It's been years with a lot of learning, about myself, about others, about the world we live in. I've learned that Mondays are hard. I work primarily with preschoolers and while we have some registration forms where parents fill in their campers needs and they do a good job of listing out special support the child might need, we have a lot that go blank, for a lot of reasons.
Sometimes, parents don't know their child has needs that don't fit in the range of "average." They haven't experienced school or large group situations where they can compare and contrast their child with others. They have been with their child since birth and the fact that their child moves constantly and doesn't like lots of noises, covering their ears when the vacuum or television comes on is just normal. Kids that age do that right? Kids this age are picky eaters. That's just normal.
It isn't until comparison in a larger setting occurs that one can see the rest of the kids that age seated in a circle for story-time, while yours paces a pattern in the carpet in the corner of the room. Or that other children do eat fruits and veggies occasionally, or at least ham and cheese sandwiches, they aren't locked into pre-processed foods and only certain brands of those. They don't refuse to eat their fruit snacks when the company switches from corn syrup to cane sugar in their recipe. When parents see their child covering their ears and rocking back and forth in the middle of a group of other children who are sitting and laughing delightedly at a puppet show. It isn't until that happens that the differences become clear.
For many, preschool day camp may be their first exposure to the range of age appropriate behaviors. And for the first time their child is being talked about as "different," "special," "having some needs." I have to say that I dread these initial conversations with parents. They are hard. I pray about them, and go into them with a knotted stomach, because I remember the first time someone said that about my child. I remember the surge of emotions, I remember the denial, I remember thinking that the person talking just couldn't see the reality of my daughter, that they were the ones that didn't understand how to reach her. I remember what it felt like. I remember the time it took us to acknowledge that our eldest needed help that we could not give her. And I remember the pain, the grief, the feelings of shame that you couldn't pin down - because it wasn't her fault or ours - it just was.
Others know. They have the IEP from kindergarten. They have already been through the diagnosis stage. They are no longer unaware or in denial, but they hope that camp will be different from school. It is more active, more fun. They think that what wasn't working at school might work here because it is a different environment. They hope that they can take their child off of the ADHD meds that he hates taking, because camp will be different. They don't give us a heads up, because they have a hope that we won't need it. That this will be the environment that their child thrives in and becomes part of the "normal" crowd. And sometimes they are right. There are children that thrive here where they didn't thrive in pre-school. But for every one that thrives, there are a lot more that still struggle. There are still sit-down times, there are still rules. There are still places to be and groups to stay with. But in my gut, I understand the hope that "this time it will be different." Because you cling to that, sometimes for a long time.
Some parents are afraid of giving out the information. They are afraid that we will call them back and say their child can't come. They are afraid of rejection or labeling and how that will impact their child. They will be silent because they feel that giving the information will set their child up for failure rather than success. That wearing a tag of "autism" or "sensory processing disorder" will hurt them more than help them. And so these parents are silent, fearing the phone calls, the labeling they don't want and sometimes cannot accept. Hoping that this time nothing will happen and no one will say anything. Hoping that their child will blend in and not be the one in the group that is different.
Some parents don't understand the camp environment. They don't realize that we have water day and make slime, and have dance parties to Disney songs in the black light room. They don't realize the number of triggers here for sensory challenged children. They don't realize that we simply tell a group that if they need to use the bathroom, right now is a good time to do so. We don't track who went and who didn't, unless we know a child is struggling in that area. They think that we have enough leaders to have a 1:1 volunteer with each child that is having a rough time. And some weeks we can do that, but more often we are stretched further than that. And even when we can do it, it takes time to figure out where those 1:1 volunteers are going to be placed on a Monday when the notes are all blank.
Which means that Monday is a scramble day. There are parents to meet with at check-in. Especially those that did say something about their child's needs. Parents whom I need to get information from about triggers and stims and key words and coping mechanisms. There are the cases of separation anxiety that crop up because there are campers brand new to the program coming in alongside those who have already been here. There are velcro parents and helicopter parents and parents who are 15 minute late for work already, and cannot understand why Monday check-in is so much longer than any other day of the week. There are the walkie talkie calls as we realize that one of our undocumented children is a flight risk. . .
And we are outside. . .
And the campus pond is triggering their fascination with all things water.
Mondays are mad scramble days.
But they are also the start of wonderful new journeys.
Because that child with the "autism" label, he will change you this summer.
The flight risk will give you heart-attacks and make the story of the prodigal son real in ways you never could've understood before. You will learn to be thankful for the staff member who guards the pond faithfully every morning, a job that goes unseen most of the time.
Your prayer life will deepen. Your trust in God will grow. Because you will start to realize how totally and completely out of control you really are.
The work you put into finding out what works for a child having behavior or sensory issues, will draw you closer to them.
And in that closeness, you will find out unexpected things about yourself, and about God.
To my staffers and volunteers and Student Leaders in Training, brace yourself for Monday, but don't brace too hard, because the guy standing behind us is God, and he works miracles on Mondays.
He puts the right people in the right places. What looks like chaos to you and I, is all figured out in his hands. He has the right person with the child facing separation anxiety, the right volunteer buddy with new one coming in with autism. He knows exactly when playtime is going to be over and he works out the details of who gets inside with which leaders, which campers are going to be in the same activity groups and which leaders are going to have "hopping" rooms this week and which will have the ones that are more sedate.
And dear parent who leaves the notes section blank for whatever reason, please know we love your child just like the rest, even though they are not the rest. They are wonderfully distinctly themselves, and we are glad they are here to walk with us through this week, or longer; to teach us things that we never could have learned without them.
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