Two steps forward, one step back

Yesterday afternoon was C's monthly team meeting at school. Everyone gave glowing reports. Bubble space, compassion, engagement, bright, progress, friendships, goals achieved. Beautiful words and sentiments. Next month is the annual IEP review, our first.

After school we celebrated B & C's achievements in school attendance, academic effort, and citizenship. They received new journals with fuzzy covers from their grandparents and Pokémon packs. For dinner we used the special glasses, filled with seltzer and limes, and we shared Valentine's pretzels for dessert. We read several chapters of Bob by Wendy Mass et al., and then the children listened to a sleep story from Calm.

This morning we managed to get ready for school as usual, but then things spiraled. C and B had a brief sibling spat, but C could not recover. The spat wasn't the cause of his distress, just the final straw. He unbuckled his seat belt on the way to school and launched himself over the back seat into the middle row. Fortunately our drive is approximately 3 minutes, and we were already in the parking lot at that point.

I sent my daughter on her way, watching her reach the teacher at the crosswalk, and then I turned my attention to C. We sat and emotionally, physically, and spiritually wrestled for an entire hour on the freezing asphalt. He launched his gloves, hat, and boots into space and even tried to take off his socks. He is about half my body weight, and I struggled to keep him from running away. He kicked and hit. He insisted he could not go to school because he was embarrassed and didn't want anyone to see him crying. He articulated his separation anxiety. If this were a one-off, I would have taken him home. But I have learned that giving in during these circumstances only makes it tougher to keep our hard won routine.

C moved through the typical stages. Stage 1: Frustration and anger at me, anger at his sister, and desperate pleas to let him go home. His anxiety manifests as rage on the surface during these scenarios. I tried to hold him safely, to not react, to tell him I love him and always will, to tell him I understand and am not afraid of his big feelings, that they are his super power. I reiterated that we were still going to school. Nothing worked, so I attempted consequences; losing screen-time is an utterly useless threat, but it's basically all I've got. He was not in a state of mind where he cared. I reiterated that we cannot kick or hurt ourselves or other people. He flipped me the bird....?!

Stage 1 lasted about 20 minutes, and then it was on to Stage 2, shame. He told me he was a bad boy and deserved to lose everything. He pleaded with me to let him run away. He insisted he wasn't worthy of love. I fought the shame with my words, trying not to cry but to remember the skills the BCBA, Occupational Therapist, Equine Therapist, and my own therapist taught me.

After nearly an hour, I tried to heft him into my arms while he was flailing and kicking. We eventually made it to the school lobby. By a stroke of luck, his best friend was in the hall, running a classroom errand, and came over to hug him while he was sprawled on the floor. This temporarily calmed him down, but then he resumed his struggling. The principal tried to hold his hand, but he pulled away and fell backward, hitting his lip on the old-fashioned metal heater. Miraculously, there was no apparent damage, but he started wailing in earnest.

I snuck away to cry in the car with my dog and then cry on the phone with my husband. I emailed everyone on my son's IEP team to keep them in the loop. At the very least, I wanted to use this latest episode as proof that they shouldn't take away his supports yet. I sensed from the last meeting they plan to prevaricate on his "need" for services given all his progress.

I wanted to self-flagellate, to grasp at something I could control, to sink into the sorrow, but instead I got a carwash and bought myself a mocha from Starbucks. Then I grocery shopped. Then I did something else for myself: I RSVP-ed "no" to an upcoming family brunch. That's another story for another day but was a true victory in boundary setting.

I'm home now. I should clean, get ready for C's afternoon playdate. I'm hungry, and it's tempting to deprive myself of food (more self-flagellation). I have 45 minutes until the school gets out for early release. I am committing to give myself grace by eating and reading my Victorian mystery novel. Maybe I will even shower. But I will respond to the IEP scheduling email, the dishes, and the laundry later.