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My child can be “that child.” You know the one—the kid your child talks about after school. Today, that child climbed onto a table, sprinted through the hallways, and shouted at the teacher. Today, that child dashed outside without permission, attempting to leave the school grounds. Today, it took two teachers to restrain that child to prevent further chaos in the classroom. Today, that child uttered a few inappropriate words… actually, a lot of inappropriate words.
As you listen to your child recount yet another tale about that child, I want you to understand what I’m experiencing with mine. I’m listening to my child express feelings of hopelessness. I’m at home, cradling my child in my lap, trying to keep them safe while their younger sibling plays in another room to avoid fear. I’m desperately reaching out to every therapist within a 50-mile radius because yet another one has left the practice. I’m admitting my child to a psychiatric facility for the fourth time in a mere decade of life. I’m comforting my child’s younger siblings as they say goodbye to one of their own, uncertain of when they will see each other again.
I’m gathering my belongings at work, shouting to my colleagues that I have to leave as I rush out the door. I’m working a job where I feel underappreciated and unfulfilled solely for the flexibility to leave when necessary. I’m driving 20 minutes to my child’s school, my mind racing with anxiety about what I’ll find this time. Will my child be inside or outside? Safe or hurt? Will the police be involved? Have we reached a breaking point? Are they getting expelled? I don’t even sign my child out when we leave. “No worries,” they say. “We’re familiar with that child.”
In the midst of juggling work and home life, I’m shuttling between therapy sessions and appointments, calling doctors for medication refills, completing endless paperwork, and communicating with the school daily while sitting through countless meetings with staff I didn’t even know existed, all to secure the support my child needs. At home, I’m working to get my child recognized as disabled to access further assistance, and when I finally receive the letter confirming their disability, I feel a mix of relief—because it means I’m not just a bad parent—and grief—not for the child I have, nor for the family I envisioned, but for the challenges my child will confront throughout their life.
I face hostility from other parents at playgrounds who are frustrated that my child doesn’t behave like the others. Recently, I find myself at home wishing I could take my child to a playground, but anxiety holds me back, leading us to stay indoors.
I strive to maintain my composure for all of my children. Unfortunately, there’s a lack of support when you have 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 my child. We discuss their dreams for the future and how they want to help those in need. They ask if I can pack extra food for a classmate who struggles with hunger or if they can donate their old coat to a child in need. They beat me at chess, assist with home improvement tasks, immerse themselves in their favorite book series, and ask countless questions, eager to learn, even when school says they aren’t capable. I receive my 20th hug of the day, and I respond with “I love you too.”
Before you decide how to respond to your child’s stories about that child, I want you to know what I need from you.
I need you to tell your child, “It sounds like that child is going through a tough time. I hope they’re getting the help they require.” I need you to teach your child about kindness and inclusion, always. I need you to be kind and inclusive as well. I need you to cheer for that child, even when they miss the mark or stumble.
I need you to offer me a reassuring smile at the park as I rush to gather my three kids into the minivan. Even though I’m aware of the signs, I don’t always catch them. I’m only one person and can’t be everywhere. Often, I feel like I’m falling short, but your recognition and support can make a world of difference.
I need you to advocate for that child. I need you to attend school board meetings, write letters, and call legislators until our schools receive the funding necessary for that child to get the support they deserve. Because when all of our children receive the help they need, everyone benefits. I’m trying, but there are so many challenges, and just one of me.
I need you to remember me. I need you to include me in plans, even if I often have to decline. I need you to text me to share a piece of your day so I can feel connected again. I need you to call me just to hear another adult’s voice or stop by to say hello. (Please, send me funny memes or stories from your day—I need to laugh more than I currently do.) I need you to ask how I’m doing because, after a day of seeking help for that child and then being their support, I often forget how to ask for help for myself.
I need you to understand that that child is my child. The child who transformed me into a mother and shaped who I am today—a child I love unconditionally and support wholeheartedly. I want you to know that I’m not just trying; I’m doing everything I can, often more than I can manage. As the saying goes, “It takes a village,” and I need you to welcome us into yours.
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In summary, parenting a child who faces unique challenges requires immense strength and support from the community. Understanding and kindness from others can make a significant difference in the lives of both the child and their family. Let’s work together to create a more inclusive and supportive environment for everyone.
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