A year and a half ago, I posted a story about an autistic boy named Alex Barton, whose teacher had asked the other students to vote him out of his kindergarten class. Periodically, people write and ask what's up with Alex and how he's doing now. Well, word has it Alex is at a new school, where, thanks to a supportive staff, he is very happy and has even made the honor roll.

My son had behavioral problems in first grade, but did spectacularly well in second grade. Did all those phone calls home and disciplinary measures in first grade do their job?  Nope.  The difference? His teachers.  Having a teacher who is compassionate, willing to work in partnership with parents and students, and above all, properly trained and experienced in working with autistic students can make all the difference in the world.

Mrs. Fontaine writes
details of my son's progress,
delivered weekly.

Wait, seriously?
She's keeping me updated?
Is she real? Pinch me.

Image credit: Photo by Chocolate Geek on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons

I broke down and cried in my son's parent-teacher conference last week. I did. Mrs. Chaudhry, my son's mainstream teacher, seemed a bit taken aback; she jumped up and dashed across the room to grab a box of tissues. Mrs. Fontaine, his special education teacher (who probably sees more parental breakdowns than the mainstream teacher does), kept talking calmly to fill the space between my sniffling gasps and the frenzied search for the tissue box that was going on in another part of the room.

I'm usually fairly stoic, but many things child-related bring me to tears: from the very first tears I shed when my son was a newborn and I could. not. calm. him. down. to last week sitting in his classroom and talking to his two new teachers for the first time.

I won't lie. We had a rough year last year. All of us. Austen, his teachers, his principal, his aides, my husband and I. Austen is autistic, and like many autistic children, changes and transitions provoke a tremendous amount of anxiety in him, and anxiety causes rigid, obsessive, disturbing behavior. Yet, due to a series of mishaps and emergencies, he had three different special education teachers last year. Perfect. A year full of transitions and changes. Also, like many autistic children, Austen shuts down in the face of strict, punitive discipline. Yet, in another glorious coincidence, he had a very rigid, authoritarian, old school mainstream teacher last year, one who (thanks to the turnover in the special ed staff) had no consistent support.

Last year, my son would come home each day cranky and exhausted. When the phone would ring and "Simpson Elementary" would appear on the caller ID, I would cringe:

"Mrs. Jones, Austen insists on capitalizing the first letter in every word, please have him rewrite all his schoolwork correctly at home and talk to him about proper grammar and punctuation."

"Mrs. Jones, we told Austen you were going to take away his TV privileges this week because he was rolling around the floor of his classroom, giggling and saying 'poopy butt.'"

"Mrs. Jones, we took away Austen's outdoor time today, because he was lying under his desk and lifting it with his feet. We had to restrain him to keep him from going outside."

"Mrs. Jones, we're sending work home with Austen because he refused to finish his worksheet today."

"Mrs. Jones, Austen had to be sent out of his mainstream class for getting out of his seat and walking around the classroom."

The school seemed to have no idea how to handle him. Much of their approach involved calling me to: detail his crimes, tell me the ways in which their punishments had been ineffective in changing his behavior, and expect that, by some mothering magic, I'd be able enforce their limits for them and talk or badger or punish or cajole him out of being anxious, overloaded and confused the next day. Mark and I pushed for a behavioral plan, which was eventually instituted, but we realized that, given the upheavals and the particular personalities involved, the best we could hope for was to support Austen at home, wait for the next school year and hope for the best.

On Austen's first day of school this year, he bounded off the little yellow bus beaming. He told me about his day. And he told me his teachers were nice. I was overjoyed, until... The phone rang. Simpson Elementary. Crap. I hesitated. I really didn't want to pick it up. He seemed happy. What on earth had gone wrong now, already, on day one? Well, I might as well get it over with...

"Mrs. Jones?"

"Yes."

"This is Mrs. Fontaine, Austen's special ed teacher."

"Yes," I sighed, my heart sinking.

"I just wanted to call and introduce myself, and tell you that Austen had a great day."

"He... What? I... Um, I mean, thanks."

"I just thought I'd let you know that you can contact me anytime you need to. Austen seems like a very bright boy and today went very well. I'm really happy to have him in my class."

I got off the phone and cried tears of pure joy. Then I set up a meeting with Mrs. Fontaine and Mrs. Chaudhry. Things sounded good, it was true, but the mainstream teacher was still an unknown quantity and I was taking no chances this year. I went in armed with questions and ready to keep a watchful eye on the situation, lest it spiral out of control again.

At the meeting, I was greeted by two bright enthusiastic smiles. I learned that Mrs. Chaudhry, the mainstream teacher, has worked with autistic students before and has been trained on positive behavioral techniques. I found that Mrs. Fontaine and Mrs. Chaudhry have a good working relationship and communicate daily. I could see that they seemed to know Austen well (already) and have some well thought out techniques for engaging him. They give him choices, so if he's having trouble working on writing, they let him do math for a little while instead. If he refuses to do his work in his mainstream class, he still has to finish in special ed. They give him freedom to get up, take a break and walk around the room if he needs to. If either classroom gets overwhelming, there is a quiet part of the special ed classroom that children can retreat to voluntarily. They don't restrain him, but redirect him. I thought I could see the sky burst open behind them as they talked and heavenly light rain down on their heads.

Then they told me how smart Austen is and what a delight he is to have in class. When I asked if he had been disruptive or if they'd had any problems with his behavior, they looked at each other shrugged and shook their heads. Nope. Not me. Nope. Me neither. No major problems or complaints. It was as if I were suggesting he was some other child they'd never seen at all. When I asked about the reactions of other children and his interactions with his mainstream peers, they said that the other children understand that he learns differently and does things differently and that his classmates like and help him. No wonder he comes home smiling this year.

And as I struggled to thank them -- for calling that first day to say all was well, for meeting with me, for saying that my son is a joy, for seeing him as a good kid with his own unique needs, for getting to know him and treating him as an individual -- I burst into tears. I tried to choke out my gratitude. I tried to say how very much it means to me to have people see past my son's inability to do things quite the way other kids do and to see him for all he is and all he can do. I tried to tell them all this between gasping sobs, as I covered my eyes with the tissue Mrs. Chaudhry offered. I looked up at last to find them a bit startled, as if what they were doing wasn't extraordinary to them at all and it was strange that I should think it was. And I though, "I wish it weren't extraordinary, but it is."