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Emma goes through the song and dance of walking us through each metric. Language, arts, math, science, social studies, specials, and a new section labeled student responsibilities which measures things like if the student uses their time wisely, follows directions, works well with others, follows rules, and strives for quality work.
Mark and I nod in unison as Emma speaks, our eyes glued to the report.
“You can see that Connor’s average score is a two. Let me explain what that means. Ones indicate emergent progress which means attempts are being made—with teacher support—to understand the concepts or skills. A two means that he demonstrates partial understanding of these concepts or skills.” She doesn’t bother to tell us what three through five mean, because none of those numbers are on his report. But I know from my own research that a number three basically means your child is normal.
Emma glances up, looking between us, indicating that now is a good time for a question. I give my husband the opportunity to step up. To speak. To take a leadership position within our family. To show that he cares.
He doesn’t.
I want to slam the heel of my pump into my husband’s shin. Instead, I clear my throat and I step up—like always.
“Is there anything Connor has improved on since first quarter?” I ask.
“His confidence is improving,” she offers, though I know this compliment is a stretch. Connor’s confidence has improved only because he is more comfortable with his teacher and surroundings.
Emma continues, “I’ve seen him take initiative more than he ever has before. And I’m really proud of him for that. However, Connor is significantly behind his peers, and the gap seems to be growing as the year progresses. I suggest having Connor tested to learn more about how he is developing. These are called developmental and behavioral screening tests.”
“Where do we do that?” I ask, feeling my pulse increasing.
“Here, in school. It’s very easy. I submit the request, pending your approval of course, and then he will be periodically pulled from class for the testing over the next few weeks.”
“Approved. What exactly will these tests tell us?”
“The questions are tailored around things like the child’s language, movement, thinking, behavior, and emotions. It will give us a broad picture of where he’s at, and also if he qualifies for in-school therapy, like speech, occupational, or literacy help.”
“Like, special-ed?” My heart is suddenly in my throat.
“No, no, no. Nothing like that. Just… extra one-on-one help. But in addition to that…” She shifts in her seat. Emma has become uncomfortable now, a behavior I rarely see in her. “I spoke with my colleague, Karen Wilson, who you might know—she’s been a teacher here for over twenty-five years. She has observed Connor in the classroom over multiple different occasions, and we both agree that we think there is something more than just a developmental delay going on here.”
Now my stomach is on the floor.
“For example,” she continues, “when I speak to Connor, there seems to be a break in the communication wheel.”
“What’s a break in the communication wheel?”
“It means there’s some sort of breakdown between him receiving what I am saying, and then him processing it…” My heart is now racing. “And then him putting those thoughts into words. There is something not clicking where it should be.”
I glance at Mark. He is staring at Emma.
The thing is, we knew something was different with our beautiful baby boy almost immediately. Connor was significantly delayed in every single milestone. Holding up his head, rolling over, eating, walking, you name it. He was (and still is) extremely emotional—abnormally so. He also had terrible colic. Connor was more than just a difficult baby, I somehow knew in my gut. I knew something was wrong but kept telling myself he would eventually grow out of it, that he would catch up to his peers. Months went on, years. At what point do you know that it’s time to intervene?
I guess right now.
“Emma,” my voice cracks. “What do you think it is? Like, autism?”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “He displays a few stereotypical autism-like behaviors, but definitely not enough to check that box, in my opinion. He is a loving child who likes to give and receive hugs, and doesn’t mind being touched. He thrives while being in a circle of friends. If it is autism, he could be low on the spectrum…” She raises her palms and I notice a new tattoo on her wrist, something artsy. “But I am not a doctor. I am just telling you that I think it’s time to explore the fact that there could possibly be something else going on here.”
My thoughts are spinning so quickly that I begin to stutter. “So… Where do I… How do I… What do I do?”
“I would suggest going to his pediatrician,” Emma says, leaning back in her teeny blue chair. “Tell her everything I said, and whatever else you think could be pertinent, and see what she thinks. Likely, she’ll refer you to The Sunshine Clinic, which is a multi-day testing facility that screens for autism specifically. There, you’ll be able to rule that out. She will probably also suggest genetic testing, which can uncover any weird mutations in his DNA that could be causing his issues.”
“How does it do that?”
“It’s a simple blood test. Not a big deal. Then… you just go from there.”
“What if he does have autism?”
A warm, heartfelt smile crosses my friend’s face. “Then you adapt. He’s still your son, he’s still a beautiful little boy and you will learn how to adapt to his new needs. But personally, I don’t think it’s autism, though that is likely where they will start looking.”
