As the sun finally peeked over the horizon, I was able to wave down a passing boater who agreed to take me to the City Dock, less than a mile from home. I will never forget walking into my house, disheveled and in my rumpled dress, where I found Keely and Paulie at the kitchen table eating cereal. Seated with them was Andrea’s father, who had relieved his daughter at some point and stayed the night at my house, no doubt waiting . . . wondering . . . I was so sorry! How I looked, how the situation seemed, I can only imagine. The same goes for what poor Keely and Paulie thought upon realizing my absence as they got up that morning, seeing my made bed without me in it. And Mr. Seabrook’s presence! I had some explaining to do.
I used to think of that as the worst night of my life, often recalling it as Andrea—who in the blink of an eye grew up to become a successful journalist—hosted favorite programs on NPR, and even now as I continue, some thirty years hence, to catch up with her parents over the back fence.
Throughout my time as a single parent with young children, I was lucky to have bonded with several neighborhood teenagers, one of whom—Molly Wanamaker—became family to us. Molly was eleven when she first knocked on our door, and she helped me in countless ways until she left for college—and even then was a presence during school breaks and throughout the summer months, whether or not I was going out. We baked cookies together, carried out the work of Santa Claus, and battened down in preparation for a hurricane barreling up the Atlantic. Molly would spend the night sometimes, and even vacationed with us and my extended family over multiple summers.
The best thing I had going for me was the camaraderie and the backing of my family, with their unconditional love for the children providing emotional support as well as “another pair of hands” when needed. I took much comfort in the fact that Keely and Paulie hadn’t lost fifty percent of their daily adult network, as would be the case for many children of divorce. In essence, their world continued to include a grandmother, a grandfather, two aunts, and two uncles, all of whom they saw at least weekly and who played meaningful roles in these critical years. In time, I came to see that I was rationalizing the reality of divorce and that—in spite of these very real advantages—recurring sorrows are part and parcel of a fragmented family. Nevertheless, we had plenty of love; there was no doubt about that.
At some point in here I started to date Jerry, a college professor I met through my work. It was a relationship that I was not quick to divulge to the children and one I initially didn’t take very seriously. It was fun; that was all. And I loved teasing Linda, telling her I met him all by myself. But things evolved and we grew closer, with a bond that was enhanced by a common passion for education. Eventually, Jerry asked me to marry him.
As Paul’s second-grade year and Keely’s fifth unfolded, I began to consider Jerry’s proposal. He was more confident than I of the merits of this idea, and I pretty much dragged my feet for the better part of that year. However, in weighing all the pros and cons, ultimately, I was persuaded by several factors. One, Jerry was a born teacher and, despite being childless, he would be a “natural” in a caretaker role. Two, he was highly energetic—having completed his doctorate while teaching full time was just the tip of the iceberg in terms of his productivity—and eager to take on the duties of parenthood. This was explicit as he continually made his case. “Come on!” he’d say. “Tell me—who else has the energy to help you raise your children?”
Also in the plus column was Jerry’s sense of humor and what I saw as his unwavering devotion to me. After all, he was in his thirties and had never married. And maybe, just maybe, six years of going it alone was enough for me.
*
THIS DECISION-MAKING PERIOD coincided with Paul’s year at Annapolis Elementary School. At that time, we had settled on a somewhat satisfactory medication regime and I was thankful for the consistency. I had no complaints with the school per se. Paul’s classroom teacher was kind and supportive, as was the special education teacher, who devoted a couple of hours a day to working with him. Even so, as I dropped Paul off on my way to work each morning, I watched him walk up the front steps of the school, hang his head, and wave to me by extending his arm behind his lower back and wiggling his fingers. I don’t think I rounded the corner from Green Street onto Compromise Street one time that year without tears in my eyes.
While Paul toed the line with little complaint, school was a place where he stayed to himself and, for the most part, was unaware of his surroundings. His teachers reported, for example, that he remained seated at his desk as the other children lined up to go to the cafeteria for lunch. When prompted to join them, he often needed to be reminded to take his lunch box.
Having entered the world of special education within the county system, I would become all too familiar with ARD committee meetings, otherwise known as Admission, Review, and Dismissal—the official name of the committee responsible for making educational decisions for a student. Parents are members of the committee, as are designated educators who bring their expertise to the meetings where together an Individualized Education Program, often referred to as the IEP, is written and the child’s placement is determined. The placement is denoted by a particular “Level,” indicating how much of a child’s school day is spent in a special education setting, with federal laws defining Levels I through V. The higher the level, the more special education services are required.
In an ARD committee meeting in early May, it was evident that, by all measurable standards, Paul’s year had not been successful, and he would need increased services for third-grade. The upshot of the meeting was the county’s recommendation to change Paul’s designated placement of Level III (providing thirteen hours of special education support per week) to Level IV (twenty hours), meaning Paul would have to attend Central Elementary School in Edgewater, Maryland—the only public school in the area equipped to provide Level IV services.
After thinking about this decision for a couple of weeks, I realized I was more puzzled than resolved, and I decided to ask for another review:
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May 28, 1991
Anne Arundel County
Department of Special Education
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To whom it may concern:
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I am writing to request a formal hearing to review the proposed educational placement for my son, Paul—currently a second grader receiving Level III special education services at Annapolis Elementary, a place where he has been well cared for, yet his educational needs have not been met in general or in special education classes. Because Paul has not been successful, Level IV services are recommended for the coming year.
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After further consideration, I must question how twenty hours of services is preferable to thirteen hours, when Paul’s time in the special education setting this year did not meet his needs. In other words, I do not understand how this proposed change—essentially the continuation and extension of the same methods that didn’t enable success—provides hope for improvement for Paul (educationally, emotionally, or socially). In fact, I fear further setbacks as he continues, in a different setting with a different peer group, in a system that cannot cope with his differences.
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Please notify me regarding the appropriate next step for an appeal process.
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Sincerely,
Jessie Dunleavy
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Finding the right school environment for Paul was a conundrum that kept me awake at night, but my pending marriage, initially requiring a little more adjustment on Keely’s part than Paul’s, was a good thing. I looked forward to becoming a family unit and having a partner, a shoulder to lean on, particularly in considering the challenges