As my son, Ethan, approaches his fifth birthday, I can’t help but marvel at his intelligence. He can read numerous words and tackle simple books, knows basic multiplication, and even spells his name with pride. Under normal circumstances, I would think he’s more than prepared for kindergarten.
However, there’s a crucial aspect to consider: Ethan is autistic. While he doesn’t need extensive support, he has his own unique quirks. He prefers exploration over sitting still and loves to chat, but his speech may not align with what you’d expect from a typical almost-five-year-old. Despite his enthusiasm for learning, writing holds no interest for him.
Ethan attended a small private preschool last year, and we cherished that experience. Knowing he’d be starting public elementary school, I believed he would benefit from a full year of public preschool to prepare him. The smaller school didn’t prioritize kindergarten readiness, which was a significant concern for me. So, we enrolled him in our local elementary school this past fall.
By all accounts, Ethan is doing well. Other kids greet him in the drop-off line, and his teachers and therapists are fantastic and communicative. Despite this, I found myself spiraling into anxiety.
With only one school year left before he enters a typical kindergarten class, I began to worry that he wasn’t quite ready. His writing skills were lacking, and I feared his delayed speech might mean he wouldn’t be recognized for his brilliance.
I began viewing preschool as a critical year for Ethan’s development. I inundated his teachers and therapists with nervous emails about his “progress” and kindergarten readiness. All the while, I hoped they would reassure me that he was on track for the next school year. It wasn’t until just before winter break that I finally voiced my concerns.
My email must have conveyed my frantic state, as one of the therapists reached out to talk. Her reassurance made a world of difference. She encouraged me to take a step back, breathe, and consider her perspective.
I’m grateful I did. She helped me understand that preschool isn’t a race for Ethan to cram in every ounce of knowledge before kindergarten. Contrary to what my anxious heart led me to believe, preschool isn’t a long test for him to prove he can thrive in a mainstream setting. The goal of kindergarten readiness isn’t a priority for Ethan, and I needed to relax.
She also explained that the Pre-K program has limited resources compared to what he will have in elementary school. It’s perfectly fine for both him and me to take a breather and allow him to enjoy his remaining time in preschool.
At first, I felt the urge to argue and insist he needed more help. My thoughts raced: “If only he could get extra OT, maybe he’d be able to write by kindergarten. Can I send you a video of him reading? I promise, he’s capable of math, but his quietness at school might not show that! Please, don’t underestimate him! He’s so smart and capable!”
The therapist reassured me that everyone on his team recognizes his potential. Their job is to observe, understand him, and support his learning in the best ways possible. They chose their professions out of love for children and education, wanting him to succeed just as much as I do. Their professional pride lies in nurturing kids like Ethan.
In their communications, they describe him as eager, sweet, and intelligent. They share his successes and devise strategies to support his challenges. His teachers guide him, but they don’t push him because he’s only four. He has the right to learn at his own pace and enjoy preschool. He isn’t falling behind; he’s just learning differently than I initially thought.
My obsession with kindergarten readiness stemmed from viewing preschool as Ethan’s best chance to demonstrate his abilities, hoping the school system wouldn’t overlook him. As his mom, I’ve felt a pressing need to show his capabilities. I fear he may be underestimated and slip through the cracks. He deserves the world and everything in it.
I admit that I sometimes enter meetings ready to advocate fiercely. It’s tough to let my guard down and trust that others want to see Ethan succeed too. I’m still working on believing that I’m not the only one who sees and cherishes my son.
Many parents of children like mine share these feelings. When your child doesn’t fit the mold, it can be frustrating to realize that the mold itself is the standard. Why should every child be expected to reach the same milestones just because they were born around the same time? Raising a child who marches to their own rhythm highlights the need for a broader range of educational options. However, we can’t always reshape the system, so sometimes it’s necessary to help our kids thrive within it.
The worry begins early, and I know we will face numerous challenges as Ethan grows. But if you’re like me and have a young child with special needs, and you’re anxious about their readiness for kindergarten, I urge you to take a deep breath.
Re-evaluating my expectations has been the best thing I could do for Ethan, his teachers, and my own anxiety. For children with special needs, preschool is a valuable time to learn how to adapt to a classroom environment, receive necessary services, and, if needed, create an individualized education plan (IEP). It’s not a test to prove they deserve proper education.
Kids with special needs are entitled to a free and appropriate education, just like every child. Some will thrive in mainstream classrooms, while others may excel in special education settings. Regardless of what our atypical children require, they don’t need to prove their worthiness. They can enter kindergarten feeling unprepared, just like any other child, and figure it out along the way.
Ethan has an IEP for a reason, ensuring he gets the extra help he needs. The first day of kindergarten isn’t a deadline but rather an exciting new chapter filled with opportunities.
Admitting that I needed to adjust my expectations for Ethan’s preschool experience wasn’t easy, but now I feel significantly less anxious and filled with hope. Kindergarten readiness doesn’t have to consume me. He isn’t required to meet every criterion on a checklist. My intelligent, wonderful boy is entitled to an education, and as long as I’m willing to advocate for him, he will receive it. He doesn’t need to prove himself to earn that right, and it’s liberating to let go of some of my perfectionist tendencies.
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Summary
The author shares her journey of navigating kindergarten readiness for her autistic son, Ethan. Initially consumed by anxiety over his preparedness, she learns to reframe her expectations and embrace the unique journey each child takes. Through discussions with his therapists, she realizes that preschool is not a test but rather a time for Ethan to learn at his own pace. This shift in perspective alleviates her worries and allows her to advocate for him without the pressure of proving his worth.