Yesterday was the morning the school district child psychologist had scheduled a visit to Peanut's pre-school. She was with him for an hour or two, then came over to the house and quizzed me for another hour and a half. We went through a behavioral questionnaire together, and I was able to give her examples of certain behaviors, and since she had just spent time with him, she understood exactly what I was talking about. That was the good part.

I was feeling pretty good about the depth of evaluation going on, but then she called in the afternoon and said she didn't see something we'd spoken about in the previous psychologist's report. I pulled out my copy of the report, and told her it was right there, first section, fourth sentence from the bottom. She says her copy doesn't say that. Hmmmmm, puzzling, since *I'm* the one who supplied that report (a copy of what I'm holding in my hand as I'm speaking with her).

OK, so she can't read. Then she points out that, despite what the previous doctor told me verbally, the report indicates that Asperger's Syndrome has been ruled out. Which would, of course, explain why the first psychologist handed me a photocopied sheet about Asperger's from a diagnostic guide right after he said, "I think he may have Asperger's Syndrome." Yargh.

I'm not sure when this feeling of being lightly slapped in the face will stop happening to me. As we negotiate this process and meet lots of people with expertise, each meeting leaves me feeling slightly high. "Yay! They think he needs X, Y, and Z, and they do that at the rehab clinic/school district/developmental medicine center! It is just what he needs! We know what's going on with him! Everything will be okay!"

Then I have a conversation like the one detailed above, and SLAP! I realize that nobody knows my kid better than I do, no one has a more complete picture than I do, and people are human and fallible. I better not assume that a report has been dictated or transcribed properly. I better not assume that one psychologist can read another psychologist's report correctly.

So, I better sit down and write a cover letter detailing my meeting with the first doctor and include a photocopy of what he gave me, so that she understands that despite the written report, the other guy *did* think Peanut had this. Of course, he's not an expert in this, which is why he referred me to Children's Hospital, which by the way, had no record of receiving my paperwork and had to re-send me the entire registration packet and bump me back to the end of the waitlist.

Of course, none of this would seem so traumatic if I had slept more than 4 hours, but I made an unfortunate choice of insomnia-suffering late night reading. The (mystery/thriller) book was fast paced and had many complex plot points woven together and when I couldn't fall asleep, I took it out to the living room with me. I got caught up in it, and when I got to the last page and thought everything was wrapped up, I nearly barfed when I read the last parting paragraphs about what they found in the lair of the crazy man.

And then I *really* had trouble falling asleep. But Dr. V's snoring was, for once, immensely comforting. Fictional crazy guy can't get me if big strong husband is right there making his presence known via a deviated septum, right? So, that makes it twice this week I've completely creeped myself out. Woo hoo! Go me!