I look down at the report card, then at the homework sheet. My brows are knit, so that my eyes are scrunched; it hurts. I stare at it.
"Joey? Simplify five-fifteenths." "One third." There is not even a moment of hesitation, of processing, nothing- the answer is immediate.
I stare at the paper, marked 40-F. It is dated a week ago.
"Joey, what is 6/24?" "One fourth." No pause. No blink of the eye. He's not even looking at the numbers, the audial processing isn't even road-bumping him.
"What is 1/8 plus 1/4?" "3/8." "What is 1/3 plus 1/6?" "One half." He is getting slightly annoyed with me asking stupid questions. "What is 3/15?" "1/3." "7/14?" "1/2." I keep this up as he puts on his coat, toss in some laughter to fool him into thinking it is a game, one we we have played since he could talk- the math problem game, the sudden barrage of math problems, increasingly complex, which still ornaments long car rides. The air is chilly. I am still clutching the failed papers, the report card that has a C+ in the math column, but the only comment, "Your child is a joy to teach!"
Must not be, since you don't appear to be actually teaching him.
"What is 3/18?" "1/6." "4/5 plus 1/5?" "One." "What is 4/76?" He pauses for the first time, scrunches his brow and then grins. "Mommy! That's silly!" I purposely picked the oddball numbers, but also know the answer is 1/19. The problem is too complex for him without seeing it, but he doesn't freak out, he makes his "I want a kiss" face. I oblige as the bus pulls up.
I have requested a copy of his school records. I'm going to make sure my ducks are in a row, and make some visuals, so that the team understands: we are out of time. If our IEP is failing, we need to fix it, immediately. And there is no excuse for this child to be getting a C in math.