The IEP Meeting

My oldest daughter, Sarah, was in the third grade when the school counselor approached me about her academic giftedness.

Did I know she was academically gifted? Oh, come on. Of course I did. 

After all, as her mother I was the expert on my child. We always knew she was a quick and precocious learner.

I gave my permission for testing and other placement processes. I talked with the teacher of gifted students. I talked with the counselor again, a twenty-something woman who appeared to be twelve.

She informed me that they no-longer used the term gifted, talented, and creative, GTC.

I said that the change in terminology seemed fickle. She giggled and asked me my level of education, and cringed when she found out I was more educated and experienced that she. In spite of my normal uniform of jeans, flip-flops, and a flannel shirt, I was a mom in the know, so to speak.

The teacher of gifted students talked with me again about how much he looked forward to working with Sarah. It wouldn’t be all day. He would serve as a resource interventionist, and she would be assigned to his class for a select period of time each week.

Sarah wasn’t certain about the changes, but if meant privileges, she was all for it.

Of course with the changes came the obligatory annual IEP meeting, which was cool for Sarah because as the student, she was invited to it. The significance of that came when she was a middle-school student, and could meet with her teachers, me, and a school administrator. To make it even better, the purpose of the meeting was all about her.

One of those meetings took place when Sarah was in the 8^th grade. In her own words, Sarah was a little snit throughout the entire conference because she totally disliked the IEP resource teacher, Mrs. Moore, who was also her English teacher.

I was never so embarrassed with her behavior in school. Mrs. Moore appeared gracious, honest, and interested in Sarah.

Possibly I was easily taken-in and naïve.

Sarah acted angry, rebellious, and totally tuned-out. It was obvious that she was not going to be polite or kind or even compliant.

Sarah thought Mrs. Moore was arrogant, two-faced, and Sarah hated her speech impediment. “Really, Mom, she lisps and spits all the time. It’s gross.”

Sarah also pointed out that for two years in a row, Mrs. Moore presented the same information. For bright and clever Sarah, it was torture to sit through it again. So, Sarah thought she could make it much more stimulating if she taught her friend sign language, so they could talk during class.

Mrs. Moore did not care for that solution at all. Imagine that. Mrs. Moore stopped the class and waited until Sarah realized that everyone was watching her. “She really got mad and made a comment. She was so mad, she was spitting faster than she could talk. I told her that we had learned it all the year before, and I was bored.”

On the infamous IEP day, Sarah completely turned her face away from Mrs. Moore, covered her head with her arm and ignored everything the teacher said to her. She would not move even when I asked. She would respond to me when I repeated the questions.

The meeting developed into what it should have been in the first place: a conversation between me and the teacher. I can’t recall much of the outcome; Sarah continued placement in programs for “gifted” students, and Mrs. Moore laughed embarrassingly throughout what must have been a horrible ordeal for her as well.

In case you wondered, she didn’t spit one time, although there was a slight lisp.