Blooming dogwood trees.  

Soft ivory flowers.  

It felt good to get outside. 

Soaked in blue-sky hours. 

Warm days will outnumber.  

Harsh winds bound to subside.  

The mail arrived with the official five-day meeting notice. We were just a week and a half away. A few short days until the last IEP meeting, the disenrollment, and the final disregard. The closing of the curtains after too much time faded away. Appendix A qualifications ready to vote, and other documents that defend their right to close. Headaches of broken systems stopped short in their tracks. A clear view of what they could not provide. Accountability unclaimed. The games fully played. Transition plans were at least detailed for legal reasons this time. 

An avoidance of responsibility, the dropping of the ball, and what they failed to see in full vision. I skimmed through the paperwork at the bold words that stood out wide “Family choice”. These two words were branded across all of Jake’s progress reports. Family choice hit me hard. Anger was set in stone. It was their definition, their quick assumption, and an easy blame to hold. The ball thrown back in our court, as they walked away.  

Family choice screamed out with the blatant, incorrect answer. A slap in the face to what was already kicked down flat. An irrelevant IEP loaded with pages of filled-in stacks and one size fits all. This was the proof in plain writing. The story about how they failed to ever get to know Jake. How they put aside his needs, his well-being, and his parents. How they winced at the threat of advocacy. Pages and pages of words they picked out in rounds of multiple choice. An educated guess to hide the noise.  

Family choice? No. Wait. Just stop. Call it what it really is. Denial of accommodations, discrimination, and ableism. The unjust, the wrong, the unmet needs, and too many years of instigating the extreme kind of trauma. Check your facts. Please add discrimination on every code and on every line. Please do. Please add this fact and I would be happy to sign. Discrimination against a disabled child. Put that inside your boxes. I will check them off as correct. Let’s sign off. Let’s call it what it is.  

The definition of a family choice? To not register for sleep away summer camp. To choose the beach vacation over the amusement park getaway. It is a family choice to get a new pet. To join a community pool. A family choice is to pick out a new bunk bed. To move to a southern state because you prefer the warm. Family choice is not why Jake could not attend your school. Please do find other words to describe what we were put through.  

Our family choice would have been for Jake to be in school. A school that meets his needs. For Jake to be thriving all along. To be happy. To be his very best. To walk down the hallway with his friends. To walk with his head held high into every room. To be included. And most importantly, to feel this way too.  

So many aspects of being an autism parent can make you question your own judgement. Your own decisions. Your own best gut instincts. It is easy to feel defeated. You know your child best. This is fact. You are do not have to accept a quick IEP code word written on pages front and back.  

And then there are the sides that matter. The brighter ones. The ones that feel like the blue-sky hours of spring. Jake had a wellness check with his pediatrician this week. His doctor could not believe the scale. Jake lost weight and had a much healthier BMI. In fact, he lost one hundred pounds in less than two years. His doctor wanted to know what changes we made. What did we do? What was our big secret? What I tried to explain is that when we let it all go. When we let the school pressure slip through our hands. The stress started to melt and so did the weight. Jake’s nervous system started to calm. He could access his hunger cues. He could calm himself and gain autonomy. He did not want to just stay in his room. He could express his feelings just a little better. He started to trust. He was more in touch with his basic core needs. He was moving more naturally. The authenticity in Jake just started to flow. I look back with better vision than I had when we were too far in it to see it.  

The sides that matter like the kindness that flows in like spring flowers. The text messages before the big meeting reminding you that you’re a good mom. The knock them dead and you got this. And the this will all be over soon. The kindness that means the most. The kindness that is a reminder of the soft ivory flowers blooming right outside your door. The kindness that reminds you to remember to walk outside. The kindness that means even more.  

The meeting started in the morning at a little past nine. The Thursday final IEP meeting would begin just the same as it always had. The formal long table introductions, the parental rights paperwork, and a front facing camera view of the smirking legal faces. “Is Jake here with us today and why can’t he attend?” and other sideline questions that hid the real answers. The on-repeat questions that keep them in the background. Unable to make a dent. Unable to provide the right accommodations. Unable to because he can’t just enter the building.  

They asked me why a few times. “Why can’t he attend?” I let them know one final time all about Jake’s disabilities, Jake’s autism, which affects his nervous system responses and impacts his most basic needs. They fired back to say they hired a BCBA who let them know “Autism is not a cause for school refusal,” I fired right back to say “If you met one person with autism, you have met one person with autism” I told them I disagree. And have you heard that quote about autism before?  I let them know their advice to offer Jake a waffle at school but not at home was zero motivation. Jake would much rather decline the waffle and stay home. Jake would much rather lose his phone.  

And just as the stacks of papers began to shuffle around the room. Just as the IEP meeting began. There was a sharp end. There was a closing. There was a special camera placed just so. Placed in front of the person who had crushed us in meetings again and again.  

There was a smile on her face I had never seen before. A closing smile. A relief smile. A winning smile. She was there to close the door.  

She said “This IEP meeting is ending right now. Jake is officially disenrolled. It is over. We have done all we can do. Do you have any questions? Any questions in the room?”  

And that was it. There was nothing more to say. The fight. The struggle. The time we spent just trying to recover. The door was finally closed. An ending. A goodbye. Nothing more.  

A disenrollment. But so much more.