And then, a parent sat down with one of the school people to discuss the intricacies of her child's homeschooling and occupational therapy. In a loud, carrying voice at the next table. Covering my ears discreetly did not improve matters. Life in space refused to take concrete shape, evaporated even. It could be that I'm sympathetic to the topic, to the earnest tone in which a mother is frantically trying to explain her child's accomplishments in OT, his use of a pencil grip, his formation of his Capital letters, how she has sat in on all of his speech and OT so that she can duplicate the work every day at home.
I think my heart went out to her. And also, it didn't, because I don't want to be reminded of those dark years when the deeply autistic boy in her kindergarten class was academically far ahead of my own child. And may still be, for all I know. And I don't want to be reminded that I'm in the middle of trying to find out if the county thinks my child is damaged enough to wear a label that says "I need a bit of extra help." The problem all along has been that she might fall through some crack as not quite this and not quite that.
Escapist fiction? You betcha. I write the stuff and I live it while I write it. But it escaped me this morning until they adjourned to a hallway.
And then E comes out, beaming, happy, confident.
Frog Out
