It’s 30 minutes until the end of the school day at my school and the phone rings in my classroom. The ring that tells me it’s a transfer from an outside line. Sighing, I step toward the phone, wondering what bad news awaits me. Calls that make it into my room during teaching time are never good news.
“Hello? This is Mrs. C—–,” I answer calmly, as if I weren’t anticipating bad news.
|Bruised and scraped up head|
Of course, it was Squeaker’s teacher. He’s not having a good day. He didn’t have a good day yesterday, either. In fact, his meltdowns are so bad, she has moved two mats from the gym into her room and has to hold him to keep him from intentionally aiming his head toward the floor. Even holding him, she wasn’t able to keep him from biting the hell out of his arms or scratching himself on the neck.
PS: Why must his nails grow so fast??
There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason for the meltdowns. She tried to find a pattern, but it’s like he’s just getting upset for no reason. At breakfast, he dumped out his milk, he cleaned it up, and had a meltdown. At lunch, he dumped out his milk, cleaned it up, and had a meltdown. At snack…same pattern. She said she knew lunch was going to be hard because he took off his headphones and said, “I’m not wearing these.”
|More bite wounds|
I can say that I knew it was coming, though. The night before this round started, he was extremely hyper and had trouble getting to sleep. When I brought him to school the next day, I warned his teacher that it was going to be a bad day. She wound up calling because they were afraid he was going to make himself bleed from pounding his head on concrete.
Today, it was the same thing. Last night, he had a hard time getting to sleep. He was too wound up. Then, I get a phone call and I hear him screaming in the background. That terrible, wailing scream. And she had stepped out of the room to call me. A lump forms in my throat as I picture him in full meltdown mode, thrashing and biting himself. She didn’t think it would be a good idea for the student I had picking him up to get him today considering the enormity of his meltdowns. I was in complete agreement, so I had to leave work early to go and get him.
|And even more bite wounds|
When I get there, he’s calmed down and sitting on the mat. Both of his shoes are off. The shoes are the first thing to go when he’s mad. I can tell from the location of the shoes where it all started. The table. He crawls onto my lap and making whimpering noises while his teacher tells me about his day. She makes sure I know it wasn’t all bad. He did some writing this morning and is learning to put pressure on the pencil to write. His day has been a rollercoaster. I can tell he’s exhausted from all the energy he’s put out during the day’s fits.
This evening, he’s already thrown fits over the baby falling down, the remote not working, and a pair of glasses.
And, I swear, I have a blog entry in draft form right now where I was going to talk about the good week we had just had. I just never got the opportunity to finish it before it all turned around again.
Next week, he has an appointment at a medical pharmacy to get fitted for a helmet. It will take time to get it ordered and approved and paid for, but it has to be done. Unlike most kids, he won’t stop when it hurts. There is a good chance he will give himself a concussion. He frequently makes himself bleed and that never stops him.
Anyway, here we are. He’s in “real” school now, in a self-contained classroom, and it’s a struggle. And, I swear, the next person that tells me it’ll get better is risking getting punched in the face. You’ve been warned.
Because I just don’t know how I can have more moments like this:
And it really freaking hurts.