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“You have to keep the mask on,” I say calmly to my 11-year-old son, Brady.

My heart is heavy, my eyes water slightly, and my mind shouts:

How can anyone think this is going to work for Brady?  How is this fair to any of the children with special needs?

So many of these kids require hands-on help and emotional support, and it is most effective when given in person.

To the universe, I want to yell out: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  Please.  Not this.  He’s worked so hard to get to where he is now. 

From a kindergartener, in an ‘emotional disabilities’ labelled classroom —to a second grader in an enhanced autism classroom –to a third grader in a mainstreamed classroom, Brady has made incredible progress in advancing into more typical school environments.  But his progression only happened because of the early childhood interventions and special educators who saw his potential and rallied behind my mission of helping him achieve more, believing he could do more with the appropriate amount of support along the way.

ABA therapy and other critical interventions helped Brady learn some of the skills necessary for growth socially, emotionally, and academically.  Truly though, it was being in the right classroom environment that motivated him to try harder, and to even make a few friends.

But now.

Here we are.  Obviously not by choice.  No one wants to be here, in this new don’t-get-close-to-me alternate reality.

Now, we have to wear masks, stay 6 feet apart, and stare at our computer screen to interact with our teachers and peers.  Someone please wake us up from this yucky reality, a reality which doesn’t ‘fit’ a kid like Brady.

My Brady has sensory processing disorder, along with ADHD, and the complexity of autism.  Even though he has sensory intolerances, he (like everyone else) must wear a mask to school.  For the first month of school, he would say things like:

“I can’t breathe with this on.”  (Anything on his face feels very restrictive.)

“I can’t see how others feel about me.” (He relies on facial expressions to figure out other’s emotions.)

As one might conclude, the mask increased his anxiety and caused daily emotional breakdowns.

However, for many reasons, Brady must be in a schoolroom, even though ‘in-person’ school is not in session.

So, Brady is physically in school and the building is the same, but all the rules have changed.  He is in a classroom with three other children, whose parents have also paid for them to be here, in front of a computer attending their virtual classrooms.  They sit in opposite corners of the room with masks covering the lower half of their faces.  There are 2-3 support staff who help the children when their computer suddenly lags, or they accidentally exit a live teaching session.  The staff do their best to support each child’s emotional needs, and to assist with computer problems.

The children are expected to sit and stare at their computers for most of the day.  Lunch is held inside the room, but kids are not allowed to move any closer so they can converse more freely.  These children do not go to the school library, or cafeteria, or music room, or art room.  Everything is done inside their respective corners of the room.

Is it PE time?

Click on the link for the virtual PE class, stand up at your desk and do the exercises in the space beside your desk.  Other children in the room will not have PE when you do because all have different schedules.  So, do your exercises by yourself and remember to keep your mask on.

Keep that mask on at all times.  COVID spreads easily.

When I pick him up at the end of the school day, his mask looks wet.  We are outside now, so I take it off and notice his chapped, red lips and chin.

“Let’s change out your mask a few times during the day.  Okay, Brady?  I don’t want you wearing the same mask all day; it gets dirty,” I say carefully because it isn’t his fault that he has sensory issues – that he explores the mask with his tongue.

“It’s not comfortable,” he tells me.

“Grammie’s making new masks with more breathing room.  You’ll like the patterns and colors.  She uses comfortable fabric,” I assure him.

What I really want to say is:

“I hate that you have to wear a mask for so many hours.  It grieves me deeply that this is our new existence.”

Daily, I put multiple masks, of various fabrics, in the pockets of his backpack.

When I see masks that are cut or chewed from the inside, I don’t say a single word to him.  Not one harsh word.

Because I know why.  He is doing his best to cope in a world of new restrictions, new rules.

“Mom, my mask was itchy, so I ripped it off and they made me wear this one,” he says with teary eyes.

“Ok, so we won’t wear that kind of mask anymore,” I wearily reply.

“They make me twist it behind my ears, Mom.  They say it isn’t tight enough,” my beautiful boy explains.

We keep working to find solutions, while I keep my own personal grievances quiet.

But… you know what?  This child of mine is adapting.  Understandably, it has taken him time and a lot of support and patience emanating from the wonderful staff at the school and on the screen.

Happily, he doesn’t walk out of the school teary-eyed anymore because of the COVID rules.

Others have adapted to Brady’s needs as well, doing what they can, despite the circumstances.

The support staff inside his classroom makes sure he has frequent movement breaks outside.

He might walk the super quiet halls of his elementary school with Ms. Diane* for ten minutes.  He might go outside with Mr. Jason* to look for something very elusive in the surrounding green fields.

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“Mom, Mr. Jason and I are searching for a four-leaf clover,” Brady tells me one day after school.

Something rare.  Something that brings good luck.

And then one afternoon weeks later, when I arrive to pick Brady up, he is beaming.  He holds a white laminated index card and says excitedly: “I found one!  Mom, I found a four-leaf!  Mr. Jason protected it for me.”

The staff is just as delighted as Brady.  It’s as though they witnessed hope.

Brady’s laminated index card, displaying his four-leaf clover, remains propped up on the dresser today. It reminds him that treasures are especially cherished when life seems to be upside down.

A week later, Brady is thrilled to let me know that Mr. Jason found his own four-leaf clover and has laminated it as well.

Positive connections, no matter what the circumstances, are not beyond possibility.

One more truth, among many, discovered by Brady Vaughn in his search for good things lurking right beneath one’s feet.