Sunday, March 06, 2011

I just farted.

I just farted.  (Oh, c’mon, like you never.)

And I’m praying that my son’s therapist hasn’t heard it.  She’s 23 years old, gorgeous, a former university cheerleader, an Occupational Therapy graduate student, and I’m sure she never has gas.  (Yes, she’s that pretty.  And a damn good therapist.)

For the past 10 years, we’ve had therapists coming into our home.  First it was just the speech therapist.  Then, we started an Applied Behavioral Analysis program in our home.  (ABA is an intensive behavioral therapy that has been shown effective with children on the spectrum.)  At one point, we had eight people we paid to do some sort of therapy with Conor.

In this house, “alone time” didn’t exist.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I am eternally grateful from the bottom of my gassy little heart that we can afford to have people come into our home to help Conor make progress and give us a break.  Without them, he wouldn’t have nearly the number of skills that he has. And I would have lost my sanity a long time ago.

And just this year, Conor went to a school-based program, instead of being in our home all day long.  I’m so grateful. I’ve finally gotten to listen to the ticking of the clocks for a change, instead of hearing Conor giving his teacher or therapist a difficult time all day long. Finally, some privacy.

But, since he’s had such severe behavioral challenges this past year, we’ve re-started a behavioral therapy program at home, too.  And I’ve had to re-learn what it’s like having to share a space with other people who aren’t family, or friends, or even acquaintances. 

You know, like prison.

Well, I can always blame it on the dog.  Thanks Linus!

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