This is the week for me. The mad-dash week before school starts. All parents know how it is with registration, getting school supplies, checking schedules, that kind of thing. And all special needs parents know how it is with the added emails, calls, meetings, walk-throughs, etc. that are necessary in getting our children set up with the support systems they need to be successful. In a transition year – either starting at a new school or at a new level of school – those efforts are doubled.
This year Nigel starts high school, so he’s at a new level and a new school. With all the stress I’ve been experiencing lately, I feel like sitting in a corner and rocking, stimming my stress away. So far it’s gone smoothly getting things set up for him, but there is so much time, effort, and energy (mental, emotional, and physical) involved that I feel like I am nearing a breakdown. I so want this to work for him. I want him to be comfortable and confident. I want his needs to be met. I want him to be accepted and appreciated. I want him to focus and learn and also have fun. I don’t want to worry about getting calls at work about behavioral issues because someone has purposefully pushed his buttons. I don’t want to worry about what our options are if this doesn’t work. Please, please, please God, let this work. Let him be happy.
We went to registration today, and then met Nigel’s new case manager. How must this woman feel? I’m sure she’s aware of the fact that we special needs parents place so much hope in her. I know she’s aware of that. In fact, she must have picked up on my desperate vibe, because at one point she said to Nigel, “I’m your school mom.” No one has ever said that before. And I wanted to cry and hug her and thank her because she obviously gets it. She knows how important her role is. I sometimes wonder if these professionals who work so tirelessly with our children, who are devoted to their success and well-being, feel the strain that we parents feel at the beginning of the school year. This combination of hope and anxiety. I should come up with a name for it. After all, it’s not just at the beginning of the school year that I feel it.
Anyway, when she said, “I’m your school mom,” Nigel gave a small, cute smile, like he thought the idea of a “school mom” was silly. But I sensed that it comforted him, and he understood her meaning. In that brief meeting, she really listened to him. I could tell that he felt respected, and comfortable. The regional autism consultant, who has known him since his nonverbal days, was also at the meeting, talking about his strengths and making recommendations. His speech therapist from the past three years was there, and we found out that she would continue to work with him and facilitate the social skills class that he will take. I feel very optimistic, even though the anxiety is hovering in the back of my mind.
However, the bottom line, the “take-away,” is that Nigel didn’t just attend this meeting. He participated. He was slow to answer at times, rarely made eye contact, and was frequently off-topic with his requests and comments, but he was an integral person. And he even remembered to cover his mouth when he yawned, which shocked me after all these years of telling him it’s the polite thing to do. I swear I think it was the first time he ever did it on his own.
But at this meeting he accomplished things that were so much more important than being polite. He spoke up and discussed his needs. He told us which subjects he needed to take at the lower level, and which he didn’t. He mentioned his experience with bullying. He advocated for himself. And I am sitting here in tears as I write this, because the boy who, at the age of five, could not tell a doctor his own name is now advocating for himself. He really is. And I sense that this is only the beginning. It’s like he’s trying to tell me, Mom, I got this. I know it’s not time for me to step back yet. No, there is still much more work for me to do. But it’s time for me to let him step up. He’s part of the team. Yes, he is.