Yep. That's him.Early Intervention, Part Deux. Unlike the cognitive evaluation, the man who administered the physical eval was giving nothing away. No clapping, no playing, just "Get up", "Get up", "Get up". The guy wasn't a douche but the whole thing was definitely more boot camp than I was expecting. Right now the boy appears to be about 4 months behind. Whether that qualifies for physical therapy, we still don't know - the test that was administered was some sort of standardized deal and he had to crunch the numbers. I'm annoyed that I'm waiting for the call but I'm even more annoyed that I'm WAITING FOR THE CALL. I mean c'mon, what's the worst that can happen if he's a late walker? No football scholarship? It's not like there's a genuine, physiological problem. He can walk. Give him a large, open space free from distracting objects and he does just fine. So why do I bother with the worry? My time could be much better spent writing stuff or watching Taking The Stage. (All in the name of research. Ahem.) But there are moments, the really self-indulgent ones, where I suspect that the reason he's behind in something so fundamental is because somewhere along the lines I didn't do my job.
In other news, I signed the contracts for my first national magazine piece. Seeing Conde Nast plastered all over the pages... awesome. I don't care if it's a totally flip past-able nothing of a thing - it's there, it's mine, and gosh darn it, the Editor-In-Chief liked it. Maybe I'll even have a byline. (Dream big, Ali. Dream big. )