special education

The Brave Speak for Those Who Can’t

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

A friend recently asked me for advice. She has a family member whose toddler shows signs of autism. Knowing the importance and impact of early intervention, she  wants desperately to say something to the parents and suggest their child be assessed. She also has experience as an educator and parent that helps inform her suspicions. So, let’s say she brings up this tough issue and the parents take offense.  Based on what she told me, that’s not an unlikely response.

Does she risk upsetting her relationship with the parents to advocate for the child? That’s a tough choice to make, but I think that answer is yes.

Here was my reassurance to her, which I hope she can pass on to her relative:

  1. Getting a diagnosis doesn’t make autism (or whatever it may be) any truer than it is without the diagnosis.  In that moment that word is uttered in reference to a child (or adult), the person hasn’t changed. She is exactly who she was the moment before.
  2. One gift of the diagnosis is a life-changing light suddenly shone on your child. Many of the questions you may have had are quite suddenly answered. Not all of the questions, of course, because each child (on the spectrum or not) is a unique individual. But you can begin the process of understanding your child in a new way, enabling you to parent them with newfound empathy and patience.
  3. Another gift – and I cannot stress this enough – is that services become more readily available to you. Since Maddie was not diagnosed until around age 10, she struggled through elementary school as the teachers and staff struggled to understand her. And then, magically, we had the word “Asperger’s” to throw around and suddenly Maddie was less of an enigma despite having not changed a bit. Was everything magically solved at that point? Certainly not, but instead of just being the smart, stubborn kid who refused to perform, or the weird kid who repeated the word “paperclip” over and over until she was eventually sent outside the classroom, or the kid who would hide during school hours, throwing the staff into a frenzy, she became a more sympathetic person who deserved compassion and help. It makes me so sad to think about the years she was misunderstood and therefore mistreated.

I was recently talking with a friend in her 40s who has chosen not to have children. If she ever changed her mind, she said, she would want to go right into the teenage years, skipping right past all the noise and messiness that comes with babies and young children. We agreed adopting an older child is fraught with uncertainty, but then I pointed out that even when you have a baby, it’s still a roll of the dice. Your child might become an Oscar-winning actress, or a homeless addict, or a high school valedictorian who goes on to solve world poverty or goes to jail for insider training. Or she might have autism. Or some combination of those things.

Certainly the dreams of an expectant couple do not include addiction or a prison sentence. Or autism (to be clear, I’m not equating autism to either of those things). And yet a diagnosis of autism is an increasingly likely outcome of an assessment. Awareness and the ability to diagnose autism have improved dramatically over the last decade or two, but depending upon the trajectory of a child’s development, and depending upon their gender (boys are more likely than girls to get an early diagnosis), a chid may still go for years without getting a diagnosis and therefore the appropriate help. I know because that’s what happened to us. So many years of pain and frustration and confusion could have been avoided. There are so many things I would have approached differently if only I had better understood the daughter I so desperately wanted to know.

For my entire life deep in my soul I have believed in speaking up for those who cannot speak for themselves. If anybody qualifies for that, it’s a young child with autism. It might take some real courage to speak the words, “Have you thought about having Reilly assessed?” Or “I’ve heard of some services that might benefit Sophia.” But remember, you might be the only person to utter the magic words that eventually open the door to early intervention, a deeper understanding of that child, and continued services throughout that child’s educational experience and beyond.

If you know a family who needs help navigating this special realm of parenting, or who hasn’t dared consider autism or a learning difference a possibility, look into yourself and see if you can find the courage to speak up as an advocate for that child. A gentle observation or suggestion, or a connection to a free assessment, could change the lives of the whole family forever.

Be brave. Speak up with love and compassion. And know in your heart you’re doing the right thing.

And even if you can’t, I still love you.

