Cutting Down the Christmas Tree

Or not, as it were.

When Josh and I moved into our first house that we built together, back in 2003, a Christmas tree farm just down the road put out signs to sell trees. Since we had gotten married, we had used the fake one that I bought in college (when I wanted one, but was still traveling home several weeks and knew a live one would be a fire hazard).

In 2003, we went to cut down our first tree at the little tree farm.

Things change, a lot, in 14 years, apparently. The little tree farm is not so little. And it's certainly not so little known. Because they had sold out of trees about two hours before we arrived. On Sunday, at 4 p.m. Just two and a half days after they opened on the day after Thanksgiving. We were not one of the 1,000 lucky people to cut down a tree this year.

Instead, we got a pre-cut fir tree out of their barn.



It was still raised and cut off the little tree farm, but was not quite the same as cutting one down yourself.

The boys still walked the fields, just because ...







Xander was very disappointed. He wanted this one, but it was no longer for sale.



Connor said he should have stayed longer at Grandma and Grandpa's house (they brought him home a few hours early so he could go with us for the annual tradition).



Sawyer was just mad that we were standing in the barn instead of wandering around the farm like usual.



We got a beautiful tree. And it looks great. But it was not the same.

There will be no Christmas card photo of the boys in the field cutting down the tree or riding in the sleds they use to haul the trees back to your vehicle. There were just a few quick snaps that we took as we walked around the bare rows of trees, and the disappointed looks on Connor and Xander's faces when we told them, no, we could not cut down the few remaining trees that were standing (some had been bought and reserved early, some were just being left to have trees in the coming years, as it takes seven years for a full tree to grow on the farm).

We still had a pot of chili back at the house. Grammy, Pappy and Aunt Kelly all came with us and helped us "pick out" our tree - albeit a little differently this year. They all had chili and grilled cheese dinner with us, and stayed to help us hang lights and ornaments and get into the Christmas spirit.











Guess we're camping out next year on Thanksgiving night if we want to cut a tree ... or we'll look into some of the other nearby farms a little further from home that have larger supplies ...

Board Game Fun

One of the skills we work on at occupational therapy each week is social skills. Waiting your turn. Following rules. Winning with grace. Losing with grace. Playing age-appropriate games.

Xander is making progress with all of those things. We're still working on losing with grace. And sometimes, we revert back to some older games that may not be age appropriate, but look at that smile. Who wants to play a little Chutes & Ladders?



Hint. It's not me. The game is a trial in frustration and annoyance. I totally get not being able to lose with grace on this one. You get all the way up near the top, then have to slide all the way back down. Or worse, you keep sliding back down on the same exact ladder. Me and the little girl in the pink dress who eats the cookies are going to have a few rounds one day. She gets me EVERY single time.

Xander always says "bad boy, slide" when he has to go down.

But, here's the progress, he now follows that with "you try again next time" instead of just throwing all the pieces off the board!  :)

Big Kid

Much to Connor's displeasure, Daddy is showing him his hard work ethic. This week, that meant Connor got to help mow the yard for the first time. He was not impressed at all.

Big Spender

Earlier in the school year, Xander participated in the fifth grade entrepreneur fair at school. He and his amazing teacher Mrs. B helped formulate his business plan at school. We baked home made chocolate chip cookies at home. And he sold them at the fair, both during school and again after school.

Turns out, he is quite the entrepreneur (and the people at school happen to know and like Mom's home made chocolate chip cookies). He also happened to score the best spot at the fair, right as people walked in the main doors. I'm sure that also helped.

Cookies were 25 cents each, or a whole jar for 5 dollars. He sold out his inventory, and cleared $40 cash after paying for the cookie supplies and his booth rental fee and his interest fee (for Mom and Dad loaning the money on the supplies).





Today we made it to the store where he got to pick out a few things to buy with his hard-earned money. I loved that of all the things in Toys 'R Us, he ended up picking two retro toys that I had as a child. An Etch-a-Sketch and a Playskool Xylaphone. Art and music, two of his loves.

State Tournament

Today Xander participated in his first ever state basketball tournament for Special Olympics. We had to leave incredibly early, which was not anyone's idea of fun, but we managed just fine. Xander got his beloved Chick-fil-a breakfast on the way, so he was pretty happy.

Once there, the tournament happened in stages. We played our first game, and were lucky enough to win. Xander scored six points, two baskets and two free throws. He was so excited. It was the most he's played and scored during a game all season. His smile lit up the whole room!









This is the "Hey, Mom, did you see me just score" face ...









The team won their first game and advanced to the next round. Xander had an icee and cookie between games ...



The second game was a little harder, and Xander didn't play as much.



And he was disappointed to come away with a ribbon (and not a shiny medal) ...



I was afraid he wasn't going to take the ribbon. He did. And then he immediately dropped it on the ground and stomped on it. Clearly, that's how he felt about not winning and not getting a shiny medal. Have I mentioned he's our most competitive child?

Service Project

For one of Connor's middle school classes, he had to do a service project and then write about what he chose and why. Connor looked at the proposed list of possibilities (students were also allowed to come up with their own, subject to approval), he decided he wanted to do something to help the military. He's a WWII history buff, and has a fascination with wars and soldiers in general. So we opted to volunteer at a military mission place here in town. There weren't opportunities to assist with a package preparation and delivery (the next one was happening after his due date), so the organizers suggested that Connor could write letters or draw pictures to show his support. And that's what he ended up doing. We spent several afternoons and weekends working on colorful drawings and letters for the organization to put into their next package of deliveries ...

Happy Smile

Skating has always been something Xander has enjoyed. The lady who works admissions knows Xander by name, and has a wall of his art and receipts behind her, because he goes pretty often. Sawyer has gone a few times, but for the most part, it's been hard. I understand. The place is a sensory nightmare even for me, and I don't have autism. It's loud, with the noise of people and screaming children and the DJ and music. It's bright, with fluorescent lights everywhere and then a disco ball on top of that, not to mention the bright lights and noise of the nearby arcade.

But on this day, skating was Sawyer's happy place. It was early, so the crowds hadn't arrived yet. It wasn't as noisy as usual. And he skated and skated and skated. All with that big smile on his face. I love how when we keep trying, sometimes, we find things that he eventually enjoys even though none of our earlier visits would have suggested it. There are places where he pulls the car door back shut on you, because he doesn't want to go. There are places where he yells and screams and even cries. But, eventually, he finds his way.

Except for Target. There's no love for him with Target. (Also, I think, because of many of the above things - bright lights, noise, enormous crowds of people). We keep trying, and we've progressed from flopping down in the floor in the doorway, but it's usually a quick trip and multiple "all done" moments from him.

Riding the Train

Fall Break continues. On Saturday, Aunt Kelly and I took Sawyer and Xander to ride the train. Xander had never been on the train before, though countless CLS workers had tried to get him to go in the past. He told us "No train!" and "Bad boy, train!" all the way there.

And then his face lit up like this ...



And this ...





Sawyer just wanted to be silly ...



