Julie Unplugged

Momschlepping Challenge: A New School Year & I'm in the Driving Seat Again....

I need to create a Momschlepping Challenge OR hire this dog as my driver.

One of my most hated chores is what I call “Momschlepping” but actually it occurs in all circumstances when I am driving anywhere without a purpose, sort of driving in circles for no reason.

I know, I am now completely opted out of the Mom of the Year, 2013 competition by making this confession but seriously, the obsession with getting kids from here to there and hinter and yon is enough to dampen even a Stepford Mom’s spirits.

To solve this, I need to remember to use the schlep as my workshop in presence. Be Here Now, Even Schlepping. 

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© 2013

How Sharing Stories Created a Miracle in This Mom's Life ( a throwback story I had almost forgotten.)

Samuel, my son on the autism spectrum, posing for a photo with the "Famous Walt" poster. Normally he refuses to be photographed, so this is another big deal!

A miracle happened yesterday.

On the surface, it might seem like a completely normal thing, but stay with me so you will see the depth of this “little” happening.

Yesterday my children were out with their father and they called me, very excited.

“Our dog is famous!” she said into the cell phone inside her father’s car.

“What? What?” I asked. “Walt is famous? How?!?”

Walt, our resident escape artist, had gotten out this weekend, overnight. I put a “Lost dog” ad on craigslist and thankfully, the woman who found him also put a “Found dog” ad on craigslist, complete with a photo.

I didn’t know she had tried other methods to reach out to us.

The girls were tripping all over themselves to tell me what happened but then Samuel broke in, saying “Wait a minute, wait a minute, let me tell the story.”

And then he did exactly that: he told the story of driving past a local drug store, seeing a sign, pointing it out, asking his Dad to pull over to take a photo and the rest is history.

Naturally, we had found Walt before Samuel found the poster, but there was still a story to be told. Samuel told that story.

What makes this monumental?

He had never told a story before in the same way everyone else tells stories.

Our family tells stories all the time. Samuel likes to hear them. He likes to be a part of living them on their way to becoming a “family story” but this was the first time he was the star of the story and then the architect of its telling.

I have been waiting for this since Samuel was in kindergarten and his teacher noted this weakness in him.

Several months later we discerned he was on the autism spectrum which includes language processing factors including being able to do something so integral to our family: tell entertaining stories of the run-of-the-mill yet very amusing moments of our lives to one another and to friends and for me, here on my blog and occasionally in storytelling competitions.

What a grand bonus in an otherwise very satisfying week-end.

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© 2013

I Love My Mommy: Driving Inspiration & Dreams, No Matter What Age

Mommy loves Classical: I love my Mom, I love vintage books, I love combining it all...

She created awesome paper dolls and the girls loved it, especially Emma. My daughters are twenty-one and almost sixteen and they still talk about Nana’s paper dolls.

In October, Nana came to visit and she stumbled into my fascination with art created using book pages. She became my ironing assistant, flattening all the pages after I painted or dyed them. I fell in love with the smell of hot paper and Mom sort of understood why I enjoy tearing up books and creating stuff with them.

“This keeps the books alive, Mom. If I didn’t do this, where would this book be? It would be gathering dust on a shelf or in a box in an attic or worse, in a landfill.”

She was hesitant at first, but toward the end of her visit, she agreed to try to understand.

I also learned during that visit at one time she had career aspirations to be an illustrator. I knew she was talented with drawing and creating things like paper dolls and a favorite memory was sitting alongside her while she sketched some houses for one of her Junior League events, but somehow it never dawned on me she would have wanted to take her art and create a career from it.

Now when I go to book sales, looking for content, I look for illustrations that remind me of Mom’s paperdolls, which usually look like little girls from the late 1950’s and early 1960’s.

This week I took a couple 1950’s books and made an instant homage to my Mom and her one-time dream.

