Tasmanian Devil

I lay back on the hotel bed.  The sight of my autistic six year old is exhausting.  He hasn't stopped moving for the past four hours.  He reminds me of the Tasmanian Devil in the old Warners Bros. cartoons.  He tears through the hotel room at an inhuman speed leaving a trail of disaster behind.  I watch him leap from bed to bed.  His coordination is not great, and he face plants on the mattress.  He doesn't even blink an eye as he gets to his feet and goes again.  Where does he get his energy?  His special diet consists of little more than vegetables.  I have been eating this same diet for the past two weeks and I constantly feel like I have just swum across the Atlantic Ocean.  And yet there he is screeching at a volume that seems likely to be the cause of my mother's hearing loss.  Hopefully the hotel staff has learned by now not to room any other guest on the same floor as us.  I am afraid my mother may be regretting signing up for this trip.  I warned her that this sensory therapy is expected to have some rather nasty side effects for a short time, but I think she may have thought I was exaggerating.  She will not doubt me again.