MIP's

            “You can’t make me re-do my math.  My MIP says you can’t.”

            I looked up from my desk to see what was going on across the room.

            MIP?  Minor in Possession?  Has someone been drinking?

            On the other side of the room Mrs. Alvarez was sitting next to Ramon helping him with his math.  Ramon was sulking, and Mrs. Alvarez was looking frustrated.

            “Ramon,” I called out.  “Do you have a question?”

            Ramon looked up at me and huffed, “Mrs. Alvarez says I have to re-do my graph for math.”

            “He’s gotten his variables mixed up,” Mrs. Alvarez explained.  “I’ve been telling him that his graph is going to be completely wrong if he doesn’t switch his sides.”

            “My MIP says she can’t help me with math,” Ramon shot back.

            What is getting into this guy?

            I signaled Mrs. Alvarez to take a break, walked over, and sat down next to Ramon.

            “What do you mean, your MIP says you can’t be helped with math?” I asked.

            “My Mom says I have an MIP for reading.  So why does Mrs. Alvarez say I have to re-do my math.”

            I paused a minute and furrowed my brow.

            “You’re right, Ramon,” I said, “We help you with reading, and reading is what you have goals for.  But the hard thing is, you have to read in all your classes.  Right now you’re working on a big math word problem.  If you don’t read it correctly, you’ll do the math wrong.  Mrs. Alvarez knows that you didn’t read the problem correctly.  She’s just trying to help you.”

            Ramon scowled back with dark, hooded eyes.

            “But I’m good at math.”

            “Yes you are.  But you put your variables in the wrong place on your graph.”  I pointed to his math book.  “’Hours’ is time, and time is an independent variable.  That always goes on the bottom.” 

            I handed Ramon an eraser and he began rubbing out his work.  I walked back to my desk, but turned around halfway.

            “Ramon, you have an IEP, not an MIP.”

            “And it’s for reading,” he snapped.

            I started laughing.  “So let Mrs. Alvarez help you read your math problems correctly.”

            Ramon bent his head down, but I could see he was silently mouthing “Let Mrs. Alvarez help you read.”

            I went back to my grading, but couldn’t help thinking about the ornery side of Ramon that was starting to creep out.

            Let’s hope it’s just an IEP and not someday an MIP!

(source)

Initial Placement - Part 2

            “I have a draft of a program that we think will give Amy the support she needs to be successful in school.  I think this plan will help her make appropriate progress.”

            Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson agreed that Amy had a Specific Learning Disability and that she needed additional help in school.  Now they wanted to know what kind of help we could give her.

            “The plan that I’m going to go over is called an IEP,” I explained.  “That stands for Individual Education Plan.  If you agree for Amy to have an IEP, we will put this into effect for a year.  If you have concerns or are unhappy about how anything is going, you can reconvene this meeting at any time so we can discuss changes.”

            Mr. Sanderson began thumbing through the pages of the IEP I handed him.  I had written “Draft” on the front page in big letters with a neon green highlighter.  In the next 20 minutes I went over the first parts of the IEP and the reading and math goals for the next year.  

            “Amy has an extra person in her Social Studies and Science classes,” I said as I turned to the Services page on the draft.

            “Isn’t that a Mrs. Alvarez?” Mrs. Sanderson asked.  “Amy really likes having the extra teacher in those classes.

            “Mrs. Alvarez is a special education para.  She’s in there for some other students who have IEP’s.  Mrs. Alvarez helps all the students, but she especially makes sure that the students with IEP’s are getting any help they need.”

            I noticed that the Sandersons had become more and more relaxed, but I wondered if the next part might change that.

            “Amy should be in an English and Math class that also has a special education para.  The extra help in those classes will go a long way to help Amy be successful.  To get her into one of those classes, we need to change her schedule.”

            Mrs. Sanderson’s face fell.  “Why can’t you just assign Mrs. Alvarez into Amy’s English and Math classes?”

            The principal leaned forward.  “We would love to be able to do that,” she said, “But there are several students we’re trying to give support to and we have to schedule our special ed paras so that we can make the best use of their time.”

            Mr. Sanderson stared down at the service page.  I noticed he was slowly nodding his head, but Mrs. Sanderson was still frowning.

            I’ll bet she’s thinking about telling Amy that her schedule is going to change.

            “We will make sure she stays with the same teacher,” I added, “But we just couldn’t make this work without changing her schedule.

            I wasn’t done yet.

            “There’s one more thing we need to add to Amy’s schedule.”

            Both parents looked up warily.

            “As we discussed earlier, Amy is over two years behind grade level in reading and math.  We need to add a class that will help Amy close that gap in her skills.  The time for that class has to come from somewhere, and I’m recommending that Amy trade out one of her current classes to come to the Learning Center every day to work on those skills.”

            “Which class does she have to drop?” asked Mr. Sanderson.

            “We have several options.  There’s Science, Social Studies, Art, or Spanish.”

            “She hates Spanish,” Mrs. Sanderson said quickly.  “She failed it last semester.”

            Of course she’s struggling with Spanish.  She’s struggling with English.  Spanish isn’t a conversational class in Middle School.  She’s being asked to read and write in Spanish now.

            “We’d like her to keep all of her core classes,” I continued.  “And I think it’s important for Amy to be in a class that she’s strong in.  Her Art teacher is constantly bragging about her work.”

            “So you think she should drop Spanish?” Mr. Sanderson asked.

            He doesn’t look all that upset.

            “I think it would be the least disruptive to her day,” I said.

            Both parents looked at each other and nodded.

            In the next 10 minutes I reviewed everything we had covered in the last hour, and the Sandersons signed permission for the IEP.

            “Thank you for all your help,” Mr. Sanderson said holding out his hand as he walked out.

