Jojo is five years old now. She has a big five-year-old body. I see a big heart and a stubborn streak and lots of giggles and silliness. Tell me what you see.
Most five-year-olds are moving through the word with balance and agility. They are doing sports and learning to ride bikes. They can reason and control emotion more than in their toddler years. Tantrums are the exception rather than the rule. I see my Jojo moving through the world with assistance. With limited language. Tantrums are still the rule. I see a little girl working very hard and often having a hard time. Tell me what you see.
At the park, I see Jojo sitting and playing, scooting around. Asking “help” or “up” to get in and out of swings, sand boxes, and slides. She isn’t walking. She has orthotics on her feet. This is my Jojo, what I’ve always known. Tell me what you see.
At the grocery store, I see Jojo in the cart. Saying an emphatic “HI!” to everyone she sees. Some smile and return the greeting. Some don’t. Jojo points at things she recognizes and labels them. Some words are clear while others are not. “Apple!” “Cree!” (her word for ice cream). Jojo wants to get down “down! down! down!” and scoot around on the floor. I say I’m sorry, the grocery store isn’t a safe place to do that. She tantrums. This is my Jojo, happy and social, and then angry and frustrated like a flip of a switch. Tell me what you see.
At a restaurant, I see Jojo growing impatient waiting for a table. Jojo usually loves eating out. We’re waiting our turn, I say. Jojo points at an empty table “see, see, see”. I know, I say, we’re waiting for the lady to clean it and take us there. A loud scream. Heads turn. We go outside to wait for the table to be ready. We are seated and she calms down. We have coloring supplies, dolls to “feed”, all the things Jojo loves. We order and the food comes. Tea Leaf Salad. Jojo usually loves salad. Not today. She starts fussing. Noodles are coming next, she loves noodles. I try to explain this. She tantrums, a big one. My eyes dart around, assessing the level of scrutiny and annoyance coming our way in the crowded restaurant. I stand and lift her and step outside with her. Thankfully our table is very near the door. The server comes out and I ask for the check and the food to go. Another woman comes out, a diner. She has a package of Chinese sweets. She waves them at Jojo, which makes her cry harder. “What is wrong with her” she asks. She’s trying to help. How much time do you have lady I want to say. Instead I say I think she’s tired. We take our packaged salad and noodles and go. This is my Jojo, unpredictable sometimes, unable to calm down after she’s past the point of no return. Tell me what you see.
At the horse ranch where Jojo rides once a week, I see Jojo smiling wide, arms flapping, saying “Skippy Skippy Skippy”. Her pony. I see her crew of three people with her, one leading and one on either sid. For half an hour they ride. I see four humans and one horse doing what they love. I see joy and unspoken understanding. I know what they see.
At school, I can’t see Jojo. I am not there with her every day. I have grown to trust her teachers and therapists. I know they will understand her, not expect typical five-year-old behavior from her. I know they will work hard to teach her and help her grow. This is a preschool that is exclusively special education. When we meet throughout the year, they tell me what they see.
Next year Jojo will graduate from preschool and move onto Kindergarten. I don’t know where yet. There are a variety of special ed classrooms in our county. In neighboring districts. There is only one classroom in our district. Special education needs vary from child to child and not every classroom meets the needs of every child. Rather the opposite is truer. It is important to find the right fit.
I’ve been anxious about this transition. I’m afraid we won’t make the right choice for her. That her needs won’t be met, or she won’t have the same opportunity to learn and grow as her general ed peers. I’m afraid she won’t be seen. I can’t see the future yet. Where we’re no longer in the safe cocoon of special ed preschool. A future that requires navigating 18 school districts of varying quality and proximity to our home. It feels hard. Daunting. So many things about raising a special needs child are.
I see a girl who has blossomed in the last 2 years in preschool, with unlimited potential. I see a girl who deserves a quality education just like every child does. At an excellent school, close to home, with her brother. Tell me what you see.
Jojo The Strong 