12. The examination by the orthopedagogue

On my father's advice I asked Mrs Rascals if she knew anyone who could examine Peter. If these people know each other, the school will be more inclined to take their advice, my father thought.

Mrs Rascals thought it very wise that we took this step. A good friend of hers was an orthopedagogue. Mrs X had her own practice close to the school. There was a one-month waiting list. ‘A waiting list?' exclaimed Jan. ‘How many children need to see an orthopedagogue?’ That last remark sounded rather contemptuous.

 

The examination consisted of two visits and cost 350 euros. The euro had only just been introduced, and Jan calculated that it would cost 700 guilders and was flabbergasted. 

I asked our insurance company. The consultant explained to me that this was a frequent question, but that such an assessment would be at our own expense. Schools themselves were capable of examining children, the lady on the phone explained. ‘But if we as parents don't agree with their findings? We have a right to a second opinion, don't we?’

The lady on the phone was very sympathetic, but as long as there is no clinical picture, the health insurance doesn’t cover it, she explained. The words ‘clinical picture’ gave me a shock. It felt like a moment of choice. Why were we going to that orthopedagogue? What did we expect to hear from her?

 

Johanna called because she had just sold a work of art in a small gallery. She was over the moon. After she had explained to me at length which painting had been sold and how much it had fetched, and that now she really hoped for a breakthrough, she asked about Peter. She had spoken to Mum.

‘I don't understand why you let yourself get so worked up. That's not like you at all,' she said after listening to my story.

‘But what if he doesn't make it? Then it will be my fault. Then he will blame me later for not doing enough for him. He's smart enough, isn't he?’

'Yes of course he is. You sound almost like Daddy, if not exactly. I didn't like school at all, I don't blame Peter.'

'Well this isn't really helping.'

'No, I get that. Everyone has to become a professor. So your child too.'

'Well no, that's not it at all. I think it's great that you have chosen your own path. But you did that when you were grown up. You weren’t made to choose when you were six.’

Johanna was silent for a while. I stared out of the window. A rabbit was walking in the garden. That beast of the neighbours had broken loose again.

‘What does that Mrs X say?' she finally asked.

We've only had the introductory talk. Next week Peter has to spend a whole morning with her.’

'Well I’m curious.'

We chatted some more about her painting and the owner of the gallery who seemed to understand her art so well.

 

 Two weeks later Jan, Peter and I were invited by Mrs X to be informed of her findings. She had also written a report for us to read, she explained on the phone.

Mrs X had her practice in a large stately house. It was in a park-like area. We had to take a path along the house to get to the practice, which was in the back garden.

‘Nice place,' Jan said, 'I'm going to be an orthopaedagoggle too.’

‘Orthopaedagoggle,’ repeated Peter, walking between us.

‘Oh boys, let’s not start,' I said.

Peter laughed. It was the first laugh of the day. I was relieved and chuckled a bit too. We went in, feeling better.

 

Mrs X was a rather posh lady, with a thousand euro smell, Jan said later.

‘Peter is a normally intelligent boy whose school results don't match,' Mrs X started off, after the 'Good day, glad you're here.’

‘Oh good,’ I said involuntarily, thinking this was good news.

'Well,' said Mrs X seriously, 'that's obviously something to worry about.'

I heard Jan inhale deeply and in the corner of my eye I saw him growing a few centimetres taller. Mrs X promptly sat up a little too. 'Look,' she said, 'there is no significant difference between the verbal and performal skills.'

'What is performal?’ asked Jan. I was glad he asked, I didn't know either. Mrs X laid her arms relaxed on the table with her palms together, visibly content that she could assert her authority, and explained patiently. ‘Verbal is about the vocabulary, the sense of language. Performal is how he manages in practice. How he solves problems. It’s about spatial insight, for example. So in fact we can say that his intelligence profile is harmonious and that is indeed good news', said Mrs X kindly. 'But!’

We were both silent. I looked at Jan. He had a deep frown on his forehead.

‘But his school results don't match up to this, so there's something wrong, of course. A normal boy should perform normally, right?’

At this point Peter got up and walked to the corner of the room. There was a table with toys for the little ones. He sat down and began to examine a wooden truck with interest.

Mrs X went on to say that she felt Peter's hand-eye coordination was not well developed and that perhaps his left and right hemispheres were not working together well enough. She suggested that Peter hadn’t played enough in the sandbox, and that this might be because father was a sailor and mother had too little time to concern herself with Peter's playing. ‘You work too, don't you?’ she asked me unexpectedly. Yes I was still working then.

It was all in the report she had made, we could read all about it at home.

‘A lot of structure', she said. And small steps. That is the most sensible thing. If you like, I will send my findings to the school.’

‘I'd rather do that myself,' I said a little too quickly. Mrs X gazed at me over her reading glasses.

'We like to read it first,' Jan explained, 'your report.'

'Oh well, as you wish. I have a warm contact with Georgette Rascals. We were college buddies. But you don't have to worry. I won't do anything you don't like.’

