by Amy Piers
God probably does know why, because him knows everything. Here are some things I know:
I know when the ketchup is the wrong brand, because it tastes weird.
I know you can yell as loud as you want, but people in heaven can’t hear you. Unless they do, and they don’t feel like saying a reply.
I know Army Ants can be used as stitches when someone cuts themself. You shouldn’t do that if there’s a doctor in your neighborhood because real stitches are cleaner.
I know I will never like The Evil She. I will never let her teach me things at homeschool, which is home and not school.
I know for a fact that this weekend will be so boring, and my stomach will hurt the whole time because that’s how my body feels when I don’t know how to expect home school to be like.
#
[I see you.]
It’s easier to agree to homeschooling a child than it is to actually plan a program. I’ve been preparing content for the upcoming week while we wait for a legitimate curriculum to be delivered. I ordered one from a school of distance education, and I am hoping it will meet Dallas’s needs. He’s all over the map academically—unfortunately, his behavior has taken him out of the classroom too often for him to have any kind of consistency.
I know he’s capable of being a smart kid, he just hasn’t had the opportunity to prove it. From what I’ve been told, he formed a secure attachment with his parents from birth through three; then he experienced major trauma. I’m not sure I fully believe things were peachy before Grey died, but that’s the story I’ve been fed. In the light of what I heard yesterday, I have a feeling the family were hanging by a thread at the point of Grey's death. Regardless, everything he should have learned and developed after the age of three is severely stunted. He’s a three-year-old toddler in a big boy body.
I take a look at the last report card he was issued. It was written before the summer, so it might not be completely accurate to where he is now.
Ivy Elementary
Transitional Kindergarten Report Card
School Year 2015-2016
Student: Dallas JensenD.O.B: 2/28/2010 (6y 3m)
Teacher: Mrs. Adrienne Barber
Principal: Ms. Celinda Kwan
Date: 6/6/2016
Absences: 10/49 days Tardies: 30/49 days Part Days: 40/49 days
COMMENTS:
Dallas has moments where he is able to engage with the curriculum, though unfortunately the majority of his time is spent off task. He requires enormous amounts of adult supervision and presents with some very concerning behaviors. As discussed, Dallas will not be joining us next year. We encourage your family to find a MFT, and highly recommend that Dallas has 1:1 support in class.
ACADEMICS:
A= All the time M= Most of the time S= Some of the time R= RarelyN= Never
MATH
LITERACY
FINE MOTOR
Can count to -
12
Identities rhyming words
N
Correct pencil grip
N
1:1 Correspondence
S
Identifies Upper vs Lower case
N
Can trace lines
N
Able to classify objects
S
Identifies sounds of consonants
N
Correctly writes first name
N
Able to make patterns
R
Identifies sounds of short vowels
N
Can use scissors
S
Able to match like items
R
Listens for sounds at beginning of word
N
Uses pencil with control
N
SOCIAL LEARNING
Listens while others speak
R
Cleans up after work
N
Respects others
R
Follows directions
R
Follows directions
R
Shows empathy
R/N
Works well independently
M
Hands to self
R
Displays self control
R/N
Puts forth best effort
R/N
Quiet when necessary
R
Self regulate after upset
N
Attentive
R
Cares for materials
R/N
Accepts correction
N
Completes work on time
N
Shares
R
Shows honesty
R/N
I know he can sing the alphabet, because he loves music—but he’d be hard pressed to identify any of the letters by sight. He knows colors, which I assume he learned before the trauma occurred. He speaks with an inconsistent mix of pronouns and is yet to grasp an age-appropriate understanding of changing words to past tense (basically, he talks like a three-year-old). He doesn’t enjoy picture books or animated characters, preferring information texts with photographs. He can make friends easily, but his motivations are very narcissistic—he chooses the socially weak children and manipulates them to do things for him. His friendships have a high turnover rate, very few returning for more—usually because whoever he spends time with ends up doing something that lands them in the principal’s office.
Dallas’s world has been turned upside down since his brother’s death, and the biggest question for me right now is why his mother didn’t tell me earlier. Amidst the intense grief, his brain development strayed from typical to atypical, and his parents haven’t been able to address the profound effect this has had on Dallas. The reason his Dad moved out? Dallas and Grey share a striking resemblance, and it was too much for their father to bear. Also, he believes Dallas is responsible for Grey’s death—and three years later, he avoids seeing Dallas. Result? Neglect, attachment trauma, dissociation.
I have no idea how I’m going to teach this kid, or if this hairbrain scheme of homeschooling is anywhere near what he needs. All I know is he’s a human being who deserves a chance at life, and if I can give him a leg-up, I will.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Brand New Day
[I see red.]
The doorbell ringed, so I am hiding under my bed. I know who will be at the door, and because of The Evil She my stomach hurts so bad. I hear Mom let her in, and I hear them talking about the day.
