Again.
Rye had been kicked out of camp and apprehended by Children's Aid,
Again.
You can get used to anything, so my panic was minimal.
'Why?' I asked.
Apparently Rye had been running and screaming and VVRROOMING at the top of his lungs all night long. On the second night the exhausted camp counselors gathered Rye's brothers together and asked for advice. They had been trying to reach me but none of the numbers I had left were of any use to them. So they turned to my other children for help.
"Does he do this often?"
"Lots and lots."
"What does your mommy do when he acts like this?"
"Tie him up."
I was in trouble.
Again.
Poor Rye, he was just too wound –up to stop moving, even for sleep. Dar was the same. Something about autism and sleep doesn't mix. However, Rye was close enough to normal to get me in a lot more trouble than Dar.
Because Rye was close enough to normal to be irritating.
And because Rye was dangerous.
Because he was fixated on so many hazardous things like heaters and furnaces and tailpipes and hanging out of second story windows. And of course there was that destructive savant in mechanics that led him to want to take everything apart but never put it back together again.
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