Bad Animals Read Online Free PDF Page A

indistinguishable, like recovery, like consistency, like autism were beyond all of us. What was being asked of me simply felt like too much to ask. I was also afraid that whatever progress Jonah made was not going to be enough. By which I mean—and was as deeply ashamed to admit this seven years ago as I am now—enough for me. When Jonah was diagnosed, Cynthia dealt with the devastating news by springing into action, developing a game plan, researching, networking, badgering government agencies and, later, school boards, doing battle with teachers and principals, researching ABA, finding The Consultant, hiring her, hiring therapists in consultation with her, talking to strangers, other families in similar circumstances, joining online listservs and chat rooms, borrowing and begging money, holding out hope, reading books, magazine articles, blogs, whatever she could. To-do lists and memo sheets littered the house back then; you’d come across book titles and strange phone numbers on Post-it notes, calendars, and pads by the telephone.
    My primary game plan was to sulk. And sigh or mutter to myself every so often, not loudly, just loud enough for Cynthia to hear and, on occasion, come running. Mostly, though, she tried to ignore my bad behaviour the way you would ignore the behaviour of a disobedient household pet. In other words, she tried not to take my sulking and muttering personally. She tried to tell herself that I couldn’t help myself. You wouldn’t get into an argument with a cat, for example, for clawing up the sofa, or a dog for peeing on the carpet. As a result of this kind of thinking on her part, we didn’t get into nearly as many fights back then as we might have. Cynthia also knew, thanks to her early training in ABA, that ignoring bad behaviour was the most effective way to deal with it, to deal, that is, with Jonah and me. We were both seeking attention, after all, and she had already learned, from a behavioural point of view, that the worst thing she could do was provide it.
    CYNTHIA NEVER DOES complete the chorus to “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” for Jonah. She never goes on to the lyric about how if you try you can, at least occasionally, get what you need. She knows Jonah won’t understand. Come to think of it, who would? Who ever does?
    Want is easy, after all. Want is unambiguous. It knows no reason, accepts no excuse. It wants what it wants. Want is chocolate ice cream before dinner. Want is everything the way you expected it. It’s your son typical, intact, yes, normal. As it turns out, our family motto doesn’t suit my son or me. Both of us want precisely what we are not permitted to have.
    As for need, that’s something else entirely. The song gets it wrong, as it happens. It makes need sound uncomplicated when, in fact, it’s trickier. It’s about striking a bargain. What can you make do with? Minimum: you better grow up. Absolute minimum: you better figure out how to accept what’s happened so you can be the father your child is going to need.
    â€œPlease, Daddy, number three?” Jonah says, holding up Forty Licks, making his spluttering request from the back of the car. I turn to glance at him and Cynthia frowns and points ahead, at the road. This is a significant difference between us. She recognizes there are worse things than autism—not taking notice of an oncoming truck, for instance—while I have a hard time imagining anything worse. So as she turns to pat Jonah’s leg, I lower my rear-view mirror just enough to see his bottom lip quivering, his eyes welling up. I also see the strain in Cynthia’s profile, the effort she’s making at staying neutral and comforting our son, the effort that is always there whether I acknowledge it or not. When she turns back to look at me her expression is no longer neutral. She is silently communicating what I should already know. I should see the problem is not