“He’s nervous about all the change,” Mom says. (Shut up, Mom)
“Yeah, I’m sure he is,” She says in a stupid way. “How do you feel about everything?”
“Well… it is what it is,” Mom tells her. “Anyway, he has chicken nuggets in the freezer if he gets hungry—he can just throw them in the microwave for a few minutes. If he doesn’t eat that, there’s also some corn dogs. Ketchup is in the pantry.”
(I want chicken nuggets right now, but I’m too busy hiding.)
“No problem, I’ll take him from here,” She says, then wonders, “What time will you be home?”
“Jacob will bring the baby home about 3 pm,” says Mom all rushing around. “I’ve gotta run—good luck!”
The Evil She says goodbye to Mom and then I hear the garage door go up. I hear the black car with four rings symbol start up and then drrrrrr, the garage door goes down, down, down again until the noise ends. Now I can only hear my breaths and my heart. She walks closer and closer without saying any words, then into my room. Don’t tell anyone, but I am so freaked out.
“I love books,” She says. Why she’s telling herself that? Her’s an adult. She doesn’t have to read anymore—only kids are ‘posed to read 20 minutes every night. Now She is sitting on the bed—MY bed—and I am very, very angry. Then She starts reading one of my books out loud.
“They suck blood by shearing away feathers on their prey and biting down. With gh
oulish faces that would frighten the living daylights out of the bravest person, Vampire Bats have actually been completely misunderstood. This breed of bats are the only ones who will adopt their neighbor's babies if the mom doesn’t survive. Vampire Bats teach us not to judge a book by its cover, but instead, they encourage us to discover more information for ourselves,” She reads.
Why did she choose my other favorite book? How does she always know what books I like?
[I see you.]
“Another common misconception about Vampire Bats is that they are dangerous to humans. In fact, there has never been a report of a human death caused by Vampire Bats,” I read.
“That’s not real,” a muffled voice corrects me from under the bed.
“Why is the bed talking? How weird,” I joke, and keep on reading.
He slides out from under the bed, “The fact wasn’t real. A Vampire Bat bited a man and him died because of rabies. But it only happened one time.”
“So, I’m confused—are Vampire Bats good or bad?” I inquire.
Dallas stands close enough to lean on the bed. “Them are bad, because them look bad.”
“What if they’re good, but they just did a bad thing?” I suggest.
Dallas just stares at me, without saying a word.
I propose, “Why don’t you grab some of your favorite books and we’ll read them together?”
He shakes his head and stares at me a little longer, up close—but not too close.
“What’s your name?” he requests. I’m 99.9% sure he knows this one. He might have trouble with memory recall, so I give him the benefit of the doubt. (Just kidding—I’m tired of all the excuses adults make for kids being shitty people sometimes.)
“My name is Donut—I thought you knew that?” I casually reply.
The left side of his mouth curls into a cute half-smile, and he tries really hard to keep his lips closed in a neutral expression.
“That’s not your name,” he confidently informs me.
I pretend to be surprised and say, “You’re right! That’s not my name at all. I can’t believe I forgot my own name. My real name is actually Armpit McGee—nice to meet you!”
I extend my arm towards Dallas to shake his hand. He folds his arms, and this time, his mouth opens slightly, and he giggles. I can see him relax a bit, and he leans a little closer to me.
“You’s name is Zoe,” he grins, pointing his six-year-old finger in my face while speaking with his three-year-old words.
“That’s right! You’re the winner!” I announce, “And I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”
“Me too. I’m hungry,” he agrees.
“Hi Hungry, I’m Zoe,” I say in the most Dad-joking way.
Dallas hits his forehead with the palm of his hand, “No I’m real hungry.”
“Let’s go grab a snack,” I suggest, as he leads me out of the room.
We walk into the kitchen, and Dallas opens a cupboard door, stands on it, and climbs onto the counter. He walks across its surface (right over the stove, mind you) to open the freezer and pull out some chicken nuggets. I stand back and watch it all unfold—I want to help him, but I resist. Dallas walks back with the bag of nuggets and gets a paper plate from a higher cupboard. He plops five nuggets on the plate, then opens the bag to get one more. He walks the bag of nuggets back to the freezer and returns to his paper plate. Opening up the microwave, he puts the plate in and presses a button three times. He sits on the counter and waits.
“Do you usually eat chicken nuggets for breakfast?” I wonder aloud.
“If I hungry I can eat them whenever I want,” he shrugs, and I start to get the sense that he fends for himself a little more than I’d realized.
[I see red.]
Making food is easy, and only babies let other people get things for them. I know how to make two things, in case I get bored with one of them. I became like a chef when I was about four because Mommy stopped getting out of bed when I was hungry and I also didn’t have a Dad anymore. She sleeped all day and was awake all night drinking wine that is red, and Dad moved to someone else’s house. Her never talked to me and even forgotted to take me to preschool sometimes, but when I went, I was late, late, late. I teached myself to make nuggets and corn dogs, but here’s the thing: there has to be these things in the freezer, or the recipes don’t work. Sometimes I use them all up, and I have to wait for Mommy to go to the store and get more things.