We got to get out and stretch our legs at the end of the track, looking out over the old, abandoned railroad bridge across the river ...



The boys got to stand on the front of the engine (Xander was more excited by this than Sawyer, clearly) ...



We stopped at a pumpkin patch where they could pick a pumpkin, roast marshmallows, or get a snack ...



Sawyer is bumming Aunt Kelly for her Nutter Butter snack (while holding his small pumpkin from the patch) ...



Xander is just happy to have his big pumpkin ...



And that was our day on the train. Xander didn't think he wanted to go, but he had fun once he got there. It's the story of his life. He never really wants to step outside of his comfort zone and try anything new, he likes to stick to the same schedules and routines as much as he possibly can. But we keep pushing and pulling, broadening those horizons and showing him that sometimes there's fun things to do outside of your routines!

Fourth of July

The fourth of July has always been my favorite holiday. I've loved it as long as I can remember. For most of my childhood, it used to be spent with long weekends at the lake, seeing summer friends who shared our campground year after year. Before that we would watch fireworks at the military base where both my parents worked, sitting on the tailgate of the truck with our short legs dangling in the hot summer evenings. More recently, it's been going to see fireworks with the kids. One year, we watched from a side street near the city's minor league baseball stadium. This year, Grammy and Pappy invited us to drive to the other major city where Josh's uncle (a retired firefighter) and some other retired firefighter buddies help put on a pretty big neighborhood show over the lake.

This year was certainly one to remember.

Josh was working at the fire department. We had a brand new puppy, too small to leave at home for extended period of times and too untrained to leave outside in our fenced in yard (particularly on a night destined for lots of unexpected noises). Bruno had to come with us. And we all piled into my Tahoe, so we couldn't even bring the crate, just our laundry basked that he traveled in on our journey back from South Carolina.

We stopped at a Backyard Burger on our way into the city. We ate outside on picnic tables, so that Bruno could be out with us on his leash (and not destroying the inside of my truck). The boys loved their french fries. Sawyer loved his chicken. Connor loved his chili cheese dog. Bruno loved bumming for treats.

We made it to the subdivision, parked along one of the residential streets, and took the long paved path by the lake back to the open field for the fireworks show. The boys stopped to throw rocks in the lake. They stopped to check out the playground equipment. We hauled our cooler and gear to the clearing and set up chairs, blankets and snacks while we still had daylight. Trucks and ATVs started driving in to get outside spots before the path got dark.

And we waited. The boys went back to the playground for a little while. We had snacks in our seats. And soon darkness fell. I was holding onto the puppy, because he was terrified of the new place, the curious people who kept wanting to come too close, and eventually the noise. The boys were in chairs on each side of me, but they eventually moved around. Connor wanted on a blanket. Sawyer moved beside Grammy. Xander went on the other side of Pappy, away from Bruno, who has always bothered him. The show started. The boys alternated having sound canceling headphones on and off, playing musical chairs with one another, asking for snacks.

It was a really good show. It was a long show. The boys came and went, always staying within our group of chairs and blankets. But then the show ended. People started getting up, packing up and leaving.

And it was in that moment, that the world stopped. Xander wasn't there. It was completely dark. All the fireworks had ended, there were no street lights in the open field. We were in a strange neighborhood, near a rather large lake, and people were starting to leave in vehicles.

It was, by and large, the scariest moment of my life. My child with autism was not with us. He may or may not answer when we called his name. He could have been gone for a few seconds or for a few minutes. And he could have been anywhere. He could have headed back to the lake where we threw rocks. He could have gone back to the playground to play. Or he might have even taken the path back toward the truck.

He was gone.

I was holding onto a scared puppy, keeping Sawyer in his seat, making sure Connor wasn't running off, all while frantically looking around trying to think of where Xander might be. All of the adults broke off to start looking with their cell phone flash lights. Grammy went back toward the playground. Aunt Lynn when back toward the playground and lake. Pappy was looking in the open field where we'd been playing.

And then I spotted him. He was about twenty-five feet away, sitting on a little park bench that he'd sat on earlier when we were the first people to arrive in the clearing. He wasn't scared. He wasn't doing anything he wasn't supposed to. He was just sitting there, watching the space where the fireworks had been shooting, looking for more.

Scariest. Moment. Of My Life.

It all ended well, of course. We found him less than 10 minutes after we realized he wasn't in his chair anymore. But it was that quick, that quiet, and that scary.

Part of me thought, well, that's the last time we try something new with the boys and the puppy. This was not the kind of adventure I wanted to repeat. But, it was just one of those things. It was life. It happens. We all thought someone else was keeping tabs on him. We all were doing different things. And he quickly and quietly disappeared.

Xander isn't the child who tries to escape. Perhaps if he was, we might have been more on guard. He's just the kind of kid who doesn't understand safety awareness. He doesn't understand that he needs to ask permission to leave, to let someone know where he's going. He follows his own impulses. He wanted to go sit on that bench. So he got up, walked over there, and sat down. We just didn't notice. And he certainly didn't bother to tell us.

It was a learning moment. It was scary at the time. But it's taught us to be more careful when we go to new places and try new things. To make sure, at all times, that the kids are either directly in our sight or assigned to one particular person. It's too easy for them to quickly and quietly disappear. And it could have been much, much worse.

Moving Forward

Of all the things that have happened in the last few weeks, the one that's hardest to come to terms with is the loss of trust and comfort I had in dropping my boys off at school with a team that two weeks ago I would have told you was one of the best you could hope to have for your children. I thought they cared about both of our boys, who are both largely non-verbal and require a lot of support and supervision. I also thought that they would be the advocates they deserve to have in a building where they spend seven hours each school day. I truly believed that we were a team, working together each and every day to help our boys succeed. There have been so many positive and amazing moments in the last nearly three years.

How quickly it can all change ...

I honestly did not want to take my boys to school on Monday. Driving out of that parking lot was one of the hardest things I have ever done. It did not get easier on Tuesday or any other day that last week.

The incident happened on a Friday afternoon, one week before the end of the school year. My email response prompted a fairly quick email response from two of the three people to whom I had addressed my concern. And though perhaps not intended as such, that response came off as incredibly dismissive and even evasive. In fairness, it should also be noted that they both stayed late, one of them even returning to school from a grade-level planning conference off site, on a Friday afternoon in order to do so. Their response also came in the environment of severe district-wide budget cuts that will leave several staff members unemployed at the end of the school year.

Despite all of those things, the first and only response to my concerns should have been an apology, if not for the incident itself, at least for the fact that I had concerns and also a few statements that simply said we will look into what happened during the time in question and we will make sure that we respond to your concerns. Notice I don't even expect someone to validate my concerns at this point, particularly because the people to whom I expressed concerns were not present at the incident. A simple apology that I was concerned and confirmation that they would look into those concerns and get back to me is all that I truly expected.

My second email response, not a very happy one as I had felt dismissed in my initial concerns, was clear I wanted to discuss the issue further. I didn't get a response Monday morning, or Monday afternoon.

