I looked up at her, hoping.
She is a young woman, still wearing the plumpness of two pregnancies. A pretty face, cheerful. Sharp eyes. Like she'd actually remember the things I have to say, that she would think they mattered.
She says she loves her Asperger kids the best. Twelve years in social work, seeing mostly Spectrum kids. And today, she sat in my living room, having played for an hour with my son.
My son, who laughs too loud, jumps too much, whose middle name could be Fidget. My son, who feels the world too hard, the hand dryers blowing a tunnel through his head, the vacuum a monster seeking to blast him away. My son, whose world is too loud, too bright. My son, whose fingers are on fire, legs filled with tops, insides swirling to explosion.
She, this young woman, MSW in tow, is the next step for my son. Holding, sleeping, attachment parenting, therapy, speech, neuro. The next step: for this woman to see him, get him. I want her to see his sparkle in the spectrum.
I looked up at her, "Please, love my child."
Please, don't be disappointed in him, the way I am, every day.