The little girl (complete with shadow, which I love) was in a California Reading Text book called Magic Windows, published in 1957. The background is from a textbook titled Harmony which was published in the early 1940’s. I painted the squares and then combined the two.

I love how it turned out.

I can’t stop looking at it.

Every time I glance at it I remember my Mom’s dream and am grateful to have that inspiration to continue to follow my dreams, no matter my age.

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© 2013

 

 

Dear Mom: Compelling is Written All Over Her -

The backlight from the sun blocks the view of this enormous homeless city. I'll go back next week and photograph it when the light is better.

Dear Mom,

 

I wasn’t expecting to find you when I was focused on my search for a hiking trail recommended by my friend, Michelle. All I wanted to do was catch a good shot of the sunset. When I scrambled up the hill to what I thought was the path, I caught my breath. A virtual tent city, a shanty town – an enormous complex of people’s homes underneath this bridge I cross daily.

Other people might run away.  I hesitated but I stayed. The lighting wasn’t good under there or I would have taken photos.

This sight had “compelling” written all over it and might wake some people up who are completely unaware of the homelessness right in their neighborhoods, hidden away.

You were waving your arms at me, to get my attention.

I saw you and could recognize the ravages of methamphetamine. “Can you take me to 19^th and M street please? They took all my things, all I have is here… they took all my clothes, everything,” you told me.

You had a suitcase.

You had a trashbag filled with recyclables.

You had no shame, no embarrassment at asking me: owner of a new car, an expensive smart phone and much more than I bet you remembered ever having.

I asked what was at 19^th and M. “My Uncle,” you told me. You mentioned your son, and your daughter, and your other children. I had no idea where they were, no idea how old they were because my guess is you were probably much younger than you looked with your hair neatly combed albeit in a very offbeat style.

“I built this place and they wrecked it!” you said, seeming to not want to stop talking for fear I might vaporize.

You do see things that aren’t real, you told me. You do hear things you don’t think are here.

We put your broken suitcase empty of clothes and your collection of cans and plastic in the back of my car.

We drove two miles to where you needed to go. I asked your name. You told me. I told you my name.

You said you recognized me. Perhaps you do. Or perhaps I am another of those things you have seen that aren’t real. It doesn’t matter to me. You had enough sense to not smoke your cigarette in my car and before we had gone a mile you started calling me your fairy godmother.

I took you where you asked to go and you surprised me when you pulled out a cell phone. I wondered if your children had called you today on this Mother’s Day. Maybe you weren't aware it was Mother’s day.

I took the suitcase out and carried it to the side of the building as you asked me.

I told you to take care. We hugged, a real heart-to-heart hug. “I guess I do believe in fairy godmothers,” you said.

I smiled and went about the rest of my business of the day.

You, dear Mom, will forever be a part of my lexicon now.

You are in my prayers as are your children.

Finding you and helping you, another mother, was so much more important than finding the perfect sunset shot – even though I managed to get a pretty cool image there as well.

Perhaps we were each others’ Fairy Godmother.

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© 2013 Julie Jordan Scott

Sweet Dreams Are Made of Shroeder and Matilda

This is NOT the Schroeder Toy I received. Apparently the soft doll is more rare!

Jean McCaffery gave me a stuffed Shroeder doll – you know, the piano playing character from the Peanuts comic strip? - at one of my many birthday parties.  My mother always required I invite all the girls in my class. This was cool: I liked all of them, so it was a pleasure to schlep everyone – usually in the snow – up and over the hill on Hawthorne Avenue, east of Linden Avenue School.

It must’ve been in third grade when I unwrapped this gift. I usually wore two braids, but I am betting on this very special day I got to wear my long brown hair down my back.

I don’t remember if I liked Shroeder before, but after that day, I was truly enamored with the character and this doll which was actually more like a pillow – perhaps a precursor to today’s Pillow-Pet toy.

