Teaching on a Small Scale

At only 23 months of age, Conor Gaffney is a mentor of sorts.

Conor is a peer model in the toddler class at UCLA’s Intervention Program for Children With Disabilities. His job: to inspire his physically or mentally disabled classmates, to show them by doing.

His mother hopes that Conor, in turn, is learning from less fortunate children “to become more compassionate. It’s been wonderful for him to see kids with special needs,” says Nicole Gaffney, 32.

She knows better than most the value of this. While Conor is a healthy, active child, his 4-year-old brother, Aidan, has an undiagnosed disorder, is ventilator-dependent and uses a wheelchair. Aidan graduated from the toddler program where, his mother says, he “always felt totally accepted,” and now attends a UCLA preschool for the severely challenged.

Gaffney is so enthusiastic about the peer model concept that she plans to place son Declan, a healthy 6-month-old, in the toddler program next year.

UCLA’s peer model concept, among the first in the nation for toddlers, was initiated in 1974 with a federal grant at the instigation of Kit Kehr, the intervention program’s lead teacher and executive director. Kehr, 52, who has a philosophy degree from UCLA and a state-issued children’s center permit, wanted to see what would happen if disabled children were exposed daily at a very young age to non-disabled children.

There were many unanswered questions. How would the disabled kids react to seeing those their own age with skills they don’t possess? Kids who walk without thinking about it, kids who are verbally facile?

Another question, Kehr says, was how parents of the disabled toddlers would respond. “Would it be too depressing for them? Too painful?” It appears these fears were unfounded.

“I feel we’ve been successful with the majority of the families,” says Judy Howard, professor of clinical pediatrics at UCLA and director of the developmental studies program in the pediatrics department. “We have really assisted and guided the parents as they come from a time of much chaos, confusion, anger and denial to a time of being competent about what their child is going to need.”

But, she adds, “I think where we have not kept up with the times is we have not got what we call a full-inclusion classroom. We only have a few peer models. We don’t have an equal number of children with and without disabilities”--the so-called “natural environment” mandated by Congress in the Americans With Disabilities Act.

It’s the toddler years, Kehr says, that are “an ideal time to mix these children.” It is not until youngsters are about 5 that they begin directing slings and arrows at those unlike themselves.”

Toddlers “don’t make judgments,” Howard says. “If you just say, ‘Suzie can’t walk,’ well, Suzie can’t walk.” Period.

Kids Lend a Helping Hand

On a typical day there are three peer models among the 14 children. Sometimes they surprise the staff by taking it upon themselves to lend a hand--perhaps to help a classmate feed herself--but no real expectations are placed on them.

“They’re there to go to school,” Howard says, “just to have a good time.”

Although parents are allowed in the classroom, most take part only in the opening-song circle at 9:30 a.m. and the closing-song circle at 12:30 p.m., preferring to observe activities through a one-way window from a small adjacent room. That’s good, Kehr says, as one goal is “to have the children learn to be without Mommy and Daddy.”

A few peer models have flunked out, only because they were too rambunctious and playfully aggressive. Howard says, “Children who are quite medically fragile can’t get out of the way very fast. You can’t expect a [healthy] toddler to understand that.”

Each morning’s session begins with the song circle. Holding the kids, mothers--and a father or two--and teachers sit cross-legged on the floor. Each child is embraced in song--the group will sing, for example, “Caitlin came to play today, to play today, to play today.” A few children are restless and squirmy, but most laugh and clap and sing along.

Says Kehr, “Many of these children have so much unhappiness--medical intervention, people poking at them all the time. This is a safe and happy place to just be a little kid and do what little kids do.” And, if you’re 3 years old and still crawling because you have cerebral palsy, well, that’s OK too. If you drop a toy, a peer model may pick it up for you.

Just as in any preschool, activities may include computer games--a great leveler for children without verbal skills--or painting coffee filters that will become spring flowers. Frequently, disabled children have tactile defensiveness syndrome.

“Things don’t feel to them as they would to the average person,” Kehr says. “They don’t like to get messy.” Working with paint and Play-Doh helps them to overcome such an aversion.

In addition, a speech therapist and a physical therapist work in the classroom, using play as therapy, perhaps through activities that combine physical movement with music or, for nonverbal children, by using picture boards or sign language.

There is a wonderful outdoor space with a trampoline, sand pit, a plethora of toy trucks, climbing bars, a playhouse and a crawl-through tunnel. In one corner stand a statue of an angel and a plaque in memory of Natalie Gaines, a heart-transplant patient and former classmate who died of pneumonia at 2 1/2.

It was through Natalie that Jennifer Harrison, 29, of Westchester learned of the program. She and Natalie’s mother are best friends, and Harrison wanted her 2-year-old son, Clay, to be a peer model.

“This was kind of like a special gift, Natalie’s gift to Clay,” she says.

Watching from behind one-way glass with several other parents, Harrison marvels at the sensitivity Clay has learned.

“He knows it’s different here. Any other kids, he’d be pulling them to the floor and wrestling.” Here, he seems to sense, he must be more gentle.

For the peer models, Harrison adds, “It’s an amazing kick-start to preschool.” In her arms is Clay’s brother, Tristan, 11 months. She says, “He’ll be here [as a peer model] when he’s 18 months.”

Another peer model this day is Arianna McMillon, 2. Her brother, Andre, 5, who has cerebral palsy, graduated from the toddler program where, her mother says, he got “a lot of good structure” and is now in the preschool program with Aidan Gaffney.