The Experiment Continues

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

In August 2015 I had what turned out to be a knee-slapper of an idea: The school year that was about to begin would somehow be The Big Experiment. Maddie was about to to start public high school as a sophomore after three years at a private special education school, and after a year of battling with her over attendance on a daily basis, and years of thinking and thinking and wondering and planning and getting disappointed and crushed and then reviving myself for the next round, we had decided This Was It: It was either This (the public high school)—or boarding school. The idea behind boarding school was since the kids sleep and wake up AT school, they can’t not GO to school. They’re already there! And that’s what I so desperately wanted for my bright, talented, interesting, lovable kid: to GO to school.  Well, and to not have to freak out every single morning over her refusal. I had felt the years of my life slipping away from me as the stress built up in my body and mind. It really was taking a toll, so something had to be done.

Nearly three years—and another new school—later, I realize how naive and narrow-minded my thinking was. The idea that somehow it would all sort itself out in that defined period of time is absurd to me now. What was I thinking? I don’t know exactly, but let me tell you, it got a whole lot worse before it got better.

I’m not sure how many times my therapist had to tell me that just because going to school was what I would have wanted, just because I thought the social part was important, or just because I really thought going to a dance was an important part of the high school experience, those things would necessarily have any meaning for Maddie. It wasn’t until Maddie basically quit going to school in October of her junior year (2016), and I fully gave in to the concept of her not going to school, that I also fully comprehended not only how differently we are made but also how perfectly fine those differences are.

We worked with the school to complete her junior year’s coursework basically in a home-schooling capacity.  But at the end of the year we had to make a decision. The public school is not in the business of home-schooling, we were told. The teachers and administration had been so accommodating! They had bent over backwards to make things work for us, but they could not continue merely sending home work for Maddie to complete without having her attend at least part of the time. They had revised schedules, reduced schedules, minimized the amount of time she would need to be there, but ultimately it just wasn’t happening, so we absolutely had to take another route.

If you are the parent of a child with special needs, you can imagine my mental state at this point. Every new attempt to make things work is fraught with anxiety because you know it may or may not work and then you’ll have to go through the process all over again. You’ll have to rethink and rework and research and try, yet again, to make the best choice for your child, knowing full well this may be just another attempt in a long line of failed attempts to get it right.

With the help of two consultants, we landed on public online high school for senior year. Online because Maddie could literally do school in bed. Public for several reasons: she would have an IEP and they would have to make accommodations; it follows the state curriculum so she would have a diploma from an accredited school in case she wants to go to college at some point; and it’s free. We still pay a lot of money to the educational consultant who works with Maddie twice a week and manages her workload, so free is a welcome bonus.

And guess what? It’s working! There have been ups and downs, particularly for me. Last summer during a meeting with our consultants, one of them mentioned she thought my motivation was to manage all of Maddie’s schooling for this year. “Um, nooooo!” I clarified. “If I had my choice, I would have literally nothing to do with it.” And I meant that. I’ve had it “up to here” with the stress of it all and would gladly have gone on my merry way and let those two ladies work it all out with Maddie and I could just make her food, badger her into taking showers, and then have fun with her. That sounded perfect! “You all just work this out, and call me when she graduates!”

As it turns out, I have participated quite a bit, but our educational therapist is the Overseer of Things, and for that I am grateful. The stress of the school battle was quite literally killing me and I needed to hand over part of the responsibility to somebody else at least for awhile.

I’ll write more about the experience of online school later, but for now I’ll just say this: What I thought was going to be an experiment with an end date and some sort of answer was indeed an experiment, but one without an end. This whole parenting thing is an experiment. I’m still working on it. We are still working on it. There is a lot of talk about what’s next (that’s another blog entry), and I don’t know what that is yet, but it will be something and then something after that and then something after that. And we will forge on, trying to have fun along the way and not losing sight of the end goal: a content, fulfilled, secure human being. In that part of the experiment, I’m pretty confident we’re succeeding.

And Maddie will graduate on June 14th – her 18th birthday.

P.S. Special shout-out to those who encouraged me to start blogging again. Thank you!

Ninety Percent Happy – A Camp Debrief

Chris Irvine, Parent Coach1 Comment

Today was camp pick-up day. After 24 days without Maddie, it was time for the family to reunite. Or at least three of us. My teenage son thought those three and a half weeks went by a little too quickly. “Does she get back next weekend?” he had asked. “No, tomorrow,” I clarified, and disappointment washed over his face.

