Sometimes the path to school is complicated

In the village where we live, the primary school sits at the top of a hill. Alongside the main footpath runs an unofficial walkway, worn by small feet over many years. It marks out a more adventurous route along the top of a muddy bank, passing through bushes and behind a large oak tree. My friend, now a mum of a child at the school, says she remembers following the same path herself a couple of decades ago.

We moved into the village three years ago, with two young children. When my daughter made the move up the hill from pre-school to primary school, she joined the train of children balancing along the muddy bank, and once my son was a confident walker, he followed. The path to and from school became a familiar route for him and he quickly learnt the ways of the older children, navigating the path and stopping to swing on low hanging branches.

However, when the time came this month for my son’s cohort at pre-school to start at the primary school, he wasn’t there. Whilst the other children made their way up the hill, shiny in brand new uniform, proudly clutching their book bags, my son was at home in his pyjamas. He is autistic.

My son is one of the many children who currently don’t fit. An early application for an EHCP was turned down, concluding that his needs can be met in a mainstream classroom.

Our local school disagrees. He was given a place, but when it came to planning his transition, we were advised that they couldn’t make it work.

Exclusion is painful. My daughter cried when she heard that her brother wouldn’t be going to her school. “I’ll look after him,” she said. I cried too. I donated the uniform I had ready, watched what would have been his class prepare to start without him, removed myself from the class WhatsApp group. He won’t be walking the muddy bank in his uniform. Instead, he will be getting in the car and travelling elsewhere.

Fortunately my son doesn’t seem to feel his exclusion in the way those around him do. He doesn’t object to having lazy days at home while his sister heads off to school. However, he is also confused and unsettled, which is not surprising given the changing arrangements. At pre-school, staff worked to prepare him for the move to school; photo boards were created, showing where the children were heading. His had to be hastily removed, leaving him absent from the line-up of leavers.

In situations such as this, it is easy for the finger to be pointed at schools. Our case could have been managed better by our local school, but I don’t think that the problem lies with them. As with many small schools, pupil numbers are currently low and funding is tight. With very limited staffing and no money to recruit teaching assistants, accommodating children who need support is challenging. In most of these cases, the system is at fault, not the school. Adjustments can be made, but those adjustments tend to cost money.

We are fortunate – he does now have a place in another local school. I know others face waiting for much longer. He isn’t attending yet, but hopefully will be before long. We are happy with his new school place, and hopeful that things will work out, but we also know that this is unlikely to be the only bump in the road for him.

Somehow the system needs to think differently. My son does need support – his speech and language is delayed and he likes to be on his own agenda. He will need help to learn expectations and routines. But he is also a 4-year old who loves numbers and books. He is fascinated by the solar system and the natural world. He is curious, affectionate and funny; he wants to learn. He deserves to fit somewhere.