If that happens, I just be hungry, and that’s OK because my body can live on no things at all. When there are no pools, our bodies stay alive—like magic.
[I see you.]
“Can I have some?” I ask, retrieving the pack of nuggets from the freezer.
“On your own plate,” he instructs. I open the cupboard and pull out three more plates.
Dallas looks confused and says, “You only need one!”
I put each plate on the counter, one at a time.
“I forgot how to count! Help me!” I pretend.
Dallas rolls his eyes, walking over to me. He points to each plate as he says, “One, two, three! You just need one!”
“How many do we need to put away?” I test.
“Two,” he responds. I mentally revisit his report card and make some revisions.
“Silly me!” I respond, and put away the extra two plates. We hear three beeps and Dallas collects his nuked, processed chicken from the microwave. He sits on a stool by the counter and squeezes a giant blob of ketchup beside his nuggets.
“I used to have five when I was five, now I always have six,” he explains. This is the first time in a long time that he’s voluntarily shared information with me, and I have to decide not to look excited. I grab the bag of frozen nuggets.
“How many are you?” he inquires.
“What do you mean?” I question, confused.
“How many candles were on your last cake?” he explains, like I should have known what he was talking about already.
“Twenty-six,” I reveal.
“You can’t have twenty-six chicken nuggets because that’s too many chicken nuggets. Maybe there isn’t even that many in the bag,” Dallas explains.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” I remark, before tipping the entire bulk-sized bag of frozen chicken nuggets on the counter. Dallas’s eyes grow wide—apparently he was not expecting this. Pieces of loose breading fly everywhere.
“Um, you better clean that up. Jacob gets real mad when the house is messy,” he admits. I lay the nuggets across the counter in four equal rows of five nuggets, then there’s one left over.
“I bet you can’t count all these. I mean really count them by pointing to each one as you go,” I tease. Dallas is motivated by challenges, and I have to be smart about where to put them. He climbs up on the counter again and sits among the breading and bagless nuggets made from unidentified chicken product. His dirty feet are up close and personal with his food, and there’s a bedraggled band-aid falling off his knee. He extends his index finger and points to a nugget.
“One,” he says, moving to the next. His last report card states he can only count to twelve, and is unable to assign 1:1 correspondence to objects (e.g. one nugget is counted as one, the second nugget is counted as two etc.—each item has its own value assigned).
“Five,” he declares, pointing to the fifth nugget. He keeps counting, and as we approach twelve I begin to expect some difficulty. I mentally note the following three things:
Dallas can assign 1:1 correspondence, at least to ten.
We have to remember that his brain is a three-year-old, so his academic abilities are unlikely to be higher than a preschooler.
It’s common for preschooler’s counting to go awry after twelve, considering teen numbers don’t follow the same naming conventions as the rest of the numbers.
“Twelve,” he counts and pauses. I see him thinking about this one, “Threeteen? No, fourteen?”
“Thirteen,” I say, “Keep going. Thirteen
, four-”
“-teen, fiveteen,” he continues.
“Fifteen,” I add. “What’s next? S-”
“-ixteen, sebenteen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one,” he finishes at the last nugget. “We got twenty-one nuggets, and you is twenty-six old.”
“Is that enough nuggets for me?” I poke.
“No way! You’re more many than the nuggets,” he reminds me.
“What’s the difference between twenty-one and twenty-six?” I challenge him.
“They’re two different numbers because one says twenty-one and one says a six in it,” he quite literally explains. This question was a stretch—the language is way outside his ability.
“Is twenty-one more or less than twenty-six?” I ask differently.
“It’s not more,” Dallas replies and goes back to his stool.
“I am going to have the same amount of nuggets as you,” I say, piling six onto my plate. I put it in the microwave and press the button three times. As they rotate in electromagnetic waves, I open the giant bag and use my forearm to slide the sixteen remaining nuggets back into their home. I press the zip lock at the top, and hope that no adults will ever know or care that we played with our food. I wipe up the breaded bits, destroying the evidence.
I make more mental notes:
Dallas can count to at least 21 using 1:1 correspondence.
With the exception of “thirteen” and “fifteen,” he can count fluently—possibly indefinitely.
He quickly completed (3-2 = 1) verbally, compared more/less between 21 and 26.
In this environment, at this moment, Dallas was able to demonstrate 10/18 social skills as per his report card. Granted, there were only two people present—none of which were children. Still—baby steps.
The microwave beeps, and I take out my steaming morsels. Dallas has already finished his nuggets, and jumps off his stool. He puts the paper plate in the trash can and goes back to his room. In fifteen minutes over “brunch,” we’ve completed more academic work than he’s done at school in a week.