Part of me didn’t want to do the pick-up simply because of the drive. I had recruited my husband to make the trek because of my hate-affair with long car trips, but since we could at least share the driving, I decided I couldn’t miss out. An excellent choice on my behalf as it turned out.

Pick-up day at this particular camp is also performance day. After having lunch together with the campers, parents can see what their kids have been working on for the last ten days. I always go to performances or games or whatever my kids are up to (and sometimes just to see their friends). I LIVE for this stuff. But the last few times Maddie went to camp she participated in workshops that didn’t end in a performance, so I wasn’t expecting to see her do anything this time. Typically we would have lunch and then listen to a brief talk by the camp director, then grab her luggage and split. So really the only reason to go would be to to give her a giant hug and dip my toe in the camp experience before summer was over and see her happy face.

I knew for sure she’d be happy. For one thing, camp is the highlight of her year. ALWAYS. Second, I was actually able to speak to her half way through. Campers can’t have phones, but Maddie stayed for a four-day between-session mini-sorta-camp thing and during that time was able to use a counselor’s phone.

I received this text:

“Hey, it’s Maddie, your daughter. Could you call me on this phone? Anytime.”

And then, before I could respond:

“Can you send me some stuff? My Bose speaker and the power cord. And my SIM card. And can you go on Amazon and order some Liquid Ass and send it here?”

I called her shortly thereafter. She was in good spirits, partly because she was in a bowling alley at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk at the time. She sounded happy and relaxed.

“Can you also send me a banana suit?” she asked.

“Did you say ‘banana suit’?”

“Yup.”

“Sure.”

After a brief conversation about camp, I handed the phone to my husband so he could chat with her, and brought up Amazon.com on my computer to order Liquid Ass and a banana suit.

I wrote a note to my husband, who was still on the phone with Maddie: “Ask her if it’s the fart spray.” Eventually he nodded and gave me a thumbs up. I placed the order as if it were for toilet paper and toothpaste. It did occur to me that perhaps a “for what?” might have been in order, but it hadn’t crossed my mind to ask until it was too late. Maddie gets ideas and she makes plans and sometimes they involved fart spray and a banana suit. Business as usual at our house!

So two weeks later, there we were to retrieve our happy camper. We hugged a giant, long bear hug. I noticed her hair was clean and brushed and I was so happy about that. Even if that was the only shower she had taken (although I was sure it wasn’t), at least she had the foresight to be clean for the parents. We had some surprisingly delicious barbecued chicken and grilled vegetables for lunch. Maddie had already eaten a turkey sandwich. A TURKEY SANDWICH. Mind. Blown. She likes turkey and she likes cheese and she likes bread, but she has never ever eaten a sandwich. Whenever meals weren’t to her liking, she asked the kitchen staff for a sandwich. A SANDWICH.

After the campers and staff gave an enthusiastic performance of this year’s theme song,* it was time for performances.

“Are you in anything?” I asked, expecting the answer to be, “No. Let’s go home. I’m tired.” But instead the answer was, “Yes, rock band and film.”

Alrighty then, we would be staying longer. We converged in the dining hall/performance room and first watched dance and  musical theater. But the big star of the camp is rock band. Probably half the camp participated in that workshop. The first act got on stage and Maddie was nowhere to be seen. It was a full rock band (maybe five instruments) and two singers. Maybe she comes in during the middle, I thought, and shakes a tambourine or something. But nope, the song was over and another group took the stage. Different kids, different song, but pretty much the same setup. Still no Maddie. By the third song, I was starting to wonder, and then she stepped up with a microphone in hand. The band got set up and Maddie belted out “The Way You Make Me Feel” by Michael Jackson. All alone up there, with occasional backup from the rock band coach. She looked pretty natural on stage, moving her body and holding the mic with confidence. She sang from her belly and her heart. She wasn’t the best vocalist, but she was certainly among the most convicted. I was in awe. She just blows my mind sometimes. I was so proud of her and happy for her.

And then, unfortunately, I started to think. Maddie was the only solo act, and I knew it wasn’t because she was the best. I also noticed that half the band was camp staff, unlike the other groups. Ugh. The sadness started to mingle with the joy. Did nobody want to sing with her? Did the staff step in where campers wouldn’t? Is this the “special ed” performance?  Even at this magical camp, is she on the fringe (a word her kindergarten teacher once used to describe her)?