I can clearly remember those dies resting on my belly, looking down at the brown floral bedspread that matched my sisters and truly did nothing for me. I can still feel my left cheek against the pillow. I had one, only. It often had the book I was reading underneath it for easy access once Mom thought I was asleep.

Every morning I would pull Shroeder from his resting place and feel thankful for him.

I don’t know whatever became of him. Such a sad confession.

I know after I visited my family on the west coast when I was in seventh grade, I started sharing my bed with a bedraggled Smokey Bear who had a broken belt buckle and was passed from family member to family member. I loved tradition. I longed for tradition. I suppose I still do.

Recently I arrived at the Smith College campus, completely warn out after a rather, well, lets just say less than stellar red-eye flight. It was late morning on a Monday. My daughter Katherine had classes - she was the entire point of me making this trip.

Kathie and Matilda

An aside - some one recently accused me of loving my children too much. I think this is impossible. Perhaps it is because I would have loved such attention when I was young that I make it such a high priority in my life.

Katherine had classes to attend so I rested on her dorm room bed. I couldn't help but grab her pillow pet, Matilda the cow, and hug her close to my heart. I fell asleep nearly instantly.

Later that afternoon Katherine came into her room and said, "It was so cute! When I came in here you were all cuddled up with Matilda!" I slept with her for the entire visit. Katherine says she can't sleep with her because she would throw her across the room.

My lovies - my stuffed toys, my children's stuffed toys - remain a comfort to me. I suppose it will be this way forever.

I don't mind one bit.

This post is a part of the May series for NaBloPoMo at BlogHer.com

Check out other Comfort NaBloPoMo  Blog Posts here.

 

 

 

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© 2013 Julie Jordan Scott

 

 

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© 2013 Julie Jordan Scott

Shopping Haters: I am living proof miracles happen!

Glitz, Glamor and Shopping Bags. Why does this repulse me?

I love a lot of girly things, but somewhere in my biology is a distinct dislike of shopping.

I know women who love it. My daughters love it. My daughter, Katherine, will shop for hours and not even have an inkling of desire to buy for herself. She is perfectly content choosing outfits for her friends, checking out colors and textures. To me pointless shopping is like going to the dentist for pleasure.

I just can’t imagine it.

Today a faux pas met a fantastic opportunity. I made a mistake and the prom dress I thought I had ordered for Emma was never ordered. I was in a dilemma. Emma wanted a special dress and complained about last year’s dress being like “an old lady” dress and too many of the stores in our malls suited toward her age group looked too “skanky” or some other such word she would be more likely to say.

“I know,” I said, in a moment of delirium, “Let’s go to the Bettie Page store!” I thought there would certainly be one in Santa Clarita, about an hour from our house in Bakersfield if I drive fast.

Maybe all this time Shopping IS an artform and I just didn't know it?

After further research there were only two stores in road-trip distance. Santa Barbara and Hollywood. It was about ten o’clock at night when I said to Emma, “It looks like we’re going to Hollywood!”

I love mini-roadtrips, so this part wasn’t a problem for me and I knew Bettie Page carried some figure flattering retro-inspired fashion. I figured we could waltz in, quickly grab a dress and be done with it. I put an hours worth of quarters in a parking meter close to the store and as we walked over the stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame for Burns and Allen – they rest side by side in front of a very cool hot dog stand – I saw the looming vision of the Bettie Page store.

We walked in and started looking and this adorable, petite brunette young woman said, “May I help you find anything?” and Emma said no, immediately, as I suppose I have taught her to do, but something came over me and I said, “My daughter is looking for a dress for her prom, but it isn’t super formal like proms used to be and….” With that our capable sales woman was parading us in front of possible dresses and had Emma set up in a dressing room in no time flat.

Shopping Miracle Part 1: 3 Shopping Bags from the Bettie Page store!

She brought shoes and a crinoline in for Emma to try under her the dresses with circle skirts.

