In the weeks leading up to the new school year, I suggest items to my nine-year-old son that he might need. A lunch box? A bag? Shoes?
But the reply is always the same: "No thanks, Mummy. I won't be needing any of those things because I'm not going back to school."
As the first day approaches, I warn my colleagues I might be late for work.
The first day back at school
I go through the before-school ritual and try to maintain a calm, positive vibe as I cut crusts off bread and fill up water bottles. I reinforce the message as needed: "I know you don't want to go to school, Charlie*, but you have to."
He appears calm too, unusually quiet, perhaps thinking I will forget he exists.
"In the car!" I say.
But there's only one kid standing at the front door. The other is under his bed, crying.
I start promising rewards: a train trip to Kiama, McDonalds after school, bonus screen time.
Now I'm worried about getting the seven-year-old to school because the nine-year-old hasn't moved.
Do I drag him out? Best-case scenario, I get him into the car, and we're all emotional in the aftermath of a potential meltdown. It also goes against the advice I've heard from autism advocates: never physically force, never restrain. Also, let your child have a rest day if they need it.
But a rest day on the first day of term seems unproductive.
It's hard to stay calm and make good decisions. And I don't know what a good decision is.
"Let's take your brother," I say.
Charlie stops crying. "I don't have to go?"
"You can decide when we get there." I'm optimistic.
He gets out from under the bed.
When we finally make it to school
We sit on the metal chairs at the school entrance for two hours as kids, parents, teachers and support staff take their turns joining us.
"Can we go yet?" Charlie asks on high repeat.
The metal chairs are getting uncomfortable. I decide we will go home, via his classroom.
His classroom teacher — the same teacher he had last year — sees us and waves. She once told me she wouldn't want to change Charlie in any way, showing how accepting she is of neurodivergent kids.
"We're just having a look," I say.
Loading...As we walk to the car, my thoughts about my son's future — and my own — are spiralling. Will I have to quit my job and start homeschooling? This is a reality for many parents and carers.
Then another support teacher walks past and congratulates us on a successful transition, changing the narrative. A transition day!
Back home, Charlie plays quietly — no screen time on 'school can't' days — while I work and act relaxed. Well done, Charlie! Tomorrow's the day!
That evening, Charlie's teacher calls me. She has developed a strategy for day two. She has set up a train station at the metal chairs where she will pick him up and they'll find some friends.
I'm surprised, the next day, that it works.
School refusal and vulnerable students
School refusal — or 'school can't' as many working in the space call it — is more likely to impact vulnerable students.
School Can't Australia, a parent and carer-led group, surveyed 441 parents and found that 83 per cent of respondents' children had or were suspected of having a diagnosis of disability. More than two-thirds of the disabilities were ADHD or autism. And almost half the respondents felt their child's school was "trying to push them out or exclude them".
For many kids, school is a place of stress, and their needs are not met.
My family is lucky. Most of the staff at my son's school have an approach that's kind, thoughtful and inclusive.
Days three, four, and five go by. We are back, I think, until we hit day six.
"I'm sick," Charlie says. Cough, cough. It's Thursday, and he hates school assembly.
He sounds clogged up, so I agree he can have a rest day.
Days seven, eight and nine go smoothly. Day 10, he says his throat is hurting.
"You seem fine," I say.
We're back on the metal chairs when the bell sounds, and a support teacher asks me what I want her to do.
"I don't know," I say. "We'll wait here."
But it's cold, and we walk back to the car.
"No screens," I say.
"OK, Mummy," he says. He can't believe his good fortune.
In the third week, Charlie attends five consecutive days. It feels like we've turned a corner, but as we enter the fourth week, he's talking about missing assembly day. I start pulling out the bribes again: "Where would you like to go on the train this weekend?"
We are taking small steps, trying to get Charlie to school one day at a time, with a view to setting him up for the week, the term, the year, and the remainder of primary school.
I'm also thinking about year 7, a time when — I've learnt from the School Can't community — school attendance can really get challenging.
It's not going to be easy. I just hope he finds a sense of calm and belonging at school that keeps him from hiding under the bed.
*Name has been changed for privacy
Kate Dorrell works in health communications, and lives in the Blue Mountains of NSW with her husband, two kids and golden retriever.
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