 

In the car Peter said he wanted to go back to Miss Marretje. It distracted Jan and me from our worries for a moment; we laughed about it. ‘Did you like the wooden truck so much?’ I asked. Peter did not answer and stared out of the window. For the first time I felt an indefinable sadness emerging inside me. I felt powerless. What could I do? How could I make him look less serious, smile again and skip to school without a care in the world? He wasn’t happy. He wanted to go back to where he had felt safe. To the little ones, to teacher Marretje.

 

It kept nagging at me. Sam and I sat on the sofa. He with a Donald Duck comicbook, I with some magazine. Jan had gone to the petting zoo with Peter and Ingeborg. Sam was about to go to a piano lesson.

‘Sam, does Peter like it at school?’

‘I don’t know. Does he have to?’

‘Well, you do like school, don't you?’

"Yes, sometimes.’ Sam continued to peer in his comicbook.

'Sometimes? Sam? Sometimes?’

'Well, most of the time. Miss Sideburn is stupid.'

‘You mean Miss Sports?’

'Yes, she shouts all the time.’

'Well if that's all.'

Sam giggled. 'We hid her trainers and then she got mad.'

'Oh well that's not very nice.'

'They were hanging in the flagpole.' He chuckled. 'And then sports class was cancelled.'

Sam likes it at school, I thought involuntarily. I needn't worry about that. At the most, he might have to stay after school sometimes.

‘But Sam ... Peter ... do you ever see him at school? On the school playground or something?’

‘We don't have our break at the same time. I'm in the middle years. The little ones go separately. Mark says they're bullying Peter.’

‘Who? Who are 'they' Sam?’ I snatched away his comicbook.

'How should I know!' Indignation.

 

Jan and I had barely spoken about the interview. Jan seemed impressed. The report was full of difficult words.

Peter's intelligence was indicated by the TIQ (105), the VIQ(110) and the PIQ(100). The TIQ was his endscore. The other two were verbal and performal respectively, as explained by Mrs X.

The report further stated that Peter 'looks in accordance with his calendar age'. His school results were not in line with this. How bad was that? Mrs X had looked worried when she explained that in 'normal children' cognitive development is age-appropriate. So Peter was not normal?

She had asked further, about Peter's development as a baby and a toddler. Hadn't we already been worried then? Back then, we had already sought help from the child health clinic, hadn't we? ‘You told me so yourself.’

Jan had answered. His voice sounded different, uncertain, worried, quiet. ‘No, not really', it sounded a bit guilty, 'Peter has always been very interested, in everything really.'

'Except school,' said Mrs X with a somewhat sad smile.

'Except school,' Jan said and looked at me. I couldn't make out his look. I felt just as insecure as he did. Even more so, I think. I spent the most time with the children. Was it my fault?

 

‘Do you think I don't do enough with the boys and that that's why Peter is so behind?’ I asked Jan. The children were at school. It was my day off. Our morning together.

‘No, of course not.’ Jan was whisking milk in a pan for coffee. He would only be home for a few more days, a week at the most. The shipping company had already called a few times. ‘I don’t like to leave you alone with this situation. I'll try to call more often.’

‘Apparently Rascals is going to work with him now, right? She should know what to do by now.'

'You should also tell her what Sam said. Maybe he is being bullied and that’s the reason why he doesn’t like school.'

‘But why would he be bullied? Peter's a nice kid, isn't he? Not at all like the nerd with spiky hair and outdated glasses, I mean?'

'No,' Jan just said. I didn't ask any further. I wanted him to go to sea without worrying. So I started talking about his kit bag. It was already packed with the most important things. Was there anything else I should do? We were not the kind of family where mother was in charge of the laundry. Jan smiled. He was on to me. 'Buy me some stroopwafels (syrup waffles) when you go shopping later on.'

'I'll get you a pallet,' I replied, laughing, 'for six months!'

 

Jan left before the interview with Rascals. As expected, but still rather suddenly, as I recall. He had to fly to Houston. There were four packets of ‘stroopwafels’ in his duffel bag.

 

A few days later I went to Mrs Rascals alone to hear her plan. ‘Your husband has already gone to sea? What a pity. Are the boys very sad? I'll keep a closer eye on them in the coming period.’

Until the summer holidays she would take Peter out of class a few times a week for exercises to increase his attention span, as she called it. She asked me understandingly if I could possibly help a little with the homework she was going to give him. ‘I understand there’s double work for you now that your husband has gone to sea, but we don't want Peter to fall even further behind, do we?’

I remember promising zealously that I would make sure of that. I really was a caring mother. I wanted very much to make her see that. Mrs Rascals was a rather stately woman. In a way, I felt safe with her. It all sounded very professional and caring. I had carefully brought up the bullying. She promised me that she would be watchful if there really was any bullying going on. She couldn't really imagine that. They were very strict at the Montessori school about bullying. And it actually didn’t fit in with the school system, she explained to me decisively. I wanted to be reassured.

 

The following months we picked up our dayly routine again without daddy. The boys and Ingeborg went to after-school care two days a week, one day my mother came, one day I was home early and on Wednesdays I was free.