The Emergency Contact

There was a flyer in the school bag.

Of course there was.

Folded into a gluey wad and stuffed between a crushed Rice Krispie bar and an Important Note I Was Supposed To Sign Last Week.

“✨ Come Along to Our Parent Coffee Morning! ✨” in bold font and mismatched clip art with Comic Sans-level enthusiasm.

No.

Absolutely not.

On every level.

Physically, emotionally, spiritually… just no.

It’s not personal.

Unless you count the part where social spaces make my skin feel like it’s wearing socks.

I don’t do mingling.

I don’t do “so what do you do?”

I don’t do beige biscuits and polite giggles while I pretend I’m not one overstimulated breath away from biting my own tongue just to ground myself.

I’ve never been to one of these things, and I’ve somehow built up this internal mythology that it’s a room full of coordinated people who talk about phonics levels and casually reference their recent spa breaks while sipping coffee out of actual mugs with handles.

Meanwhile I’m the woman who brings her own spoon to school drop-off because the toddler insisted on eating Weetabix in transit.

And I know, I know the school means well.

Connection, community, all that jazz.

But unless there’s a “Neurodivergent Parents Who Can’t Cope With Eye Contact and Are Already Late for a GP Appointment” morning… I’m not coming.

Not because I don’t care.

But because I do - too much, in too many directions, all the time.

I’m already knee-deep in the appointment swamp:

• GP for sleep stuff (again)

• OT follow-up that took four months to book

• SLT chasing us about a resource pack we never received

• Educational Psychologist meeting rescheduled for the third time

• Paediatrics review I’m dreading because what if they say it’s me again

Add to that a toddler who screams when her socks aren’t “fluffy enough” and a seven-year-old who has decided that brushing her hair is “a sensory violation,” and I’m operating on roughly three brain cells and one reheated coffee.

Parent council?

Fuck no.

I’m already managing a domestic ecosystem that includes meltdowns, medical admin, emotional coaching, bedtime logistics, and exactly six thousand repetitions of the Peppa theme tune per week.

You want me to volunteer?

With what time? With what capacity?

I’m already volunteering my sanity on the altar of getting everyone to school mostly dressed and hopefully without a glitter-related crisis.

And here’s the thing:

I’m not antisocial.

I’m just maxed out.

I’m overstimulated, under-supported, and deeply allergic to small talk about “catchment stress” and “new uniforms” when I’m still trying to figure out if my kid’s going to make it through the day without chewing through another jumper sleeve.

And, I’ll admit it - there’s a bit of envy in there too.

Not of the biscuits. Or the conversations. Or the endless talk about reading schemes and booster clubs.

But of the ease.

The casualness.

The way some parents walk into school like it’s just another stop on a well-oiled conveyor belt of stability.

Meanwhile I’m half-walking, half-negotiating with a three-year-old who’s crying because she didn’t want that banana, and a seven-year-old who’s still emotionally recovering from the school disco last Friday.

I don’t have a free morning.

I don’t have a spare social battery.

And I definitely don’t have a version of myself that fits in a room where people say things like “Let’s circle back to that at the next meeting.”

Sometimes I think I want that.

A seat at the table.

A cup of coffee handed to me by someone who knows my name and not just my child’s diagnosis.

But then I remember how many masks I’d have to wear just to survive in that room.

And I’ve only just started taking mine off.

So no, I’m not coming to the coffee morning.

Not because I’m above it.

But because I’ve spent years trying to force myself into places that drained me.

And I’m done.

I don’t need a council.

I need a cushion, a quiet corner, and five minutes where no one touches me or asks me what we’re having for dinner.