Kids with disabilities are often labeled “disruptive,” “defiant,” or “difficult.” People often assume they’re inherently bad or that their behavior is the result of permissive or incompetent parenting.
These were never words I associated with my son.
As a toddler, Oscar was clever, cheerful, and endlessly curious. His dad and I poured all our energy into nurturing his intellectual development. At barbecues and birthday parties, he played well with others. I wouldn’t describe him as obedient, but what 3-year-old is?
Our life felt happy and harmonious. We thought we were doing everything right.
School changed everything
A few weeks into the school year in his first year of preschool, I was told that my 3-year-old wasn’t following the rules.
His teacher put him on a behavior chart, but rewards and consequences made no difference. One-on-one, Oscar is pleasant and cooperative, but in a room with 20 preschoolers, he becomes disengaged and aggressive — early signs, we later learned, of a sensory processing disorder and pragmatic language delay.
One of the most common things parents of kids like mine hear is that their children need stricter discipline. Traditional advice tends to focus on controlling behavior without considering its root causes — fear, confusion, sensory overwhelm.
He became aggressive and withdrawn
At age 5, we’d learn Oscar has an IQ of 125, 18 points higher than mine, placing him in the top 5% of his peers. But at 3, when he refused to take the test seriously, the psychologist deemed him cognitively delayed and recommended ABA, an approach critics say can be traumatic for kids with anxiety or PDA.
My child is deeply inquisitive and logical; he responds best when things are explained to him clearly. Irrespective of his unique needs, one district representative told me to stop talking so much and that I ought to teach him that “No is a complete sentence.”
None of this advice sat well with me. Still, I tried to follow their directives.
After months of behavior charts and escalating consequences, my eager-to-learn, joyful child became aggressive and withdrawn. His toileting regressed. He developed echolalia and chewed on his clothes. The school doubled down, and I did, too, believing his dad and I were somehow the problem — and it was my job to fix him.
After four months of interventions that only exacerbated the issues, they expelled him.
Public preschool couldn’t meet his needs
When I tell people that my then 4-year-old was expelled, most can hardly believe it. One of the first questions they ask is, “Isn’t that illegal?” The answer is no, but also yes. Sort of.
In the US, compulsory education doesn’t begin until first grade, which means children under 6 aren’t technically entitled to schooling. That’s what the district told me when I pushed back after they kicked my son out. And while it’s true that children without diagnosed disabilities are not entitled to services before the age of 6, children with disabilities are legally entitled to services that support their physical, intellectual, and socioemotional growth.
By then, Oscar had been diagnosed with a handful of disabilities and delays. If the local public preschool couldn’t meet his needs — and the district couldn’t find a suitable public alternative — I learned through my own diligent research that they were legally obligated to pay for a private placement.
We moved him to a Waldorf school
After eight grueling months of homeschooling, we enrolled Oscar at the Otto Specht School in Chestnut Ridge — a private Waldorf school designed for children with learning differences.
In the wrong sensory environment, Oscar becomes dysregulated and prone to physical outbursts. Coercive tactics — like behavior charts that monitor his every move — only stress him out. When he senses manipulation, or when his bodily autonomy is ignored and he’s not allowed to move freely through a space, his nervous system reacts. If the material isn’t aligned with his academic level — or when adults misjudge his abilities — he feels unseen, invalidated, and misunderstood. Efforts to extinguish his non-normative behaviors only intensify them. Typical tactics don’t work on typical kids.
For example, when Oscar is on the verge of dysregulation and neurologically unable to access language, insisting that he “use his words” doesn’t help. It makes him violent.
In the right environment, Oscar began to improve slowly. With the right class size and composition — a mixed-age setting rich in social-emotional support and surrounded by intellectual peers — Oscar is regulated, engaged, and happy — the opposite of difficult.
I learned that his issues weren’t his fault — or mine
Three years later, Oscar’s still at OSS. We’re open to any public program, as long as it doesn’t punish him for being who he is.
As a parent of a so-called “difficult” child, I’m not asking for special treatment — I’m asking for understanding. Neurodivergent kids deserve environments that recognize and respond to their differences with understanding, support, and compassion. Kids like mine aren’t the problem; the problem is a world that fails to meet their needs.
Just as Oscar shouldn’t have to conform to expectations that don’t reflect who he is, I’ve learned that motherhood isn’t about meeting expectations either. Being a good mom isn’t about having a “good” kid — a compliant child who follows directions, sits still, and doesn’t make waves. It’s about truly knowing your child, who they are beneath the labels, and having the courage to fight for what they need, especially when no one else will.
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