Running Alongside a 4-Year-Old and Tears

I cried at my son's sports day.

I cried watching the picture card, which looked like a sash draped diagonally over the teacher's shoulder, flutter in the air every time she ran.

People might think it's strange for a parent to cry watching a teacher run at their child's sports day. It was his first sports day ever, and my son did his best in his own way. I truly believe that. But the teacher must have been under immense, indescribable pressure. The teacher who stayed by his side every single moment, never leaving him even for a second while he was a child whose next move was unpredictable, looked more radiant than anyone else that day.

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He could speak, but only in single words, and his vocabulary could be counted on one hand. He didn't speak to anyone; it was more like he would mutter things he saw. And even that was very rare. There was no conversation, and he wouldn't make eye contact. That was my 4-year-old son.

Even if I spread my arms out in front of him, he would change direction, turn his body at a right angle, and disappear. I even faintly doubted if he recognized me as his parent. What connected me and my son wasn't something fluffy and invisible like love or a bond, but something tangible: picture cards.

My son was suspected of having developmental delays during his 18-month checkup. I wished it was all a mistake, but when he was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder at age two, I resented God.

After that, we started attending developmental support, where we encountered picture cards and began incorporating them into our daily lives. We started using them actively around the time he turned four. When I would illustrate his daily schedule and line them up in order, he would sometimes glance at them out of the corner of his eye, and I would almost scream with joy at such a trivial thing. I laminated them, put magnets on the back, and stuck them to the refrigerator. When I would point to the illustration and say, 'We're going shopping today,' he would sometimes ignore me, but he started looking at them more often.

Riding a bike, wearing a raincoat, wiping his nose. The number of picture cards, other than those for his schedule, kept increasing, and they became the 'conversation' that connected me and my son.

Even though he was my own child, I was at a loss as to how to interact with him, but I was able to learn after we started receiving developmental support. Even the most ordinary, everyday things that happen while my son is awake are terrifying and anxiety-inducing for him because he doesn't know what will happen next. The developmental support teacher said that 'providing a sense of predictability' leads to the greatest peace of mind.

We used picture cards at the sports day, too. The one who made them was Kanako-sensei, who always looked after my son. They featured drawings of smiling boys running, holding hands in a circle, and playing beanbag toss, all of which were adorable. As an aside, they are nostalgic, and I still keep them carefully to this day.

The day of the sports day was a pleasant, clear autumn day.

I couldn't sleep until dawn, and from the morning, a final-boss-level anxiety attacked me, making my body tremble before it even started. My husband and I sat in silence on our mat. We were completely swallowed by the festival atmosphere. I was terrified of what we were about to witness. Unaware of this, people who had come looking forward to the big event took spots on both sides of us and were chatting happily. With only 30 centimeters of distance to the people next to us, there was a temperature difference between a funeral and a wedding. How was I supposed to interpret this? I wanted to go home right then and there.

As the program progressed and it became time for the race my son was in, I went to check on the waiting area with a pale face. The teacher noticed me, and my son was there, right where she pointed her gaze downward. My son was sitting at Kanako-sensei's feet, poking his index finger into an ant hill in the garden without hesitation. He was staring intently at the ants that were rushing out of the nest after their entrance was blocked. What on earth was so interesting about that? All I could think about was whether my son would actually run in the race.

The turns approached rapidly. My stomach hurt from the tension. The children in the front row started running. Oh no, it's next. My son is still obsessed with the ant hill. Just as I was about to call out to him to get him to stop, it happened.

'It's still too early, Mother.'
'Huh?'

I was stopped by Kanako-sensei.

The teacher was showing my son the picture card for the race. The children running with my son were standing at the starting line. Their cutely poised fists looked like they were about to start running at any moment.

There was a signal to get into position, but he didn't get into position.

At the 'Ready' signal, my son finally took his eyes off the ant hill.

At the 'Go' signal, everyone started running.

I thought my son had also started running when the signal went off.

I thought he had started running,

My son was there. He was standing at the starting line.
He was just standing there alone at the starting line without running.

My body temperature dropped by two degrees.

When Kanako-sensei gave his bottom a light push from behind, he turned around, and she started to slowly jog beside him. Enticed by that, my son started to run too.

Just when I thought he had finally started running, he veered off the course to the right. Why? That's where the parents' seating area is.

My body temperature rose by five degrees.

Just when I thought it was all over, he turned around and came back. My son was the only one running on the school grounds, and the whole venue was waiting for my child to finish. As he finally got close to the finish line, his body was drawn toward the staff member in charge and he disappeared from view. And so, my son's long race came to an end.

The next event involved the whole class forming a large circle and breaking apart, and my son's left hand never let go of Kanako-sensei's right hand. The picture card on a string that had been swaying during the race was now fluttering in the wind even more than before, in sync with the teacher's movements.

For the final ball-toss game, we decided to skip it so as not to push him. And thus, his first sports day came to an end.

When I went to greet the teacher, she praised my son over and over, saying, "You did your best today." But I know. No matter how you look at it, the person who worked the hardest that day was Kanako-sensei.

Saying she had been on edge, the teacher, who seemed to have let a weight off her shoulders, told me how she had been using picture cards since practice, and how she had worn the card like a sash on the day of the event so he could see it at any time since there was no time to return to the classroom.

She also told me that because it's difficult for my son to wait still, they had decided in advance to keep him seated until the "On your mark, get set" signal during the race.

"I'm glad we had the picture cards."

Hearing that, the tension in my body melted away. One more person who understands my son's "conversation" had been added. None of the teachers at the school were specialists in developmental support, but they were true professionals when it came to assessing a child's personality and engaging them. They observed what kind of child he was very closely and never failed to communicate with the parents. They listened patiently to my demanding parenting and racked their brains to help. The fact that they attempted an unprecedented "picture card sash" must have been the result of careful consideration. I was so happy that I couldn't find the words to express it, touched by the layers of kindness they showed.

The following year, the sports day for his middle-year class approached. I went to consult with the teacher, thinking I would draw the illustrations myself and wanting to prepare picture cards again this year. Then,

"I've already made them."

With a beaming smile, Kanako-sensei lined up the cards in front of me. I was stunned to see her explaining the events to me like this, and tears began to stream down my face naturally.

"I will do whatever I can, Mom."

Tears were also welling up in the eyes of Kanako-sensei, who had said that to me. The other teachers preparing for the sports day noticed us and sent warm glances our way. When I turned my tear-swollen face forward, I met Kanako-sensei's eyes.

The teacher smiled as if embarrassed, and she was crying.