It was after I went into the store to find another size of one dress and a different dress entirely that something strange came over me and I was transformed into a normal shopping girly girl. Amanda said, “If you need another size or anything, I can get it for you.” I was rehanging a dress for Emma that didn’t fit and we went into the store together. I said something like, “I love the clothes here. I can actually feel really pretty and feminine and not like an unattractive big fat pig.”

We went into the store and next thing I know Amanda was showing me an adorable bathing suit – in my size – and another dress for Emma. I complimented a woman who not only looked smashing in a green pencil skirt style dress, she was also a flight attendant who had her mother with her as well.

She showed me a dress she really liked – a sailor style dress again with a pencil skirt. She said, “I love this dress but how often would I wear it?” I looked at her, wide eyed and offered, “Every day. You could wear it any and every day.”

I walked on air through the store. I checked out the dresses in the window and saw the dress Emma liked with a green crinoline.

My shopping self napped into higher gear. In that moment I knew Emma needed a pink crinoline. “I’ll check on my credit line,” and when I got the results I said, “We can get both the crinoline AND the shoes.”

Emma was giddy and a bit concerned that someone had taken over the grouchy shopper Mom she was knew and (usually) loved.

We assembled everything and Amanda reminded us about the need for a clutch to complete the ensemble.

I couldn’t believe the adorable clutches. We swooned over a lavender, a pink and then a purple and pink possibility. We all agreed the purple and pink was the best choice. “It is unique,” I said, “I like it the best.”

As we were checking out I said to the clerks, “I love this place so much, I want to move into the apartment upstairs. Is there one?”

The clerk said, “Rupaul owns it. Upstairs is his club. He owns the whole building.”

I said, “Wait. You said Rupaul as in THE Rupaul?” I somehow think this would make the Bettie Page who inspired the name of this fabulous store very happy to be renting a space from Rupaul. The next thing I knew we were walking out the door with three shopping bags in Emma’s hands.

We turned our car North to Bakersfield and managed to get home before Samuel was

Emma, all put togerther and ready for Prom!

finished with school. The funny thing is I spent more money than I ever have on a single outfit but I had so much fun doing it, I want to do it again. It is closer to bathing suit season, after all, and I would love some new Summer dresses, too.

My instagram photo we took of Emma and the three bags outside of Rupaul’s club has become quite popular. Emma wrote on her facebook page, “Perfect day. I've never had such a good time shopping. My mom even liked it.”

 

 

 

Who knew success and sweet joy could fit into three distinctive shopping bags?

 

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This post is Number 18 of 30 and was inspired by the Ultimate Blog Challenge. Throughout the month I will be posting writing and creativity tips especially to make your writing (and your writing experience!) better.

I'm so glad you are here!

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Remember Love Most of All

Taken at Zion National Park last Summer. May they remember....

It is time for the Five Minute Friday Flash Mob of writers. Every Thursday night until Midnight Eastern time a group of incredible women gather, waiting for our prompt for the week. We never know what our prompt will be, but we catch up, nibble on nutella, laugh and sometimes cry and then we write write write!

Thank you for being here for Five Minute Friday!

Now: my words on REMEMBER...

I am nothing if not a fierce mother.

I get complimented on my motherhood yet it is something I am most petrified of failing at, especially since after my first daughter was stillborn one of the popular books to read had the title, When Pregnancy Fails.  I felt like such a failure as a woman, even though the cord accident was a fluke.

Ever since I was pregnant with Katherine, my second daughter, I would pray she (and my others) would remember the good times, the positive memories, the traditions we created together. I longed for them to remember the laughter and the stories.

In our storytelling family, my children know the people I grew up with almost as well as I do.

I have told the story of my first day of first grade so many times that when there was a young women in a mini-dress with dark hair and a big smile, my then five-year-old Emma gasped and said, “Mommy! Look! It’s Miss Foley!”

She did look like her, actually, only Miss Foley would have been in her late 50’s and the long ago young Miss Foley had become Mrs. Downing a long time in the past.

