There is a middle school up the street from our home. Really it’s around a couple of corners, and there is no safe walking path, but it’s a quick shot from my house to the school. This is important. My son is most likely going to that school in Fall.
Also important was why I spent Monday crying. I was in my son’s old school when a child had a meltdown. The teachers and staff were in calm communication over walkie talkies, still managing to keep the child’s privacy intact. I got to see firsthand how my son had been handled behind the scenes for years. Until we pulled him out to homeschool because the pressure of repeat meltown at school sucked him dry of confidence and happiness.
I like him happy.
I want to admit something here. I was angry for a long time about my son’s inability to succeed in his former school. Furious, really. Think mother bear rage that the system put in place to accommodate his disability repeatedly failed him. There were wrong turns by the team working with him there. But witnessing their collected, practiced response to a child who was struggling so much they ultimately needed to call police to ensure safety (think a small child potentially running away from a school right in the middle of town)—that was healing. I felt immense forgiveness in that moment because they literally did everything they could to prevent the 911 call in order to not alarm an out-of-control student who was out of control due to disability.
Just like my child had been so many times.
Here’s where I talk about crying. Yes, I witnessed the exchange on the school end, but all I could think about was how terrifying it was to send my child to school each day and wait for a call like that mother received. And I did, every day. I also picked him up early nearly every day. I spent my minutes on high alert because a caretaker’s job is never done. I was afraid all the time that the police might need to be called. I knew my kid would be terrified. I worried it would exacerbate the problem of feeling unsafe in a school that was working to protect him.
I felt all of that again. All the fear, all the frustration, all the pain for my suffering child.
Ultimately we did not have success. The way the school was set up—well, my kid’s therapy team took one look at it and said, “No wonder he’s struggling.” We ended up withdrawing him and homeschooling for half of last year and all of this one.
He’s doing so much better now. He is asking to be in school again, but not the same school. Thus the trip to our local middle school. Honestly, the school seems like it was set up for him. There was no IEP resistance. My kid’s interest was drawn by several topics of study qnd physical exercise opportunities. He is excited to try a new school. This from a kid for whom “new” has mostly meant “unwelcome.”
But back to that crying one more time. I am scared that sending my child back to school even though it feels right and he seems ready is going to put me back in that same headspace of high alert. It was an incredibly challenging period that I do not care to revisit. Even if my child is up the street instead of across town.
In the time since he stopped school, I’ve learned to turn my ringer off. I take deep breaths. I smile and laugh more. I stretch my muscles. I no longer feel bound to the potential of his negative experiences. And I never, ever want to go back.
But, you see, it’s not about what I want. It’s about what my son needs. And so we are taking the plunge. I will make the necessary calls, have placement done and hopefully get the kiddo signed up for Cross Country running so he can make friends over Summer. He’s already looking forward to anime and manga club. He checked the library and found the Horror section. He met the librarian and assistant principal. He says, “I’m definitely going to that school.”