Learning Some Are Different

Arianna’s mother, Tracey, 33, of Westchester, feels it is important for Arianna to understand that many children are different, just as Andre is.

“I wanted her to have some graciousness” toward disabled youngsters and to be with children “who have to work hard to do what comes easy for other children.”

Eileen Kadmiry of Sherman Oaks watches son Hakim, 23 months, from behind the window. Hakim is a Down syndrome child who has two older, gifted siblings busy with their own activities. Here, Kadmiry says, Hakim gets needed interaction.

Kadmiry was 42 when Hakim was born. Although an amniocentesis showed an abnormal fetus, she rejected abortion as an option.

“It’s a life,” she says. “What if the doctors were wrong? What if the tests were wrong?” Choosing to have the child, she told his older brother and sister that he was going to be “a little different.” Hakim is not as severely afflicted as some, and she hopes he can be mainstreamed.

The peer model program is designed as much for parents of the disabled as for the children themselves.

“The period between the time parents discover their child has a disability until about 3 years of age is a real difficult time, an important transition time,” Howard says. “Often parents tell me they withdraw from their friends who have children without a disability. It’s a time for grieving . . . a time when they have to reset their compass.”

Observing their children playing with typical kids is a confidence-builder for parents, who probably have worried about such interaction. Howard says parents may also have mistaken normal toddler behavior, “which is to say ‘no’ and [throw] temper tantrums,” as somehow related to their children’s disabilities.

Among those in the toddler program are 2-year-old twin boys, one of them severely disabled as the result of brain seizures and surgeries, the other a peer model. Integrating siblings is important, Kehr says.

“Often siblings do have a rough time. They’re often left in the dust” because a disabled child requires so much attention, she says.

When Kehr started with the UCLA intervention program in 1970, 28 years after it was established, it was “the very rare parent” who wanted a disabled child in a setting with regular kids; most hoped to protect their children from a potentially hurtful situation. It would be four years before Kehr felt the climate was right to introduce the peer model concept. Today, she says, “they really want them around children they can learn from and be challenged by.”

Morning activities are followed by playtime outside. At noon, the children pile into a miniature fire wagon and come inside for lunch. Some of the disabled kids must be buckled into chairs pulled up to little round tables.

The children have definite food likes and dislikes; some have allergies, some are supersensitive to textures, so parents bring lunches for them. It may be ravioli or macaroni and cheese, or peanut butter and jelly. Lunch can be a messy proposition, but the teachers patiently help feed and clean up after those with poor coordination. The ratio of adults to children--at least 1 to 3 on a typical day--assures that every child gets individual attention.

Michael Baldoz, 30, of West L.A. is among the handful of fathers who regularly bring their kids to the toddler program. His son, Logan, 2, has cleidocranial dysplasia, a rare genetic disease that causes abnormal bone development and joint laxity.

“He probably won’t be an extreme athlete,” Baldoz says, but his prognosis is encouraging. Baldoz considers the peer model interaction “very valuable” and has observed “a big difference” in Logan’s motor skills since he started coming here.

Asked the nature of her son’s disability, Julie Kennedy, 39, of Marina del Rey responds, “Where do I start?” Joshua, 2 1/2, a fair-skinned blond who often comes to class wearing a natty hat, suffers from benign hypotonia, which causes gross-motor delay and abnormal muscle slackness.

Here, she says, he sees other kids running and walking and “he wants to keep up with them.” In August, he started crawling; now he is walking. Kennedy says that, with therapy, he can be expected to overcome his disability.

UCLA pediatric residents are required to spend a month studying child development. Many visit the toddler intervention program classroom, interact with the children, talk to the parents.

In pediatric training, Howard says, “It’s not often you see life after diagnosis. How does the family begin to live a life with this child?”

At best, Kehr says, “It’s a tough life,” and intervention programs such as this one are “few and far between.” Special equipment, such as standers, which enable children without motor skills to stand eye-to-eye with classmates, are extremely expensive.

One crucial need, she says, is for funding of after-school programs to aid parents who are either the working poor or middle income and don’t qualify for financial assistance. UCLA has such a program for 2- to 5-year-olds and has funding in place for a similar program for 6- to 8-year-olds, which will launch as soon as staff is hired sometime this summer.

The UCLA intervention program hopes, too, to receive a federal grant in late May to amass data on the needs of local families with disabled children, perhaps as a catalyst for developing more quality programs, Howard says. “Could we train child-care staff that would go out into the communities? Could we help develop child-care licensing criteria for children with special needs?”

Free Service for Disabled

For the disabled, the toddler program is free. Together, the infant and toddler programs have an annual budget of about $500,000, with funding from regional centers serving the disabled and from L.A. Unified School District, which has a federal mandate to serve infants and toddlers who have what are called low-incidence disabilities--for instance, a child who has normal intellectual development but a physical impairment. UCLA provides on-campus space, while parental fund-raisers help defray costs. Parents of peer models pay $25 a month to attend once a week, $75 a month for three times a week.

With the daily toddler class limited to 14, most of whom come three days a week, there’s a waiting list for both disabled children and for peer models.

If Kehr does not expect an opening for a wait-listed child before that he or she turns 2, Kehr refers the parents to other programs. “Eighteen months is ideal [for us],” she’s found. “At 3, children move on,” picking up the baggage of nonacceptance along the way.

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Beverly Beyette can be reached at beverly.beyette@latimes.com.