stevenpiziks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stevenpiziks) wrote2011-08-19 01:27 am
stevenpiziks) wrote2011-08-19 01:27 am
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Registration and Orientation. Then We Dance
After Mackie's dentist thing, I rushed home, snatched up Aran, and bolted over to Wherever High School for Aran's freshman registration. This went rather faster than Sasha's did. We got Aran's schedule and his books and his picture was taken. (So many kids showed up in cruddy t-shirts because they didn't realize the latter would happen. I, fortunately, had Aran change into a dress shirt. It went so well with his basketball shorts.) He also got to meet his new principal, and I learned the school is looking for a new assistant principal.
For a tiny moment, I wondered what it would be like . . . and then I nixed the idea. Not only do I want (NEED) summers off with the boys, I love being in the classroom and don't want to leave it. Besides, my Master's is in English, not Education, so I'm not qualified.
At orientation, Aran greeted a number of students, and lots of them went out of their way to say hello to him. I'm thrilled that he seems to be well-liked by a hefty number and variety of students!
Home for lunch. My mother-in-law came over because Sasha had a doctor's appointment that overlapped with Aran's afternoon freshmen orientation. I took Sasha to the doctor and my MIL dropped Aran off. No parents were necessary, and I had gone over with him what would happen at orientation, so he was primed and ready. He changed into new jeans to match his nicer shirt.
The orientation lasted until 9:00. Yes, you read that right--9:00. They ran a mock school day so the students could follow their schedules, and they did team-building exercises and they did a craft activity for charity and they got grilled hot dogs and hamburgers for supper and more. The parents were supposed to come at 7:30 to hear a motivational speaker talk about what to expect from being a high school freshman parent, but I've already been through it from both sides of the chalkboard, so I just showed up at 9:00.
That's when the dance was to begin. It was freshman only, and held outside at the tennis courts. The weather was perfect for an outdoor dance--cool and cloudless.
Aran wasn't sure about this. "I don't think I'm ready," he said.
"You don't have to go if you don't want to," I said. "But the dance is just for freshmen, and you'll know lots of people from middle school there. And it won't be a dance like from HELLO, DOLLY! [his favorite musical]. It'll be more like a party with some dancing. There'll be music and people standing around talking and maybe some dancing. There may or may not be couples dancing together, but if you don't want to ask someone to dance, you don't have to. It's not like TV or movies where everyone's freaking about over asking someone to dance."
"Okay," he said. "I want to go."
We headed around back to the tennis courts, which were hung with lights. Loud music thrummbed.
"Are you going to stay?" Aran asked.
"I wasn't planning to," I said, "but I'll stay for a little bit at the beginning, if you want. Get yourself oriented and all that."
"No," he said absently. "I'm fine."
And he strode up to the ticket table. He gave the girl his money, she stamped his hand, and he went into the fenced-in tennis court, where a conga line was forming.
I wanted to stick around, or even follow him for a bit. He's only 14, and he's autistic. He might need help.
"Leave, Steven," I told myself firmly. "He has to learn on his own. He'll make mistakes, he'll be embarrassed--maybe--he'll do something stupid. But he'll also have fun and meet new people and stretch himself socially and he won't do any of it if YOU'RE STANDING BEHIND HIM. So get the hell out of here."
I left.
At 10:30--the dance ended at 11:00--Aran called on his cell. "I'm ready to be picked up now."
I met him at the dance (my third trip to the school that day). He was bubbling over with enthusiastic talk, not cranky or unhappy from overstimulation. "I had an awesome time, Dad," he said in his usual laconic tone, but the continual chatter about it all the way home told me he was really excited about his first dance.
"I really like this school," he said.
For a tiny moment, I wondered what it would be like . . . and then I nixed the idea. Not only do I want (NEED) summers off with the boys, I love being in the classroom and don't want to leave it. Besides, my Master's is in English, not Education, so I'm not qualified.
At orientation, Aran greeted a number of students, and lots of them went out of their way to say hello to him. I'm thrilled that he seems to be well-liked by a hefty number and variety of students!
Home for lunch. My mother-in-law came over because Sasha had a doctor's appointment that overlapped with Aran's afternoon freshmen orientation. I took Sasha to the doctor and my MIL dropped Aran off. No parents were necessary, and I had gone over with him what would happen at orientation, so he was primed and ready. He changed into new jeans to match his nicer shirt.
The orientation lasted until 9:00. Yes, you read that right--9:00. They ran a mock school day so the students could follow their schedules, and they did team-building exercises and they did a craft activity for charity and they got grilled hot dogs and hamburgers for supper and more. The parents were supposed to come at 7:30 to hear a motivational speaker talk about what to expect from being a high school freshman parent, but I've already been through it from both sides of the chalkboard, so I just showed up at 9:00.
That's when the dance was to begin. It was freshman only, and held outside at the tennis courts. The weather was perfect for an outdoor dance--cool and cloudless.
Aran wasn't sure about this. "I don't think I'm ready," he said.
"You don't have to go if you don't want to," I said. "But the dance is just for freshmen, and you'll know lots of people from middle school there. And it won't be a dance like from HELLO, DOLLY! [his favorite musical]. It'll be more like a party with some dancing. There'll be music and people standing around talking and maybe some dancing. There may or may not be couples dancing together, but if you don't want to ask someone to dance, you don't have to. It's not like TV or movies where everyone's freaking about over asking someone to dance."
"Okay," he said. "I want to go."
We headed around back to the tennis courts, which were hung with lights. Loud music thrummbed.
"Are you going to stay?" Aran asked.
"I wasn't planning to," I said, "but I'll stay for a little bit at the beginning, if you want. Get yourself oriented and all that."
"No," he said absently. "I'm fine."
And he strode up to the ticket table. He gave the girl his money, she stamped his hand, and he went into the fenced-in tennis court, where a conga line was forming.
I wanted to stick around, or even follow him for a bit. He's only 14, and he's autistic. He might need help.
"Leave, Steven," I told myself firmly. "He has to learn on his own. He'll make mistakes, he'll be embarrassed--maybe--he'll do something stupid. But he'll also have fun and meet new people and stretch himself socially and he won't do any of it if YOU'RE STANDING BEHIND HIM. So get the hell out of here."
I left.
At 10:30--the dance ended at 11:00--Aran called on his cell. "I'm ready to be picked up now."
I met him at the dance (my third trip to the school that day). He was bubbling over with enthusiastic talk, not cranky or unhappy from overstimulation. "I had an awesome time, Dad," he said in his usual laconic tone, but the continual chatter about it all the way home told me he was really excited about his first dance.
"I really like this school," he said.