This past summer was a whirlwind for me. With a son who has special needs and a birthday that falls just two days before the cut-off date, I found myself wrestling with the decision to hold him back a year. My heart raced at the thought of how the school and district would accommodate his needs, given his autism. I was anxious about his ability to navigate the classroom, make friends, and even finish his lunch before the bell rang. I was especially worried that the loud fire drill alarms would be overwhelming for his sensory sensitivities.
By the time the first day of school arrived, I was so stressed that I didn’t have the luxury of feeling nostalgic or emotional walking him into his new school. We had spent days before the start getting familiar with the building, hoping to ease his transition. On the big day, everything felt mechanical as though I was just checking off a list. My friends were sharing tearful posts about drop-offs, but I was too preoccupied to feel anything other than the rush of morning logistics.
We had recently moved to a house practically in the shadow of his elementary school, and while I could see the swings from my kitchen window, the kindergarten playground was a bit out of sight. I figured that was a good thing—if I couldn’t see him, maybe I was doing okay with this whole “letting go” thing.
But just a few days in, I had my moment. On a gorgeous day, I had my windows wide open and heard the principal’s voice booming outside. He was reminding the kids to keep their hands to themselves while they lined up. My heart sank as I realized it was the first fire drill. My son struggles with loud noises, and the thought of him enduring that alarm sent me into a tailspin. I wanted to hop the fence, scoop him up, and reassure him that everything would be alright.
I didn’t lose track of time that day, thank goodness. Expecting him to be a wreck, I was surprised to see him bouncing with energy when I picked him up. He told me all about the friends he had made and the fun activities he had done. Then, I asked him about the fire drill, expecting a mention of it. Instead, he informed me it was a “lockdown drill, not a fire drill.” My heart plummeted.
“Did it scare you?” I asked, bracing myself for the worst.
“No, Mommy. It’s just pretend,” he said, trying to soothe my nerves, just as I had tried to do for him.
Once home, he giggled about how he and his friends attempted to fit into a closet during the drill. “I was too big!” he exclaimed, tossing his backpack aside and racing off to play with his Paw Patrol toys.
For a moment, I stood there, grappling with what he had just said. I felt the breath leave me as chilling images flooded my mind—what if he couldn’t find a place to hide from a real threat? My heart ached for my sweet boy, who should be free from such fears. Even though his school is just behind our house, it felt worlds away in that moment. I had spent the summer planning and worrying about his safety, yet here I was, completely blindsided by the reality of lockdown drills.
I know his teacher guided him through the drill and that the school has various safety protocols in place. However, in the chaos of preparing for everything, I had completely overlooked the fact that schools can now be targets for violence. The notion that my innocent little boy has to prepare for such situations is a gut-wrenching reality check.
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In summary, the transition to school was overwhelming, especially with lockdown drills looming. While my son bounced back with the resilience only a child can muster, I was left grappling with the stark reality of keeping him safe in a world that feels increasingly unpredictable.