She sure looked happy up there, though. This is a kid who loves to belt it out, and she got it do it with a band. If any of my worries were rooted in truth, she didn’t seem to notice. I was mostly happy, and a little bit sad, and then a little more sad because I wasn’t 100% happy as I thought I should have been.

A couple more groups performed, and then the entire “mega band” took the stage for a rousing rendition of “Burning Down the House,” a suitable song for the band and for the moment. Each singer had a few solo lines, and Maddie pulled hers off as well as anybody. Or at least I thought so.

Finally, it was time for film. Maddie’s film was a camp-ified version of Harry Potter with a few jabs at the Spiderman movie franchises. She had come prepared, somewhat unknowingly, with her sorceress costume, and ended up with a relatively big role. It was clever, funny, and well-edited. Whent the film ended, Maddie said her goodbyes, and I signed her up for next winter and summer.

And then it was time to pack up and go home, my heart full of gratitude for the camp, joy for the experience my kid gets to have, and yet a little conflicted inside.

But before we could actually embark on our two-hour return trek, there was a stop to be made, for in the tiny mountain town near the camp, there is, of all things, a costume store. There are maybe 15 businesses in that little strip of downtown, so the presence of a costume shop was more than surprising. Maddie directed us where to park, and we walked a half a block to the store. She had her eye on something from a visit during the in-between-camps excursions, but she hadn’t had enough money to buy it. It was a gold lame, pleated, wing-style cape of sorts. Of course her plan is to modify it somehow (that’s how she rolls) and give it some kind of flame effect at the bottom. And then she saw some lights for costumes and a plan was born.

Aggie, the proprietor, remembered Maddie from her prior visit. She could see how important costuming is to Maddie and searched high and low for a red dress she had that might complement Maddie’s fiery vision.

“She can come work for me anytime she wants,” Aggie offered. I could tell she had Maddie pretty well figured out. She said she has other girls who work there about two hours per week.

My first thought was, of course, I wish the store was closer to our home. My second thought was, “Hmm. Maybe I could drive her down here once a week for a couple hours.” Part of me thinks that’s crazy. The other, more correct part, thinks it would be totally worth it.

We purchased Maddie’s carefully chosen items and, although Maddie wasn’t sure she was finished, I talked her into concluding her visit by promising to bring her back.

So now w’ere back at home and everything is back to normal. Or whatever normal is to us. I am bugging her to take a shower. I have a fussy eater to cook for again. I’m fretting about embarking on the new online school program, which is still rather nebulous in my mind. I’m suddenly back to my usual stressors. And I’m pretty bummed about that.

All my emotions are back. The pride, the fear, the joy, the worry, the amusement, the frustration. It’s all back in the swirling vortex of motherhood. I feel like my brain is literally spinning in my head.

Camp was good for all of us. Back to reality.

The Art of Acceptance

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

One of the many concepts I have struggled with and contemplated over the years of parenting my autistic child has been the difference between giving up and acceptance. I have come to the conclusion that it’s simply a matter of mindset because the outcome of giving up and acceptance is the same: you recognize there is a reality you probably can’t change, so you put your energies elsewhere.

So many times I have felt like I was giving up. Or perhaps just giving up too soon. I was hard on myself, too. Remember my failure to chart? I felt so guilty when every single professional we worked with, including psychologists, psychiatrists, and occupational therapists, insisted that making reward charts was the answer. THE answer. It never was the answer for us, and I knew it. But I would often try for a week, and then just bail out. Was I giving up? I didn’t know. I just knew it wasn’t working. It seemed futile. Maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe I wasn’t organized enough or disciplined enough. Maybe it felt too difficult for me (it is true it’s not in my nature).

I realized at some point, however, that it wasn’t my failure. Charts were meaningless to Maddie. So I could release myself from guilt because really what I was doing was recognizing what was true (acceptance!) and acting accordingly. Maddie didn’t give a shit about a reward chart and she never would, so why keep trying? I could release myself. And guess what? That is not the same as giving up!