So Monday afternoon, I showed up at recess again to check on my boys.

Both Sawyer and Xander were at recess, both of them within feet of the paras who had previously been with them this school year during recess. Toward the very end of recess, Xander's classroom teacher came over to tell me that even though I had not yet had a response to my second email, they were working on one. She also offered to set up a face-to-face meeting. I stated that I did want a meeting, and that I wanted that meeting to take place prior to a walking field trip coming up in two days time. A meeting was very quickly arranged for the following afternoon to include me, the classroom teacher, the special education teacher and also the special education facilitator, the same three people I had initially emailed my concern. The principal, though copied on those subsequent emails by the school staff, apparently declined to attend, as I did pass her in the office at the conclusion of our meeting. She offered a brief "Hello" as I passed and nothing more.

The meeting itself was cordial and professional on their part. Mine may have been a little more hostile and emotional. It was, after all, the safety of my child we were there to discuss. I started the meeting with three main areas I wanted to discuss - the incident itself, the response to that incident, and how we move forward from here.

Some apologies were made that I had clearly been upset by the initial response, which was not their intent. Acknowledgements were made that my concerns were, in fact, valid concerns. Assurances were made that they also want what's best for Xander. And then the incident itself was discussed.

After some direct questioning, I was informed that the change took place in April of this year, with absolutely no notice to me that it was taking place. It's been happening two days every week since April, and I now have confirmation of exactly who was assigned to Xander during Friday's incident. My first response to asking who was responsible was met with what I expected, "We were not on the playground that day so we can't be sure." When I offered the names of the four special education paras who were present, a name was finally provided.

It was, as I suspected, the fourth para standing in one place assisting with another child, among other things that did not include watching Xander.

When I asked what training had taken place, there was a pause. I was then told that Xander's newly assigned para had been instructed verbally on how to supervise Xander during recess. "Several conversations" were apparently held. I'm not sure when or where, but I would guess it was on the playground as they were supposed to be watching Xander and not at a time when they could clearly be focused on the content of the conversation.

What makes this whole situation more difficult is that I personally know the aide who was supposed to be watching Xander last Friday. She has assisted with Sawyer in his classroom and within the school setting. But the reason I know her is that she is in Sawyer's classroom every single day, and has been for the last three school years. She knows Sawyer. She does not know Xander. She does not know Xander's IEP or his goals or behaviors or his concerns. Why would she? There is a reason we have always insisted on separate classrooms and teams for our boys. They are identical twins, and if you don't know them well, it's easy to assume that you know one just because you know the other. Many students and teachers who do not work directly with them confuse them by sight. They are, in fact, polar opposites in most ways. To know one of my twins is to know one of my twins. They are not interchangeable. They operate on two totally different levels of the autism spectrum.

I explained my discomfort at having a para who had never worked with him or known him being reassigned to him without my notice and with apparently so little training.

The issue of Xander's allergy-induced asthma and his emergency inhaler, which is at school, was brought up. It was stated that this reassigned para was not, in fact, aware of it. Instead, his regular classroom teacher kept it with her and would administer it. That's great, except for the days like last Friday when she was not there. And also, if the para assigned to watch him doesn't know to look for breathing problems, particularly in this awful allergy season, who's going to notice when he might need it? Even after they told me both a para and the regular classroom teacher were monitoring him, I explained that I did not expect his regular classroom teacher, who has twenty-plus children to monitor, to have constant eyes on Xander. They probably did not appreciate my further reference to having been on the playground multiple times and knowing exactly how the regular classroom teachers monitored recess, from sitting on picnic tables close the building and chatting with one another. Whether appreciated or not, any other parent or staff member on the playground at recess would confirm that truth.

I further explained that I expect a special education para to be watching Xander. And if his usual para is not going to be with him, if a new one is going to be assigned during certain times of the day, then I explained that more training should have occurred. I also offered that it would probably be helpful to have a "sub-plan" or "written document" on each special education child, so that you could easily provide it to each para who may be assigned to each child, whether it's for twenty minutes one time or twenty minutes each day or even each week. All special education children are not the same, and if you want them to have success in the school environment or any environment, then you need to make sure that every person who works with them knows and understands their basic goals, behaviors and concerns.

I also suggested, that in the future, it would be nice if Xander were informed of the change. Upon direct questioning, they told me that had never been done either. How is my child with autism to know who to approach if they have never taken the time to tell him that "Para X" is going to be watching you on "Days X and Y" the rest of the school year? A simple visual schedule for recess would have helped him understand who he should seek out if he needed help, whether that was obtaining a turn on the swings or going inside to use the restroom. Without that information or knowledge, he very likely would have just gone to his usual para, who was assigned to another child and couldn't take care of two students' needs simultaneously.

At one point in our discussion, it was further explained to me that the April decision had been made to go to a "zone" coverage at recess, that the goal was to give special education children more independence and more opportunities to interact naturally on the playground with peers, which they felt the immediate presence of a para with a child prohibited.

That explanation may have been satisfactory, had this discussion taken place prior to the change and allowed for my input. It may also have had more credibility, had that "zone" coverage on the day in question not looked like three "man-to-man" coverages for three children and "zone" for the one para whose eyes were not focused on Xander. She was far too busy assisting with a child with more severe behavior issues and also chatting with her daughter, who was standing there visiting with her on the playground that day. And, of course, the final confirmation to me that this "zone" coverage was not working or does not truly exist is that it has not been in place on the two days at which I was present for recess this last week of school. Now I could be wrong, but if one honestly felt "zone" coverage was appropriate for these children, would it not have been in place this week to demonstrate it's effectiveness and success to me? As it was, Xander's regular special education para was placed back with him, where she was never more than a few feet away from him as he moved throughout the playground.

To conclude our meeting, we also discussed moving forward. I was very clear to them that a significant breach of trust had occurred. The "team" had made a decision in April that seriously affected the safety of my child, and the "team" had not felt it necessary to ask for my input prior to the change or even notify me that a change had occurred. I told them that any future change, no matter how big or small, that had a direct impact on his safety absolutely required notification. I'm honestly shocked that the thought did not occur to them in April, because I am not what anyone would consider an uninvolved parent with my children. If a change is being made, I certainly want and expect to know about it.

Quite frankly, most of this entire issue comes down to a lack of communication and lack of proper planning and implementation. I clearly have no control over staffing issues. If you want to rotate your paras around to other students, that's completely up to the school to determine. If you feel like that benefits the special education children and gives you the staffing you need to meet all of their IEPs and their safety requirements, then that's clearly up to the school to make that decision.

But, you have an obligation to notify the parents of the children affected by such a change, particularly one that clearly involves the safety of children on a non-enclosed playground that borders two parking lots, one major road and two secondary roads. A "zone" coverage might be appropriate should you erect a fence around the playground, but probably not given the current playground location and the special education children who have the potential for wandering. If I had a child in kindergarten, I might even be concerned given my noted description of how classroom teachers tend to monitor recess.

