Post-it Notes and Panic Attacks

I found myself digging through old emails to make sure I was detailing my memories correctly for this post. Eli’s fourth-grade year was easily one of my hardest parenting years, and for those of you who have lived through a really hard parenting year, I think you’ll understand when I say a lot of that year is very hazy — so, to the email archives I went!

What I do recall, very vividly, is that we had big expectations for fourth grade. Don’t get me wrong, Eli was still struggling academically — but the gap was closing, even if by millimeter after painful millimeter.

When we met his new teacher at the beginning of the year and shared our ever-present concerns about how far behind his peers Eli was, she made it clear that she was invested in helping him continue to make progress. And as promised, she poured herself into each and every one of her students from day one. Eli really enjoyed her classroom, and the progress continued — slow as it may have been.

Just before Halloween, we were informed that his teacher, who we’d both grown to love, was moving away. Her husband’s job was taking them to a different part of the state, three hours away, and she would not be returning after Thanksgiving break. We were assured that her replacement would make the transition seamless and would “continue instruction as the kids were used to” to maintain classroom and learning continuity.

I cannot emphasize this enough — THIS IS NOT WHAT HAPPENED. Not even close.

On the first day after the break, I sent in a handwritten note introducing myself and giving a little background on Eli. To help her transition, I also bulleted out a few accommodations that Eli’s previous teacher, the school’s administration, and I had all agreed were appropriate for him. Things like: reading one chapter instead of two, writing one good sentence instead of three “The boy was nice”-level sentences. I thought this would make it easy for her to reference, knowing she had a lot of plates spinning at once.

The note came home that afternoon — and every afternoon from that day until Christmas break. I left it in his folder since I wasn’t sure if she’d seen it, and it was intended as a reference anyway.

About a week after Thanksgiving, Eli started saying things like:

“Teacher doesn’t like me.”
“Teacher yelled at me again today.”
“Teacher is so mean to me.”

As always, I asked questions to try to draw out more details, but more often than not, he couldn’t find the words to explain. I felt so sad for him, but I also know that Eli often mistakes innocent situations as negative demands.

A perfect example: one day he told us his kindergarten teacher kept yelling at him in the hallway. After weeks of digging, I finally got him to explain that she was telling him it was his turn to go to the restroom and said, “Hurry, hurry, and don’t forget to wash your hands.”

He heard: “HURRY UP! YOU’RE NOT MOVING FAST ENOUGH! WASH YOUR HANDS!!!” 😠😤

So when Christmas break rolled around and I still hadn’t gotten more out of him, I assumed he was simply misinterpreting an innocent request.

Over the holidays, I cleaned out Eli’s backpack, lunch box, and folders. The note I’d written for the new teacher after Thanksgiving was still there in his communication folder. But since I hadn’t heard anything — good or bad, no questions or comments — I assumed all was well.

So… I tossed the note.
(.05¢ for your jar: don’t toss the note — you will need the note as evidence one day.)

The return to school after Christmas was nasty and unlike anything I could’ve ever foreseen. Eli was more stubborn than ever and adamant he was not going back. He cried, punched, scratched, kicked, and screamed — at me, at the walls, at the doors, at the furniture — whatever was nearby. I had never seen Eli act like this.

He shut down.

We all know a meltdown… everyone has had a good meltdown or two. But shutdowns? They are different. These are when Eli goes into an almost trance, looks down at the floor or at his hands, and becomes essentially unresponsive while still being conscious — as if he’s turned the world off around him and he is the only one there.

We later learned: these were panic attacks.

I felt helpless. I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew it wasn’t good — and Eli couldn’t find the words to tell me. I decided to call the school and set up a conference if things didn’t get better in a week. Maybe it was just difficulty transitioning after the break, ya know?

I didn’t have to wait that long.

That same day, a post-it note came home with bold, black, all-capital letters:

“HE IS NOT DOING FLUENCY. HE IS NOT DOING IRJ.”

I was super confused, because we did his fluency, math, and IRJ with him every night. Just like we had since he started there. Nothing had changed.

I emailed her, asking if she could help me understand what we were doing wrong, because we’d been sending in completed homework daily — and since I’d never heard back regarding my note, I assumed everything was fine.

This was her response, verbatim:

He does not have the assignments completed. He does not know the story or have the correct answers for the questions. He is not able to read enough of the story or reply to questions to pass to another story. I am not seeing any progress.

He needs to read it aloud to you. You help him with comprehension and decoding the words. For his IRJ he is not reading 2 chapters a night. He needs help with giving three good sentences with correct spelling. If he reads aloud to you every night then he should be able to read it in class to me.

We will discuss how we can work together for his success at our parent-teacher meeting.

I felt my blood boil…
More to come.

Susan