A Mile in my Shoes

I watch the conversation flow. I watch the accusations fly.  I feel it in my stomach every time it’s mentioned.  Those kids…. The ones who explode. The ones who throw things. The ones who hit, kick, bite, run, and make it impossible for their peers to enjoy a normal day at school.  I listen to the blame get thrown at the bratty kids, at the parents who aren’t involved and at the schools who don’t kick them out.  

I listen. 

I read. 

I cry.

I hurt.

I stay silent.

I am a mom to one of those kids.  One of those little people who I couldn’t wait to have and show the world.  One of those babies that smiled, cooed, and laughed. A toddler that was very different from my other child.  Something I chalked up to different personalities for different kids.  A child that is less social, less flexible, more impulsive, and more afraid.  A child that will run or fight as if his life depends on it.  A child that was raised the same way as my other “normal” child.  A child that can break me with his words or his fists.

I never imagined sitting on my back steps sobbing and not knowing how to handle him when he was three years old.

I never imagined the shame of getting called to pick him up from preschool because he stomped on a kids face. All because the child was laying down where he wanted to walk.

I never imagined the stomach dropping moment of getting a call from the elementary school in kindergarten because in his attempt to get away from the vice principal he tried to jump off the second floor balcony.  Thankfully staff was able to get to him in time.

I never imagined the horror of hearing about him throwing desks, tables, punches, and kicks at staff trying to teach him.  

I never imagined the fear of waiting for the phone to ring. 

I never imagined the accusations, the whispered comments, the looks from parents and teachers.

I never imagined the absolute heartbreak of sending my nine year old to an inpatient psychiatric ward.

I never imagined this life for my beautiful baby or myself; the neverending meetings with the school, the constant appointments with therapists and doctors, the eternal fear and the constant judgement.  It is exhausting and painful in ways I can’t even begin to describe.  There is so much more story in the spaces between these words that not knowing where to start leaves me breathless.

Hear this; from the mother of  “a problem child”, “a bad apple”, “a discipline issue”, “a child that makes teacher and staff lives hell”....

Your words wound, your judgements cut, and your assumptions sting, but

I will not stop loving, advocating for, or give up on my child.  Not all of these kids have parents that are not doing their job.  I will continue to fight for my sons right to an education, I will continue to meet with staff, I will continue to fight for the accommodations he needs to succeed.

I never imagined this life, but it is the life we were given, and I’m going to run with it.