When Ian was two, he suddenly stopped following the developmental charts in those baby books. Up until then, he was beating all the milestones by a couple of months. At two, he had only a handful of words instead of hundreds. We were in the middle of moving from NYC to the burbs. When all the dust settled, I contacted the state so that he could be evaluated.

They said that he had a speech delay and assigned him a speech therapist. A very bad speech therapist. She held up flashcards of things and shouted the words in his face. She strapped him in a high chair, so he couldn’t run away. “DOG”, she shouted. “DOG. SAY DOG.” We learned sign language and communicated that way for a while.

He was miserable, because he couldn’t communicate. He pretty much screamed all day long.

At three, the school district became responsible for him. They sent him to their neurologist who said that he didn’t have autism. (Our pediatrician said the same thing.) So, the district said that he would do fine in their special ed pre-school. The class was 2-1/2 hours long, and the teacher took a one hour break in the middle. He received no therapy for autism. Autistic kids at that age are often in full day programs with 30 hours a week of therapy.

I started a new job teaching four classes with three new preps. I couldn’t figure out how to get Ian from the morning program to a daycare center for the afternoon. And then the daycare centers and babysitters didn’t want him, because he couldn’t talk. He was kicked out of two places. We bribed the third place. We paid them almost triple the cost of the typical program to keep him there. Other days, I watched him in the afternoon and did my class prep until 4 am. The next day, I gave five hours of lectures with two hours of sleep. I lost ten pounds.

When someone at Ian’s school tried to take me aside to tell me that he had autism, they fired her.

When he was five, I finally took him to my own neurologist who looked at him reading the small print on the label of a water bottle and asked us if anyone had mentioned the word “autism.” She gave him a label of Aspergers and then the school district sent him to a proper program, where he began making real progress.

I suppose all parents have regrets. I have a lot. I regret that I trusted people. I regret that he didn’t get enough help until he was five, when his brain was the most plastic.

Yes, I have a lot of baggage. This afternoon, I have an IEP meeting where we’ll negotitate what kind of services the school district will provide next year. Understandably, I’m a little anxious.

I promised an IEP open thread. Here it is.