I also remember deciding there would be no more fights about homework. And in our house, that meant no homework at all. It wasn’t going to happen without a lot of pushing on my part, and often my energy was wasted. I really should have made that decision when Maddie was in first grade, when homework first came into our lives. What should have taken ten minutes (an appropriate length of time for a six-year-old, if they absolutely must have homework at all) took a full hour because of the Asperger’s (and with it, ADHD) I didn’t know she had. I don’t know why I didn’t just tell the teacher, “Look, this is killing us.” I now realize years later that she would have most likely said “No problem.” But I was fighting it, swimming upstream in a deluge, losing my mind over something that was at the time both impossible and unnecessary. If only I’d had the wisdom of acceptance back then. Or the next year, or the next year, or the year after that. And on and on.

Finally, after more than eleven years of this struggle, two weeks ago we began the new phase of Maddie’s education. She hasn’t set foot on a campus for months, and in fact she took a couple months off to do whatever the heck she wanted. Which, by the way, was awesome for me, too. I realize parenting involves occasional conflicts with your kids. You will inevitably be at odds at least once in awhile. But the daily grind of morning-long battles, fraught with anxiety on both our parts, was just too much. For both of us. I got to say at least a temporary goodbye to migraines. And, it turns out, Maddie was able to to go off the Prozac she’s been taking since she was nine.

I noticed a few days ago that her prescription bottle was still in the Ziploc bag she had taken to camp last month. She had been a bit less reliable with her nightly medication since she quit school. I was no longer managing my teenager’s bedtime, which involved watching the clock, telling her five times to brush her teeth, cleaning off her bed, filling her water bottle, reminding her to take her medication, and hanging out for a bit (I do miss our nighttime conversations) before turning off her light and saying good night. So I wasn’t aware she had simply stopped. Fortunately, unlike many similar medications, you can apparently just stop cold turkey without withdrawal symptoms.

After I spotted the neglected bottle, I casually asked Maddie if she had been taking her medication. “No,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“I thought so. Are you feeling okay?” I asked.

“Yup!” Clearly she was feeling better than OK.

“If you start feeling any anxiety or if you feel a little depressed, you need to tell me, okay?”

“Yup!” And I know she will. I’m so grateful for that.

And so here we are. Her decision to quit school relieved me of that two-month migraine and apparently freed Maddie from the anxiety, in particular, that had been plaguing her since the fourth grade. Seven years later (SEVEN YEARS!), we figured out together that “giving up” on school was really just accepting that it wasn’t working, and then making the choice to do something else, and rather magically, we are both okay. After all these years of struggle, all these years of meetings and IEPs, and then no IEPs, and then IEPs again, after traumatizing experiments with ADHD meds, after all those fights and struggles and tears and digging in on her part and frustration and yelling on my part, and frustration and even the occasional physical outburst on her part, and my trying and trying and feeling like a failure, and wondering what I should do, and then trying something and finding that doesn’t work, and trying something else and then something else, and feeling defeated and exhausted and afraid and discouraged, Maddie and I found acceptance.

And so, for now, we are free!

The difference between giving up and acceptance, it turns out, is in your feeling of power. When you give up, you are admitting defeat. The thing, whatever it is, has won. And so you shrug and say, well forget it. With acceptance, you are making a choice. You are not a victim. You are in charge. YOU say, I have decided this thing, whatever it is, is happening, and you find a way to embrace it, and hopefully, to make the best of it and find a new path to peace.

The Basketball Game

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

“I told Mr. L I would be at a basketball game tonight at 7.”

That was the text I received from Maddie around 10 a.m. today. I had seen emails about a basketball team for the special ed (“Bridge”) class, but Maddie hadn’t indicated she was involved so I had ignored them. I get so many emails I have to pick and choose what I read, right?

“Cool,” I replied. “Sounds fun!”

“Will you take me?”

“Of course!”

That conversation led to some of the best ten minutes of my entire life. Ten minutes because that’s how long the game was.