I hope Katherine remembers how much I pulled for her, how much I am glad and said of the advice of mine she took. I hope she knows how much she is loved, not just because she is “the good one” and always does what is expected, but just because she is.

I hope Emma remembers how many times I got up after I fell. I hope she remembers how many times I helped her up after she fell. I hope she remembers how many compliments she received from so many people.

I hope Samuel remembers the many times I went to bat for him, advocating, being an activist, talking to teachers and doctors and more teachers to be sure he got exactly what he needed educationally as well as socially.

I hope they each remember the last words I say to them each day as they leave me to go to school, “I love you!”

I remember my voice, ringing out to their hearts – even or especially when they know they don’t have to reply to still receive my love. I remember….

 

A quick look at the guidelines from the gypsy mama - Lisa Jo Baker who is also our ringleader!

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community..

Oh and Ahem, if you would take pity and turn off comment verification, it would make leaving some love on your post that much easier for folks!

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Julie Jordan Scott has been a Life & Creativity Coach, Writer, Facilitator and Teleclass Leader since 1999. She is also an award winning Actor, Director, Artist and Mother Extraordinaire. She was twice the StoryTelling Slam champion in Bakersfield. 

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The Sweet Memories of Getting Lost on a Family Roadtrip

Today's post was inspired by this prompt from the folks at Scintilla Project. " Talk about where you were going the day you got lost. Were you alone? Did you ever get to where you were going?

If my GPS were human I would marry it. I don’t know what I would do without it, seriously.

It shows me faster ways to get places, warns me if traffic is ahead and lets me choose an alternate path, it is even patient with me when I inadvertently go the wrong way.

I started using a handheld GPS on road trips with my children.

One day in the wilds of Butte, Montana the GPS we called Pete took us onto a private ranch road. I was scared a crazed rancher with a long shot gun was going to chase after me, taking my children hostage and feeding them to a hungry buffalo or whatever big, meat eating animal roams around those parts of the country. I turned back. Pete was

The Beauty of the Montana Sky took my breath away. Photos can't capture that feeling it gives off....

not amused. He kept saying, "Take a U-Turn as soon as possible!”

Over and over again as the widest most beautiful sunset was taking place all around us we were told, "Take a U-Turn as soon as possible" we found our way back to our funky motel. Butte’s name was quite a joke for my children. We still laugh about it. Samuel was seven at the time and any sort of “naughty body part” humor had him in stitches and he repeated it over and over and over again.

My favorite “ohmigawsh, we’re lost!” took place outside Cambridge, Massachusetts when we were trying to get to my friend, Pegi’s house in Hyannis on Cape Cod. I can still see the road in front of me: it was one of those chaotic stretches of highway which is like a doorway to roads in every direction and if you take the wrong one, you can pretty much be guaranteed a heckuva long detour.

We went into a tunnel – with me praying I made the right choice and then, we lost our

Yes - once the worry of "Well Guys, We're on our own!" we had a lovely Easter Celebration in Cape Cod

GPS signal. The girls and I moaned. We then went silent until Samuel, now nine and completely logical declared, “Well, guys, it looks like we are on our own!” which made the girls and I grown and laugh hysterically. We popped out of the tunnel, the GPS received its signal again and we were exactly where we were supposed to be.

Why is it the getting lost or almost getting lost or going the wrong way stories seem to wind up as favorite stories to tell later? They’re often more memorable than all the well thought out plans: the National Park, the amusement park, the beach. Those activities become fuzzy, but sitting in the car together laughing and moaning as we sit close together, wide-eyed while sipping on both wonder and worry live forever.

 

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© 2013 by Julie Jordan Scott

Taking or Avoiding Risks: #NaBloPoMo asks another Tough Question

From my friends at NaBloPoMo:

Are you more likely to take or avoid a risk?

 I am attempting to be perfectly honest with this series. I am attempting to be perfectly honest with this series. I am attempting to be perfectly honest with this series.

