say.”
Ms. Gavin stares at us and says nothing. I get it. I envision the policy memos stamped and signed by the school lawyers. No one is saying the words I think we’re all now thinking, Ms. Gavin for legal reasons, Bob and I because we’re talking about our little Charlie. My mother would be great at this conversation. Her next words would be about the nice weather we’re having or Ms. Gavin’s pretty pink shirt. But I can’t stand the unspoken tension.
“Do you think he might have ADD or something?”
“I’m not a physician. I can’t say that.”
“But you think it.”
“I can’t say.”
“Then what the hell can you say?” asks Bob.
I put my hand on Bob’s arm. This is going nowhere. Bob is gritting his teeth and is probably seconds away from walking out. I’m seconds away from shaking her and screaming, “This is my boy! Tell me what you think is wrong with him!” But my business school training kicks in and saves us all. Reframe the problem.
“What can we do?” I ask.
“Look, Charlie’s a sweet boy and he’s actually very smart, but he’s falling way behind, and the distance between him and the other kids will get worse if we do nothing. But nothing can happen fast enough here unless the parents initiate an evaluation. You have to ask for it in writing.”
“Ask for what exactly?” asks Bob.
I half listen while Ms. Gavin describes the red-tape-lined mountain climb to an Individualized Education Program. Special education. I remember when Charlie was born, checking him for all ten fingers and toes, studying his delicate pink lips and the conch-shell curviness of his ears.
He’s perfect,
I thought, amazed and grateful for his perfection. Now my perfect boy might have Attention Deficit Disorder. The two thoughts refuse to hold hands.
Kids are going to label him. His teachers are going to label him. What did Ms. Gavin call him? Impulsive. The kids are going to throw names that are sharper and uglier than that at him. And they’re going to aim for his head.
“I want him to see his pediatrician before we start doing anything here,” says Bob.
“I think that’s a good idea,” says Ms. Gavin.
Doctors give kids with ADD Ritalin. That’s an amphetamine, isn’t it? We’re going to drug our seven-year-old son so he doesn’t fall behind in school. The thought flushes the blood out of my brain, as if my circulation won’t support the idea, and my head and fingers go numb. Ms. Gavin keeps talking, but she sounds muffled and far away. I don’t want this problem or its solution.
I want to hate Ms. Gavin for telling us any of this. But I see the sincerity in her eyes, and I can’t hate her. I know it’s not her fault. And I can’t hate Charlie. It’s not his fault either. But I feel hate, and it’s growing massive inside my chest and needs a place to go, or I’ll hate and blame myself. I look around the room for something—the innocent faces of the kids on the “Stellar Spellers” board, the painted hearts and moons and rainbows, the hamster running on its wheel. The hate stays trapped inside my chest, crushing my lungs. I have to get out of here.
Bob thanks Ms. Gavin for informing us and promises that we’ll get Charlie whatever help he needs. I stand and shake her hand. I think I even smile at her, like I’ve enjoyed our conversation. How ridiculous. Then I notice her feet.
In the hallway, after Ms. Gavin has shut the door to her room, Bob hugs me and then asks me if I’m okay.
“I hate her shoes,” I say.
Baffled by my answer, Bob decides not to ask any more questions of me at this point, and we walk to the gym in silence. Before the Bell is just about over, and the kids are lining up to go to their classrooms. After saying hello and good-bye to Lucy, Bob and I find Charlie in line.
“Hey, bud, gimme five!” says Bob.
Charlie slaps his hand.
“Bye, honey, see you tonight. Do what Ms. Gavin says today, okay?” I ask.
“Okay, Mom.”
“Love you,” I say
Ms. Gavin stares at us and says nothing. I get it. I envision the policy memos stamped and signed by the school lawyers. No one is saying the words I think we’re all now thinking, Ms. Gavin for legal reasons, Bob and I because we’re talking about our little Charlie. My mother would be great at this conversation. Her next words would be about the nice weather we’re having or Ms. Gavin’s pretty pink shirt. But I can’t stand the unspoken tension.
“Do you think he might have ADD or something?”
“I’m not a physician. I can’t say that.”
“But you think it.”
“I can’t say.”
“Then what the hell can you say?” asks Bob.
I put my hand on Bob’s arm. This is going nowhere. Bob is gritting his teeth and is probably seconds away from walking out. I’m seconds away from shaking her and screaming, “This is my boy! Tell me what you think is wrong with him!” But my business school training kicks in and saves us all. Reframe the problem.
“What can we do?” I ask.
“Look, Charlie’s a sweet boy and he’s actually very smart, but he’s falling way behind, and the distance between him and the other kids will get worse if we do nothing. But nothing can happen fast enough here unless the parents initiate an evaluation. You have to ask for it in writing.”
“Ask for what exactly?” asks Bob.
I half listen while Ms. Gavin describes the red-tape-lined mountain climb to an Individualized Education Program. Special education. I remember when Charlie was born, checking him for all ten fingers and toes, studying his delicate pink lips and the conch-shell curviness of his ears.
He’s perfect,
I thought, amazed and grateful for his perfection. Now my perfect boy might have Attention Deficit Disorder. The two thoughts refuse to hold hands.
Kids are going to label him. His teachers are going to label him. What did Ms. Gavin call him? Impulsive. The kids are going to throw names that are sharper and uglier than that at him. And they’re going to aim for his head.
“I want him to see his pediatrician before we start doing anything here,” says Bob.
“I think that’s a good idea,” says Ms. Gavin.
Doctors give kids with ADD Ritalin. That’s an amphetamine, isn’t it? We’re going to drug our seven-year-old son so he doesn’t fall behind in school. The thought flushes the blood out of my brain, as if my circulation won’t support the idea, and my head and fingers go numb. Ms. Gavin keeps talking, but she sounds muffled and far away. I don’t want this problem or its solution.
I want to hate Ms. Gavin for telling us any of this. But I see the sincerity in her eyes, and I can’t hate her. I know it’s not her fault. And I can’t hate Charlie. It’s not his fault either. But I feel hate, and it’s growing massive inside my chest and needs a place to go, or I’ll hate and blame myself. I look around the room for something—the innocent faces of the kids on the “Stellar Spellers” board, the painted hearts and moons and rainbows, the hamster running on its wheel. The hate stays trapped inside my chest, crushing my lungs. I have to get out of here.
Bob thanks Ms. Gavin for informing us and promises that we’ll get Charlie whatever help he needs. I stand and shake her hand. I think I even smile at her, like I’ve enjoyed our conversation. How ridiculous. Then I notice her feet.
In the hallway, after Ms. Gavin has shut the door to her room, Bob hugs me and then asks me if I’m okay.
“I hate her shoes,” I say.
Baffled by my answer, Bob decides not to ask any more questions of me at this point, and we walk to the gym in silence. Before the Bell is just about over, and the kids are lining up to go to their classrooms. After saying hello and good-bye to Lucy, Bob and I find Charlie in line.
“Hey, bud, gimme five!” says Bob.
Charlie slaps his hand.
“Bye, honey, see you tonight. Do what Ms. Gavin says today, okay?” I ask.
“Okay, Mom.”
“Love you,” I say
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