As most people know, we thoroughly enjoyed Lilah's first year of preschool. She played, she sang songs, she had snack, made friends, went on field trips. We very happily signed her up for the 4 year class. In addition to the same classroom and teachers, it was to be more days every week, and small group time focussed on kindergarten readiness.
I first felt like something was off around mid-September.
I talked to Dano, who said I was looking for trouble. Lilah didn't seem on track with other kids. When I'd sit down to work on writing or coloring with her she would actively resist. She said "I don't know" to answer any academic related question. She would do math while we cooked or find letters when we we read, but she was instantaneously frustrated and resistant toward any formal teaching. I emailed her teacher that I was concerned that she didn't know any shapes or letters besides L consistently, and only the color blue despite having been cleared by the ophthalmologist. She said she shared my concerns. One day she was compliant. The next day she acted like she didn't even understand the question. She suggested a chore chart to get her in the habit of doing a little every day, and we'd discuss it at conferences. We did, and I showed her doctor the correspondence with the teacher. She felt too much was being expected of a 4 year old, and we were dealing with a personality, not a deficit. She explained that her eldest had needed reading enrichment until she was 7, then she began reading at a 6th grade level. She was a late bloomer, but got there in her own time. Reassured, we dutifully practiced her name every day until conferences.
We went a little nervous (well, I was). We sat down in the absurdly small chairs and waited while the teacher went through some papers and looked grave. I had such a feeling a dread in the pit of my stomach. I looked around the room at the artwork. They had been making gingerbread-esque cutout art of their families. I counted them. Nothing by Lilah. Mrs. Fuller pulled out a stack of worksheets and explained that in their small groups, they had been tested on a variety of topics and when Lilah had agreed to at all, she hadn't gotten anything right. She repeatedly sunk down in her chair during group, saying she was too tired or wanted her mama, wanted to go home. On a worksheet where she was told things like "Color the square red," she had colored nicely, but only blue star was accurate. She pulled out page after page of Lilah's work, then other children's to compare it too. She said she was concerned about Lilah having a learning disability, that no other child was unable to identify colors or shapes. Dano smiled and pointed out that she got blue square, and had colored nicely in the lines. My eyes were too full of tears to joke. Her teacher was sitting in front of us telling us how serious it was. That she didn't know her letters, and at this time she wouldn't recommend kindergarten. I found some words, barely audible.
"She knows letters. She picks them out in the bathtub, and when we read. She knows blue and red too." Mrs. Fuller said she was relieved to hear it, and maybe she suffered from anxiety instead? Or maybe a working memory problem. Dano pointed out that she memorized 9 minute songs, and could quote movies she's seen once, or pick out an artist based on their style of mandolin playing. "Maybe if you made it more engaging or made it a game to her, she'd be more receptive." I was more defensive.
"She isn't hitting other children, right? Biting? She plays well and gets along?"
"Yes, but out of all the other children, she's pretty much the only one who can't do these basic things. I'm very concerned." The meeting ended shortly thereafter. I was crushed. Dano was convinced it would be all right. I ended up bursting into tears at her doctor's desk and spilling out the entire story. If it were possible to compassionately scoff derisively, this doctor managed it. Again I was told Lilah wasn't defective, she just wasn't compliant and this teacher had no call to use such strongly worded phrases. What worried her most, she shared, was that Lilah was for some reason resistant to learning and afraid to get things wrong. In an environment where making mistakes should be encouraged, she was being made to think less of herself because she wasn't "up to par", being called out in front of other children for not knowing what they knew. "We have to get her confidence back, first. Accuracy will come later." She also suggested getting Lilah evaluated by the school district just in case she did need some extra help in an area or two. This was free, as was any assistance she may need. I was so grateful. Why hadn't we been told that was an option by her teacher? I found out later it was because Mrs. Fuller didn't know it was.
