It was Wednesday of last week, my regular day to volunteer at the school, and Alyssa’s teacher had asked me to assess her first graders’ skip-counting abilities. I showed the first student to a desk in the hall, just outside the door of another classroom. The boy had barely begun counting by twos when I heard a voice coming from the open room.
I couldn’t immediately place the voice, I just knew it was familiar and that hearing it had instantly surfaced an array of emotions. In between prompts to assist my skip-counting boy, I tried to steal a glance inside the room. I cringed when I was finally able to put a face to the voice. It was a substitute teacher with whom we’d had dealings during a difficult time for our son a few years ago. I wasn’t prepared for the feelings that bubbled up from my memory.
Caleb started first grade with Mrs. Hartley, a teacher who came recommended as one that would suit his needs. She had, however, just announced that she was five months pregnant. I immediately thought about moving Caleb to a new class. I knew that the issue of maternity leave, which I figured would be six weeks, would be a change with which Caleb would struggle. I myself was expecting a baby so the changes in our own home would be even greater. But, I never wanted to be one of
those moms; one that makes all the demands of the school and rocks the otherwise stable boat. I dealt with a couple of those moms during my years as an educator and had decided long before having children that I would not be one of them. I knew of the school’s no-requesting-certain-teachers rule so we decided we would make the best of the situation and prepare Caleb as best we could for the major changes he would soon encounter.
I liked Mrs. Hartley. She was a structured teacher and was doing her best to help Caleb settle into the more demanding environment of first grade. But in late December, a few weeks before having her baby, she told me that she planned to take the rest of the year off to be with her newborn. I couldn’t blame her, but I was heartbroken that that meant Caleb would be spending the rest of his first grade year with a long-term substitute. I tried to remain hopeful that Caleb would somehow get an amazing substitute but the dread I felt was indicative of what was to come.
All problems we were currently addressing at school were exacerbated. Caleb was clearly feeling the anxiety of the change. The substitute was not organized in her instruction and she struggled with classroom management. Caleb started on a downward spiral and though she tried, this less-than competent teacher was unable to provide the stability he needed to succeed. My concern slowly turned into panic. I decided that I needed to stand up and become a defender of my son, even if it meant rocking the boat, even if it meant becoming one of those moms.
I arranged for an appointment with the principal and came to the meeting armed with a list of concerns and evidence, in the form of school work and notes from my time spent volunteering, to support my claims that this substitute was not adequately doing her job. She listened carefully and offered a few options. In the end we decided that moving Caleb to another classroom might be one traumatic change too many, so we opted to wait it out and let the principal take actions to help the teacher strengthen her abilities.
The principal enlisted the help of some other first grade teachers. They tried to help her with her teaching skills but in early March, it was the principal who called me. She acknowledged making efforts to avoid it but wondered if moving Caleb to a new classroom was our best option. I told her I would talk to Caleb about it and get back with her. I worried about my son’s intense need for sameness and what the consequences of this move might be.
As soon as Caleb got home, I presented the idea of changing classes. It was a change he was not only willing, but eager to make. His reaction came as a complete surprise to me. I didn’t need to do any kind of convincing. He wanted to attend his new class the very next school day. He woke the following morning feeling excited to go to school, an emotion that had long since left him.
Mrs. Tompkins, Caleb’s new teacher, proved to be just what Caleb needed at that very moment. The other students welcomed him warmly. Though I felt she was a little too accepting of his quirks and behaviors, allowed him more freedom than I think is best for him, she restored his confidence to succeed in a classroom setting.
I hold no hard feelings for the inadequate substitute. In fact, I should be grateful to her. It was through that experience that I learned to be proactive in my son’s education. I didn’t matter who I had to inconvenience, what standard procedures I had to oppose, I knew what was best for Caleb and I would for evermore act on it. Never again would I just “wait and see.” I had spent years trying to “fix” him. I knew now that I needed to fix his environment and that I would need to teach his teachers how to do it.
There I sat, three years later, half-heartedly listening to a boy methodically count while feeling forced down memory lane just by the sound of a voice. I felt the emotions of this difficult time return as though it was yesterday. But almost instantly I felt gratitude for where we’ve been, what we’ve learned and just how far my boy and I have come.
