Recently my 16-year-old son was evaluated for recreational therapy. The therapist came to our house to complete the evaluation. The therapist and I had a good conversation as we answered the usual questions about my son. Then my son retreated to our living area to watch some TV.
I could see the therapist watching him. She had a curious look on her face. Then she asked a strange question: Did we have any pets?
I answered, "Yes, we have an outside dog, but that's it. Other than our fish." I looked at Jac as I could see her attention was totally focused on him. Jac, who was on the floor, stood up and walked towards me with this strange smile on his face.
As he was walking, it was as if everything was in slow motion for me.
Suddenly, I began to make out the words that were coming out of his mouth. "Mouse!"
I began screaming and yelling for my husband. He ran in and exclaimed, "Oh my! Jac, drop it!"
Jac dropped the mouse and we realized it was still alive. I started screaming—now at a higher pitch. My husband calmly picked the mouse up by the tail and tossed it outside.
I tried to convince this poor therapist that we have never had a mouse in our house. Not in 12 years. I say how we had had our house exterminated just 4 days ago, so the mouse must have wandered out punch drunk from whatever mouse poison he may have gotten into. All I could think of as the therapist left was: We will be known from now on as the Mouse Family.
As for Jac, the kid with sensory issues, who doesn't like to pet animals, he was so proud of his find. He kept us laughing by exclaiming, "I got that mouse."
Yes, Jac, you sure did!
From the moment Camila was born, I knew she would change my world. But it was not until third grade when she made the comment “I don’t want to live anymore” that I realized things were not right.