Dano and I thought about dance class. It was a rigid environment where much was expected of these tiny people, but not more than they could give. They were rewarded at the end and praised throughout for attempts, even utter failures if they tried hard. They received smiles, squeezes on the shoulders, honest praise without sugar coating ("Good try, it looks better this week!"), and finally a stamp at the end for their participation. I made up my mind and emailed the teacher. I wanted Lilah pulled aside before group and told that she didn't have to know the answers, but she had to try her best and not say she was tired or wanted to go home. If that happened, she would get a stamp on the hand afterward just like at dance. We went to Michaels and picked out stamps with owls, birds, butterflies, and flowers. For a time it seemed to work. Her teacher reported her participation improved, as did her enthusiasm. Her accuracy did not. I tried not to care.
The special education teacher I had been corresponding with took a careful history of Lilah's milestones and wanted to know any concerns we or Mrs. Fuller had. She caught me off guard with her next question. "What are her strengths? What is she good at?" They weren't only focussed on a possible deficit. They wanted to know the whole Lilah. She wanted to visit the preschool to see Lilah in her natural habitat. I told Lilah someone would be visiting her preschool to watch her play and ask her some questions.
"Why?"
"Well...you'll be in kindergarten soon and it will help them find the best place for you."
"Right. At Kennedy. With my new lunch box. And girl teacher." Ever the optimist, Lilah already had her heart set on a lottery-entry magnet program where she planned to eat lunch every day out of a Totoro bento box straight from Japan and thrive in a female teacher's class (she'd been surprised to learn that one of the three teachers was male). I was nervous when the day came and grilled Lilah as soon as I got home for a full report. "Well, she came over while Annalia and I were playing dress up. I was Elsa (always, she's the Ice Queen and her best friend, the Princess)."
"Okay. What did she say to you?"
"Asked my name, and asked if I was dressed up like Elsa from Frozen." Lilah beamed. "I told her I was. She wanted to know what color dress Elsa wore, and I told her it was blue like mine. Then I twirled for her."
"Then what?"
"Um...she asked if I knew any letters and I told her I knew L. I wrote an L for her."
"Yeah? What did she think of your L?"
"Oh, she was impressed. Then she asked if I knew any other letters. I told her A was for Allison and D was for Dano and also Downton Abbey."
"You really told her D was for Downton Abbey?"
"Um, yeah? So then I played some more."
When I spoke with her later in the week, the special ed teacher said Lilah was a delight to talk to, very engaging, bright, and social. She had a fine motor delay, and she had some concerns about her receptive language skills. When asked what color something was, she would give any old color along with a winning grin.
"She knew a color answer was expected of her, so she'd give one with that bright smile, just asking me to buy it and let her get back to playing. We see that sometimes in receptive language delays. They compensate very well." I told her I didn't think language was the problem, but they could go ahead and check it out if they wanted. All in all, she'll be getting a speech evaluation and occupational therapy to help her write and cut. She had just as many lovely things to say about Lilah as things she was concerned about. I compared it ruefully to the terrible conference where not one positive suggestion to improve things had been made. I'd even had to send an email to Mrs. Fuller outlining the steps of getting an educational evaluation for a child, since somehow after 15 years of preschool teaching, she'd never referred a child for extra help.
The winter dragged on endlessly. The children spent more time home for snow days than in preschool. Lilah bonded more closely with her little friend who played Frozen with her. Every day she'd tell me what they had for snack, what story they'd read, and how she and Annalia had played Frozen with Annalia's twin Matilde pretending to be their faithful pet cheetah named Cheese. I always encouraged her to stop by one of the project tables and do a craft, write in her journal. Lilah laughed at me every time. I couldn't blame her. Give a kid the option of table work or endless play, and come on. What will they choose. And if she did sit down at a table, no teacher sat along side her to show her how to write or cut. Projects seldom came home, and when they did, there would be one sad snip cut into them with Lilah's name written in adult handwriting after she'd abandoned the project. Dano called me angrily after the project where she was supposed to decorate and cut out the letter L came home blank. It was her favorite letter, and no one had even bothered to help her cut it out when she'd attempted to do the project. We talked long and hard about taking her out and putting her in another preschool for a few months. I felt like I was failing her. No matter how hard I worked with her, she was blissfully unaware she didn't know as much as her counterparts in the classroom, and content to be an Ice Queen forever. Those kids played hours on their iPads, complicated educational games. Lilah planted bulbs, cooked, asked questions about the origins of the stars and why doctors couldn't cure certain diseases, and made up entire universes in her head to be happily played out in the sanctuary of her bedroom. But if I held up a flashcard, told her it was orange, then asked her what it was, she'd smile and answer, "Circle?" before walking away. She was smart. I knew she was smart. Why couldn't she just get it?
