We can’t afford private school.
Even if I figured out how to pay for it and daycare for Max and found a job that would pay me more than 9 bucks an hour, there is no way we can afford it.
Leo will be placed in an inclusion preschool (where a portion of the kids are general ed kids and the other portion are special needs, but high functioning and require peer models for success), and he will be scheduled back with ABA 25 hours a week after June 11, when the school year is over. But until then he is in a mild to moderate special ed class. A class where there are very few words- other than his, and his right now are ugly and mean and accompanied by hitting, spitting and as of today trying to push a bookshelf over.
I don’t know what to do.
We talked at length about how this move may very well set him back. I had no idea how much. It’s a fight to get him to wear clothes again. He is constantly pinching himself and walking on his toes. He is jumping and flapping so much more than he ever has. It’s a fight to get him to be consistent with sentences other than “I be by myself”, the sensory overload is the worst it’s ever been. And I can’t help him. I try to have quiet time, I try to have him talk to me, but everything is so ugly. His words and actions to me, to his teachers, to his peers, to his brother.
He is not a mean kid. He is a lover. He is a mediator. He can tame skiddish animals. I just don’t understand it. And I feel like I am at a breaking point. The only thing they are able to do at school his put him in the thinking chair, and it doesn’t work. I want my kid back. And he will come back, but a month an a half seems like a lifetime away right now.
The realization that his is going to always have issues with sensory overload and transitions hit me about a week ago. And I cried. I’m not sure how he is going to do in Junior High school where you change classes every 45 minutes, when changing stations every 10 minutes is accompanied by a huge meltdown. How holding a pencil is the end of the world. How a fire drill is the most painful thing to his ears and eyes. How do I teach him that these things are okay, that they won’t hurt him, and that they are a part of life.
Is it all going to click one day? I pray everyday that it will. Or that it won’t hurt as much, that it won’t be as hard to move from thing to thing, place to place. I pray everyday that even if he doesn’t totally understand why we do what we do he wants to try.
Sensory overload can kiss my rear end.
It’s the one thing in the world I truly hate.