Special Needs

 "Your standards are too low. You're so desperate for help, you'll accept anything. You think you can't have care that is both (a) professional and (b) responsive to your child. But you can. You can cover both bases."

This is the family counselor--the therapist to help me manage the other varied therapists. I think what she is saying here is bullshit. If you become extremely picky, then suddenly care is suspended for two weeks. It's easy not to think about this if you're dispatching advice from your Zoom launchpad in Chicago. Harder if you're in the trenches.

We turn to a recent incident at the ice cream parlor. I was there with my child; no other patrons were visiting. My child was being loud; the dumb teenagers employed by the parlor began chatting in an audible way. "That kid is so loud."

I considered saying, "Fuck off," but this seemed like a great deal of work. So I stewed--which was, of course, *more* work than a public confrontation.

The family counselor has another idea. "You can just say, This is a special needs child. It's a polite version of Fuck off. And you don't have to break a sweat."

Sometimes, the family counselor makes me think of Taylor Swift in the music video for "Bad Blood"; in my mind's eye, she is bedecked in dominatrix gear. She swings a suitcase at Selena Gomez; a window shatters, and Ms. Gomez falls forty stories toward the cold, hard ground.

I also think of Aubrey Plaza--cool, unflappable--in the "Parks and Recreation" years.

There is so much to learn.