You also have an obligation to properly train the people you are reassigning, particularly when they are going to be working with children they do not know. How can a para know what behaviors to watch for if they are assigned to a child they've never worked with? Xander likes to climb and jump from very high surfaces (well actually most surfaces). He's not above pushing a child out of his way to run past his favorite sign or go through the monkey bars. If a child accidentally bumps into him, he might respond with an even harder, more intentional hit back. He might be interested in something like a garbage truck or mail truck and leave the confines of the playground altogether. If he needs to use the bathroom, he's most likely not going to tell you if he doesn't know you, you just have to watch for his body movements. If he's having trouble breathing because of allergies or asthma, he's not going to walk over and tell you. He doesn't yet have those words or that level of understanding. If you don't know him, you don't know any of those things. This "zone" coverage might have even been more successful if you'd provided all four of those paras with clear instructions about all four of those students. But let's be honest, we all know that if the para reassigned to Xander was not properly trained (which they fully admitted was the case), they certainly did not cross-train all of the paras on all of the children.

Finally, you have an obligation to notify the children of the changes taking place. Many special education children thrive on routine and consistency. Both of mine certainly do, the one in question to a very rigid extent. If you reassign the only para a child has ever had for the year and don't bother to prepare or explain that reassignment to the child, then you're not doing your job. Even when you have a non-verbal child, or a child you think may not understand, an attempt needs to be made in their usual method (verbal, written, PECS, visual schedule, social story, etc.) to alert them to the change.

As I said, lack of communication, lack of planning and poor implementation.

I wish that I could say the issue has been addressed. I wish that I could say I am optimistic about next school year. Everyone said the right things in our meeting. But it's always actions that speak louder than words. The actions I saw this week were that once I expressed my concern, my child once again had his regular special education para back within feet of him at recess. Each special education child had a dedicated special education para following him or her around the playground. The "zone," if it ever existed, did not exist this week. As far as the the walking field trip, Xander had not one but two people monitoring him, and their plans and preparation and training (as they do not usually accompany him outside the building) for that trip were far more extensive and extensively shared than any previous field trip.

Perhaps they are simply trying hard to alleviate my concerns.

But trust, once broken, is not the same. And just as the first email response felt dismissive and evasive, the response I've seen this week seems to suggest they know they've done something to compromise my child's safety and now they're trying really hard to correct it because they know that I am very closely watching and evaluating.

I hate being this parent. I hate that I no longer feel comfortable leaving my children at school. And I hate that I have to worry about what happens at school when I'm not there. I hate that I felt it was necessary to check on my boys at school every single day this week. I hate that everyone I met at school this week either acted as though nothing at all had happened or went overboard in an effort to make me feel like Xander was being kept safe.

If the appropriate job had been done all along, the response would have been so much different. It would have been more along the lines of I'm sorry that you feel concerned, Para X was assigned to Xander Friday, and though I was not there that day she tells us that she witnessed X, Y, Z with Xander during recess. It would have explained why no one corrected him from jumping off the wall, an issue brought up only that morning by the principal on the school news, and also why she spent more time assisting another student and standing in one spot instead of moving around to keep Xander in her vision (even if it was going to be at a distance for this "zone" coverage). It would have further explained the "zone" coverage change, including when it first took place and why, and also what steps had been taken to ensure the safety of the children affected. And finally, it would have also looked the same when I appeared at school this week, because the people who made the decision to change coverage at recess truly believed it was the correct one.

Clearly not.

All I can do at this point is let it go. We're going to call it a bad end to what I thought was a pretty good school year. The boys and I are going to thoroughly enjoy our summer, where I know they will be closely monitored and supervised and safe. We will try to approach next school year with an open, if not more cautious, mind. And we will come in to our usual early orientation prepared with a clear list of our expectations for every single person in whose care our boys are placed next school year. Communication, which has been sorely lacking this year, will be more defined. Safety and behavior issues will be clearly addressed. If it cannot be done informally, it will be done with an early IEP meeting. I will try to meet them half-way so we can all make it through these next three years.

And, unfortunately, we will continue to very closely watch and make sure that our boys are indeed safe and well taken care of in their school environment. Because even though I hate being this parent, hate that I have been put in the position to make it necessary, I will still do absolutely anything that I have to do for my three boys. They deserve nothing less.

P.S. If you're wondering, as my mother did, if the school "teams" got their end-of-year gifts this year or if I threw them against that brick wall, they were given their gifts. It would have been the first time in five years of special education that I have not delivered end-of-year gifts, and I just couldn't do it Even though trust has been broken and I did not hand deliver many of them myself, they were placed on empty desks or delivered by my boys' hands. Despite the bad ending, there were many moments that could and should be celebrated, a thankfulness that should and does exist for time and effort and progress. As one of my friends reminded me, "Two wrongs do not make a right." You will, of course, have to forgive me if I did not manage to put together a bag of cookies for the para in question, who I now know was assigned to watch my child last Friday but very clearly was NOT WATCHING him. How she performed her assignment on the other 15 plus days that would have accumulated from April until the end of school, I can't tell you. But the fact that she was not there with him this week suggested it hadn't been done very well since they clearly did not want me to see it again. 

Disillusioned & Angry

Sweet. Funny. Smart. Determined. Athletic. Active. Vocal. Opinionated. Strong-Willed. Quick. Impulsive. Unafraid. Fearless. Feisty. Xander is many, many different things.

Tonight he is the reason I cannot yet go to sleep.

Last Friday something happened at school. For three years, I have honestly felt like the boys were in a great school with amazing teams around them. We've had some bumps along the way ...  a kindergarten teacher we don't acknowledge, an abrupt change in afternoon dismissal, a field trip that left without us, some minor communication (or lack thereof) issues. But all in all, I honestly felt like the people who worked with our boys had their best interests at heart.

Friday I stood on the playground with my two boys, and that illusion cracked just a little.

One of my boys was being closely monitored by a special education para. For each step that he took, her eyes and her feet followed him. Even though I was there on the playground with him, she followed each place that he went. He was never out of her sight, and he was never more than a few feet away from her reach. He was safe, and so were the other students around him.

The first time I saw his twin brother, he was happily swinging as high as he could go at the other end of the swings. He was also noticeably, and conspicuously, missing his usual special education para. His para, the one who has been with him at recess every other time I have been at school the last two school years, was with another special education student. And while it would have been nice if someone had told me that there had been a change in staffing, that's not really the issue. The issue is that there was not another special education para in her place. The issue is that my son with autism was on an open playground without anyone watching him. He was on the swings by himself. And then he was jumping off the low concrete wall (which he is not supposed to do) by himself. And then he was on the monkey bars by himself. And then he was on another piece of playground equipment by himself.

