As Nora approaches her sixth birthday, we’re in the midst of navigating a critical process: her three-year special education evaluation meeting. Nora, now a kindergartener at Hiawatha, has had a tough transition, and so have we as parents. The purpose of this meeting is to ensure that the school district complies with rules and regulations concerning special education eligibility, but the experience has brought up a mix of emotions, challenges, and questions for us.
Since starting kindergarten, Nora has been wetting her clothes frequently—sometimes three or more times a day—and exhibiting behaviors we hadn’t witnessed before. Whether it’s the shift from a more structured ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) preschool to the less structured K-12 environment, or simply adjusting to a new schedule, it’s been hard to pinpoint exactly what’s going on. But as a family, we are concerned. We want to understand why these changes are happening and how we can best support her through this transition.
Prior to the meeting, we were told that the school psychologist wouldn’t be attending. This was concerning since her role was to review Nora’s autism diagnosis and conduct assessments. After advocating for her attendance, I’m glad I pushed for it because her input turned out to be central to the discussion. In fact, she spent the most time talking during the meeting, which validated my concerns about how essential her role is in this process.
Despite my efforts to ask questions and voice concerns, the special educator seemed more focused on keeping the meeting agenda on track rather than engaging with the issues we raised. I understand that the meeting has specific goals and legal requirements, but it was disheartening to feel like our concerns were being sidelined. It’s not just about checking boxes in this process; it’s about recognizing that behind all these protocols is a child—our child—who is struggling. We want empathy, understanding, and actionable steps.
The mixed messages we’ve received from the school only add to the confusion. On one hand, we’re told that Nora is having great days. On the other hand, she’s coming home in a tantrum, darting toward the road at dismissal, or wearing an oversized soccer shirt because she had multiple accidents in a day. We’re told she’s “choosing” not to attend some of her specials, but there’s no clear structure in place to explain what she does instead or how we can help her make better choices.
It feels like we’re falling through the cracks. I look online and see examples of students across the country receiving a wide range of supports—speech therapy, occupational therapy, physical therapy, food therapy—from the outset. We visit places like Massachusetts, where there’s a communication board on the playground, and I can’t help but wonder: Why aren’t we seeing the same level of support here in Essex? How long can we remain in a place where the resources feel so limited?
As we move forward, all we can do is keep advocating for Nora, asking the tough questions, and ensuring her needs aren’t overlooked in a system that sometimes feels more focused on the process than the people. I want to believe there’s a solution, and I hope that with continued effort, we’ll find a path that helps Nora thrive. But right now, it feels like we’re treading water, searching for the support that we know is out there but just out of reach.
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