We’re on day nine of a return to school, after eighteen months at home and I haven’t really had a chance to process what that means.
EIGHTEEN MONTHS.
AT HOME.
TOGETHER.
SCHOOL.
WORK.
FAMILY SPACE.
MEETING SPACE.
PLAY SPACE.
All rolled into one.
This return to some sense of the before, is anything but. Three in three different schools this year! While I originally thought that by the time kid three was starting kindergarten, kid one would be getting herself to and from highschool on her own, the pandemic has changed everything. Mornings now involve a twenty-three minute round trip to drop off C, park the car, and call out to A and H to start walking the five minute walk to the kindergarten gate of our junior school with me – my eleventh year parenting a child in attendance there. H and I say our goodbyes to the littlest of our household, confirm our covid check with his teacher, and continue on to the final stop. With twenty minutes until the bell rings for my sixth grader, we need the full time allotment. Each step is heavy, with a physical reluctance that can’t be encouraged. We approach the main road and put on our walking masks. Not the school day N95 masks that we’ve invested in for the six hours of daily close contact that our kids are breathing in, for the first time since this whole global mess began, (because that would be saturated with the sweat of quickened breath from walking faster than he’d like), but rather, the cloth ones we have for just this purpose: the medium risk zone.
I try to prompt conversation, in vain, as I know my presence alone is sufficient for this walk. His head is already swirling with the concerns and busy thoughts of the day ahead, buzzing with the most miniscule of details unimaginable to most of us. Little glimmers break through the fog, and the invisible weighted cloak he wears seems to lighten every so often, when he thinks of something Pokemon, or video game, related to share with me – the current obsessions. He asks about the after school routine again, even though we’ve gone over it several times. Block after block we walk, responding to sidewalk obstacles, fellow pedestrians and traffic signals alike. As my footsteps off the curb about to cross a small sidestreet, the car paused to make a right in front of me seems to second guess it’s driver’s decision, and H’s head nods towards it:
“Mummy.”
I smile, comforted that he does seem to be aware of these potential threats and could be okay to walk this route alone.
“Thanks honey, I saw it. It’s important when you cross an intersection that you make eye contact with the driver of any cars that may come across your path to make sure you’re in agreement about who has the right of way,” I narrate for reinforcement.
“No, I meant the bumper – did you see how smashed up it was?” He dismisses my comment.
Oh, it was a detail that caught his eye, not a concern for our safety. Sigh. We arrive at the school yard and I can hear his breath catch as he braces himself to traverse the crowded asphalt, weaving between students, teachers and parents alike, each speaking in competing volumes that merge into one resonating pulse of chaotic excitement. The bell rings and groups collect to form order from the crowd. We pause, I hand him his new school-day mask, as he gives me back his now damp one. I pass him the covid check passport that I signed at home, and he heads over to the others awaiting their check in, each with their own arms extended, also holding passports. He returns to me to give me his sheet and allows a hug, says more with his eyes than his words, before they quickly dart to the ground.
“I love you. I hope your day goes well. Remember to drink water and sanitize before eating!” I remind him.
He nods and mutters a hesitant “bye,” before joining the sloppy grouping of classmates, .
I watch the last of them gather behind him as they start their walk into the school, his shoulders lifting just a little at the sight of the few friendly faces that have followed him over to this new school from his last (even though he hasn’t seen them in over a year and a half and they wouldn’t have previously identified as each other’s “friends”).
I pause, smiling:
Glad for the chance to be alone.
Glad for the chance for them to have this time to grow socially.
Glad that he has some good people around him.
Relieved that our routine is fresh, albeit strained.
I turn and head home – at double the pace on the return trip. If I hurry I might get my workout, shower and one task complete before lunchtime pick-up of the little guy.
I pass other parents completing their own school routines, each heading in a different direction, each with a different day ahead. The words of the paediatric specialist echo in my head as they have over and over again, and I feel emotions wash over me.
“I can confidently diagnose Autism Spectrum Disorder. He exceeds the requirements of each category,” she had stated.
I’m instantly brought back to last week, perched on the edge of my seat, propped awkwardly, and somewhat behind my son, as it’s zip-tied to my husband’s chair – their attempt to keep covid distancing protocols in place for the regular appointments of one patient, and one caregiver. This appointment was different though – it was a consult we had waited on for almost seven months.
From a psychiatrist that had taken over four months to diagnose and make such a referral.
After the assessment the psychologist had taken six months to assemble.
After the four month delay because of the novel coronavirus that had taken our region by surprise.
After the nine month wait, because she came highly recommended, and the combined conclusive evidence our family physician required to push for the paediatric referral.