Dano and I talked to his sister, who'd pointed out Drayton was a lot of things, but it wasn't educating her. No one instructed her, then tested or graded her work. She was tested and graded on concepts she'd never been taught. How can she succeed at Alphabet Bingo if she hadn't memorized her alphabet? And why were 4 year olds being expected to have every shape, color, number, and letter memorized in the first place? She talked us into making peace with the preschool for what it was - a playgroup - and seek out actual instruction for her outside the classroom. Let her play out the rest of the year happily, ignore her teacher, and get her the actual help she needed. I felt much more at peace. One Saturday morning, while pondering to myself why Lilah couldn't just memorize flashcards like I did, it dawned on me what is probably painfully obvious to everyone else in the world. Lilah and I have different learning styles. When she was interested in something, she memorized it down to the smallest details. The kid had worked out the entire plot to Wicked just by piecing it together through the songs that showed up (out of order, I might add) on her Pandora station. I got together with Dano and we created some flashcards of our own. Every card had a letter and a corresponding character from Frozen, Despicable Me, Spirited Away, Wreck-it Ralph, any other film she had memorized. The letter on the card was colored to match the character. She got a chocolate chip before she started, and one after she finished (a professor of mine did that with us on test days, only it was mini candy bars. She said it jump started the mind and jogged the memory). She had to sit criss-cross on the floor with her hands still and look up while we stood and held up the card (a trick spelling-bee champs use, looking up to picture the word itself in the air). She had to repeat after us. A is for Anna. B is for Belle. After three days, she knew a handful of letters she'd never known before. After five days, she knew 21 out of 26 without prompting. I felt like such an idiot. Mrs. Fuller, me, everyone had been coming down so hard on Lilah for not learning the way we thought she should. When I took five damn minutes to actually think about how Lilah learned, the solution had been screaming at me all along. Teach her the way she learns, not the way you do, you huge moron. I grew a shade more resentful of the teacher who'd had her for the second year in a row and had arrived at "maybe disabled" instead of "right-brained learner".
The final straw came last week on Wednesday. I was having the first day in what would be the worst week of my career. I didn't know it at the time I was getting the story and hearing the preliminary imaging reports, but we were rapidly losing a healthy 4 year old to a disease no one knew she had. By rapidly, I mean within 24 hours of it being found. I was just hanging up with another nurse who was giving me the first of many bad reports on this child when my cell phone started buzzing beside me. Caller ID displayed a mom of one of Lilah's classmates. Weird, I thought, and picked it up. She identified herself and apologized for calling me at work.
"Lilah hit her head, and we can't calm her down." I think she said some more words, but it sounded like she was underwater. When my brain started registering sounds again, she was saying something about trying to call us but not being able to reach either of us, our emergency cards weren't up to date, something about an old class roster.
"Where is she? I want to talk to Lilah." Someone handed her the phone. "Lilah Rose? Talk to me, goose. It's Mama."
"I hit my head!" She wailed into the phone. "I want you."
"Darling, it's going to be fine. Where are you?"
"I want you."
"We'll be there to get you. Where are you?"
"At preschool."
"What's your name?"
"Lilah Rose."
"How old are you."
"Four."
"You're going to be fine. I promise. We'll be there. Daddy might get there before me. I'm in Farmington Hills today." She started crying again that she wanted me to get there first. "Okay, okay, okay. I'll be there. What teacher is with you?" She told me no teacher was with her. "What grown ups?" Silence. "LILAH. Who is with you?"
"Juni's mommy, and Addie's."
"I need to talk to a grown up. We're coming for you."
