This past summer was filled with anxiety for me. I have a son with special needs who has a late birthday, just two days before the cutoff date. I found myself debating whether to hold him back a year. As a child on the autism spectrum, I was concerned about whether the school and local authorities would meet his unique needs. I worried about how he would adapt in class, make friends, and even have enough time to finish his lunch. The thought of the loud alarms during fire drills raised concerns about how they might overwhelm his sensory sensitivities.
As the first day of school approached, I felt a mix of stress and numbness, preventing me from feeling the emotional weight many parents experience. Friends shared tearful stories of their drop-offs, but I was too preoccupied with logistics to let myself feel nostalgic. My mind was consumed with ensuring he had a smooth transition.
Our new home is conveniently located right behind his elementary school. While I can see the main playground from my kitchen window, the kindergarten area is out of sight. I took this as a positive sign of my ability to cope with the transition. However, a few days into the school year, I finally broke down.
On a beautiful day, I heard the principal’s voice booming outside. He has a calm demeanor but can project authority when needed. I looked out to see a line of students, as he reminded them to keep their hands to themselves. It was the first fire drill, and my heart raced. Loud noises have always been a challenge for my son, and I felt a strong urge to jump the fence and find him, to reassure him that he was safe.
I was determined not to be late for pickup that day. Expecting him to be stressed from the day, I was shocked to see his usual bubbly self. He eagerly recounted stories about new friends and fun activities. When I finally asked about the fire drill, he casually informed me that it was actually a “lockdown drill.” My heart sank.
“Did it scare you?” I asked, my voice laced with concern.
“No, Mommy. It’s just pretend,” he replied, as if trying to soothe my worries, just as I had done for him.
Once home, he began laughing about how he couldn’t fit in a closet with his friends during the drill. My heart ached again. As I processed his words, I felt a wave of fear flood over me. What if he couldn’t hide from an active shooter? The thought was unbearable.
Even though his school is just behind our house, in that moment, it felt incredibly distant. I had spent the entire summer focused on keeping him safe, only to realize that I can’t shield him from everything. The unsettling truth hit me hard: I was placing his safety entirely in the hands of the school. I am usually resilient, but this realization left me feeling profoundly vulnerable.
I know his teacher guided him to a safe hiding place, and I trust that the school has established security procedures in place. But amidst all my planning and worrying, I had completely overlooked the reality of lockdown drills. It was a harsh reminder that schools have become potential targets for violence, and my sweet, innocent boy has to navigate this frightening new reality.
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Summary:
This article shares the emotional journey of a mother whose son with special needs starts school, highlighting her worries about his transition, the challenges of lockdown drills, and the fear of not being able to protect him from dangers such as violence in schools. Despite her initial numbness, she confronts the harsh realities of parenting in today’s world.