            “You’re welcome.  I look forward to working with Amy.  She’s a sweet girl, and I’m sure  she’s going to grow into an amazing young woman.” 

            I watched the Sandersons walk out smiling.  I gathered up my endless stack of papers and felt the muscles in the back of my neck begin to relax.  New placements are always a little tricky in middle school. 

            It’s nice when everyone leaves happy.  

 (source)

The Help We Don't Want

            “Jeremy doesn’t want to get help from the Learning Center any more.  He says it’s embarrassing and makes him feel dumb.  Is there any way we can get him off of his IEP?”

            I could have predicted this request from Mrs. Watkins the second week of school, so I wasn’t surprised to hear it come up at Jeremy’s IEP meeting.  I paused a minute and nodded my head.  I wanted Mrs. Watkins to know I really did understand the struggle she was going through. 

            “I know this isn’t new information for you,” I softly explained.  “But Jeremy really does struggle decoding the text he’s reading.  Once he’s got it decoded, his comprehension is great.  But his fluency decoding the words is very low.  It takes him three times longer than a typical sixth grade student to read material in class.”

            “I know his reading is really slow.  That’s the main thing he’s always been working on, but it’s taking so long for him to get faster.  I just don’t know what to tell him.  He said he wanted me to get him off his IEP today.  He says the other kids think he’s dumb when he comes into your room.”

            How many times have I had this conversation with a parent? This is the most common problem parents and students with Learning Disabilities must work through in Middle School – identifying strengths and weaknesses and learning how to use one to pull up the other.

            “Mrs. Watkins, we both know Jeremy is not dumb.  In fact, he’s got to be pretty bright to be getting the grades he has considering how hard it is for him to access any reading material.”

            Jeremy’s mom sadly nodded her agreement.  “If there was only some way his tests could just be over the material he’s heard in school.  If he just wouldn’t have to read anything.  I know he’d get good grades and he wouldn’t have to be on an IEP.”

            That’s how he’s surviving right now, I thought.

            “Listening and remembering what he’s heard is his strength,” I agreed.  “The problem is, there’s going to be a ton of material in the years ahead that’s going to be in written form that Jeremy has to get hold of.  He needs to continue working on his fluency.  He’s going to need some strategies and help accessing all that material.”

            The room was quiet.  Mrs. Watkins was quiet.  The clock on the wall was making a clicking sound. 

            Then, “I know.” 

            We continued sitting in the quiet room listening to the clock click.  Mrs. Watkins stared down at the IEP sitting on the table.  She knew her son hated it, but she also knew he desperately needed it.  She picked up her pen, checked the box that said “I give my consent,” and sadly signed her name.  

 (source)

Transition Goals

           

            “So, Naomi,” I began, “What would you like to do after graduation?”

           

            “What do you mean?” she asked.

            “When you graduate from high school – what would you like to do when you don’t go to school anymore?”

            Apparently Naomi had never been confronted with a future that didn’t involve going to school.  “What do you mean?” she asked again, “When I don’t have to go to school anymore?”

            “When you finish high school,” I explained, “You don’t go to school anymore unless you choose to.”

            Naomi’s eyes got wide.  “I don’t have to go to school?”

            Did she really not know that there was a time in life when school ended?  “Naomi, you don’t have to go to school after you finish high school unless you decide to go to college,” I explained.

            She was still processing the fact that a day was coming when she didn’t have to go to school anymore.   Her face was lighting up.  “I won’t have to go to school any more if I don’t want to?”  She began dancing around the room.  “I don’t have to go to school anymore.”  She ran over to another student on the other side of the room who had stopped working and was watching the dance.  “I won’t have to go to school anymore.  I’m not going to school anymore.”

            When students turn 13 years old, all IEP’s must include vision statements related to what a student will be doing after they graduate from high school. Naomi had started school late and been retained one year, so the conversation with her was beginning in sixth grade.  My standard approach was to interview a student before the IEP and get their ideas.  I thought this would be a good approach with Naomi, but I was having second thoughts.

            I sat and watched Naomi prancing around and giggling.  It was impossible to rein her in when she got this excited.  After a few more minutes I called Naomi over. I really needed to get this interview finished.  She finally came over and sat in the chair next to me, smiling, breathing heavily, and bouncing up and down.  I probably should approach this differently if I was ever going to get some information from her.  “Ok Naomi,” I began, “What would you like to do after school?  What kind of job would you like to do?”

 

            There was a perceptible shift in the light.  "Job" had a deflating effect on Naomi.  I began again.  “You know – a job – like your parents have jobs.  What kind of job would you like to do some day?”

            I struck gold.  “A vet,” she declared.  “I want to be a vet and take care of dogs.”

            “You like working with animals?”

            “Yes.  I’m going to be a vet.”  We were making progress now.

            “Naomi, if you want to work in a vet’s office, you might need to go to school some more after high school.”  I thought we might as well start talking about vocational schools.

            “Are you going to pay for it?” Naomi asked.

            Wherever this was coming from, I was going to nip it in the bud.  “No, I’m not going to pay for you to go to school,” I informed her.

            “Then I’m not going,” she declared.  

            “What if you really want to work in a vet’s office and you need to go to some school to learn how to help,” I questioned.

            “Only if you pay,” she again declared.

            I had Naomi’s information on possible career interest and possible future schooling, so I moved on to living arrangements.  “Where would you like to live after high school when you’re working for the vet?” I asked.

            “I’m living in Hawaii.”

            Hawaii? I thought.  Where did this come from?  “Is your family moving to Hawaii?” I asked. 

“I don’t know,” Naomi answered.  “I’m going to Hawaii when I get out of here.”

            “OK.  So you want to live on your own?” I summarized.

            “In Hawaii.”

            So I learned that Naomi wanted to be a vet, living in Hawaii, after she went to school that I paid for.