Yesterday morning I was helping Mr. T get ready for another day of 4th grade education--he was in the laundry room pulling on shoes when his father pulled in the drive. Mr. T shoved his arms into his coat sleeves, assembled his hat and mittens. Mr. D honked his car horn. Mr. T slid the backpack onto his back and I wished him good day. "Have a great day, buddy. I love you." I watched him walk towards the door leading to the garage and to Mr. D waiting to drop him at school. I shut the pocket door between the laundry rooom and kitchen and waited a beat. Then two. Then three. I should have heard a door open and close. Silence.
I yanked the pocket door open again and saw Mr. T standing stock still in front of the door. "What are you doing? Get moving! Go!" I yelled. He shook himself into action and headed out. I continued with my day.
Skip to the afternoon where I coach Mr. T through 4th grade homework after a snack. We're hunched over a math worksheet--estimation and multiplication--and he suddenly freezes up and stops working--stops thinking, stops calculating, stops writing, stops everything. Just sits still and stares off into space. My temper flared at him.
Too late I realized his seizures are back.