Defining the scooter boy

BRIAN BLUM

As we were coming to pick up our six-year-old, Aviv, from his third week in first grade last year, his new teacher pulled my wife Jody and I aside.

"He seems a little spacey in class," Yael, the teacher, said, "like he's not really paying attention."

This is not something any parent wants to hear – that their precious child may have learning problems.

"Maybe he's tired? He's been going to bed pretty late," Jody suggested. It had been a tough transition from summer vacation to the regular grind of the school year.

"I'd like to do some tests on him," Yael said. "Tomorrow. Let's talk after that."

Yael didn't seem particularly worried. But we knew that Aviv was not like everyone else. It started when he was an infant and refused to crawl. Instead he "scooted" on his tush. It was really quite remarkable, the speed and agility this little spunk of a kid could manage while remaining entirely in an upright sitting position. At first we thought it was cute. It was other parents who put out the alarm: "You know, my kid did that. I had to take him for years of occupational therapy." "You really should have that checked out. Could be an early sign of autism."

But Aviv was such an adorable, loving, easy child – so much easier than his big brother and sister. How could there be anything wrong with him? Just the same, we took him to the occupational therapist.

"Low muscle tone," Dr. Paz said, explaining that this condition gave our child less strength in his arms and hands, which is probably why he wasn't crawling.
"It's something genetic," the doctor reassured us – nothing we did. He prescribed a number of exercises, but warned that this would be with Aviv for life and that he'd probably have difficulty handling a pen and writing.

It's amazing how such an almost imperceptible disability can lead those who aren't familiar with it to jump to conclusions. Aviv's kindergarten teacher labelled him slow, because he couldn't cut with scissors or color between the lines the way the other kids could. A specialist was brought in, who suggested maybe Aviv would be better off in special ed.

We weren't willing to give in so easily. We knew he was bright. Let him try first grade. If he couldn't handle it, we could always make a change later. We alerted his new teacher about the low muscle tone and sat back to wait.

In the meantime, we did something that we were somewhat ambivalent about from the get-go. Aviv's big brother Amir had just turned 13 and his grandparents wanted to take the whole family away for a post-bar mitzvah vacation. The way the timing worked out, the only time we could schedule it was during the first full week of school. I admit that I agonized about it more than Jody. But then I was the kid who loved school. I went for 12 years with only two days off for illness: I just couldn't stand to miss a day of learning.

Despite my concerns, we took Aviv out of class for the five days. His teacher gave us homework to work on at the beach and in the airplane. Jody was particularly diligent about him getting through his aleph-bet and not falling behind.

Apparently, too diligent.

The day after Aviv's test, we called his teacher Yael.

"Frankly, I'm shocked," she said.

Alarm bells started ringing.

"He's absorbing everything. There's no problem at all. He's just got too far ahead while you were on vacation."

In other words, he was acting spacey because he was bored.

"Lay off the workbooks for a while and let the class catch up," Yael instructed us.
Now, we know this isn't the final verdict. Aviv's low muscle tone will most likely raise its weak arms again in entirely unexpected other ways. But for now, we were in the clear. And who knows? Maybe we have a little genius on our hands.

I wonder if Einstein used to scoot on his tush, too?

Brian Blum writes the syndicated column www.ThisNormalLife.com. He lives in Jerusalem with his wife and three children.

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