Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Boycott Big Red

I just arrived home from an Autism Support Group Meeting. That's right. A meeting of parents with special needs (who, I am proud to say, the majority were ordering adult beverages) who need each other's support and guidance. Since we're new to the area, the group "leader" of sorts sat next to me and was answering a few questions for me. I was taking notes. Since we just arrived, we don't know about babysitters yet and so had the kids with us. Though other people had their kids with them, I know there is a limited amount of time with my son. The clock was ticking. Get in, get out. Get food to go. Take notes on the fly. See, to give you a quick run-down on just one aspect of Autism, there are those children on the spectrum who can sit with their video games for hours and then there are those, like my son, who are constantly on to the next thing we can do. And, if it's not productive, he's done. Let's move on is his thought process.

"Wait? You got me my pizza first so I wouldn't scream bloody murder 'cause I was hungry and they sat two tables of 23 at the same time? Well, I'm full and I don't like to color OR play tic-tac-toe so you better think of something for me to do or we're out of here be-otch! You're still hungry? Wah wah. Suck it up and eat on styrofoam."

Soooo.... Back to Joe and I trying to keep Michael from eating off of other's people's tables ("Why do you need a to-go box? I'll take care of it for you. Well, the cheese, anyway.") while trying to just get the names and websites of programs for our son, and up comes who I like to refer to as Big Red. You see her crimson sweater before you see her scarlett hair (not a good pairing). At first I think she's kneeling between the host and I just to say hi (in fact, this is what she implies she's doing). Hostess tells her to take the empty seat next to her and politely introduces her to me, my husband, and my children, which she sluffs off. I wait while she launches into story after story after story about how horrible her new therapist is and how far advanced her son is and how they don't need her yadda yadda. Ahem. Why are you here, then? So, anyway. Michael, by this time, has resorted to politely signing and saying, "All done," meaning he is friggin' OVER this place and I have only gotten a water, which I have had to ask for 13,274 times and a BITE of a bread stick that Michael then took from me, looked at, smooshed, and then handed back to me. Excellent.

I'm

Fucking

Done

I interject: "Excuse me. I HATE to interrupt. Could you please e-mail me those websites we spoke about? Thanks." At this point I hope Big Red can sense the venom in my voice. And, we left. Joe got our food to go and I paid too much money for food I could have made better at home without indigestion from wanting to punch somebody in the throat. All the better to choke you with my deeaaarrrr.

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