Thursday, May 05, 2011

I'm going on a manhunt.

I'm on the prowl for a good man. 5'10", at least, 160+ lbs give or take, muscular, experienced, well groomed, diplomatic, dependable, communicative, educated, able to read body signals, likes having fun, children with disabilities, and the outdoors.

No, not for me, silly.  I'm married. (Although I do have a very cute younger sister who's single and her number is...  but enough about that. But call me if you want to meet her, she's very funny. Seriously, call me.)

Hiring a therapist for my son these days has become a bit of a challenge. I should also warn any prospect that managing people is not my greatest skill set.  I mean, I can do it, technically.  Boy, am I a whiz at performance reviews.  But the day to day grind, I loathe it.

(I feel compelled to say, to those autism parents who need therapists and can't afford it, I am not complaining.  I realize full well that we are lucky to be able to afford therapists for our son and I write that in the Oprah Gratitude Journal that I keep in my head every night.)

It’s just that finding, hiring, and managing therapists is not my idea of a fun time.  And now that my son is almost as tall as I am, and weighs just as much, I'm either hiring a very big woman or prowling around for a man.  So here I am.  On a manhunt.

Hey, maybe it's payback for all those young, pretty coeds we hired during the first four years of his home-based therapy.  Boobs, tattoos, hangovers, and low rise jeans with requisite whale tail... oy vay, the stories I could tell you.

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