The look on his face is hilarious, I won’t even lie.

Bub had the psychiatric evaluation that he was supposed to have last week — the one that he’s needed to have on file to start behavioral therapy (crisis management therapy to begin with because he has been hurting other people during meltdowns, but especially me as his primary caregiver, and then trauma-informed CBT therapy to ensure that he learns and retains the skills necessary to deal with the overwhelming emotions of meltdowns in ways that do not hurt himself or those around him). Surprisingly, it wasn’t that difficult, and the woman who did the evaluation stated that she was sure that he would be eligible for services. I’m also supposed to get a call next week to give the agency the rest of his behavioral and medical history, because the person that was supposed to call me last week for that… never did, come to find out that she did not have my phone number, so she couldn’t call me if she didn’t have that right. I even checked my call logs. “Why isn’t she calling me like she said she would at…” Like, nope, she didn’t.

She did apologize for getting my phone number wrong, so there was that, but this could have been done.

Anyway, Bub let me cut a little bit more of the hair beside his ears, but not very much. The woman who did his psychiatric evaluation agreed with me that I should continue to make haircuts as minimal stress as I possibly can, and they can also work on it in behavioral therapy (to prevent haircuts from causing him trauma but still being able to do them, or to sit for having them done). But the look on his face in this…

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