And they shall call him Teacher

TH wrapped up his little professor stint with the kindergarten class at school. He taught them four times, about insects, sharks, reptiles, and dinosaurs, this last being his self-proclaimed "grand finale." With each experience, he gained more and more confidence, let his quirky and goofy sense of humor break through his monotone professorial demeanor a little more each time. By the dinosaur presentation, he was working the audience like a pro, anticipating their questions, guiding them, asking them to hold questions until the end, and having them in stitches with his funny asides. He was still as odd as he could be, but in a way that was endearing and engaging, a way that didn't make the children wary.

We owe a huge debt of gratitude to the woman who made this possible, his kindergarten teacher, Mrs. L. She has always shown a deep understanding of our son, not only tolerating him but also really loving and appreciating him. It was her idea to have him do this, something she suggested to him just after he left the school to start homeschooling. She had confidence in him that he could do it, that it was something he'd enjoy, and she was right. Yes, it took a Pokemon card bribe to get him into the room that first time, but the next three times? He did it with no extrinsic incentive whatsoever, and he did it with anticipation and enthusiasm.

Four years ago, when he was in that classroom, when I was in there with him every day, together struggling even to get halfway through a little art project, there's no way I could have predicted what he'd be able to do at age nine. If someone had come to me and said that my checked-out, socially confused, academically behind, full-time aide-supported son whom most of the kindergarten kids detested would be sitting in a room full of kindergarteners in four years, lecturing knowledgeably and mostly accurately on a variety of fauna across geologic time, I wouldn't have believed them.

And I certainly wouldn't have believed them if they'd said that the kindergarteners would mob him, worshipfully touching him, asking him questions, desperate for answers from TH, the Font of Knowledge. That one little girl would come up to him after his reptile presentation and say, "You're the awesomest!" This is the woman I want my son to marry someday.

I told Mrs. L as we left the grand finale lecture that day that what she had done here was life-changing for TH. He's discovered that he has a talent, and that talent is absorbing information like a sponge and then teaching it to others in ways that reach them. She opened the door on that realization for him, and it wasn't only because she gave him this chance to prove himself. There was something more.

Every year at this school, each student receives what is called a "character rock," a river stone painted with a word that characterizes the student. TH's rocks in the past have said, "honest" and "curious" and "logical." All of these are true. But this year, he's not in the school any more, and he won't be there on that last class day to receive a character rock. Mrs. L., on top of things as usual, had that taken care of, too.

When TH wrapped up his grand finale, she sat next to him in front of the class and thanked him for coming there for the fourth time to present to them. And then, she reached out and handed him a large, smooth stone. His character rock. On it, she had painted the word, "Teacher." Even as I was trying to recover from the emotion of that moment, TH did yet another surprising thing. If you had told me only the day before that he'd do this thing, I wouldn't have believed you. Obviously, I need to have more faith in my son and more faith in the power of ongoing development.

He turned directly to Mrs. L. and said, without self consciousness, with all sincerity, with grace and naturalness, "Thank you so much. This means a lot to me." And he reached out, just a little, as though to touch her arm, almost as though he were going to hug her. It was something that maybe parents of neurotypical children might not even have noticed. But Mrs. L. noticed it, and so did I. It was like watching a flower bloom.

And so, our little Teacher ended the first semester of his career. These four life-changing moments in his first year of homeschool have done much for his character, teaching him--and his clearly skeptical mother--many lessons. Lessons that in this case are carved in--well, painted on--stone.