This morning I stood at the front door wearing my old blue robe and watched him walk to the bus. He's done it hundreds of times.
"Isaac, happy last day of school! Are you excited?" his bus driver yelled. I snapped a picture quickly and waved goodbye for the last time as the bus pulled away. Then I poured myself a cup of coffee, ate a bowl of blueberries, and pondered everything in my life that's changing.
Isaac's been in a school classroom since age three due to his disability. He's been a student at River Hills School for fourteen years. Now he's twenty-one years old, and he's ready to be done. Because he wants to be done, it makes it easier. I just don't know if I'm ready. Big changes are coming, mostly for Isaac and me.
Last night Henry asked if I was ready to spend "from now until eternity or until Isaac moves out of the house" with the country music blaring and someone always around. He knows how much I appreciate silence and solitude. This morning he asked if I had plans to cry, and I told him I wasn't crying. And that certainly was true when he asked.
Henry came home for lunch. "I hope you enjoy these last few hours of silence because it's going to be years before you hear this again," he said.
This kid really knows how to keep it real.
I'm not sad that Isaac's leaving his school. He doesn't seem sad, either. I'm excited about the opportunities that lie ahead. I remember being his age and wanting to go out into the world and make my mark. He wants the same thing, I think. He's a good worker. I'm confident I can navigate this new world of service providers with the help of people we're going to meet along the way.
What makes me teary is that the people who work at the school have loved us all so well. They've always welcomed us with open arms -- without judgment or question. In more ways than I can say, they have always made me feel like I have the most amazing kid on the planet. Not having a student there feels like a tremendous loss emotionally. I love these people.
Isaac entered River Hills School after a tumultuous kindergarten year. It started off poorly and got worse as time passed. I loved the principal. I think most people did the best they could, but he didn't have the support and understanding he desperately needed. It was the wrong placement. I was home at the time with a toddler, and occasionally I'd have to drive to the elementary school to pick up Isaac midday because the staff couldn't handle him. His behaviors escalated because that was his communication. He wanted people to know he wasn't happy, either.
Within a few days of starting at River Hills for summer school, we knew it was the right place for him. His behavior changed because he was comfortable and appreciated. And he felt loved. He wasn't labeled as a challenging kid there. He wasn't a bother. He didn't stand out because he was different. He was just one of the gang. I have no doubt in my mind that this special school, which only teaches students with significant disabilities, is his least restrictive environment. It's not the right fit for everyone, but it's been our family's biggest blessing.
For the past six years, Isaac has been announcing the bus waves at the end of the day. He uses his speech device and a phone at the front office to tell the whole school when they can leave for the day. I'm not sure if they will be able to find a suitable replacement, but I have my fingers crossed someone else can be trained. I don't know if Isaac trained the secretary before he walked out of the building today, but if not, he might have to return for a quick tutorial.
This school year he also worked at River Hills and had these titles: laundry transition and distribution manager, breakfast collection and distribution manager, and recyclable materials assistant. This was in addition to working up to six hours a week in the community. He loves to be busy. Truth be told, he has a difficult time resting.
As a mom, it can be exhausting.
Isaac and his peers have been celebrating with a fun day at school, and I'm so happy for him. This afternoon they're having a dance outside, the first one since Covid hit a few years ago.
All day long I've been getting messages. I've been wiping away tears.
"You always made us feel valued as a team. Thank you so much for sharing your boy with us! We will miss him and will always love him and his family! We are going to miss Isaac around here but look forward to seeing him around town and hearing about everything he does after graduation. It has been my pleasure working with Isaac. It has not really hit me yet that Isaac won't be in the building next year. Gonna miss your boy." And on and on . . .
There is a fine line between love and appreciation, and to me it's very blurry. These people will always have my heart.
I went for a long walk, as I typically do every afternoon. It was beautiful outside. The sky was absolutely gorgeous. My eyes were swollen. I hope nobody recognized me because I looked like I had consumed one too many margaritas last night and got into a fight before the the bar closed. Henry said it was cold outside, so I wore a coat, which was unnecessary. I was too warm, and I wrapped the coat around my waist, but at least I had a few tissues in my coat pocket. I needed them because I was a snotty mess after reading a few texts and pictures that rolled in.
Isaac has a job opportunity at Cup of Joe, a coffee shop downtown owned by a wonderful woman who's always been very kind to Isaac. He's been working there most of the school year in their upstairs bakery a few hours per week, washing dishes, putting things away, running the industrial dishwasher, and whatever else they throw his way. He loves it. As his teacher said, "He's so happy after being at work. He just lights up the room when he returns."
We had a meeting yesterday morning with some people from Iowa Vocational Rehab and Inclusion Connection. They will help to get the ball rolling so the various pieces are in place for successful employment.
I hope he's happy there for a long time.
I've driven past Cup of Joe a million times over the years because he loves to make sure it's open. I don't know why. It's just what we do. After school today -- when the school bus drops him off here for the last time -- we will drive past the coffee shop again. It was the only thing he mentioned this morning before the bus arrived. "Last day of school," he said this morning. Then, "Drive in the car." I told him we'd drive past Cup of Joe and we can take the long way home, which makes him very happy. It's one of the only times he can relax. Usually while I'm driving, he puts his left arm on my right shoulder, or he will reach out and touch my right hand. Being his mom is one of my greatest privileges.
Last night when I tucked him into bed, I whispered in his ear. "Tomorrow's the last day of school," I said. His eyelids were heavy. "Good day," he said, signing "good" as he drifted off to sleep. The country music played in the background.
This afternoon someone who knows Isaac well sent me a video of him outside, dancing to music with his friends. He was wearing his new blue shirt, given to him by one of his all-time favorite teachers. He doesn't dance at home. "I haven't seen him dance this much since I've known him!" she wrote. She's known him for years.
I had to reach for another Kleenex while I watched him move to the music. I've never seen him like this before. Surrounded by people who love him and the brilliant sun overhead, he was pure joy.