Last night my child called for me.

He wept for me.

Screamed for me.

Thrashed and kicked out because he wanted me.

And, for the first time ever in his life,

I did not go.

I wanted to, oh how I wanted to.

I rang the school, I emailed the school, I rang them again

They were kind, and supportive, and gentle,

But they also advised me not to come so,

I did not go.

 

They had planned it carefully,

Written a social story 

To help him understand

“Adam will move into school,

He will sleep here every night,

This is ok.”

 

No, it wasn’t ok.

He told them quite clearly that it wasn’t ok,

That he wasn’t ok.

He wanted his mummy,

And he wanted to go home.

“Taxi!” he wept. “Taxi! Home, mummy!”

But the taxi did not come,

And he did not go.

 

He couldn’t have known:

That in the car, his mummy wept,

That at home, his mummy wept,

That as she spoke to staff, his mummy wept,

That as she spoke to friends, his mummy wept,

But she did not go.

 

And as the guilt 

And the regret

And the grief

Swept over her,

Still, she did not go.

 

“It is better this way,” they told her.

“You need this,” they said.

“You are doing the right thing,” they assured her.

“There was now no other choice,” sadly they said.

 

Logically, she knows.

Her head understands

That when he was told,

He kicked the radiators

He lashed out at staff

He screamed

He punched

He tried to run

He overturned furniture

He needed multiple staff….

…for support.

 

Logically, she knows this is why he is there.

Because of the violence.

Because of his size.

Because of his need for support.

Because he cannot understand.

 

But he did not understand,

Why she did not go.

And they both wept.

 

 

 

 

Today’s Playlist:  

This the older, wiser version of later years