This past summer was an emotional rollercoaster for me. As a parent of a child with special needs, I was worried as my son, Alex, has a late birthday. Born just a couple of days before the cut-off date, I wrestled with the decision of whether to hold him back a year.
With Alex being on the autism spectrum, my concerns revolved around the school’s ability to meet his unique needs. I fretted over his capacity to thrive in the classroom, make friends, and even manage simple tasks like eating lunch without being overwhelmed. The thought of the loud alarms during fire drills loomed large in my mind, as I knew they could be particularly distressing for him.
As his first day of school approached, I was so consumed by anxiety that I didn’t allow myself to feel nostalgic when I dropped him off. We had spent the previous days touring the school to help him acclimate to his new environment, but when the big day arrived, I felt like I was merely going through the motions. Unlike my friends who shared tearful goodbyes on social media, I was too busy rushing out the door each morning and back again at the end of the day to dwell on my own feelings.
We recently purchased a house right behind the elementary school, and while I can see the main playground from my kitchen, I can’t quite catch a glimpse of the kindergarten area without wandering to the back of my yard. I took this small distance as a sign that I was coping well with my son’s new independence.
However, a few days into the school year, I broke down. The windows were open on a beautiful afternoon, and I could hear the reassuring voice of his principal, reminding the children to keep their hands to themselves. Then it happened—the first fire drill.
In that moment, my heart sank. Loud noises have always been a challenge for Alex, and I longed to rush outside, scoop him up, and reassure him that he was safe. I silently wished him courage.
That day, I made sure not to run late for pickup, expecting my 5-year-old to be exhausted from the day’s events. To my surprise, he was as lively as ever. When I asked about his day, he spoke excitedly about the friends he made and the activities he enjoyed. Then I inquired about the fire drill, expecting him to mention it. He surprised me again, stating that it was a “lockdown drill, not a fire drill.” My heart dropped.
“Did that scare you?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“No, Mommy. It’s just pretend,” he reassured me, as if he were the one calming my worries.
Once home, he laughed about how he and his friends couldn’t fit in a closet during the drill. I was taken aback—what was he doing in a closet? “For the lockdown drill, Mommy. I was too big!” he said, before scampering off to play with his Paw Patrol toys.
As I stood there, the weight of his words hit me like a ton of bricks. The terrifying thought of my son not being able to find a safe hiding space in a real emergency flooded my mind. It was a stark reminder that, despite my best efforts to keep him safe, some things are beyond my control.
While I trust that Alex’s teacher had a plan in place and that the school has numerous safety measures, I was jolted into the harsh reality that I had neglected to consider the implications of lockdown drills. Our schools have become targets for violence far too often, and now my innocent child must prepare for these unsettling scenarios.
In summary, the emotional journey of preparing a child with special needs for school is compounded by the harsh realities we face today. It’s a delicate balance of trust and fear, and as parents, we must navigate these challenging waters with grace and resilience.
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