Today It Wasn’t My Kid

My six year-old son takes the bus to and from school. He loves the bus. In the morning, he lets go of my hand, gives me a kiss and then walks on his own to the steps. I follow him, carrying his backpack. He always pauses at the bottom of the steps before climbing up. He has periventricular leukomalacia and one of the symptoms of this is having to think about every part of a movement before he can do it. Eventually these things, with practice, will become second nature and he won’t have to pause. But for now, he pauses. Then, after thinking about it, he puts his hand on the handrail, steps up the four steps and takes his seat. The nurse always buckles him in (she is there for another student, yet to be picked up in the mornings). The bus driver always greets him with love, like he is family. We chat for a minute, I wish them a good day and I wave as the bus pulls away.

We do this every day.

In the afternoon, the bus pulls up and my son usually makes excited sounds and wiggles around. He is happy to see me. Sometimes he has his shoes on and sometimes he is barefoot, having thrown off his shoes and socks. I might pick up a sock in the stairwell and then have him sit at the top of the stairs. I put his shoes and socks back on. He needs to walk to the door of the house now because he is too heavy for me to carry. I miss being able to carry him. I always get a kiss hello and a happy dance as he pulls my hand to walk back toward the house. We say goodbye to the nurse and the bus driver. I follow him up to our door and he pauses. He waits for me to open the door and, happily, he comes inside.

It is idyllic. Happy. Peaceful. It is my favorite time of the day. My husband loves it too. We are so proud of him. It’s perfect.

Except, one day it wasn’t.

I was out of town, a very unusual occurrence, helping a friend. My husband called me in a panic. Our son’s school had called. There had been an accident. Our son was still on the bus. Could my husband go get him?

My husband was frantic.  I asked him, what kind of accident? Was our son OK? My husband didn’t know. He couldn’t calm down. All he had heard was it was our son. There was an accident. Come, now.

We hung up and I waited, full of anxiety, while my husband drove to where the bus was to get him.

There had been an accident but if my husband hadn’t been so alarmed he may have heard that it was our son who had had one. Not the bus. Also, it kind of wasn’t totally an accident.

Our son had been sent to school wearing pants with a belt on and that belt was pulled as securely as possible without hurting him. The school had put him on the bus to go home with the belt buckled loosely. Not a big deal, you say? The belt is on, isn’t it? What’s the problem?

Over the summer he had begun the less than delightful activity of poop exploration. Touching it. Smearing it. Decorating with it. And more.

Apparently, he’s not the only one. When we told the school about it (and we had because soon they would be dealing with it, after summer break), they told us that lots of special needs kids did this. But they weren’t comfortable with pulling the belt so tight. They thought it might hurt our son. We had been doing it all summer with no marks, no discomfort, no nothing. They chose not to tighten it. So our son had a bowel movement on the bus. And proceeded to redecorate.

It was smeared all over him. All over the seat. On the seat belt. On the harness (special needs bus = harnesses). Shoes. Window.

They wanted my husband to meet the bus to pick up our son. The bus needed to go to the bus barn. They needed to clean it and disinfect it.

Imagine this. I am in another state, standing on top of a mountain, helping a friend. I am on the phone with my son’s school. I am looking out at the trees, standing outside of my friend’s house discussing options. Alternatives to the belt. They weren’t comfortable buckling it as firmly as it needed to be to prevent these events. They wanted another way to prevent this. And they were asking me how we were going to do it. Panic set in. I had already brainstormed before the belt. I had thought, behavior modification? Essential oils? Psychotherapy? Neurotypical kids could use sticker charts, rewards, books about using the potty. Our son had no interest or understanding of any of that. Then one day, a thought popped into my head. “Dummy, have you tried a belt?” (Yes, I said dummy to myself. I don’t usually call myself names but it seemed so obvious, how did I miss it?) Most of the time over the summer the belt had worked. Now, the school didn’t want to use it. I was at a loss. I felt isolated. I felt a little embarrassed. I felt like I was the only person in the world dealing with this problem. I wanted to cry. I was back to square one.

I was so thankful when the school came up with other options. Pajamas that zip up the back, which he could wear to school. Or overalls. Overalls! Super cute and we live in the country so he would blend right in. They were expensive at $25 a pair (You shop the sales, right? These NEVER go on sale). But we got ’em. And, so far, our son has not figured out how to get around them. He will. Of this, I have no doubt. He is really smart. Being special needs doesn’t mean he’s not smart. He is also a problem solver. If it catches his interest he will attempt every possible way he can think of to get past the overalls. Then we will have to come up with another solution. But, not yet. It is a break. A breathing point. For now, it works.

This afternoon, the bus was late by about ten minutes. It has never been late before. I walked out the door into the crisp fall day and went to meet my son. He did his happy wiggle dance and made his happy noises. His shoes happened to be on today; he hadn’t taken them off. The nurse unbuckled his harness and he stood up and came to the steps to meet me. The bus driver handed me his backpack. My son did his happy dance again at the top of the stairs. I stepped up and got my afternoon kiss. He put his hand on the handrail and paused, thinking about it. Then, with my encouragement, he walked down the steps as I envisioned all of the hours of therapy we had done in order for him to be able to do this. I’m sure my eyes were shining. I am so in love with him. As I wished the nurse and bus driver a good weekend, my usual custom, the bus driver stopped me.

“I’m sorry we were late today. We had a kind of poopy incident, ” she said.

I stopped cold and turned to face her.

“Was it my son?” I asked. My eyes felt as big as plates. My breath stopped.

“Oh, no,” she smiled. “It was another student.”

I exhaled and my smile returned. Relief coursed through me. He was wearing his overalls. They were still working. We were still one step ahead of him. For now.

“YES!!!!!!” I fist-pumped the air. The bus driver laughed. We said our goodbyes and I followed my son to our front door, the fall leaves gently coming down around us, the sun bright.

Today was a good day. Today, it wasn’t my kid.