I moved around with my other son and his para, just watching the events unfold. Perhaps I was mistaken, someone was with him and they were just further back. The trouble with that theory is that I am not a stranger to my boys' school. I know the special education paras. I know the special education students. I also know which para is typically with which student. That day there were four special education students on the playground, along with four special education paras. Not one of those paras was watching my son. Three of them were with other students, shadowing their every move to make sure they were kept safe. The fourth one was off to the side, standing on a sidewalk that separates the open playground from the front of the school and the busy road that runs in front of it. The only time that para left that spot was to assist another para who was struggling to contain another child who seemed gleeful in his attempts to escape. The fourth para, ostensibly the one who should have been watching my other son, was in fact assisting another para with a more difficult special education student.

I was concerned, to say the least. And I did what I usually do when I am concerned. I emailed members of Xander's school team, notably his primary teacher, his resource teacher and the special education facilitator who coordinates our IEP process. Xander's IEP clearly calls for environmental supports in the building and on the playground. While he typically does well with established routines, he is still an eight-year old child with autism who is incredibly impulsive and has a document lack of safety awareness. A child who will wander away to get a better view of his beloved mail truck or garbage truck. A child who would chase a bouncing ball into a parking lot or street. A child who wouldn't think twice about scaling to the very top of the playground equipment and trying to jump off just to see if he could. I wanted to make sure that Xander was being monitored during recess by someone.

And when the response came to me later that afternoon the illusion did not just crack, it shattered.

What I hoped the email response would say was "Xander had a substitute para that you didn't recognize who was watching him today" or "I'm sorry Xander was not properly monitored today" or "Let's see how we can make sure this does not happen again."

I didn't get any of those responses.

I was thanked for my concern. Perhaps that should mean something. But beyond that, the response was simply to dismiss my concerns. I was "assured" that Xander is monitored during this time, that monitors are aware of his possible wandering triggers, and that his safety is very important to them. Essentially, the legal points were covered, and the principal was copied on the transmission.

These are the people I entrust my verbal, but still very verbally challenged eight-year old to for seven hours each school day. These are the people I have always thought of as "Team Xander," as in the people who want what's best for my child and to help him succeed to the best of his abilities.

"Team Xander" did not respond. People interested in protecting themselves answered, and copied the principal for good measure.

That's okay. I copied them all on the response.

Xander may be a verbal child, but his functional skills are still limited. He has severe delays in both receptive and expressive language. For right now, I have to be his voice. I have to be his advocate. I can ask him a question, which he very likely will not be able to answer. He can't tell me when his normal para stopped watching him at recess and was moved to another child. He also can't tell me if another para really does watch him at recess.

But none of that truly matters in this case.

Because I was standing there on that playground.

Because I saw exactly what happened that day.

Another special education child with more severe behavior issues is getting additional supervision, and he's getting it at the expense of my child.

And that's where the illusion shatters. How long has this been going on? How many people knew about the staffing change? How many of them have I spoken to in the last few weeks (or maybe even months) who didn't think I had a right to know? How many days of recess has my busy, active and fearless boy been left to roam the playground at will without anyone's eyes truly watching him? Without anyone's footsteps close behind him to make sure not only that he was safe but the other students who were around him were also safe?

Their response praised his independence on the swings. It said nothing of who would be there to stop him when he decided to jump out of the swing from the top of the arc (something he routinely does at the park if someone doesn't advise him against it). Yes, their response pointed out that Xander has not wandered from the playground (we'll not ask his kindergarten para how many times she chased after him as he ran toward the nearby track between the school and the road). Their response pointed out they would work with him on not jumping off the concrete wall, which they suggested he'd seen a peer do (because clearly my child with autism who gets special services to facilitate peer interactions was interested in modeling his peers and not because he's been climbing and jumping off of things since the day he took his first steps). Their response hoped that they had addressed my concerns, told me I could get in touch if I wanted to discuss it further, and proceeded to wish me a nice weekend.

Their response made me angrier than I was as I stood there watching him on the playground. As I stood there, it could have just been an off day, a scheduling issue or a simple oversight. It could have been something that "Team Xander" could make sure didn't happen again.

Instead it was assurances that Xander was being monitored and that I was mistaken.

My second email, which came after several long hours of thought and deliberation, was pretty clear. I have neither visual nor mental deficiencies. I am, in fact, extremely intelligent and educated. I saw exactly what I saw. Four paras. Four students. Three watching individual students. The fourth assisting a problem child who I know all too well because he is in my other son's classroom. And that additional assistance was coming at the expense of one of my children. Xander's safety was compromised. How long it's been happening or how often it's happening, I can't tell you. But it happened on Friday. And their response does little to assure me that it's not been happening for longer than I'd care to know.

My second response included clear examples of safety issues we still currently face with Xander. Just because they have not seen it this year at school does not mean it's not an issue. I reminded them of a not to distant incident that happened in car line, in which Xander came out for afternoon dismissal to car line by himself, at which point he proceeded to run in front of my truck into the active traffic lane because an adult was not there (as they should have been) to supervise the transition. That response was very different, prompted immediate conversations and changes, and more along the lines of what I expected to hear Friday afternoon.

People have often told me because Xander functions with a higher level of autism that I would have to fight to make sure he kept his services. I honestly did not think we were at that point. He has clear impulse and safety issues. He has very clear language and social issues. His IEP is equally clear on transitional supports.

I honestly did not think that "Team Xander" would respond to me the way they did Friday afternoon.

Ask anyone who has ever worked with our boys in the school or therapy setting, and they will tell you that I am the parent you hope that you have. Everyone will tell you how well I know my boys and how valuable that knowledge is to making their jobs easier. I don't have unrealistic expectations when it comes to academic or IEP goals. I communicate about every issue that we have that may impact the boys at school, whether it's a rough sleep night that impacts a single day or a behavior problem we are working on in our private therapies. I ask if there are areas they would like us to work on at home or in our private therapies that would make school easier. I approach everything as a total team effort. I work with the boys on their homework every single night, even though most of it comes home unmodified and well beyond their actual level. I modify it. If I'm not sure how to teach it, I ask questions so that I can teach it. I show up for school events. I donate to fundraisers. I volunteer during Special Needs Awareness Week all week long. I send in school supplies and donate to parties. I bake homemade chocolate chip cookies and take them to school four or five times a year just to say thank you for all of the time and effort that I know goes into not only teaching, but reaching my boys. I usually even take them to our annual IEP meetings. I get Christmas gifts and end-of-year gifts.

I am that parent.

I do everything I possibly can to support my boys and the people who work with them. The only thing that I expect in return is that those people look after my child.

If you do not have a special needs child, you cannot possible imagine what it's like to send them off to school with total strangers each school year. You hope for some familiar faces, but there are always new ones. And you try to build an honest relationship, one that communicates both ways and only seeks to improve life for your child. You have to have that relationship and communication, because the two special needs children I send to school cannot yet talk for themselves, cannot tell me whether they are treated well at school or whether they are bullied or abused or unhappy. They cannot tell me if they are ever left alone or if something unsafe has happened to them. I have to rely on others to be their eyes and their voice. At the very least, I have to rely on them to keep my boys safe in the school environment.

I'm not sure I can ever look at any of those people the same way again.

Or that I will ever be that parent again.

