Like every other morning, I dropped my son, Max, off at school today. The routine is well established: you enter from the north, circle around to the back entrance, and school staff greet you at your car with cheerful farewells—“Bye, have an amazing day! Love you!”—before you drive out the west exit. The whole process takes just a few minutes.
However, today was different. I found myself behind a sleek German car (because autism knows no boundaries) and noticed a dad leaning into the backseat. After several minutes, it became clear that the child inside wasn’t going anywhere soon. A male teacher came outside to assist, and together, they managed to coax the visibly resistant student out of the vehicle and toward the school entrance. This was a big kid; while he couldn’t have been older than ten, he was the size of an adult.
About halfway to the doors, the student suddenly bolted. The teacher struggled to maintain his hold, and they both tumbled to the ground. Another male staff member rushed out, and together they helped the child to his feet and continued inside. It was evident that these teachers were seasoned professionals; they remained calm and took it all in stride—just another day in the life of a school that understands autism. To an external observer, this was a textbook example of how to handle a child with ASD.
But I wasn’t an external observer. I sat in my car with my eight-year-old son and felt like I was witnessing a glimpse into our future. If that child hadn’t been in a supportive environment where autism is understood, he might have been perceived as a threat. People would have been frightened.
This scenario embodies the constant anxiety that weighs on me daily. My son Max is indeed making progress—his eye contact, conversation skills, and short-term memory are improving. Those are wonderful milestones.
Yet, we still struggle with his emotional regulation. The harsh reality is that my sweet, loving, and enthusiastic child, who is quick to offer a hug when someone is feeling down, also has moments where he hits, kicks, swears, and fights like a whirlwind when he’s upset. I’m not referring to playful antics; this is serious.
Currently, when he has these episodes, I can simply lift him up and place him somewhere safe until he calms down. But soon, that won’t be an option. I need to connect with my child, find effective strategies, or at least temporary solutions for his anxiety—and I need to do it fast. The clock is ticking, and I feel like I’m falling behind.
The dad eventually returned to his car and glanced back at the line of parents dropping off their kids. I waved. I’m not sure if he noticed, and it doesn’t matter because I waved for myself, not him. “It’s okay. We understand. In this line, we really get it.” I waved to convey that I wasn’t afraid of his son.
Because if this becomes our reality in a year or two, I’ll truly need someone to wave back at me. If you’re navigating similar challenges, you might find comfort in reading more about it in this other blog post.
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In summary, we all face our unique battles, especially when it comes to parenting children with special needs. It’s essential to find understanding and support from those who truly know what it’s like. So, let’s keep waving at each other in solidarity.
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