Wait. What? Preschool?

I Didn’t Know Clifford Starts Preschool Next Year — and I Cried

This morning, Clifford had physical therapy through Help Me Grow — a program through our school district that provides in-home therapy from birth to three years old. It’s been such a gift to have therapists come into our home, meeting Clifford right where he’s at and helping him grow in ways big and small.

During our session, his teacher casually mentioned, “Next year when Clifford starts preschool…”

Wait. What? Preschool? Like, go to school-school? Without me??

My immediate reaction was to cry. (I’ve cried so many times in front of therapists and doctors that I don’t even care anymore.) I wasn’t prepared for that one. And believe me — I’ve prepared for everything. I’ve spent the past two years living in spreadsheets, care plans, therapy schedules, and medical charts, but apparently, I skipped the tab labeled “sending my medically complex toddler off to school.”

It just hadn’t crossed my mind. Maybe because he just came home a year and a half ago. Maybe because he’s only two. Maybe because he’s never been anywhere without me.

Of course, I want Clifford to do everything other kids are doing — to experience new places and people and find joy in learning. But the thought of him going to school honestly terrifies me.

We’ve overcome so many medical challenges, but we’re still in the thick of it. Clifford just got a new diagnosis. He still takes medication through his G-tube, drinks only blended food, and isn’t walking or talking yet. The idea of someone else caring for him — feeding him, comforting him, understanding what each look and sound means — feels overwhelming.

Will the teachers know how to read his cues? Will they know how to feed him safely? Will the kids be kind? Will they see the bright, joyful boy behind his differences? And honestly… will I be okay? (Probably not.)

Side note: The reason kids like Clifford can go to school and receive the supports they need is because of the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) — a federal law that guarantees students with disabilities an appropriate public education and the accommodations to help them thrive. (And please note — the funding and protections under IDEA are currently under threat, so when you hear about it in the news, remember kids like Clifford and how it impacts them.)

I’m learning — again and again — that our medical journey doesn’t end when the hospital stays do. It extends into every new chapter. Now, that means navigating the world of special education, IEPs, and school systems. A new kind of advocacy. But I can guarantee I’ll be the fiercest advocate for my son. (Medical motherhood has turned me into a professional at both advocating and ugly crying — sometimes at the same time.)

I’m working on practicing radical acceptance — which sounds really zen but mostly looks like crying into my coffee while saying, “It’s fine, I’m fine, everything’s fine.” I feel eternally grateful and lucky to be Clifford’s mama, and I will never stop fighting for him. But I’m also grieving the life I thought we’d have right now — one where preschool was an exciting milestone, not something that ties my stomach in knots.

So for now, I’m choosing to pause. To table this conversation and the million questions I have until we’re closer to next year. To let myself just be his mom — no forms, no plans, no what-ifs — for a little while longer.

Because at the end of the day, I know Clifford will do what he always does — surprise me, teach me, and show me that he’s capable of more than I ever imagined.

And I’ll be over here, learning to let go a little. While occasionally crying into my coffee.

If you’re a medical mom who’s been there, send me all the advice and reassurance please.

Love,

Sadie