Maddie is not an athlete by any stretch of the imagination. Much like her mom, she has lead in her feet, and worse than that, she has bad feet. They’re flat and supernate so badly that she can’t exactly break into a full run. It’s more of a lumbering fast walk. She never really mastered catching or throwing, either. She did, however, learn to love basketball at her previous school, where she usually played during lunch with two very tall teachers and a bunch of high school boys. She’s short and slow, but she is fierce and determined. She also prides herself on being able to “take a hit,” and she most certainly did during those games, more than once resulting in a very broken pair of glasses and a pretty nice lump on her head. I wouldn’t say she enjoyed the experience, exactly, but she felt like a bad-ass for having not only survived it, but actually picking herself up and carrying on as if nothing had happened.

Most of the kids in her class aren’t athletically gifted. Lots of kids probably had motor skills delays like Maddie did, some just can’t manage the whole game concept, and many of them have probably never played basketball at all. But Maddie has quite a bit of experience, even if it was only lunchtime play.

Still, apparently she was hesitant to join until today. Somebody at the district level organized a series of basketball games between the special ed classes at the different high schools. Tonight was the first game. And it was amazing.

About twenty kids from Maddie’s school had signed up, an awfully big team for a ten minute game. The rules indicate that a non-IEP student would be on the court with four teammates to help pass and set up plays and generally keep things moving.

Before the game started, the kids were lined up for shooting drills. Maddie was on the court talking to her teacher and then suddenly disappeared. My niece Rachel looked for her after securing a t-shirt for her (the student council brought free high school shirts for anyone who wanted one), but she had disappeared. Finally the girls found each other, and Rachel learned that Maddie had avoided the drill because she can’t shoot baskets. Moments later, there was Maddie at the front of the line anyway. She had somehow mustered the courage to face her perceived shortcomings. She stepped forward tentatively and threw the ball toward the backboard. It ricocheted right into the basket as if Maddie had done that a thousands times. Instead of jumping for joy or pumping her fist, she did a double thumb-and-forefinger point. “Yep. That just happened.” And I knew we were in for something special.

A young-looking sweet-faced boy named Nathan turned out to be a pretty good shooter. Each time he made a shot during the drill, his face lit up as the crowd cheered and he soaked up that moment with so much joy and pride. He stood there smiling, not quite knowing what to do besides enjoy his achievement.

Already I could feel the tears welling up. I came for a good time, not at all expecting the emotions that would come, too.

When Maddie’s teammate Nick dribbled down the court and made the first basket of the game, I was overwhelmed. I suddenly understood why this was happening. This was an opportunity for the kids to feel the joy of playing in front of a crowd, to be cheered when they made a basket, or just took a shot, or stole the ball. Not only that, each player was announced at the beginning of the night. Stars for an evening.

The opposing team’s “ringer” looked like a varsity player, a very tall young man with some real skills, who had to downplay his level of play and never ever take a shot. Several times he passed the ball to a very short, round girl, who ducked and flinched whenever the ball came her way. Another girl with a multi-colored braid took many shots, and missed every single one, but she just kept plugging away. I was dying for her to make a basket. She never did, but I hoped she’d felt the satisfaction of being so aggressive out there, and that she’d gained some confidence for next time. One kid one that team kept trying to steal the ball from his teammate. I guess they could use a little bit of coaching.

Primarily because of her poor shooting skills, Maddie focuses on defense. So when it was time for her to sub in, I eagerly awaited the other team’s possession of the ball so Maddie could do her thing. She was alert. She played what I would Maddie-to-Man defense, basically attempting to block any opposing team member who had the ball. I think she had the ball in her hands once, and I cheered for her to make a pass. She did, and that was the end of her ball-handling career this evening. I wondered how she would feel about her performance. She didn’t play as aggressively as I had expected. I hoped she’d feel proud of herself and want to play again, but I would have to wait until the car ride home to get her feedback.

The game was over far too soon. I guess it really only was a 10-minute game. I could have used anther 20 at least, but this was the first game for all those kids and apparently they needed to start slowly.

“I know that was only a 10-minute game,” remarked Maddie as we stood in the middle of the court, “but it was quite enough.” It turns out two or three trips up and down the court had been plenty for this evening. Clearly she needs to build some stamina. We’ll work on that.

