Like every morning, I dropped off my son, Leo, at school today. The routine is seamless: you enter from the north, circle around to the back doors, and school staff greet you at your car with cheerful send-offs like, “Have a fantastic day, love you!” Then, you drive out the west exit. It usually takes just a couple of minutes.
But today, we found ourselves waiting. In front of me was a sleek German vehicle, and a father was leaning into the backseat. After a few moments, it was evident that the child inside wasn’t going to budge. A male teacher came over to assist, and together, they managed to coax the visibly resistant child out of the car and towards the school entrance. This boy was big—though only about ten years old, he was the size of a grown-up.
Halfway to the doors, the child suddenly tried to run. The teacher grabbed him, and in the ensuing struggle, they both ended up on the ground. Another male staff member quickly joined, and together, they helped the child to his feet and escorted him inside. It was clear these educators were experienced; they remained calm and treated it like just another day on the job. To an outside observer, it was a textbook example of how to manage a student with autism.
But I wasn’t just an observer. I was sitting in my car with my 8-year-old Leo, and I felt a sense of foreboding. If that child hadn’t been in a supportive environment, it might have seemed like he was a threat. People would have been alarmed.
This, my friends, is the fear that lingers—an ever-present weight on my shoulders. Leo is making progress, for sure. His eye contact, conversational skills, and short-term memory are all improving. These are wonderful developments.
However, we’re still grappling with his emotional regulation. We’ve barely scratched the surface.
The reality? My son—my sweet, funny, music-loving boy who is always the first to offer a hug when someone is sad—can also hit, kick, and throw a tantrum that feels like a natural disaster when he’s frustrated. And I’m not talking about playful antics; I mean serious outbursts.
At this point, I can simply pick him up and move him to a quieter spot until he calms down, but that won’t work for much longer as he grows heavier. I need to connect with him. I need solutions—or at least a temporary fix for his anxiety—and I need them now. I feel like I’m racing against the clock, and I’m falling behind.
As the father returned to his car, he glanced back at the line of parents waiting to drop off their kids. I waved. I’m not sure if he saw me, but it didn’t matter; that wave was for me, not him. “It’s okay. We understand here.” I waved to reassure him that I wasn’t afraid of his son.
Because if that’s Leo and me in a year or two, I’m really going to need someone to wave back.
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Summary:
In the daily routine of dropping off children at school, a mother reflects on her fears and challenges as she witnesses another parent struggle with their autistic child. While her own son is making progress, she grapples with his emotional regulation and the constant worry about the future. The article emphasizes the need for understanding and support among parents facing similar challenges and highlights the importance of connection in tough times.
Keyphrase: Parenting an Autistic Child
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