I am comfortable with risk in certain settings and with certain people.

I am comfortable risking when the odds are in my favor and truly, no real harm will be done if I fail.

An example: A few weeks ago I attempted to end a friendship. I’ve been writing about this friendship here for approximately the last seven months. If you’ve been reading here a while, you may remember those posts, if not – after you are done with this essay you may find links to the other ones at the end.

I didn’t think a text break up would be brave nor would it be effective. I have tried this tactic before.

I met my friend and spoke to him at first using all my skills as a communicator, but we kept running around in circles. He continued to throw out fully furnished picnic blankets with bowls full of yesterday’s mistakes and last week’s thoughtless words salad and then, the ever growing tower of “ways other people have responded to me so you must becoming just like them afterall” sandwiches.

I kept asking, “Is there room in your life for our friendship?”

“Is there room in your life for our friendship?”

“Is there room in your life for our friendship?

The conversation ended without a firm resolution. I had told one of my friends about my quandary and had declared this would finally be the end.

It felt very risky to ask that question and if the answer had been, “No, there isn’t room in my life for our friendship,” it would have made the entire situation easier, less complex, less ongoingly risky. By the way, I don’t think “ongoingly” is a word, but you know what I mean.

Since then we have both practiced better communication. We have both been vulnerable. We have both walked in the footprints of the other to get a clean, clear perspective. We may have the same conversation in the future, which is something I warned him about nearly three years ago, “I get tired of having the same conversation over and over. If things don’t change, I get bored and I opt out of relationships.”

Yes, this was a big risk for me to take and the results have been helpful, but even if I had gotten the “No,” response to my question, the only person who would sustain pain and possibly some temporary feelings of destruction would be me. My children wouldn’t have been marred, my day-to-day life would be filled with more of what I wanted because I wouldn’t feel compelled to make space for our friendship. There are many reasons the risk would have brought a favorable resolution no matter what the outcome.

I am risky in taking random dares.

I am not risky if it involves my children or my home or my lifework.

Those all feel too close to my bones, too caustic in the long run if I were to risk and fail.

I’ve seen too many real-life fairy tales where the evil prince prevails, leaving the heroine flat faced on the ground… before she picks herself up and dusts herself off and carries on as a stronger version of herself. The thing is, I don’t ever want to drag my children down on the ground with me. What if they are too damaged to get back up, to dust themselves off, to carry on stronger.

What if one of them breaks irreparably?

This question appears so easy to answer, but it isn’t.

I’ll leave you with gratitude for reading as well as links to earlier chapters in my “Do you have space in your life for me?” story.

Offering the Gift of Grace, Even When it Seems Countercultural :

I Didn’t Know I Was Shouting:

Masquerade:

When I re-read these posts, I noticed they were all written from a writing prompt. It isn't and wasn't something I enjoyed experiencing or writing about, but I know it is a situation that comes up for many of us. I know being conscious about the choices we have are powerful and situation changing. Risk is powerful and situation changing.

This was my choice to risk.

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© 2013 by Julie Jordan Scott

 

Mr. School Psychologist, Go To….. Remedial Ethics Training

Today's prompt for the Scintilla Project reminded me of a time when I was perhaps the most frustrated in my life to a time when I felt slightly better. My character was tested over and over and over again which resulted in this essay....

Mr. School Psychologist, Go To….. Remedial Ethics Training

“Hello, Dr So-and-So? I just wanted to call and wish you a “Happy World Autism Awareness Month.” For the first time in over a year I felt empowered to speak what needed to be said for someone whose behavior caused damage to my son and probably other students under his school assignments. “Do you remember my son and me?” I asked and waited for his affirmative answer, which came immediately. I told Mr. School Psychologist my son’s current diagnosis and educational placement and then I asked him, “Are you a member of the California School Psychologist’s Association?” Another affirmative response. “Have you read and do you make it a practice to follow the association's code of ethics?”

