I'm a single mom with an autistic son. Here's why back to school is the most agonizing — and most inspiring — time of year.

• My son is autistic and has ADHD, sensory processing disorder, speech disorder and clinical depression. 
• However, when people first meet him, they assume he is neurotypical. 
• I have to remind myself that he can do hard things, and his courage inspires me. 

On Aden's first day of kindergarten, he threw himself on the ground in front of the school and screamed at the top of his lungs. When I tried to pick him up, he grabbed my hands and dug his nails in, breaking the skin. He was wailing, I was bleeding, everyone was staring. The other 5-year-olds were lined up behind the teacher, silent and compliant, their parents glaring at me for ruining an Instagrammable moment.

What they didn't understand was what Aden seemed to know intuitively — that going to school would be the hardest thing he's ever done. I felt his pain. After all, parenting Aden is the hardest thing I've ever done. 

My son is autistic

During those first few weeks of kindergarten, the principal called me nearly every day. Aden had been sent to his office, or Aden wouldn't stop punching him, or a team of grown men had been sent to the art room to "secure" my 40-pound 5-year-old. The principal would wait for me to share some solution that would transform Aden into the happy kid we all wanted him to be. But I didn't have any solutions, so the principal kept calling. 

Aden is autistic. He also has ADHD, a sensory processing disorder, a sleep disorder, a speech disorder, and clinical depression. Aden is also highly intelligent and deeply empathetic. He can name every species of carnivorous plant, and he asks the best questions of anyone I know. 

But when people first meet Aden, most assume he's neurotypical. So when he runs away from me in public or leaps from my grasp into oncoming traffic, or tells me in his loudest voice, "I HOPE YOU DIE," people don't always make the mental leap to disability. A well-meaning family member put it this way: "No one looks at Aden and thinks he's Autistic — they look at you and think you're a terrible parent."

I can't afford to send him to a private school

Maybe only a terrible parent would send a kid like Aden to a traditional, public elementary school, where every day is filled with precisely the sights, sounds, and situations Aden finds intolerable. The overhead fluorescents are too bright. The other kids are too loud. The class changes activities every 10-15 minutes—a dream for the average kindergartener but a nightmare for mine. Aden cannot fathom why he should stop doing something he enjoys simply because a grown-up said so. Every time he's wrenched from playtime to reading, then from reading to math, I imagine him conjuring Dorothy Parker: "What fresh hell is this?"

I think about homeschooling him or sending him to a private school that specializes in kids like him. But I am a single parent with a full-time job, and Aden has an older brother. How could I homeschool Aden and make enough money to support a family of three? And even if I could afford private school, how could I transport two kids to two different schools, neither of which start until 8am, and get to work by 8am? It feels as impossible as making it through the school year felt on that first day of kindergarten.

Summer break makes me anxious about going back to school

Over the course of months, Aden made progress. In September, he thrashed on the ground, scratched my hands, or refused to get out of the car. By December, Aden could walk into school holding my hand, his fingers clasped over the scratches that were just starting to scab over. By spring, I could drop him off and watch him enter the building all by himself, and on the best days, the kid who used to punch the principal would give the principal a high-five. 

But summer break threatens to derail all that progress, and I'm afraid of what could happen on the first day of first grade. Even though he's spending his summer in therapy, Aden tends to compartmentalize — he'll eat a piece of broccoli with his food therapist but not with me or cooperate with his occupational therapist but not his teacher. I don't know if the progress he's making at therapy will translate to a school setting, just like I don't know if Aden will calmly walk into school in September the way he did back in June. Even if the first day of first grade goes well, Aden will still be navigating a world not designed for him — a world that makes being alive inherently hard. 

I remind myself Aden can do hard things. He is stronger than me, braver than me, and more resilient than me. His courage inspires me to be the parent he needs me to be. If I expect him to get up every day and tolerate what feels intolerable, I have to be willing to do the same. I have to accept the frustration, embarrassment, and fear I may feel if we repeat that first day of kindergarten again this year. Most of all, I have to remind myself — sometimes multiple times a day — that it's much harder to be Aden than it is to be Aden's mom. 

It's August, and the scars that Aden left on my hands last year have faded. The skin there is tougher because of him. As far as first grade goes, I'm not sure if we're ready. But I know we're ready to try.