After the years of out of pocket expenses, services, unanswered questions and silenced cries.
I shifted from side to side, alleviating the sweat forming beneath my jumpsuit. She was going to pass us on to someone else, just like everyone else had done. She was going to say things were inconclusive. I steadied my breath, found my jaw had clenched, my teeth grinding together in preparation for the blow. H sort of half sat, half laid down across his chair, slumped forward, his head in his arms, unable to endure another minute of talking about him, of him sitting and not doing anything.
“When are we leaving?” he mouthed to me with distress.
“Soon,” I whispered back, rubbing his back.
Just be done with it. I thought to myself. Let us get out of here.
“I can confidently diagnose Autism Spectrum Disorder. He exceeds the requirements of each category,” the doctor said with confidence, looking straight into my now watering eyes.
Her gaze reaches over to my husband’s and I fight back the tears that are now welling up, threatening to come cascading down my cheeks. I hold them back for fear my sweet boy misinterprets them as some sort of disappointment of the blue paint that he has just had applied to his identity.
No, I can’t let him even have a moment of doubt that I am anything but elated to hear those words.
My heart races faster and my cheeks flush at her assurances that she hears us, sees us, understands our boy. Could it be true? How has everyone else missed this? I demand to know, certain she will reveal the ruse.
“Your relentless efforts to have resources in place, and constant determination to understand your son, has allowed him to make the connections that weren’t there, and provide him with the scaffolding to use his intelligence to meet his challenges. His learned resilience has masked the internal efforts at play,” she offers.
I nod along with her words.
YES, true comprehension of our eleven years of work.
Victorious!
Truly! Later that day my dear friend would accidentally communicate how vindicated I must feel, immediately correcting herself to the term “validated.”However validated I really do feel in the moment, I do, in fact, feel vindicated. I’ve struggled this past week, to put into words this emotion that continually bubbles up, sending tremors throughout my body. I have made a concerted effort to suppress the anger and resentment that vie to lead the way. In speaking with my new therapist only the day after our appointment, I could hear the surprise in her voice that my overall emotion wasn’t validation . . . it was a huge Fuck You to every person that had stood in our way. Every person that has questioned a diagnosis, questioned my intuition, questioned our strategies to help our son self-regulate and become more independent. I breathe in through my nose for five seconds, hold for five, breathe out for five, hold for five. Repeat. My rational brain at odds with my emotional brain. I feel they’ve called a draw and I have since settled comfortably on feeling vindicated. I however, caution anyone who challenges me on this!
To every teacher or school professional that was ever doubtful of our concerns and was shocked or surprised by the behavioural challenges, after school restraint collapse, and rage of dysregulation we navigated once outside of academia.
I feel vindicated.
To every friend who scoffed at my insistence that if he asked me to stay behind at the party, it’s because he needs me to. To each that rolled their eyes as I stepped in to break up a disagreement, assuring me that they “would figure it out on their own,” despite me knowing they wouldn’t – they couldn’t – because my son couldn’t see the situation the same as their kids.
I feel vindicated.
To every family member who became frustrated at the rigid rules we placed about not being able to attend crowded, noisy venues, or keep our kid at the table for the two hours their children all seemed to be able to sit still.
I feel vindicated.
To the school administration that assured me he was “just shy,” and “will be fine” when he sobbed and needed to be ripped from my arms, limbs thrashing, his eyes pleading desperately for me to join him or for rescue, on the 814th day in a row.
I feel vindicated.
To each acquaintance who asked what I do all day at home.
I feel vindicated.
To each person who rolled their eyes and silently judged our parenting when our kid needed to sit quietly in a corner on a device because he couldn’t handle a social situation. Or pressed their insistence that he greet each relative with a hug or kiss and felt him rude to refuse, and us negligent to support that decision.
I feel vindicated.
To each school staff that thought it was just courage he was looking for when he wouldn’t enter the lunch room because his class was ALREADY inside, or go up to collect his subway lunch and have everyone watch him, so stood crying outside the door – wanting to be inside but physically unable to take the steps.
To everyone who’s ever made some slight about our tardiness somewhere, or our sudden inability to attend, or thought we were being too strict about parameters within which he could participate.
I feel vindicated.
To the private therapists, psychologists, counsellors, support workers, medical professionals, and special education workers that found him complex and interesting, bright and passionate, but just couldn’t put their finger on a diagnosis or approach that would best benefit him.
I suppose what I feel is RELIEF!
Is this the answer to all our difficulties? No.
Is this the end of our journey? Not in the slightest.
Does this allow us to remove the blindfolds and untether our arms from behind our backs and actually move forward, with intention?