There are children who are monsters

A child came to me about three months ago for correction. Let’s say Volodya. Or Tanya, it doesn’t matter. It was about seven. Maybe six, or even five.

Signed up. Canceled. Signed up. Canceled. I made an appointment a month in advance. “Wow! — I thought. “What interesting parents.” And she went to her colleagues to find out what kind of Volodya he was and what he was eaten with.

Naturally, the first to fall under the hot hand was the attending physician. So and so, he says, throws objects, pours water on the computer keyboard, poops on the sofa at home — save the office from him. In general, sometimes it seems that he doesn’t have MR at all.

Yes. Yeah. OK. Svet-Daryushka, our administrator, how do you like Volodya-Tanya-Masha? Oh, Ksenia Davydovna, I sympathize. Don’t turn your back to him, don’t leave your pencils on the table. Otherwise it’s not even an hour…

Hmm… We need to take a screen or something to cover the computer desk. But I’m too lazy to carry it here and there. Yes, and the recording is tight, I won’t have time before class. OK. We’ll put away our pencils, keep our finger on the pulse, and then we’ll see.

Opening the door and dragging the child into (and then out of) the office, at the first lesson I was solemnly handed a package (hm? Ah! Encouragement? Well… thank you, or something) and an ABA program. I didn’t read it right away, of course, and I didn’t have time to look at the package. But in my spare time I looked it up and told my…