 Naturally my contentious conversation was making him as defensive as such a passive person can become. “Are you suggesting I don’t follow the code of ethics?”

He was, perhaps aware of the provision: “School psychologists consider the students to be their primary responsibility and act as advocates of the student's rights and responsibilities.” This means the student's needs trump what any educrat-at-the-top might say. We have learned repeatedly in our country that no one is above the law, no matter what his or her job.

 I paused, to let him think a bit before I responded, “I didn’t say that. I am merely asking you to remember my son and this conversation the next time you are working with a child who shows the same behaviors he showed last year.”

 We ended our conversation solemnly and then I danced around the parking lot of the restaurant where I had spoke to him on my cell phone.

 What caused me to not only make this call but be giddy about making it?

 My son lost the second half of his kindergarten year and the first half of his first grade year because a group of school administrators chose not to follow the law. My son is in the sixth grade now and the anger still flickers awfully close to my surface. My son and I have moved along, for the most part, but to forget the emotions and the damage these educrats did directly to my child – I may forgive AND I will not forget.

 If you are a parent of a special needs child who sits and suffers through an entire school year without getting a smidge of help from the very people who are supposed to be assessing and protecting special needs students, you would be angry, too. Instead of taking a stand and saying, “There is obviously something wrong here beyond blaming the parent. Let’s do an assessment and see what we come up with through analysis and testing.” I heard from a counselor (off the record) the response from “the powers that be” when the counselor suggested my son might have high functioning autism.  She reported the response from the administration was “We will not make a referral. We don’t do that here.”

Apparently that educrat also doesn’t follow education code 201(a) or 56300 or 56302. These education codes tell us that each child is to be afforded a free, appropriate public education as well as the responsibility of schools to be sure if there is a hint of the need for special education services, the schools are bound by law to ensure he is assessed as quickly and accurately as possible.  My son got sent home constantly in kindergarten. The educrats reminded me I was lucky he didn’t get suspended or expelled. All the behaviors were classic for children on the autism spectrum. Classic. Yet Mr. School Psychologist sat in our meeting after meeting after meeting without speaking up at all.

Oh, except perhaps I should take parenting classes. The stories I could tell are many and if you want to hear them, we should share a glass of wine or a cup of tea and tell education war stories.  I want to stay on course here, though.

Perhaps it was a School Principal who had the final authority in this case, but upon doing further research, I discovered the School Psychologists code of ethics, which has this provision in place: “School psychologists consider the students to be their primary responsibility and act as advocates of the student's rights and responsibilities.” Their duty to advocate for students and is above the desires of the administrators. Educational code is clear on this matter.

 I saw this “gentleman” in the office of the Middle School where my daughter was enrolling the next school year.

 I literally had to talk myself into breathing normally again. The normally meek me had the gut feeling to hop over the counter and pummel this man who had hurt my child. Instead, I stayed focused on getting my daughter services at the school.  I was grateful my son wasn’t there with me.

 Two years after that episode I was visiting an autism classroom and saw, once again, Mr. School Psychologist. He walked into the room, completely unexpecting me to be there. He walked across the room to whisper into the ear of one of the teacher’s aides and giggle about what ever funny thing he said. He turned and saw me, sitting with an education administrator/educrat to see if this sort of classroom would be a good fit for my son. At that moment, though I was enjoying watching him watch me.

 He got visibly flustered before he made a fast exit out of the classroom.

 Since the “Happy World Autism Awareness Month” telephone call, I had not felt like I served all the children of my community. If he doesn’t remember the exact conversation, he remembers my son and hopefully, he remembers not to repeat to others.

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This post was inspired by the folks at Scintilla13 - Here's what they have to tell us:

We believe that who we are is informed by our stories. Here, we want to offer you a space to introduce yourself, and a guide to share your history and make some connections along the way. We’ll be offering daily prompts for two weeks beginning on March 13th.

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© 2013 by Julie Jordan Scott