"Okay." I was told she hadn't lost consciousness and probably didn't need medical care, but was hysterical and they hadn't been able to calm her or reach us. I seethed and told them to hang tight, that Dano would come to get her. I called him. He was furious and immediately left the house. She'd just fallen hugging a friend and they'd been trying to pick each other up. A complete accident. But there was no excuse for not being able to reach a parent, or not calling the emergency contact, my sister-in-law who's had the same number for 10 years. I called the vice-president of the school board, fuming. I spilled out all the educational cockups that had taken place over the year, the lack of actual teaching, and that since the school had failed to do more than provide a playgroup, the least they had to do was keep her safe in an emergency and couldn't even manage to do that. I told her we'd take some time to calm down before making any decisions, but I didn't know how I could send her back or write another tuition check after what had just happened. She was totally understanding and shocked, asking when we'd updated our information and who I'd given the changes to (I'd given it to the membership person twice after she got it wrong again back in December).
I had just made it back to my desk, shaking, when another call came in about our patient. More absolutely awful news. Tears started rolling down my cheeks as I trudged into the doctor's office to tell one of them. He asked after Lilah. I told him she was heading home and appeared fine to Dano. They'd both called me to let me know he had her and they were leaving. I could hear the tightness in his jaw through the phone. I hadn't sat down in my chair before my phone was going off frantically with texts to call home immediately. I called. Lilah had gotten extremely drowsy, and Dano let her rest but not sleep. He was having a hard time keeping her awake when she started projectile vomiting and shaking, saying she was dizzy. I told her to clean her up and get her to the office. Her pediatrician was at the Troy office, which meant I had to drive across town to meet them. The 30 minute drive was the longest in my life. They barely beat me there. Even though her doctor was behind, the staff put Lilah in a room and worked her up without me saying a word. They got all her vitals calmly and with a smile, and had Dr. Kolin see her next. I asked Dano if he was aware she was getting preferential treatment and he nodded through clenched teeth.
Dr. Kolin came in and immediately commented on how pale she looked. Lilah swooned several times on the exam table, whether nauseated or dizzy I didn't know. She got a thorough head to toe, and neurologically was fine but we were told one more vomiting episode would warrant a CT scan of her brain, and we had to wake her up for neuro checks every two hours through the night. She said she wanted to avoid radiating her little brain if we could help it, which I appreciated. She scribbled out our encounter form, jokingly asking me to chart for her (she'd broken her wrist a few weeks earlier and I've been her shadow lately, doing her charting and helping with exams). I told her after she saw Lilah out of order, I'd chart whenever she wanted. She told the front desk to write off whatever our insurance didn't pay, since head injuries were a higher level of billable care and she technically had a stage 2 concussion. I thanked whatever gods would listen for the hundred thousandth time for my amazing employers. No fewer than six pediatricians checked on her at all hours over the next few days, not only the one on call for the night. Texts, calls, and emails.
On the way home, Lilah started to tell me what happened. I welcomed the talking after how strangely silent she'd been in the office, occasionally making comments that didn't make much sense.
"I fell and hurt my head. I wanted you so badly. I cried for you and Addie's mama tried to call you. Juni's mama picked me up and held me and I cried for you. She told me to be brave, and you were helping other kids. She told me my fingers were candles and I should blow them out, and blow all my bad feelings out into the snow. I blew them and I felt better, but I still wanted my mama." I was sobbing as quietly as I could in the front seat, silently blessing the mothers that had been there for my child when I couldn't be. My heart was shattered hearing that she'd needed me and I wasn't there. I updated the vice-president and the mothers who had helped her on Lilah's condition. The assistant teacher hadn't contacted us, and Mrs. Fuller had been on vacation for the week, a fact not even the class rep had been aware of. Dano and I were zombies for the next few days. Not sleeping, waking Lilah around the clock to ask her questions, look at her pupils, make her squeeze our fingers and press back against our hands. She was spacey and confused, sound-sensitive and headachey for a few days. We both went with her to her field trip to the DIA the day after the concussion. He and I had talked in hushed tones, and I'd had a long talk with the doctors who knew her best. No one told us what to do other than trust our instincts. The decision was both the easiest and hardest we've ever made as parents: she could never go back to that school again. I waited until I was calm and emailed the president, vice-president, and our class rep. All were so sorry, all understood. Our class rep said her son had been having similar educational problems and was getting about as much assistance at the school.
