Back from my break. It turns out these breaks are a periodic necessity for me. Life stuff (house issues, Henry issues, homework, other things that begin with the letter "h") builds into a swelling tsunami, threatening to engulf everything in its path. In desperation, I grab only the necessities and batten down the hatches. The water crashes around me, tossing my meager yet trustworthy ship (think amphibious Millennium Falcon) upon its giant waves. Now the worst of the storm has passed, and I can once again step onto the deck and see the sunlight glint on the water, and the detritus of my past scattered like...okay, this is getting out of hand. I was really busy. And now things are not as busy, and I'm back.
One of the projects I was working on in that silent interim was finding more therapy options for Henry. I finally found a place that doesn't have a year-long waiting list, and it's located right in Smallville. I told K., our neighbor and Tuesday daycare provider, that I was going to check it out, and she said, "Oh, that's in the old police station." (In Smallville, the long-time residents refer to places this way. Our house is known as the Goldschmit house, the people who built the house in the 1930's.)
So last week I went to the old police station and had a look. And liked it. It's a small school, with only six or eight children enrolled and 11 therapists. Each child has a team of therapists, with his/her own lead therapist, working with him/her on various skills: large and small motor skills, speech and functional language, social skills, and music therapy. Their facilities are modest but decent: a good-sized motor room (i.e. gym) and an outdoor playground. And it's within walking distance from our house. All the therapists are so young and energetic, they seem to be on springs -- bouncing down the halls, calling the kids "buddy" and "dude" -- it had an upbeat and fun feel, and I got the sense that Henry would be well served there.
Now, I don't have the best history for picking out schools for Henry. Henry's first school, the Montessori in St. Paul, was a disaster. And I remember very well how much I loved it when I took the school tour. The whole place seemed to be flooded with sunlight and music, there were plants and artwork everywhere, and all the toys were made of high-quality wood. I was seduced by a vision of Henry playing with these aforementioned wood toys in patches of syrupy sunlight, as Mozart drifted in starry arcs above his head.
Some months later I wanted to watch the very flames of hell devour those wooden toys in a roiling conflagration as a band of angry parents (me in the forefront) chanted Satanic verses and lashed the school director to a tree. But that's another story.
This is my history of picking schools. However, in the first instance I was seduced by my own version of an idyllic childhood, complete with alternative education and the Suzuki method. In the second instance, at the police school hereinafter known as The HC, I was looking at it from a different point of view, namely "Is this a good place for Henry? Will he be understood and encouraged? Loved and taught?" And I believe he will be.
Next Tuesday, on Henry's fourth birthday, we will bring him to the school for a couple hours so he can meet the therapists and they can meet him, and begin the process of getting to know him, where he's at, and what might benefit him. I'm happy, relieved, and anxious all at the same time. Part of the school's methods call for monthly meetings between the therapists and parents, so we won't be left in the dark as to what's happening (a la school number one). And I'm determined to be vigilant every step of the way, to make sure that Henry gets what he needs and isn't just stuck in a corner, isolated and alone.
That will never happen again.
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