Two days before the start of first grade, we didn’t have a communication device for Thorin and didn’t know who his aide would be. I talked to the principal.
“School starts in two days. You don’t have any idea who you will assign.”
“Not yet.”
“Will you know tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Can Thorin come in to meet her?”
“No, she’ll be busy.”
“Can Thorin come in to meet her before class on the first day? Even ten minutes would make a huge difference with all the stimulation of a new class, teacher, and aide. It’s a lot for Thorin to process.”
“She won’t start until 8:55 A.M. We don’t start paying her until then.”
I knew that was bullshit. “Class starts at 8:50 A.M. He will meet her in class, in front of everyone, five minutes after class begins?” I said sharply.
“Yes.”
It was punitive. Why take it out on Thorin? I wanted to ask her if we could be real and talk to each other like human beings for three minutes, but clearly she couldn’t do that.
Ward and I decided I would walk Thorin to the classroom on the first day. Mrs. Mallory said I couldn’t go in, so I told Thorin goodbye at the door.
“Have fun,” I said weakly.
Thorin walked in to the classroom, sat at a desk in the front row, and put his head down; I watched him from behind a pillar in the hall, so he couldn’t see me. It was so different from Ms. Charles the previous year. A few minutes later, I saw Miss Jane, his new Ed Tech, who was wearing pedal pushers and a polo shirt with anklet socks and sneakers. She walked over to Thorin and tapped him gently on the shoulder. He looked up and smiled. I saw her say something and put her hand out. They shook hands. So far, so good! Mrs. Mallory sidled up to me behind the pillar. Before she had a chance to say anything, I told her, “I’m not leaving this spot.”
I saw Thorin sit upright, turning his attention to the front of the class. Instead of sitting down, she stood next to his desk, hovering. And then, she did something that might not have been noticed by anyone else. Smiling she reached down, interrupting his focus on the teacher, and made a small tap on the tip of his nose. He was in first grade and a month from being seven years old. One of his biggest fears was being treated like a baby.
Later that day, Thorin brought home a sheet of paper, a letter written to Ward and me. The note was brief: “Dear Mommy and Daddy, I love you both.”
After reading it over, I asked Thorin, “Who wrote this?”
“Her,” he said angrily.
“The aide?”
“Yesith.”
“Did you tell her what to write?”
“No!”
In my head, I was thinking some fifty-five-year-old lady just wrote us a mash note.
“Are you okay with that? Do you want her to write for you?”
“No!”
“Okay, me either. Let’s tell her tomorrow.”
“Good!”
The next morning, I told Mrs. Mallory that Thorin and I wanted to talk with Miss Jane—as I had come to think of her—about writing his assignments.
“Let’s get a little group together to talk. I want to add the speech therapist, and I should be there, too,” she said.
The number of attendees seemed like overkill. I had wanted to handle the manner swiftly; however, I agreed. Once we all sat down, I quickly explained that Thorin and I didn’t want her writing his work.
Miss Jane tried to speak, but she was cut off by the speech therapist, “Is that true, Thorin?”
Thorin looked at me. I shook my head and said, “I don’t understand.”
“How did Thorin tell you that?” she asked.
I immediately felt of a sense of déjà vu. “It was in a conversation.”
“How did he say it?”
Why was she casting suspicion on Thorin’s abilities? Was it so impossible for her to believe Thorin might have an opinion? I couldn’t possibly hope to tackle that conversation in front of Thorin given her attitude.
“Here’s the deal,” I said, “Miss Jane should not write for Thorin. She should help him write by himself.”
Mrs. Mallory wrapped up the meeting with promises no one would write for Thorin.
A few hours later, I received a call from the school that Thorin had vomited and soiled his pants. I picked him up from the nurse, who had given him a change of clothing. In the car, Thorin told me, “No more school,” which made me want to vomit.
Mrs. Bruce, his teacher, emailed to see how he was doing and said the other children were worried about him. Ward and I kept him home from school the next day. We were both hoping it was a flu bug and not something to do with school. Yes, that seemed ridiculous, then and more so now, but we wanted to project that school was fine—there didn’t seem to be any other choice.
When Thorin returned to school, he was assigned a new special education case manager; Mrs. Mallory had been reassigned by the principal. The new case manager was named Mrs. Dean. We received no explanation for the switch.
A couple of days later, I had to pick up Thorin early for an appointment with the pulmonologist; his asthma was acting up. When we left the main office, he told me he had to poop. I waited for him in the hallway outside the boy’s room. As fate would have it, Miss Jane was walking to the office.
“Where’s Thorin?”
I motioned to the bathroom.
Shaking her head, she said, “I wouldn’t leave him in there alone. He could lock the stall.”
“He should lock the stall,” I replied, correcting her.
“He locked the stall the other day and wouldn’t come out.”
I gritted my teeth, “Well, he must have come out eventually.”
“I don’t let
