Biting My Tongue

My fingers are itching. Itching to write a response to an email. I’m refraining. It’s a Herculean task, but I’m managing.

After two days of just trying to keep my kid in the school building due to his raging anxieties about the absences of his teachers and friends, I get an email from the-special-ed-teacher-who-has-no-clue. “Up until today, he has consistently missed class since spring break due to stress,” she writes. She says she and the aide have been “unsuccessful in getting him to complete anything in class.” She ends with, “Please continue to encourage him to come to class and just do his best. I keep reassuring him he will not fail class as long as he is showing up and doing his best.”

Have you seen the funny videos where husbands and wives text each other, but you get to see the various things they’d like to text before they are deleted and something more appropriate gets sent?

Yeah.

“Damn skippy he’s not going to fail…”

“Do you even know what fight-or-flight is?…”

“That’s right – YOU’VE been unsuccessful…”

“HE HATES SCHOOL BECAUSE OF YOU…”

“Do you even have a working definition of autism in your tiny little brain?…”

Nope. Nope. Nope. Can’t send any of that.

That’s why my fingers are itching. She’s gonna be my kid’s teacher for another 3 years and 22 days.

Not gonna reply.

Heaven help me.