Thursday, July 07, 2011

Home Sweet Home?

This is the living room in the Nova Scotia summer home of a couple from Los Angeles.  They are both interior designers. Got that?  This is their second home.

You can tell they don’t have a child with autism from three very simple things.

These wicker chairs are both listed as having cost $3,045… each.  That’s $6,090 worth of chairs that would be broken in two seconds by Conor’s big butt.  Plus, no one providing therapy (or wanting to provide therapy) to their child with autism could ever afford to throw away six grand on two puny wicker chairs. 

Ok, maybe a hedge fund manager, but no way two interior designers.

Although… they ARE from L.A.  Maybe they work exclusively for Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.  Or Victoria and David Beckham. Or both. (Wait a minute, maybe these are all hand-me-downs from Madonna. They’re too simple to be from Elton John.)

The table is $950 and the chandelier is $1225.  That’s, what, $8,265 for two chairs, a light and a table aptly labeled a “Toothpick Table”?  My typical kid would destroy that table in a New York minute, for Pete’s sake, forget Conor.

And $8,265?  That’s, like, at least 413 hours of ABA therapy.  Or 82 hours of Occupational Therapy.  103 hours of speech therapy. Mon Dieu.

There’s no TV.  Where, exactly, is the kid supposed to either play the Wii or watch the numerous Harry Potter flicks? I mean, you can only put so many puzzles together, seriously.  You can’t expect a child with autism to simply enjoy the view. Can you?

Who the hell would fly from Los Angeles to Nova Scotia at least twice a year with their loved one with autism to visit their second home? 

I realize this is an unfair question, because many individuals with autism can travel quite well with their families.  But LA to Nova Scotia is an eight or ten hour travel time.  Without delays. And you would do this without being physically threatened?

What, you couldn’t find a second home on the same coast?

I would do it.  I would travel with Conor on a plane for ten hours.  To see a doctor that I think might help, mind you.   With drugs, for him AND for me.

But a second home?  Pshaw.  That’s just plain crazy.

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