SEN school admissions - a heartbreaking process

This is a bit of a long read. But I’m hoping to crowd source some advice about and touch on some issues that, frankly, are breaking my heart a little bit (and I’m sure are very familiar to SEN parents). So, here goes nothing…

About me and my family

My wife is a former teacher now working at Rochdale Council. I work in communications for the social landlord, Riverside. We live in Oldham.

Vikki has a child from a previous relationship, Oscar, who is 11. He’s Head Boy at his school and is generally a fantastic young man. We also have a three-and-a-half-year-old son, Alfie.

A lockdown baby, Alfie showed signs of non-typical development at quite an early stage. In large part thanks to my wife’s recognition of this, as well as her determination and expertise in early years education, he was diagnosed with autism and had an EHCP plan in place just after he was two.

Alfie would be described as non-verbal – in that he doesn’t speak in any kind of way that we’d generally recognise (although it doesn’t stop him making plenty of noise!). He mostly communicates through hand leading. He also stims, jumps around, covers his ears when (regularly) overwhelmed, and, in the absence of being able to express himself verbally, occasionally expresses his frustration through biting and aggression. He is also highly obsessive and particular about certain things he likes, such as particular cartoon episodes, foods and objects. You would spot Alfie and how different he is in under a minute in a crowded classroom. While he looks like a cute, “normal” child on photo, he is very noticeably different.

Alfie has attended a mainstream nursery from around nine months, and has always found a way to cope, learn and enjoy himself. The nursery has been utterly brilliant with the support they’ve provided. He loves the environment they’ve created and the limited funding his EHCP has provided (about ￡300) has allowed them to buy some additional suitable play resources. There has been little else in terms of support through his EHCP apart from a couple of one hour speech and language assessments and the creation of a plan to support language development, which disappointingly came with hardly any direct face-to-face work with Alfie or follow-up.

Soon though, it will be time for Alfie to go to big boy school and therein lies the problem.

Finding a school

Alfie can’t speak. He only selective responds to his name and we’re unsure if he knows that Alfie is his name. He doesn’t/rarely interacts with other children. He isn’t – and likely can’t currently be toilet trained. He rarely sits still for more than two minutes unless entranced by a cartoon, meal or, occasionally, a human interaction. He continually babbles and makes noises. He bites and behaves aggressively when frustrated or his needs are not met. He still uses a dummy and comforter when distressed. He has a very disrupted sleep pattern. He has a very limited understanding of danger. I could go on…

I’m no education professional but all the above makes it very difficult to imagine how a) a mainstream school education would be of any relevance to him b) he and other children would be safe and c) his presence wouldn’t be highly disruptive to the learning of others. My wife and mum both have firsthand experience of this as early years teachers.

So, my wife and I began to visit special and hybrid schools. All said they had “capacity challenges” (despite looking like very spacious/uncrowded environments with tiny class sizes). However, with such clear and demonstrable issues and an EHCP setting these out, we felt it was reasonable to expect that at least one of them would be able to meet his education needs. Apparently, we were wrong…

All five special schools declined to offer a place for a variety of reasons which have not yet been properly explained (we’ve asked for more detail). Some said they could not meet need. Others said they were at capacity. Meanwhile, the mainstream school we put down – who have much less in the way of expertise and facilities for dealing with an extremely different child - did say they could meet need. To our amazement, our named officer advised us that they would be named as Alfie’s school.

A carrot of hope was dangled – a panel of faceless people (no idea who) would now consider the decision. We were allowed to write supporting statements and my wife worked agonisingly on that. But that hope was quickly whipped away with the quickly convened panel concluding – without any formal explanation or rationale - that the mainstream school could meet Alfie’s needs.

At no stage has anyone involved in this process met, observed or assessed Alfie in person.

So that’s where we are…

Reflections

Being a parent of an autistic child is absolutely life changing. It feels like a privilege in many ways. Alfie is such a unique character who brings joy to everyone he comes across. He continually laughs, smiles, moves excitedly and does things that no one else would.

That said, being a parent of an autistic child is also exhausting. From continually interrupted sleep to needing constant vigilance and care, we can’t relax for a minute when he is in our care. Whether it’s avoiding potentially dangerous behaviours, to having to be there to recognise and mitigate something which could cause him discomfort, we must be constantly on guard.

I don’t know if all SEN parents would or would feel comfortable saying this, but you also feel like you’re walking around with a broken heart.

Your dreams for some of things you’d do together are crushed. You worry for their future. When they’re non-verbal, you wonder whether they’ll ever speak at all. Will they be able to hold a job, drive a car, be able to live independently. What happens when you die? That constant strain affects your mental wellbeing, your relationships with others and as a couple, it affects Oscar and the amount of care and attention he gets.

I say all this because people working in education and Children’s Services must surely understand and empathise this. Even if they don’t have lived experience of it, they must meet individuals and families day in, day out who have. So why is the process they inflict on SEN parents so poor and so traumatic? It comes with disappointment after disappointment and there is almost an expectation of “no” being the default answer.

The decision, you suspect, is a financial one. A council panel can direct a special school to take a child. I presume that comes with a cost in the tens of thousands of pounds per year.

I could write extensively on money and broken political systems – I’ve worked within them. As a senior communications manager, I’ve seen millions of pounds of public money wasted in various forms – from political vanity projects and the hundreds of thousands spent on NDAs and redundancies for senior folk who’s face no longer fits, to comedically embarrassing and costly mistakes and buffet lunches. I’ve written media responses and customer messaging to justify them through gritted teeth! I’ve done it at the local authority in question which pangs a fair bit.

But ethically, money cannot be an excuse for failing disabled children and failing to provide adequate numbers of SEN places. There’s more than enough money to cater for their needs. It’s a question of prioritisation.

Can you help?

So, what should we do?

We will follow the appeals process. We will go to tribunal if we need to. But that could take years.

We don’t want Alfie to have to go to a mainstream school in the meantime to effectively prove what we already know – that he won’t cope well, and it won’t be a suitable learning environment for him.

If that happens and Alfie does have to go to a mainstream school, I feel that he’s going to really suffer (although I’m sure he’ll do his very best as he has at nursery, the little champ). If you reflect for a minute that your neurotypical child might be scared going into school for the first time; imagine what it would feel like if you weren’t able to speak…

Who knows how he feels? He can’t say. So, I must make my best guess for him. And I’m 99.99% sure, from spending every non-nursery minute of every day with him, that I know the right answer. He needs specially tailored support.

So how can we ensure he gets that from September and isn’t subjected to a potentially traumatic experience???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

If anyone can provide help/advice or any kind of intervention, we’d really appreciate your help.

Thank you for reading.

Joe

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