Those people put the needs of another child over mine. Or, more honestly, they put their own needs over the needs of my child. For some, it was a problem child who required more help, and with tightening budgets and fewer hands, the simplest fix was to take something from my child and give it to another one. For others, it was looking the other way and not bothering to either speak up on Xander's behalf or let me know that a service was being denied to my child so that I could speak up for him.

All of those people involved, or least witnessing that decision, know me. They know all of my boys. And not one of them thought I should know it was happening. Instead they send me a carefully crafted response that tells me I am mistaken.

I now have a box of end-of-year teacher gifts that I'm not sure what to do with. I spent quite a bit of time, and not a little bit of money, putting them together. I expected to spend a day this week baking cookies and delivering gifts to close out what I thought was a pretty successful school year.

And there have been lots of steps forward for the boys, lots of progress and moments to celebrate and commend teachers and therapists and paras for jobs well done. Moments that are much harder to see right now as I think about what I witnessed on Friday afternoon.

I hope the part of me that wants to pick up each one of those gifts and hurl them against a brick wall calms down before the week arrives. I hope the response I get to my second email on Monday makes me want to at least drop them off at the front office, even if I don't particularly want to hand deliver them.

My sweet, busy, fearless boy. I thought he was well taken care of at school. I thought the people who worked with him cared about him enough to keep him safe, to be his voice and his advocate when I was not there.

Not to worry, my sweet boy. For as long as you need me, I will be your voice and I will be your advocate. If I have to be the parent who makes random visits to school every week or even every day, I will. If I have to the parent who brings a special needs attorney to every school meeting and IEP proceeding, I will. If I have to file formal complaints and go through due process, I'll do that, too. I'm not going to wait for a broken bone or an accident in the parking lot to make sure you are safe.

You and your brother deserve nothing less.

Ready to Go

Ready for School, a photo by here we wander on Flickr.

It's probably my fault. When I ordered the boys their new school shoes and their new backpacks, I probably should have kept them in box. And not let the boys see them.

Because once they did, it was all over. Both boys wanted to put on their new shoes the minute they saw them in the bench. And yes, yes they are bright, bright red. Both boys wanted to put on their new backpacks. And as soon as we had everything on, both of them went running for the garage door.

"School?" Xander kept asking. Over and over again. Even Sawyer was saying "Go!" And that's pretty big for him.

Let's just say they wore their new gear for a few hours before I could convince them to put it back away. And they were severely disappointed when we did not, in fact, head out the door to school.

The scene has replayed itself several times in the last week.

Lesson learned. Next year, keep the new school stuff in the box. Until the night before school. After the boys have gone to bed. Maybe then the waiting will not be quite so hard.

And no, if you're wondering, Connor did not join in the fun. He's not been home very much this summer, but even on the handful of days that he's been home, he has not wanted to try out his new backpack or shoes. He's perfectly content to sleep in while he still can.

Just a few more weeks, and ready (yes for the twins) or not (no really for Connor), school will be here.

Dear Kindergarten Teacher

Pool, a photo by here we wander on Flickr.

You missed out. You had the chance to get to know an amazing little boy who would have changed your world. But you didn't. And it's your loss.

Of all our boys, Sawyer had the toughest year at his new school. He was placed in a classroom, with a teacher, that neither understood nor appreciated him.

The warning signs started early. On our first initial visit to the school, just about everyone we met started asking us questions about the boys, about how to reach them and how to include them, and more than that, they took notes as we talked.

One teacher didn't ask a single question. Or take a single note. She hardly acknowledged our presence in her classroom.

As the year went on, things didn't really improve. Sawyer didn't spend a whole lot of time in his regular classroom, and quite frankly, we didn't want him to.

Outside of a few brief words during the IEP meetings, we hadn't had any correspondence from his regular classroom teacher at all. There were no phone calls, no emails or invitations for teacher conferences, things that were present for our other two boys.

Every action or inaction by this particular teacher reinforced our belief that he was in better hands with his amazing resource team. The team who talked to us every single day, who called and emailed, who wrote in his daily journal, who walked our boy outside and spent countless hours every single day talking to us about his day, knowing that Sawyer could not tell us himself.

Valentine's Day was the breaking point (see here). There were lots of little things that just added insult to injury, items that came home from school with two boys but not with Sawyer. We didn't even start getting the classroom newsletter or weekly classroom log until after Valentine's Day. Even then, they were just papers stuck in a folder, without a single personal communication about Sawyer.

A few weeks before school ended, the annual school survey came out. As I started to fill it out, I realized our experience was never going to fit into the rating scale answers. So I got in touch with the school principal. I wanted to talk to her about our school year, about all of the amazing people who had supported our boys, but also about the one part of our school year that had been so incredibly disappointing.

It should have happened sooner.

But I thought it would get better. I knew he was in good hands with his resource team. I was afraid of being that parent, of being too demanding and not appreciative enough. I was still learning my way through the very different world of special education in elementary school versus Early Start.

It will not happen again. I will speak up the first moment I think any one of my boys is not getting what they need and what they deserve.

The principal and I had a nice conversation, and I felt like she understood my concerns and was proactive about approaching next school year. And that was my goal, to focus on having a better school year for Sawyer next year.

A few weeks later, and just two days before the end of the school year, Sawyer's kindergarten teacher sent an email asking if I wanted to come in for a conference.

I almost declined. Because really, what was the point? It had been a bad year, she was probably only offering because the principal had talked to her after our meeting. And there was nothing she could say or do that could change the school year that had just passed.

But I accepted. I accepted because there were things she needed to hear and things I needed to say. Not only for Sawyer, but for every other child like him, who might end up in her care.

As I walked around her classroom, looking at bulletin boards and displays, I kept thinking how unfamiliar it all was to me. I didn't know the names of his classmates. I didn't see anything with his name on the walls. It was as though he was never a part of the classroom at all.

And then I came to the birthday wall. All of the classmates were listed by name in each month of the year. All of the classmates except Sawyer.

He wasn't there at all. And that spoke volumes.

So, I will say it again. Dear Kindergarten Teacher, it is YOUR loss. You missed out. Sawyer is an incredibly amazing little boy who every single day works incredibly hard to overcome significant challenges. But he does, and he does it with an easy smile and an infectious laugh.

Sawyer has come an incredibly long way on his journey. We are incredibly proud of who he is and how hard he works and how far he has come.

And we are incredibly grateful for all of the amazing, wonderful teachers and therapists and staff members who have worked so incredibly hard to help him. So many, many people have taken the time and effort to get to know him, to overcome his challenges and reach him. They have made a huge difference in his life and in our life. We will always be grateful.

Your name is not on that list.

And, I repeat, it is your loss.

A Breaking Point

From the moment autism entered our lives four years ago, I knew the journey was not going to be easy. I knew that there would be twists and turns, ups and downs. I knew our lives would not be the same. And for the most part, I've accepted that. It is what it is. You love your children, you do the best you can, and you just keep moving forward.

