Raising Austin

"Austin?"

"I'll take some waffles," he mumbles.

Jeanne then wakes up Austin's sister Madison, who is 7, but lets the baby, Julia, sleep. As she passes Austin's room and sees him still in bed, she calls, "You gotta get up, Austin."

While mom is microwaving waffles in her tiny kitchen, Austin and Maddie, both half-dressed, drift downstairs and curl up sleepily on the couch in the adjacent family room.

"Come on, Austin," Jeanne calls as the microwave beeps.

"Shut up!" he yells.

Jeanne ignores his rudeness, as she has learned she must do in some circumstances, particularly in the morning, before Austin has had his meds. She cuts up their waffles. "Come on, Austin," she calls again.

"Aggggh!" he shouts.

"Austin, what do you want for lunch?"

"SpaghettiOs" he announces, trudging behind his sister to the dining room table.

The phone rings twice in the next 25 minutes, and Jeanne, while serving breakfast and trying to prepare lunches, takes two calls from Austin's special education teachers. Austin attends an Arlington County program called Interlude, which is for children who have been in special education because of learning disabilities but have been removed from class because of additional disruptive behaviors. Interlude is the public school system's last resort for Austin, who has been suspended or sent home countless times ever since kindergarten for cursing, screaming, and threatening, pushing, punching and kicking other students -- and occasionally his teachers.

"Austin . . . You missed Level 5 and dropped down to Level 4," Jeanne tells him when she gets off the phone. "You missed by one point." In his class of eight children and three adults, Austin has his behavior graded by teachers every hour, every day, and if he maintains a weekly score of at least 92 points out of 100, he stays at 5, the top level. This incentive system earns him privileges to play on the computer, watch videos at break time, and ultimately win a fast-food lunch.