“Are you the Ayala Wexler? Like, the one who runs the organization for people going through medical emergencies?”

Give. Take. Give. Take.

Wham.

Ayala flinched as Sruli lobbed a red block directly at her nose.

“Oops, sorry!” his mother gasped, blushing.  “Sruli, no throwing! Here, do you want a green block?”

Sruli and his mom resumed passing toy blocks back and forth, as Ayala jotted down notes on the evaluation form.  Eye contact, check.  Turn taking, check. Verbal requests, none whatsoever.

She saw the mom eyeing her anxiously as she wrote, silently begging her to determine that there was nothing terribly wrong with her son, that his language delay was perfectly correctible. Her heart went out to the mother. How frustrating it was when little people couldn’t simply express their needs, like rational human beings.

Give. Take. Give. Take.

Sruli picked up the blocks container and threw it across the room; Ayala didn’t need her graduate training to know that was nonverbal toddler speak for “I’ve had enough.”  Honestly, so had she. Ayala closed her pen. Sruli was her last client for the day, and she was so ready to pack up and go home. She still had a long bus ride ahead of her to Beit Shemesh; if she was lucky, she’d get both a seat and a nap.

“Perfect, I’ve got what I need,” she told Mom.  “I’ll go over the evaluation results next week when you come.”

The young mother nodded but didn’t budge. She sat there playing with her bangle bracelets as Sruli threw more blocks around the room.  Ayala looked at her curiously.

“Can I ask you something?” Sruli’s mother suddenly leaned in, her sheitel swinging forward. “Are you the Ayala Wexler? Like, the one who runs the organization for people going through medical emergencies?”

Ayala sat up straighter in her chair. “Yes, I run Chesed Tzirel. Can I help with something?”