Autistic Tantrum: Naked Version
If I could afford to have a servant, I think I’d hire a nutritionist. You may disagree and prefer a cook or a driver, or a personal shopper or gardener. I asked Rowan what kind of servant she would like to have and she said she thought two handlers for her sixty pound brother Devlin would make life easier. As an afterthought Ro opined, “The handlers could wear light armour, like leather or something”. I was trying to imagine what a leather-clad entourage would look like following me and my children around the grocery store or at after school pick-up. My depraved mind went right to beautiful buff gay men wearing macho leather chaps, a black leather vest with no shirt and a leather sentry cap. They could double as back-up dancers for our outings when not performing handling duties.
Leatherized Handlers would have been rather handy Sunday with the autism tantrum of the quarter. We were eating lunch with friends at The Boat house in Forest Park after renting paddle boats for the pond. The meal went fairly well with minimal redirection for the impatient brood of children before food arrived. As we were getting the check, Devlin blew a gasket when I told him he couldn’t eat his sister’s leftovers. Autistic tirade on the restuarant floor ensued. Familiar with the drill, Ro and Blair grabbed my purse, the coats and the leftovers while Deirdre, Dev’s professional ABA (Applied Behavior Analysis) Analyst with whom we were socializing, paid my check and offered to help peel Dev off the floor. Deirdre and I ended up carrying Devlin to the car and in the slow crawl to the car 200 feet away, Devlin ended up wearing only his red sock monkey underwear, which he barely managed to keep on. You may have difficulty understanding how a seven year old could be rendered naked by this circumstance, but if you saw us, you wouldn’t wonder anymore. First, I had to remove his shoe weapons. The socks fell off when he dragged his feet, noodling and refusing to be carried. He flailed out of his shirt, which we were trying to control him by holding and then the pants just came off when we were trying to pick him up from the pavement for the tenth time. After examining my chin and forearms, it occurred to me that I must prioritize trimming his fingernails. Dancing Handlers would have rocked the shit out of that party!P.S. Can someone help me out here? I keep imagining 80’s peacock bangs and Members Only jackets when I say shit like “rocked”. Do I need an intervention, Robert Palmer “Addicted to Love” style?
My Halloween costume next year will be a Robert Palmer guitarist. Can’t decide whether it will be in the longer or shorter dress. Robert Palmer is god, still.
There’s a reason Sirus radio has a station called Hair Nation. Which is always on in my jeep.
And I didn’t need a description to see it. After much Behavior Modification Training because of my daughter’s emotional problems, I can see the path it took.
Remind me sometime to tell you the story about her breaking the car windshield. From the inside.
Sarah advises that if you add “the shit out of” after using the word “rocked” that it updates the phrase such that haughty Gen X’ers can piss off that we’re chasing the 80’s dream. ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE!!
I am imagining Devlin in the role of honey badger.