For the most part, we have been incredibly lucky. Throughout every step of our journey, there have been countless therapists, teachers, staff members and others who have taken so much time and effort to help us on this journey. They love our boys, they take the extra time and make the extra effort to reach them, to push them and move them forward. We simply could not do it without them. The boys have come as far as they have not because of us, but because of every single person who walks with them on their journey. It's a group effort.

For the first time, an issue came up this week at school. It was actually two different things, both symptomatic of something that has been going on for a little while. The first I probably would have overlooked. The second I simply could not.

And before I go on, I have to add a disclaimer. We love the school. We love the teachers and the teams in place to work with the boys. I think everyone truly cares about our boys and has their best interest at heart. But sometimes it's easier to let something small go on because you are not sure how to address it. I am as guilty as those at school when it comes to that. Part of the issue should have been addressed earlier, but this incident simply brought it to a breaking point.

This week was Valentine's Day, a made-up holiday if ever there was one. But it's still a holiday, and in elementary school it one that you celebrate with a party. All three of my boys were going to have Valentine's Day parties in their class. I only knew about two of them. All three classes were supposed to exchange Valentines with their classmates. Only two of them really did.

This was my breaking point.

Look closely. Do you see the difference? Three boys, three bags of Valentines. Two are overflowing with cards and candy. One is not. One had only four Valentines, and two of them were from his teachers.

I could not stop the tears. Or the anger. And I could not stop thinking about it. Not knowing about the class party was one thing, perhaps a simple oversight, further evidence that the communication between one of his classrooms was a little lacking. The fact that only two classmates gave Sawyer a Valentine was more than that. It meant that his name was not on the list sent home to his classmates, a list we also never received. The only reason Sawyer had Valentines to deliver was that I had sent them in, because I could not bring myself to do something for two of my boys and not for the other.

That omission meant so much more. It was no longer just about communication, but also about inclusion. Was this classroom receptive to him, did they treat him as a member of the classroom? Or was he merely tolerated.

I thought about the issue long and hard. I tried to be rational about it, to be objective and fair. But when someone does something that excludes one of your children, whether intentional or not, it hurts. And it makes you angry.

The following day I drafted an email. I must have rewritten it five or six times. I tried to be objective, I tried not to let the emotion take over. But I couldn't. In the end, I simply asked several teachers and administrators to put themselves in my place. How would it make them feel? Three boys at one school. Two with more than 25 Valentines, one with only four. How would they respond?

My tears were not the only ones. I immediately had a phone call and several responses from the people involved in the situation. It never should have happened and they were incredibly sorry. More importantly, they were taking immediate steps to address the issue.

This came home the very next day.

It's a Valentine for Sawyer signed by every single classmate. As you can see, it's hanging up on the wall in his bedroom.

And we also received a new folder in his backpack, one that included a weekly newsletter and a daily activity and behavior chart. Ironically enough, this lists the Valentine party we did not know about as well as a reminder to send in your Valentines. Again, just a reminder that communication has not been what it should be.

Of our two boys, Sawyer is more severely affected by autism. His ability to stay in the regular classroom is limited right now. His sensory issues and his communication level require a different educational setting than the regular classroom can provide. We all agree that he does better spending most of his day in the resource classroom. And because of that agreement, I think that all of us - myself included - have settled for less communication from the regular classroom, because Sawyer does not spend a great deal of time in that classroom.

But this issue made it clear to me, and to the school, that communication from all of the classrooms is important. It is even more important for children like Sawyer and even Xander, who have limited verbal communication skills. I cannot ask them how their day went, whether they were happy or sad at school. I cannot ask if their classmates are nice to them, or if they feel welcome in their classrooms. My boys cannot tell me. Which makes communication from school even more important. For classrooms to be truly inclusive, we all have to know what is going on, regardless of whether they spend five minutes or five hours in that classroom.

Today I drafted another email. This time I wanted to thank everyone, for their quick and compassionate response, for the immediate actions taken to improve communications. Like I said, we love the school. We think everyone there wants what's best for our boys. Sometimes we all need reminders that our actions (or lack of them) have consequences, or that our words (or lack of them) have meaning.

No, this journey is not always easy. Every decision you make, every action you decide to take or not take, has far-reaching consequences for our boys. Sometimes it's incredibly hard to make those decisions, to figure out when and how to act, to know how best to help them and advocate for them. But you do what you have to do. You love your children, you do the best you can, and you just keep moving forward.

Thankful

Today I am thankful. Thankful for all of the people who walk with us on our journey. Sometimes it's hard, and sometimes it's long. And there are so many people who are there for us, day in and day out, at a moment's notice or weeks in advance, offering us a helping hand or even two.

Today was one of those days.

Today was the day we took all three boys to visit their new school and meet with their new teachers. The official open house was last week, while we were still out of town. And two of our boys needed a different kind of visit, one with fewer people and fewer distractions, at least on their first visit. The first day will, of course, be another story altogether.

But today was our visit, the day when most of the teachers and staff members who will be working with the boys would be there and available to meet with us. And, of course, today was Daddy's day to work. That left me and three boys. To visit countless classrooms, explore new and bigger corridors, and meet a whole new team of people.

Only it wasn't just me. Pappy volunteered to drive over for our early morning meeting to help. He walked with us, talked with teachers and therapists, helped answer questions and kept three little boys in line. No easy shoes to fill, those. But he does it well, and so much more often than he should.

There was also our surprise guest, the boys' speech therapist from early start. For three school years, she has been with them. And today she came over to help ease their transition to a new school, to a new place and so very many new faces. She held their hands, talked to teachers and answered questions, distracted them when the moments got too tough. She was an amazing familiar face on a difficult day, doing what she's done every single moment since she met our boys - helping them find their way.

And then there are the many, many new people we met today. The front office staff. The principal. The teachers and resource specialists. The speech therapist. All of them, taking time out of their busy last few days before school, to meet our boys, to ask questions about them and ask how they can help with this big transition. All of them friendly, eager and willing to help our boys on this next step of their journey.

We were at school for hours. Learning classrooms, putting faces with names, talking about challenges and planning strategies. And every where I looked, there was someone else to be thankful for. It was a good day. That's not to say there won't be challenges, or that the coming days will be easy. But standing there, seeing all those people surrounding our boys, I was thankful.

And our day was only half done. Tuesday is also speech therapy day. And with Daddy still at the fire station, that meant Mommy and three boys. And Grammy, who drove in to town to help with the afternoon session. Who waited with two impatient boys in the crowded waiting room while I took each of the boys back to their individual sessions. Who kept them quiet and entertained. Who took us out to dinner afterward. Who, as she so often is, was simply there.

Last week it was Grandma and Grandpa, treating the boys and I to a vacation at the beach. Getting up early with two very early risers. Watching all three boys so I could steal a few moments peace on walks along the beach or afternoons with a book on the sun deck. Extra hands to help in the pool or on the beach, to take pictures for us when my hands were too full of boys.

Aunt Kelly who always treats Connor to special days out without his brothers and all of the special needs that follow them. Who always brings the boys something they will enjoy, whether it's the latest animated movie or a tasty treat. Uncle Brian who takes time out to show Connor how to throw a baseball more accurately or how to catch a ball in his new glove.