A vague email from the school went out to her class that Lilah would not be returning to Drayton. I cried every night. I was taking from her the one thing she loved most about her life for reasons she could never understand. We kept her busy with play dates, outings, and crafts. We practiced cutting and pre-writing projects at home (most Frozen-themed or fun animal projects she liked). And emails poured into my inbox. Multiple families with the same concerns we had about the "curriculum", lack of teaching, and lack of instructing. Some who hadn't had the courage, but had wanted to leave as well. And the most meaningful emails of all were from mothers who seemed genuinely sad they wouldn't see Lilah on their volunteer days anymore. Some mothers I knew well, some I had honestly never spoken to.
"I will miss her. You have a sweet daughter."
"My daughter will be heartbroken to hear Lilah isn't coming back."
"I miss Lilah at Drayton."
"I miss her spirit. I love how in awe she always was of new things."
"Lilah made me smile every time I worked."
"I am so sad to see her go."
"Lilah always found a lap to sit in and was so sweet."
"I think Lilah is lovely. She is a gentle spirit and has a brightness in her eyes. My daughter will miss her so." I treasured the kind words even as they broke my heart. All the reasons they would miss her were the reasons we had to take her out. We had to preserve all the wonderful Lilah-ness before a stupid personality conflict broke her spirit.
I never did hear from the assistant teacher who was in the class that day. Mrs. Fuller contacted me when she got back from vacation. I probably shouldn't have been as angry at her email as I was. It contained things like she was sorry if she gave us the impression Lilah was going to receive extensive 1:1 time to work on her fine motor skills, but she simply didn't have the time for that (with 5 adults to 20 kids, I felt someone should have had the time for some 1:1. Not her always, but someone). She went on to illustrate how she'd "tested" Lilah again a few weeks ago with no improvement in what she knew - a couple colors, a handful of letters, one or two numbers, few shapes, and couldn't write her name. At one point, she'd asked Lilah what a shape was while pointing to a rectangle and Lilah had answered "Yellow". I smiled when I read that. I could picture the smirk on Lilah's face when she said it, just like she did to us when she was trying to get out of something. Instead of recognizing it as a tactic to get out of work by inducing frustration, it was just used as further "proof" of a deficit. The email ended with although she wasn't a doctor, she had been a preschool teacher for 15 years and Lilah was not a typical 4 year old. That wasn't her fault, our fault, or Lilah's fault. I was angry at the fact that Lilah not being "typical" was considered a negative quality. I loved my strange little bird, all the more lately for seeing the outpouring of love from people in her life and seeing how her knowledge bank blossomed when information was presented in a way her brain understood better. We hadn't raised her to be a cookie cutter kid. What the hell had we been doing, listening to this woman who "didn't have the time" to recognize Lilah's strengths and capitalize them, but apparently had the time to test her on her supposed deficits. I was angry we had to advocate so hard for her when she was only 4. After many tearful conversations late into many nights, we vowed over and over again to protect her from anyone who wanted her to be different than what she was. If it meant getting an IEP through the district for her to get whatever accommodations would help her learn best (books on tape, quiet and low-distractibility places to take tests, modified homework assignments) we would do it. I was at least thankful it happened now so we knew how to handle it for the rest of her time at school, but I was weary to the bone thinking their might be 14 more years of fighting for her.
We got the news today that she had indeed won a place in the lottery at Kennedy, just like she said she would, along with all of her very best Drayton friends. In touring the school, they emphasize project-based learning, hands-on sciences, small tutoring groups led by parents trained by teachers to help each group at their level, camping experiences, several school gardens, heavy emphasis on music and band, and even a vegetable stand where school-grown produce is sold at pickup time. I'm sure it won't be perfect, but at least the learning style seems much more her speed, and the kindergarten teachers we met were right down there on their level helping, touching shoulders and bumping fists, smiling, and reminded me a lot of Miss Amanda's sweet approach with her tiny dancers. Kindergarteners in every class met the tourists with confident smiles and even handshakes, 5 year old tour guides who pointed out the highlights of their classrooms, of which they were obviously very proud, finally asking the principal at the end if they'd done all right and receiving a high five and a grin in response. It was the kind of environment I could see Lilah happy and thriving, where a little bird could test her wings with support and guidance. We'll see where this next chapter takes her.
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