My Macho Problem

By July, things were bad in a way I didn't know existed. Max was doing poorly at Prospects. He did violent things every day, which meant that I had to go there EVERY DAY to have a meeting with Max, Dr. E. and often an additional staff member. these were know as "unsafe meetings".

We did a worksheet together to break down the incident, its results and consequences, and what Max could have done differently. For the first week, every meeting went like this:
Staff: Max, what happened?
Max: I threw all that stuff across the room at Jared.
Staff: How do you think that made Jared feel?
Max: I don't know.
Staff: How did you feel?
Max: I felt like throwing stuff.
Staff: What could you have done differently?
Max: I don't know.

Then Max learned that his answers were wrong. He should have said that Jared probably felt sad or mad or embarrassed. Then he could say that he felt sad or mad. The correct answer to the last question is "I could tell staff how I feel" or, alternatively, "I could take space". Taking space meant going into a large three-sided wooden box in the corner of the room where there was a pillow. They told Max it was a good place to relax, or take a break, or even hit the pillow. Sometimes they'd leave a couple of markers and some paper so that kids could express themselves artistically. Mostly the paper got torn up and the markers pitched across the room.

The only good thing about their summer program was that kids got to go swimming at the Wilton YMCA. That is, unless they'd been unsafe, in which case they stayed in the room and did worksheets about their feelings. Swimming was the only thing I could say that Max liked. He really loved it, but almost never got to go while at Prospects. So I'd take him to our pool club in the late afternoon. It made me feel like a regular mom with a regular kid. But we weren't regular at all.

I told Dr. E. that it seemed not to be working. Max's behavior was getting more and more dangerous, and Dr. L had mentioned hospitalization, so maybe...
She told me things weren't bad enough, with an oddly broad smile. I thought I was at my breaking point, and then felt ashamed about that. If she said this wasn't that bad, then maybe the problem was me. Maybe I had to be tougher. For a mom with a macho problem, this was like a dare. How much can you take, Sam? You think this is bad? He's only five, what's wrong with you that you can't handle a five year old?

Max was on four different medications that summer...Concerta, Abilify, Depakote, Seroquel. He happily swallowed the handfuls of pills I was giving him. I was becoming a pediatric psychiatric nurse, with a patient load of just one.

Meanwhile, kindergarten was approaching. The dog lady had given us the wildly incorrect advice that we just couldn't put Max in public school. They wouldn't know what to do with him, no one would help us. She had us running scared. We'd run to the Jewish day school in town, which had an abysmal reputation for helping children who were imperfect. They were rumored to have no tolerance for children with learning disabilities, behavior issues, or physical limitations. But now they had a new headmaster, and he was going to change all that.