My Child Is ‘That Child’ – Here’s What I Need From You

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My child can be “that child.” You know the one—the one your kid talks about when they come home from school. Today, that child climbed a table, dashed through the hallways, and shouted at the teacher. Today, that child ran outside without asking and attempted to leave school. It took two teachers to restrain that child to prevent them from causing chaos in the classroom. Today, that child also used some inappropriate language… actually, a lot of it.

While you’re listening to your kid recount yet another tale about that child, I want you to understand what I’m dealing with.

I’m listening to that child express feelings of hopelessness. I’m at home, holding that child close to me, trying to keep them safe while their younger sibling takes the littlest one into another room to avoid fear. I’m desperately reaching out to every therapist available within a 50-mile radius because that child has lost yet another therapist. I’m checking that child into a psychiatric facility for the fourth time in their short 10 years of life. I’m comforting that child’s younger siblings as they say goodbye to their sibling again, not knowing when they will be reunited.

I’m gathering my belongings at work and shouting to my coworkers that I have to leave while racing out the door. I’m underpaid and unfulfilled in my job, but I endure it for the flexibility to be there when I need to be. I drive 20 minutes to that kid’s school, my mind racing with worries about what I will find. Will they be safe? Injured? Is this the breaking point? Are they getting expelled? When I sign out that child, the staff says, “Don’t worry about it; we know that child.”

In the midst of managing work and home life, I’m juggling therapies and appointments, calling doctors for medication refills, filling out endless forms, and attending countless meetings with unfamiliar school staff to secure the necessary support for that child. At home, I’m trying to get that child classified as disabled so we can access more resources. When I finally receive the letter confirming their disability, I feel a mix of relief—knowing I’m not just a bad parent—and grief—not for the child I have, but for the challenges they will face throughout their life.

I’ve faced angry parents at playgrounds who are upset that that child doesn’t behave like the others. Lately, I find myself wishing I could take that child to a playground, but my anxiety keeps us at home instead.

I’m doing my best to hold it together for all my children, but there’s little support for parents of “that child.” There are no babysitters for date nights, no playdates, and no one checking in on me or whom I feel comfortable reaching out to.

On good days, I cherish time spent with that child. We discuss their dreams and aspirations, like solving homelessness. They ask if they can pack extra lunch to share with a classmate who doesn’t have enough or donate their outgrown coat to someone in need. They beat me in chess, help with home repairs, and eagerly listen to their favorite book series, asking questions about everything, even when their school says they’re incapable of learning. I receive my 20th hug of the day and say, “I love you too.”

Before you react to your child’s stories about that kid, 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 are getting the help they need.” Teach your child to be kind and inclusive. I need you to be kind and inclusive, too. Cheer for that child from the sidelines, even if they miss the basket, strike out, or fumble the ball.

Offer me a reassuring smile at the park as I rush to corral three kids into the minivan. Sometimes I miss the signs that it’s time to leave; I can’t be everywhere at once. Your acknowledgment can mean more than you realize.

I need you to advocate for that child. Attend school board meetings, write letters, and make calls to ensure our schools receive the funding necessary for every child to get the support they need. When all our kids are supported, everyone thrives. I’m doing all I can, but I can’t do it alone.

Please remember me. Include me in plans, even if I often have to decline. Text me about your day so I can feel connected. Call me to hear another adult’s voice or stop by just to say hi. (Sending me funny memes or stories would be a bonus—I need more laughter!) I need you to ask how I’m doing because, after a day of helping that child and being their support, I often forget how to ask for help for myself.

Know that that child is my child—the one who made me a mom and shaped who I am today. I love that child unconditionally and support them wholeheartedly. I want you to understand 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 include us in yours.

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