My son, how can I help my son?

He cries. Again he cries. Smiling and chatty until the school gates, where he clutches my hand even tighter.
The bell goes and I take him to class. He won't enter the room, only crush my legs with his young arms.

Too often now, too often. I don't know how to deal with it anymore.

Ah, his friends are there! Go with your friends! Little R extends his hand to him but my son burrows his head further into my stomach. How many times have I told him to pretend to be happy even if he doesn't feel it? I don't say this now, it's too late to say it isn't it?

"He went to bed very late," I tell R. "He's very tired. You go in , he'll be through in a minute."

Little R skips in with little A, my son's other best friend. My son is pushing these friends away. I know he does that, I know he can't help it. I know he's thought up games where his companion is himself. It's good to do that, but only sometimes, not all the time.

"Go in," I urge my boy.
"I want to stay with you mummy."

So often now, too often, I don't know how to deal with it anymore.

"You were like this in reception, soon you're going into year 3. Are you always going to be like this?" I hear impatience in my tone, I don't want to be impatient.

Tears gloss his eyes. "I can't help it mummy."
"I know." I want to scream and crumple into a corner and cry. He senses this, I know that too.

We hear his teacher call his name on the register. "Go on, go in now," I coax. He pulls me towards his classroom door where the teaching assistant is there to take his hand.

In he goes and I turn and close my eyes.

My son, my sun, my son, don't worry about me. Please my beautiful child.