Back to School: To all the mums with kids a little different from the others, who dread changes, like the transitions from school to holidays and back-to-school again, this piece is for you.
The first day back to school
I know I’m not alone feeling the dread of the first day back from school holidays, which lurks behind every door and under every smile. But it doesn’t make me feel much better about it. I’ve been anxious all day, waiting for tomorrow morning. I know it will start as soon I am roused from my sleep by the piping of their unmoderated voices, and I’ll check my phone is still safe in its latest hiding place. Then the routine begins.
Dressing
The dressing is done relatively quickly with and without thought. T-shirt askew, a button attempted and no underwear. Underwear of any sort is too itchy, tight, or scratchy. Breakfast Always with the answer, 'I don’t want breakfast’, resulting in wanting whatever the other sibling is having or a protest of whatever is put in front of them. If a choice is given, it’s too difficult to decide. Packing Lunches are made by me the night before, in the fridge and ready to be popped into school bags. Drink bottles are scrounged from the backyard from where they were left after repeated calls to ‘pick up your drink bottle’. Hats, a tad mouldy from being squished at the bottom of a damp bag are uncrumpled. Soon to be squished back in the same position, as they’ve figured out that the 'no hat no play rule', means the ability to have an IPAD, or reduces the need to interact with the pulsing playground.
Socks
I never knew that socks could feel so uncomfortable. They pinch, twist, and feel stuck between his toes. They are put on only to be thrown off in a rage. Sometimes they are bitten between frustrated teeth. They are stomped on and yelled at. Called many names. Socks are his nemesis and at 36 years of age, they incite my anxiety as much as public speaking. Socks. Devils in disguise.
Shoes
Shoes are socks' evil cousin. After the socks have been shamed into submission, along come shoes. They are bumpy and push on toes. The socks start up again, tickly and scratching. Shoes are thrown, socks are thrown – sometimes scissors are retrieved from draws to cut them. Scissors have now been hidden. If were tracking well for the time, we aren’t now. The bell will ring soon and if we are late, it will all be a little worse. The car If we make it to the car with shoes, it’s time to get the bags in. The bags need to be under the feet of the subsequent child, or I will be told that it’s not right at 100 decibels. The school ride 500 questions in 5 minutes. From dinosaurs to death, biology, and bikes. I am exhausted. Concentrate, I tell myself. Watch that intersection. The speed limit is 40… watch that slouched kid on their phone, are they going to cross?
The drop-off
The two hours of coaxing, screaming, and hiding at home, which sometimes ends in hitting and sometimes biting, we manage to get parked on a side street next to the school. From there, the real fun begins. I manhandle him out of the car, it’s going to be one of those mornings. As he runs around me to open the driver's door, I use my netball skills to defend and lock the car - trying to figure out how to get the little one out, without him getting back in. I have learnt my lesson about getting her out first. If I do, I will be locked out of the car - with him in it, and she will be unsupervised close to the road. I bum block him from the door and just open her door, then quickly lock the others. He tries to charge me with his head. I get her out and lock the car. He screams in defeat, I start walking towards, the school, he refuses to come with me. It’s a busy road, so there is no choice, I pick him and hold him, like a drunk and rowdy contortionist, writhing in my arms.
A mother stands with arms crossed against the fence, I see her half-smile and know she’ll say it,
‘It gets better, Mumma’.
I place a smile in front of my grimace and coordinate my head to nod. I keep trudging, with the little one trailing behind. I hope she stays close. As I move my head to miss a flailing fist, I catch a quick side-eye from another mother, giving us a wide berth. We reach the gate. After twenty minutes he is coaxed into a room with an IPAD, and I take a deep breath and flee.
Labels, labels, labels – once significant during high school mufti-days, then scoffed at in my late 20’s, have been reappointed. They take up so much precious brain space and this time, the inflated price tag only pays for pieces of paper.
ADHD, OCD, ASD, ODD, RSD – I’ve learnt about them all, like every other prematurely greying parent trying to find the best way to support their child. Online, they’re stated in a list like the letters after your name when you get a uni degree, Mr 7: ODD, ASD, ADHD - these though are used to describe the complex and challenging process of asking for help for a child who is not quite like the others.
I find it both ironic and frustrating that the most common statement we have heard as parents is that; ‘it sounds normal, my (insert name of relative or protogyny here) does that’ or ‘all kids have meltdowns' Yet, when they really see it, the tone changes.
It’s silent, masked with other people. Covered with a smile and the best behaviour that we teach minute by minute, repetition by repetition. When grandparents catch a glimpse at the end of a family holiday, they sit in deck chairs and say, ‘three smacks with a wooden spoon’.
We suffer, often in silence as it’s hard to talk about having a hard time. A hard time that is enduring over months and years. The second most frustrating statement is ‘it gets better'.
The thing is, we’ve been hearing that for years now.
Note to anyone supporting parents that have kids with challenging behaviours, the best thing to say?
“That sounds really hard, you must be tired.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that you’re having a tough time, I’m here to listen if you want a coffee sometime.”
I know I’m not alone feeling the dread of the first day back from holidays, which lurks behind every door and under behind every smile. Thing is, he is dreading it too.
About Natalie McLeod
Is a Sydney-fled Novocostrian with a passion for her family, art and words. She lives with her two kids, husband, dog (Indy), cat (Jinx) and four chickens (Bee-gark, Bok bok, Mr Weird and Cactus).
You can generally find her at the park, on the brink, organising or writing – (generally in that order) trying to maintain a sense of equilibrium.
