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My child can be “that child.” You know the one—the kid your child has stories about after school. Today, that child climbed onto a table, dashed through the halls, and shouted at the teacher. Today, that child ran outside without permission in an attempt to leave school. Today, it took two teachers to restrain that child from wreaking havoc in the classroom. Today, that child used inappropriate language… a lot of it.
While you’re hearing about that child from your own kid, I want you to understand what I’m dealing with.
I’m sitting with my child as they express their feelings of hopelessness. I’m holding them close at home, ensuring they don’t harm themselves while their younger sibling is taken away to another room to shield them from the fear. I’m desperately reaching out to every therapist within a 50-mile radius because that child has lost yet another one. I’m preparing to check my child into a psychiatric facility for the fourth time in their short decade of life. I’m comforting their younger siblings as they say goodbye to their sibling once more, not knowing when they’ll be together again.
At work, I’m hastily gathering my belongings, shouting to my coworkers that I need to leave as I rush out the door. I’m in a job that hardly pays enough and leaves me feeling unfulfilled, all for the flexibility to leave when necessary. I’m driving 20 minutes to the school, my mind racing with questions: Will they be safe? Will the police be involved? Is this the last straw? I often don’t even sign my child out when we leave. “Don’t worry about it,” the staff will say. “We know that child.”
Amidst trying to balance work and home, I’m juggling appointments, calling doctors for medication refills, filling out endless forms, and attending numerous meetings with personnel you may not even know exist, all in an effort to secure the support my child needs. At home, I’m attempting to get my child recognized as disabled so that we can access more assistance. When I finally receive that letter confirming their disability, I am overwhelmed with relief—because it reassures me that I am not simply a bad parent—but also with grief, not for the child I have, or for the vision of a family I once had, but for the challenges my child will encounter throughout their life.
I’m confronted by angry parents on playgrounds, frustrated that my child doesn’t behave like the others. Lately, I find myself wishing I could take my child to the park, but the fear is paralyzing, so we stay home instead.
I strive to remain composed so I can support all my kids. Unfortunately, there’s little support for parents of that child. There are no babysitters for date nights, no playdates, no one checking in, and no one I feel comfortable reaching out to.
On good days, I cherish quality moments with that child. We discuss their future aspirations, such as solving homelessness. They ask if I can pack extra lunch for a classmate who never has enough or if they can donate their old coat to a child in need. They beat me at chess, assist with home projects, and eagerly soak up knowledge, despite what their school claims about their learning capabilities. Each day I receive my 20th hug, and I can’t help but respond, “I love you too.”
Before you react to your child’s tales about that child, here’s what I need from you.
I need you to tell your child, “It sounds like that child is having a tough time. I hope they are receiving the help they need.” Teach your child to be kind and inclusive, always. I need you to be kind and inclusive too. Cheer for that child from the sidelines, even if they miss the mark, strike out, or fumble.
A reassuring smile at the park as I gather my three kids would mean the world. I don’t always catch the signs that it’s time to leave, and your understanding can make all the difference.
I need you to be an advocate for that child. Attend school board meetings, write letters, and make calls to ensure schools receive the funding necessary for support. When all kids receive the help they need, everyone benefits. I’m doing my best, but I can’t do it alone.
Please remember me. Include me in your plans, even if I often have to decline. Send me texts about your day so I can feel connected. Call just to chat, or stop by to say hello. I truly need those funny memes or uplifting stories from you… I need to laugh more than I do now. Ask how I’m doing, because after a day of being that child’s advocate and source of support, I often forget to ask for help for myself.
Know that that child is my child—the one who made me a mother and shaped who I am today. I love them unconditionally and strive to support them wholeheartedly. I need you to understand that I am not just trying; I’m giving everything I can, often exceeding what I can handle. “It takes a village,” and I need you to welcome us into yours.
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Summary:
This heartfelt note from a parent of a challenging child emphasizes the struggles and needs of families navigating such situations. It calls for understanding, support, and advocacy from others in the community. The author shares their experiences of emotional turmoil, the tireless efforts to secure help for their child, and the longing for kindness and inclusion. It serves as a reminder that every child deserves empathy and support.