But for tonight, it was indeed enough. Maddie’s teachers, lots of parents, the district coordinator, an assistant principal, student council representatives, varsity players and more all showed up for these kids. The gym was loud as the whole crowd cheered for both teams.

And I was elated.

For the last couple of weeks I have had trouble writing. I started and stopped several times. Parenting has mostly been a huge struggle. Maddie refused to go to school the first three days after the break ended, and then she was sick for a week, and then the struggle returned in full force. She made it to school for a half day, then most of a day, then a little more of a day, and then finally a full day.

That first successful half day only happened because I did something pretty dramatic. She had refused to go in the morning, but finally after Mr. L’s suggestion, she agreed to go to the two classes after lunch. I clinched the deal by offering to get her some fast food (a rare treat) on the way there. We had a pleasant ride. Our dogs sat in the backseat for the long round trip as well. When I parked near the office, she opened her door, and then she reconsidered.

“I can’t do it,” she said.

I went from calm and optimistic to steamed and panicked in a millisecond.

And then the shit really hit the fan. Our dog Ginger jumped out and began running around the parking lot, sniffing frantically in this new, formerly un-smelled location. My frustration doubled. Maddie rounded up Ginger and got her back into the car, and she and I resumed our conversation. Then somehow Ginger escaped again. I was simultaneously trying to manage my kid and my dog, and I thought my head would explode.

And then I realized I had an opportunity. Maddie was outside the car. So was her backpack. I coaxed Ginger into the car on the driver’s side, hopped in and shut the door. And then I hit “lock.” There I was with the dogs in the car, and Maddie was locked out. She put her hand on the window.

Boy, was she surprised. I waved at her and shook my head. “Go to class!” I yelled through the window. I wasn’t angry. I was just being loud so she could hear me.

She backed away from the car as I slowly began to pull away. I waved. She stood there.

And then I watched her in my rearview mirror. She pulled out her phone. I thought for sure she was trying to call me. But she didn’t.

I circled back through the parking lot and saw she was headed for the office, where she was to drop off a doctor’s note excusing her from the previous week. And then I went home.

I felt terrible. I had just locked my kid out of the car and driven away. Who does that? I wondered. Seriously. Who does that?

The answer, apparently, is a desperate parent who is trying to do the right thing without ever really knowing what the right thing is.

All day I felt exhausted and sad and guilty. Not for a moment did I feel especially victorious or even right about my decision.

And then Maddie got home from school. I heard the door open and close, the scramble of dogs on the wood floors and the high-pitched greetings from Maddie to Ginger and Banjo. A moment later she came to my room. I was nervous. I knew she’s be upset or mad or traumatized or questioning or something.

“How was school?” I asked.

“Good!” she answered. Not a word about the morning. Not even a “why?” I couldn’t believe it. I had felt nauseous for hours, and Maddie had turned from the car and accepted her fate. And then she had a pretty good day.

Each day has been a little more successful since then, culminating today in a on-time arrival. Mr. L assured me tonight that he doesn’t care about tardies at all. He just wants her to get there. Indeed. I don’t even really care about homework at this point. Some reasonable attempt at attendance sounds like a lofty enough goal.

Last week I was ready to give up. I began to question whether all this mental and physical effort was worth the stress if it wasn’t even helping. Why kill myself trying to get Maddie to school every day? My mornings feel almost heart-attack inducing. I’m on blood pressure medication for a reason, I guess.

After the game tonight, my niece Rachel and Maddie and I stopped for ice cream. It seemed like a good night for a special treat. “How do you feel about your performance?” I asked over ice cream.

“Good!”

“It seemed like you weren’t being as aggressive as you usually are,” I observed. I wanted to encourage her to really go for it.

“Well, I looked at the other players and thought I should go easy on them. I didn’t want to block them too hard.”

“Yeah, that’s probably the way to go,” I agreed. God, I love that kid.

At home tonight, Maddie donned a brand new costume that had arrived in the mail, to surprise her dad. She stood there holding her swords in a threatening manner, enjoying yet another special moment, and then we told him about the game.

“I feel happy,” she finally said. She loved playing basketball and was excited about her costume. It was a good day.

And there you have it. Maddie had a great day.

I had a great day, too.

And it was all because of basketball.