The first sign: Our laundry room has become the killing fields for small red bugs that come to smell my socks and die. Mo provides daily war dispatches, a la Christiane Amanpour: "I found five more dead ones today! They're getting closer to the food rack and the Clif Bars!"
The second sign: The calender. It's oddly full of stuff like parties, baseball games, family visits and vacations and conspicuously devoid of doctors appointments.
Yep. It's summer. We're proud and a bit wistful to report that Hope has passed her first year of special education. Cue the '70s stoner movie soundtrack; call the AM radio station 15 times and demand to hear "School's Out" again; toss all the toilet paper out the window: No more classes until September, baby!
For the past few months, Hope had some type of therapy every Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Tuesday was group therapy for hearing impaired infants. Wednesday was at-home occupational or physical therapy. Thursday it was more group, this time for babies with special needs.
All were provided by the Intermediate School District. We're grateful for all of them. We were lucky to have some wonderful therapists who gave us great advice, encouragement and reinforcement. All seemed to really care for Hope, so we couldn't ask for much more.
We've debated continuning with private therapy over the summer. At some point, it's a conversation most parents of special-needs kids have. The ISD therapy typically lasts no more than an hour.
Our conclusion: Hey man, it's summer. Don't bogart the buzz. Crack another cold one and flip that Pink Floyd record.
Actually, we did some research, asked some questions and were advised by therapists to keep up with the exercises ourselves and enjoy the break. In taskmaster Mo's case, that means working Hopesy daily like a Red Army drill sergeant, until our little girl is spent ...