Kintropy In Action

Tonight was Gabriel's back-to-school night.  After a quick dinner, I headed to school and joined the other parents in the gym.  We sat in rows of metal folding chairs and listened to muted microphone introductions of this year's team.  We clapped at appropriate moments.  It'd been a long time since we parents had sat through an assembly in the gym, but we all still knew the drill.

The principal then announced we'd all be on a bell schedule that, if we had multiple children, would usher us from class-to-class for three sessions of teacher introductions.  The bell would ring every twenty minutes, and an announcement would come on to help remind us to circulate to our next classroom.  We would also have a little bit of transit time inbetween bells to arrive at our destination.  And then we were excused for first period.

Talk about flashbacks.  Moo.  Bah.  Bah.

We poured out of assembly and into our first rooms.  I stood at a wall, pencil in hand, scrawling Gabriel's name for a one-on-one teacher conference in October.

"So you're Gabriel's dad," someone said behind me.

"Yeaaah," I replied.  We traded places, and she signed her daughter up. 

"We hear a lot about Gabriel at our house."

Sigh.

It turned out to be mostly good things (although it sounds like our two kids got in trouble playing around on the schoolbus:  ammunition I immediately used on returning home to introduce Gabriel to the Parents Know Everything Network).

Around this time, though, the first bell rang, and we all took our miniature, 1st grade plastic chairs and crouched near our kids' desks.  Gabriel's teacher walked us through her curriculum (apparently, this will be the year that Gabriel is challenged on writing neatness - my old nemesis).  His teacher was thorough, polite, and very structured:  a good thing, I think.

The bell rang, ending this first period, just as Gabriel's teacher asked for questions.  She grimaced:  not the first time she'd been interrupted by the bell, I guess.  And we parents, dutifully, circulated to our next assignment where applicable.

Given that we only have one child in elementary school, I could have gone home, but I wanted to take this opportunity to meet special education staff.  Hannah will finish preschool this year (she goes to the same preschool as Gabriel did) and head into kindergarten next year.  We've had a fantastic experience working with our ESD Coordinator and team, but we basically have to hit the reset button when Hannah moves to kindergarten.  New team.  New school.  New rules.  It seemed like a good idea to at least introduce myself.

I walked into the school's office and found the principal.  "I'd like to meet your special education team."

"All right."

She walked me back through the school.  We passed through the library.  We walked past the classrooms.  We headed toward a set of side doors that led outside.

Crap, I thought:  the bungalows.  Sure enough, when the doors parted, I was greeted by a separate-from-the-school-building, self-contained classroom.  I walked up the ramp with the principal.  She introduced me briefly to one of the two women there and then left.

After taking a deep breath, I introduced myself and the idea that Hannah would require special education services, ideally delivered in the typical classrooms as much as possible.  What was their program and approach like?

So we talked.  She walked me through the program, emphasizing inclusion in kindergarten, but also pull-outs from typical classrooms more regularly as kids got older, depending on their needs.  I emphasized that through the IEP, I'm sure we'd develop a plan appropriate for Hannah.  (And did I mention she's already mainstreamed in her local preschool?)

Afterward, I offered our blog address as a way to meet Hannah virtually, and I walked down the bungalow ramp back toward the school.  I had planned to walk back through the school, pick up more literature from the local groups staking out the back-to-school night, and head home.

I pulled the main building's door.  It wouldn't budge.  It was locked.

As I walked two-thirds of the way around the school building and headed back to my car, I wondered at the symbolism of finding the main building locked against my re-entry after my bungalow, special education classroom visit.  Hopefully, this was simply a back-to-school gaffe: a simple that-door's-never-open-at-night oversight and not a more metaphorical moment.