Kindergarten Reality

A Game of Cat and Mouse

It didn’t take long before five year old Cheese started testing the exits. One day, the overwhelm hit hard, and Cheese’s brain did what it was wired to do: get out. The running started.

Multiple teachers gave chase. It became a long game of Cat(s) and Mouse all over the school. The principal had to step in personally and physically stop the escape.

Surely, surely, this was the moment to acknowledge the issue and put in additional supports?

Nope.

Instead, the principal looked me in the eye and said:

"This smart child knows exactly what is happening and chooses not to follow the rules."

What. The. Actual.

The school didn’t see a terrified, dysregulated five-year-old

(did I mention Cheese was only FIVE?!).

A problem to be disciplined. That was the view.

No extra support. No supervision plan. No proactive strategies.

And because nothing was done…

The Great Escape

One afternoon, the phone rang.

Cheese had made it off school premises.

My stomach dropped.

The school is on a busy road.

A member of the public saw a small figure running down the footpath and stepped in—physically stopping the dash before disaster struck. Cheese was on the road, about to run in front of a car before this good Samaritan intervened.

And me? First came terror. Then fury.

Not at Cheese. This was exactly what I had warned would happen.

The frustration was with the system. At the gaslighting. At the dismissal of my concerns. At the “we’ll wait and see” approach that put a child in physical danger.

And yet, even after The Great Escape, the school’s response was still painfully inadequate.

A quick review. A vague promise to “watch more closely.”

No additional support. No plan. No real change.

A teacher later confided that staff had been told to keep a close eye on Cheese, but weren’t given any tools to do so.

And during breaks? There was a sea of uniforms. Over 500 students, all looking identical.

How was one child supposed to be spotted in that crowd?

The Outcome? Cheese Gets Suspended

So, what happens when a five-year-old autistic child does exactly what a parent warned the school could happen without the right supports—after every red flag was ignored?

A suspension. Yes.

A five-year-old, in kindergarten, with an autism diagnosis, formally removed from school.

Now, to be fair, the school insisted that the suspension was not a punishment but rather a necessary step to review the situation and make recommendations.

And I get it. Schools have policies. They need time to assess risk and refine approaches.

But here’s the problem: Nothing changed.

No reflection on school decisions. No acknowledgment that every warning was ignored. No real, practical adjustments to keep a vulnerable child safe.

Just a thinly veiled "we’ll handle it"—until the next time.

Because in the world of education bureaucracy, it’s easier to remove a child than to admit the system isn’t working.

And This Is When It Really Started to Hurt

From this point on, everything changed. I couldn’t hear my phone ring without jumping out of my skin. Every time it buzzed, my stomach clenched—was this the next call? The one telling me something had gone wrong—really wrong—again?

Going to school became a case of life or death.

And the hard part? Trying to figure out what was going on.

We weren’t seeing this explosive child at home.

Yes, family days out had their challenges, we had seen the runner in action. But day-to-day, at home, Cheese was happy. He was fine.

So what was happening at school?

Why was this environment triggering such an extreme response?

We were struggling to understand the problem.

Next Step? An Urgent Paediatrician Appointment

After the suspension, we made an urgent paediatrician appointment. And that’s when the conversation started.

Medication? For a five-year-old to be able to attend school?

Surely, there was something wrong at school?

Why on earth would a young child need to be medicated just to get through the school day?

I fought hard against it for a while. And yet, no one—not the doctors, not the psychologists, not the school—offered any alternative.

The onus was on Cheese to change.

No one said, “Maybe this environment isn’t right.” No one suggested, “Perhaps a different approach is needed.” No one asked, “Is this really the best option?”

There had to be a better way. But at the time? You had to go to school.

I had no idea that an alternative even existed. Everyone’s focus was on how to get Cheese to behave at school, not what was best for a five-year-old struggling in an unsuitable environment.

With the benefit of hindsight, I have beat myself up many, many times.

How did I not find another option?

How was everyone—educators, professionals, even me—so focused on making school work at any cost, instead of stopping to ask:

"Does mainstream school even work for this child?"

It took me far too long to realise: There was another way.

But at the time, no one was talking about it.

Up Next? Medication!

That part of the journey—the battles, the side effects, the emotional toll of medicating a child just to survive school is another story entirely.