Bring On Grade One

There are moments when parenting a special needs child kicks you in the arse. With steel toed boots.

Today was an unending series of those moments.

Any parent who has ever had to sit in a small room discussing your child's school plans while surrounded by teachers, administrators and more therapists and specialists than you have fingers on both hands, knows this pain.

There is just nothing quite like listening to virtual strangers who have spent a handful of minutes stretched over the course of the entire school year tell you how your child is limited or not meeting expectations.

Or better yet, having to listen to these well-meaning professionals try and set limitations on your child's expected development.

Nothing sets my blood boiling faster than someone telling me what my child may or may not accomplish.

Luckily for both Jumby and my blood pressure, the team involved in Jumby's education is a spectacular group of articulate and passionate professionals who have his best interests at heart and really want to see him succeed.

It also helps that they tend to be a little scared of me. Heh. I'm not just feral with P.R people it seems.

Still, after spending an entire afternoon in a windowless room, squished in with all these well meaning people, I realized something.

I sweat when I'm nervous.

And I really need better deodorant.

It may be time to shave the pits.

*A big thank you to BlogHer for re-publishing my post on carpeted underarms. Go on over and re-live my fuzzy glory. At the very least it'll remind you to buy a pack of fresh razors.*