All the teachers and therapists who have worked with our boys, who have loved our boys like their own. The ones who stay in touch, who celebrate our accomplishments and talk us through our setbacks. The ones who are, and will always be, part of not only our journey, but our family.

There are so many, many others.

The strangers who help hold open doors when I have all three boys by the hand. The ones who smile with compassion rather than annoyance when my boys do something out of the ordinary. The stranger who tries to help make things better on a bad day (like this one).

There are so many other things that I needed to do tonight. I was up early preparing for our visit and would have loved to crawl in bed hours ago. I have a freelance project I desperately need to be working on for an upcoming deadline. I have a huge stack of school forms for not one but three different little boys that is due on Thursday morning. I need to be making some last minute preparations to get three boys ready for a new school routine in two short days. There's the usual load of laundry that needs to be folded and put away, the dishwasher that always needs to be emptied, and other odd household chores to be done. There's a puppy that is craving my attention. And there's even one little boy who cannot seem to find sleep on his own, even after such an incredibly long and trying day, even when he is clearly very tired and in desperate need of sleep.

There are so many things that I should be doing ... but I had to capture this day, this moment. I have been alternately pretending that it was not coming at all and worrying that it would not go well when it did arrive. It is simply a way of saying thanks. Thanks to the people who have already been walking with us on this journey, who are always there when we need them, and to those who are joining us with such open arms and welcoming hearts.

Today I am thankful. Today was a good day.

Take Me Out to the Ball Park ...

... buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks ...

Yes, it's already time to start thinking about Fall baseball. Or, more accurately, Connor started thinking about it the minute he played his last Spring game of the season. We are now being forced to think about it because registration for Fall ball is here. The twins, if they knew about it, would be screaming in frustration. I promise.

But Fall ball is just around the corner again, and that means decision time. We've talked to Connor about maybe trying out soccer, but I don't think it's going to happen. The boy has baseball (and whatever his big cousin Austin does) on his mind, and that's pretty much all he can think or talk about. So it's looking like we're going back for more baseball.

What we are not doing, mind you, is returning to the same league.

All season long, I hinted at some serious league issues. But I wanted to attempt to be fair, to give the league a chance to redeem itself by the end of the season. That just didn't happen. If you know us, and want a heads up on the actual league NOT to join, let me know. For everyone else, I'll just offer up a few of the reasons that our next ball season will be somewhere else.

The original schedule that came out, or even the revised schedule that came out a few weeks after the original schedule, had maybe one or two things that were accurate. One or two. For the whole season. The dates, the times, the locations - all of it changed, all the time. You might get an email about a time or location change the night before the game, or you might get it the day of the game. You would also still continue to get the league-generated automatic email with the original time and location (which was of course incredibly incorrect). All on the same day. People were routinely showing up at the wrong location or the wrong time all season long, and really, who could blame them.

Some might think t-ball is an instructional league. Some would be sadly mistaken. Most of the other teams were returning kids who had played together last spring and last fall. All of the new kids were dumped on a few new teams with new coaches. The teams either won every game they played, or they lost every game they played. There were no mediocre teams. Many of the coaches also didn't bother to follow the rules. Some of the umpires weren't very observant. Kids were running two and three bases on overthrown balls, they kept running bases even after the ball was in the infield and held up, and generally tried to run the score up. Even when they were already winning by several runs. Coaches were also playing their best players on key positions, and leaving them there the whole game. So much for letting every kid get a feel for the game.

It's also hard to teach kids about the sport when they never played on a consistent field type. Almost every practice was held in a grassy field with an ancient backstop - no bases or baselines, mind you - but a grassy field. One of the actual games was played there, too. And there aren't any bleachers. There's a massive hillside going down to the grassy field. One week a game would be played on the little league field, the next it would be on an adult field - you know, with outfields more than 320 feet away. Sometimes there would be a dirt infield, sometimes a grass one. And sometimes, like I said, just a grassy field. And that cute little field right up the street from our house, where all of Connor's fall ball games and practices were played last season, well we didn't see it once. Not once. We were scheduled for it three or four times, but it never actually happened.

I'm pretty sure my patience with the league ended that day we played an actual game on that grassy (overgrown, even) field with no baselines and no bleachers. This was a real game, people. The poor kids could hardly see the baseball in the tall grass, and if it hit one of the huge divots in the field, it went flying who knows where. These are five- and six-year olds, and they might as well have been playing in someone's back yard.

Let's talk about the facilities a little more. The field we played at last year was right next to a city park. There were restrooms at the baseball field and at the park. There was also a concession stand with hot dogs and nachos and all that other all-American baseball food.

The brand-new little league field that we eventually played on - mid-way through the season, mind you - was also next to a city park. But there were no restrooms. They city brought a few port-a-potties up on the hill for each game. And the concession stand was a Pepsi trailer with nothing beyond packaged foods and can drinks. What kind of baseball field is that?

Now I will give the league a few points of consideration. Some of the changes in the schedule were absolutely due to the weather. We had a monsoon season here in our part of the world this Spring. But that doesn't give them license to move every t-ball game up to the ridiculous times of 4 o'clock in the afternoon - on a school and work day. Seriously? Every change also messed up a subsequent practice. We had some practices that were moved to 3:30 in the afternoon. Connor didn't even get home from school until almost 3 o'clock. And we often didn't know about the changes until the day before or the day of.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will also tell you that Connor's team was not that great. It was once of the new teams. Connor had played fall ball last year, but he was one of maybe three or four players who had ever played on a baseball team. More than half of the team had never picked up a baseball or bat or glove before the first practice. More than half. We had trouble even fielding enough players, especially during the early start times. We also didn't have a very good practice schedule, so the kids didn't learn a whole lot in between games.

So that was our Spring season. I still find it hard to believe we spent as much money as we did to put him in a league that is so clearly disorganized and unprepared for the number of kids trying to participate. Scheduling was a disaster, the new field wasn't ready until midway through the season and even then had limited facilities available (no restrooms for little league - are you serious?), and the teams were so disproportionate it wasn't even funny.

I will also say the Spring season was a total departure from our Fall experience. We LOVED Fall ball with this league last year - practice at the same time each week, games at the same time (though different days), optional clinics for more experience, and everything held at the same facility (which, by the way, had restrooms). No matter how wonderful that first experience was, it cannot make up for the disaster that was the Spring season.

If Connor really wants to play baseball, I want him in a league that knows what it's doing. We've been getting references from other parents in town, including Uncle Brian who coaches in another league we are considering. We may have to drive a little further from home, but that doesn't matter much. Because I will not waste our money or our time with this league again. Pretty much every parent on our team said the same thing, even parents with older kids who had played in the league previously, said this year was a total disaster. Clearly there was a little too much growth and the organizers were a little out of their league. The good news for them is that I imagine they will not have nearly as many coming back next year, so maybe their numbers will be more manageable.

We'll certainly be going elsewhere.