In the past few months, I've been placing Ian in more after-school activities. Because Ian has special needs, it's a lot trickier to find the right programs for him.

The usual town-based programs, like boy scouts and recreation sports, aren't right. So, it's necessary to travel around the county to find the best swimming program or the best speech program. In some ways, this is a good thing. Suburbanites are so damn parochial that they rarely leave the boarders of their town. I feel like I need a passport to travel to the next town. Being a special ed mom frees me from the stuck-in-one-town trap. 

We've been attending a swimming class at the local Y several towns away and have been very happy. This weekend, I added two more activities to the calendar. On Saturday, I took Ian to a fancy speech therapist's office for an evaluation. Ian had a great time there. He waved to his therapist as we were leaving and said, "I hope you see me again soon." (Translation: I hope to see you again soon.) 

On Sunday, we went in another direction for a new therapeutic art class. Because the special ed community is so small, we knew nearly all of the other children and parents in the class. When we walked into the waiting room, a boy grumbled that Ian was there. The mother made a sour face and didn't correct her kid.

 Now, 99 percent of special ed parents are fantastic human beings. They've been through a lot and came out the other end as better people. But there are always the stinkers. This mom goes to some crackpot neurologist who says that her son is cured from autism and she brags about that. Her son still cannot function within a regular school, but that doesn't stop this woman from going around proclaiming that her kid is normal now and making pity eyes at other kids. 

On Sunday, to make some chitchat before the art class began, I told this woman about the great speech program that we had just found. "Oh, well, my John doesn't need speech therapy." Then she gave me a smirk. Well, honey, I think you could use a little Fuck You therapy. 

She continued to brag. How did I handle this? Not very maturely, I'm afraid. After she complained that the math tests were too hard, I told her that Ian has yet to get a single answer wrong all year. And then I threw in the fact that he gets 110% on every spelling test and even aces the pre-tests. Fuck. You. Honey.  

When I got home, I exchanged e-mails with the cool special ed parents about Mrs. Smug. They promised me drinks and a bitch session.