Excuse Me, I Believe You Have My Chair

The last week before February break was an uber test-a-thon for me. I was on a mad dash to finish testing four kiddos before the time off, with the aspiration to work on reports over break, and be ahead of schedule for my March 1st CSE meetings (ha).

The last IQ test I had to give before sweet freedom was with a fifth grade kiddo with comorbid Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and Oppositional Defiant Disorder. He was being evaluated as an initial eligibility case, due to continued behavioral and academic difficulty within an Integrated Co-Teaching classroom as a general education student. During cognitive testing, he was very cooperative (achievement testing was utterly the opposite, woah), but highly active. We tested in an unused classroom/meeting room, and upon entry, he immediately launched himself at the spinning office chair. Normally I take it, but I gave him the caveat that he could sit in it as long as he was appropriate and able to get the work done. He agreed.

No lie, the kid spun himself in a circle for the duration of the IQ test, except when he had to look at pictures or write. He would lean back with his eyes close and use one foot to keep the chair spinning. Normally, I'd put the kabosh on that immediately, because I need kids to focus to get accurate test results. You'd think he'd be totally off-task and infatuated with the chair, but he continued to answer questions very eloquently and quickly. Believe it or not, when he wasn't moving, he actually had a harder time concentrating!

At the end of the assessment, I was gathering up my things and making small talk with him, and he stood up, remarking, "Oh. I think I'm going to puke."

...really? Really? You think? Kid, you just spun for an hour and a half, I'm surprised you didn't wear a hole in the floor, let alone lose your bland and ambiguous school lunch.

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