This past summer was a whirlwind for me. My son, who has special needs, has a late birthday—just two days before the cutoff. I grappled with the decision of whether to hold him back a year. As a child with autism, I fretted over whether the school and county would meet his needs. I stressed about his ability to thrive in the classroom, whether he’d find friends, and if my talkative little boy would manage to eat his lunch in peace. The thought of the loud fire drill alarm causing him distress was always on my mind.
The days leading up to his first school day were so overwhelming that I felt numb when I finally walked him to his new school. We had spent a few days exploring the building together to help him acclimate. But when the moment arrived, it all felt mechanical; I hardly had time to reflect or feel nostalgic. While my friends shared tearful posts about their first drop-offs, I was too occupied to join in the emotional chaos. I was simply rushing out the door every morning and back again in the afternoon, leaving little room for worry.
We moved into a house conveniently located right behind his elementary school. From my kitchen window, I can spot the swings on the main playground. Thankfully, the kindergarten play area is out of sight unless I venture to the back of my yard, making it easier to cope with the transition of not having my son nearby all the time. I took it as a good sign that I hadn’t yet bought binoculars to check on him.
But just a few days in, reality hit hard. With my windows open on a sunny day, I could hear his principal’s commanding voice outside. He has a kind demeanor when speaking to students one-on-one, yet his authoritative tone is necessary for managing a crowd. I looked outside to see a line of children as the principal reminded them to keep their hands to themselves and pay attention to their teachers.
Then, it happened—the first fire drill. My heart sank. Loud noises have always posed a significant challenge for my son, and I felt a surge of panic. I wanted to hop the fence and rush to him, to hug him tightly and reassure him that he was safe. I silently urged him to be brave.
That day, I made sure not to be late for pickup. Expecting to find my 5-year-old drained and anxious, I was taken aback by his bubbly demeanor. When I asked about his day, he excitedly shared stories of new friends and enjoyable activities. Finally, I broached the topic of the fire drill, anticipating he would mention it on his own, but he didn’t.
When I inquired if the alarm had hurt his ears, he calmly replied, “There wasn’t an alarm. It was a lockdown drill, not a fire drill.” My heart plummeted. Did it scare him? “No, Mommy. It’s just pretend,” he reassured me, almost as if he were soothing my nerves instead of the other way around.
Once we got home, he burst into laughter about not fitting in the closet with his friends during the drill. “For the lockdown drill, Mommy. I was too big!” He tossed his backpack aside and dashed to his room, eager to play with his beloved Paw Patrol toys.
I paused, processing his words, and felt an intense wave of sorrow wash over me. Standing in my living room, tears streamed down my face as I imagined the terrifying scenario of my son struggling to find safety in an active shooter situation. My heart ached thinking of the possibility that there might not be enough room for everyone to hide.
Even though his school is just behind our house, it felt miles away in that moment. I had spent the summer trying to ensure his safety and success, only to confront the harsh reality that there are some threats I cannot shield him from. Trusting the school with his safety left me feeling a profound sense of vulnerability.
I know his teacher guided him to find a better hiding spot, and I’m aware that the school has procedures in place to protect students. But despite all my planning and worrying, I was blindsided by the reminder of lockdown drills and the fact that schools are often targets for violence. The realization that my innocent little boy now has to prepare for such grim situations was a gut-wrenching moment.
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In summary, the experience of preparing for school lockdown drills was unexpectedly overwhelming for me as a parent. The realization that my child must now navigate safety drills in a world filled with such threats is both heartbreaking and a reminder of the vulnerabilities we face as parents.