying to our zoned school had sapped all my strength. The parent coordinator took ill one week before the DOE deadline and had not left anyone in charge.

Thankfully, by the last hour of the last day for applications, a living breathing human was able to take my paperwork and I signed up Noodle for kindergarten. After an in-person meeting and more emails with the social worker, we seemed on better terms. She agreed to visit Noodle at preschool, and gave me the name of a behavior specialist who turned out to be quite wonderful.

So by the time I braved snowfall in late March to reach our IEP meeting, I wasn’t expecting any surprises. Everyone seemed to be on the same page for next year: an ICT classroom (a mix of gen ed and special needs kids with two teachers, one of whom has a special ed degree) and occupational therapy. I’d already waged a war in my own mind: Will ICT be academically challenging enough for my chess-playing 4-year-old? Will being in a class with other struggling kids give him more opportunities to model bad behavior?  But I’d moved past these stereotypes. I’d done my research, spoken to parents of ICT students and talked Noodle’s teachers’ ears off about what was best for him. I was ready for a truce.

 

But that was before I met Dr. Doom, the school psychologist, whose reign of unchecked crabbiness was clearly wreaking havoc on this mild-mannered neighborhood school. When I walked into the room, the mood was calm enough. Our SEIT (special education itinerant teacher) and the social worker were engaged in some small talk about the DOE’s wavering history of pen color preference: Blue eliminates photocopying, but black looks so much cleaner. Fascinating stuff.

I hadn’t even noticed the sullen woman in the corner until, about halfway through the social worker’s introduction of the case, she snapped, “Why are you suggesting ICT? This kid needs gen ed.”

“Well, if you had read the reports…” As it turned out, Dr. Doom had not read any reports, yet her interjections persisted to the obvious annoyance of everyone in the room. “This kid has ADHD!” she croaked as I recounted a typical day.

When the social worker left the room to make a photocopy, snarkiness got the best of me. “Hi,” I said brightly with my hand outstretched. “I’m ‘this kid’s’ mom. Who are you?”

The shadow of a smile crept onto the psychologist’s face, engaging muscles that were clearly out of practice.

I like to avoid direct conflict at all costs, preferring to use my powers of flattery and invoking pity to get my way. But much like the Incredible Hulk, I have an occasional fiery temper, aroused primarily by incompetence, politics and the endangerment of my children. Dr. Doom had ignited two out of three.

When she attempted to interrupt me yet again, I’d had enough. “You need to be quiet and let me finish!”

A hush settled over the room. The other administrators fought back smiles. Dr. Doom was cowed, and in the end she gave Noodle the services he needs.

So I won, right? On paper I got what I wanted, but otherwise I feel defeated. Maybe it’s just that the entire experience was so emotionally exhausting. Or maybe it’s the knowledge that my family may be joining a school that clearly has some administrative issues: a staff that doesn’t get along, and a principal whose leadership most teachers reportedly resent, according to the school's survey. The  saving grace was the two ICT teachers I met, who were clearly caring and very competent. 

So what to do? In the end we may not have a choice. The two other neighborhood schools that I applied to are long shots at best. Noodle’s IEP should be honored wherever he goes, but it’s not always possible. Even if he were to qualify for G&T or win the Success Academy lottery, they may not be good choices since they don’t have ICT classrooms. In my angst, I’m reminded of our house rule regarding new foods at the dinner table. You have to try it before you make up your mind. Who knows? Our zoned school may look green and gooey, but maybe I’ll like it. Or maybe I’ll spit it out on the floor.