So there I am, the only male in the room. My daughter was 3 years old … we attended the Early Intervention program and two afternoons a week I took her to this state run place. Not too bad, the kids play, there are therapists around, the moms and me hang out.
Then, of course there is the social worker. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t get them. Not a bit. This one was about 21 years old, believed she was god’s gift to … well … social working I guess. I was in my late 30’s, owned a good size company, had been a college professor, and knew everything about my daughter, and was dealing with it just fine.
I found myself sitting in a circle on a chair sized for a five year old. Me, six or seven moms and this social worker. She looks at me and asks …
So, how does it feel being the parent of a disabled child?
And the goal of this question was … ? Have me pour my heart out? Tell her, and the other parents of f–ked up kids how it feels? This would help me how? Why on earth is it her place to ask, especially in a public forum? To what end?
I thoroughly enjoy it.
Honestly, that is what I said. I never sat in that circle again.
Bill almost got it right … “The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers.” – (Shakespeare, Henry VI, Act IV, Scene II).
Sat in a book club with other women from church. Sign language interpreter interpreting away…end of meeting one woman asked me, “How is the interpreting working out for you?” Me: “Just fine, how is it working out for you?” “Touche, she said…