Unbeknownst to me, Ward for the last three years had also experienced Thorin’s uncanny ability to anticipate his thoughts and he, too, censored his inner voice. Perhaps equally as bafflingly as Thorin’s ability, we had never talked to each other about it until a week before the conference. That day we shared numerous stories about what had transpired for the past three years. We could not identify exactly why we had never spoken of it before. We guessed maybe it was the oddity of it. But, finding ourselves listening to this behaviorist, I thought it’s serendipitous. I’m supposed to ask him about IT! As he fielded questions from other parents, I figured out how to phrase my question.
I turned to Ward whispering, “I’m going to ask him about you-know-what.”
He immediately knew I meant what we referred to as Thorin’s ESP.
“Please don’t. Don’t. Don’t.”
“It will be okay,” I reassured him. “I was right about throwing things.”
“This is different. Just wait,” he said as he put his hand gently on my arm.
“I have to.”
“Oh, God, you don’t.”
My hand shot up, and the speaker pointed to me. Ward slunk low in his seat with his head down. I stood up.
“I am a little nervous here. My husband and I said we wouldn’t talk to other people about this, but have you ever heard about children with Down syndrome having . . . for a lack of a better word . . . ESP? You know the ability to know things . . .”
He made a face of distaste and shook his head slowly, “No, I haven’t ever heard of that.”
Ward was right; it was a bad move on my part. I sat back down, painfully aware all eyes were on me in the auditorium.
Later, I was philosophical about it; I had applied special attributes to Thorin because of his Down syndrome. In the same way certain strangers suggested Thorin was an angel from God, I had mistaken Thorin’s psychic abilities as a Down syndrome gift. It made me more sympathetic to people who were likewise ignorant. It was also a painful reminder I needed to be watchful of my beliefs about Down syndrome. It appeared Thorin’s freaky ability was just about Thorin being Thorin, and I could count us lucky he was not like the kid in The Shining.
First day of Kindergarten
CHAPTER FIVE
I Hear You Knocking, but You Can’t Come In
In preparation of Thorin starting kindergarten, Ward and I were notified there would be a transition meeting. Aside from us, there would be five people from Thorin’s preschool; a representative from the school district’s special services; a representative from Child Developmental Services; the principal of the elementary school; an occupational therapist; a physical therapist; a speech therapist; a special education teacher; and a kindergarten teacher.
We notified the elementary school that we wanted Thorin in a regular classroom. We knew from Thorin’s preschool and child services that the request was going to be challenged by the school, but we tried to keep a positive vibe. The preschool staff still did not believe he should be in a regular classroom, but they agreed not to share that information at the meeting. It helped that I had a romanticized vision of the school building, which reminded me of a mini-version of the fictitious Walt Whitman High School from the 1970s TV show Room 222. Freaking Walt Whitman!
“Maybe this is a good omen! Walt Whitman High was a very groovy, progressive school,” I told Ward.
“I hope you’re right,” he offered not exactly with enthusiasm.
The meeting took place in one of the classrooms. We sat at tables arranged in a square, making it feel like a collaborative space. After introductions were made—which took a while given the number of participants—the kindergarten teacher said in a dismissive, hostile voice, “He shouldn’t be in my classroom.”
WTF! She had never met Thorin!
I looked at Ward; his mouth was open.
“Hey, can you say that?” I asked her. I looked around for clarification from the room. I didn’t think she could say that legally based on federal law and the least restrictive environment clause, not to mention common decency. Most of the people in the room had their head down. Thorin’s physical therapist from the preschool—bless her heart—shook her head no. Ward and I turned toward the principal, who was looking at her phone.
The kindergarten teacher ignored my question and continued. “Kindergarten has changed quite a bit in the last forty years. It’s more cognitively challenging. I don’t see him keeping up.”
Her statement seemed implausible as well as a not so veiled dig at my age. Were they splitting the atom in kindergarten now?
“Are any students with disabilities in regular classrooms?” I asked.
The teacher was seething. “Not with his profile, no.”
The blessed physical therapist spoke. “When I started decades ago, I had students
