“Autism Shmautism” by Tamar Jacobs
Autism is you’ve got to say it louder. No, a little quieter. Wait, you have to look at her honey because she didn’t hear . . .
Autism is you’ve got to say it louder. No, a little quieter. Wait, you have to look at her honey because she didn’t hear . . .
Some of her patients had parenting problems more than they had medical problems, but Dr. Simian didn’t say that out loud as she took Mrs. Monkey’s call . . .
We pulled into our parking space at 9:38am. Yes, we were technically eight minutes late. But I’d managed to dress and feed four hungry tiny people, wrestle them into car seats, and drive here. Eight minutes late was a win.
There is a boy with dark brown hair . . .
“Mommy, can we go to McDonald’s?” Hazel asked in her piping voice. . . .
I woke up at 1:00 a.m., when Jimmy had a bad dream, and at 3:45, when Sarah peed in her bed, and when my alarm went off at seven I got up and stepped on a lego and by mistake Jimmy got toothpaste on my last clean pair of pants, and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, really crappy day . . .
First of all, lemme say that Big Ted’s my man. He always gives me a tight cut, and he’s cool, you know, funny. Got that educated-like slang. (Apparently he did a lot of reading in the joint . . .)
As a five-year-old, I didn’t know how poor we were. We had just moved to Manhattan and knew no one in the city . . .