"Please don't send me, Mother," my three year old politely requested this morning.
She wouldn't call me Mother except for her attraction to language and the options it presents, how words stand in for other words.
"Sorry, Una. You're going." This is her second preschool in a year. The first she attended only three months, and had so many reasons for staying home with me on preschool days. I overlooked her comments at first and then Halloween rolled around and she started having episodes of fearing witches and goblins, stuff she was learning about at preschool, and she still didn't want to go. We took her out.
We were preschool-less from December to May, when she was bouncing off walls, obviously bored. And we started her at Kaleidescope. She is energized when we pick her up there on a preschool day, excited about her busy bee helper magnet craft or her construction paper Noah. But we're back to the same old questions, "Can I stay home with you mother?" "Please don't send me mother."
I think she'll be socially phobic for years to come. I worry about her first dentist appt. (which I'm putting off), worry about her first haircut with a guy named Shannon at Buzz. Shannon is heavily tattooed, pierced, spike-haired. I worry about the first day of kindergarten, leaving her with a babysitter. Not that I think she'll come to harm, but that she will think she's in danger.
THis morning I arrived home after a slew of doctor appts and the grocery store. Lauren was babysitting and Una had green marker on her face from an hour of saturating amorphous two-dimensional shapes on paper with crayola washables. As I headed downstairs to do some writing, Una mentioned the marker on her nose. "I see that!" I said, to which she responded with a wide smile.
"Are you pretty happy about that?" I asked.
"Yep, it's perfect for Buzz-day."
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Marriage Counseling
I read a report recently that claimed couples counseling is good for nothing over the long haul. Couples go into therapy, hang out on a therapists couch a few times a month for six or 12 and then they go right back to their old, pre-therapy ways.
We had therapy this morning. I called my husband, M., after the fact on my cell phone. "That was really frustrating for me."
"Me too," he said.
Apparently--and we found this out at the END of the of the session--our therapist was trying out a new trick on us, which involved me only listening empathetically to M's feelings and not stating my own. Unfortunately, these goals were not discussed prior to the little experiment, which meant everytime I said a feeling, J. (therapist) redirected me. Which meant I got defensive, angry, and annoyed.
After the fact I suggested he let me know if he ever wants to try this tact again. He agreed, wishing he'd said something 45 minutes earlier.
Here's the deal with therapy: you get 45 minutes. The time is shaved off of that to deal with social niceties (M. yawns, says he's tired; J. talks about how he's been sleeping so heavily these days, feels like he's been hit by a truck when the alarm goes off) and scheduling for the next appt. We know our session is winding down when J. stands up, walks to his desk to retrieve his planner and returns to his arm chair and reiterates to us all of the future dates we've already scheduled. Then, occasionally, we add a new two or three. At some point during the session I am consumed by all out panic at the ticking hands of the THREE clocks in the room and the fact that my husband and I haven't arrived anywhere near the elusive state of Making Progress. Alison, my own therapist, squeezes in more time with me even though Wellmark allows her only 45 minutes. She gives me an hour, an hour and fifteen, pushing back the next client's session somewhat dramatically, when the perceived need arises: We have important information to sort out, dialogue scripts to create for dealing with an anticipated conflict with husband or mother or friend.
She's got three clocks too, but I look at those and always know I'll get more time than I should.
We had therapy this morning. I called my husband, M., after the fact on my cell phone. "That was really frustrating for me."
"Me too," he said.
Apparently--and we found this out at the END of the of the session--our therapist was trying out a new trick on us, which involved me only listening empathetically to M's feelings and not stating my own. Unfortunately, these goals were not discussed prior to the little experiment, which meant everytime I said a feeling, J. (therapist) redirected me. Which meant I got defensive, angry, and annoyed.
After the fact I suggested he let me know if he ever wants to try this tact again. He agreed, wishing he'd said something 45 minutes earlier.
Here's the deal with therapy: you get 45 minutes. The time is shaved off of that to deal with social niceties (M. yawns, says he's tired; J. talks about how he's been sleeping so heavily these days, feels like he's been hit by a truck when the alarm goes off) and scheduling for the next appt. We know our session is winding down when J. stands up, walks to his desk to retrieve his planner and returns to his arm chair and reiterates to us all of the future dates we've already scheduled. Then, occasionally, we add a new two or three. At some point during the session I am consumed by all out panic at the ticking hands of the THREE clocks in the room and the fact that my husband and I haven't arrived anywhere near the elusive state of Making Progress. Alison, my own therapist, squeezes in more time with me even though Wellmark allows her only 45 minutes. She gives me an hour, an hour and fifteen, pushing back the next client's session somewhat dramatically, when the perceived need arises: We have important information to sort out, dialogue scripts to create for dealing with an anticipated conflict with husband or mother or friend.
She's got three clocks too, but I look at those and always know I'll get more time than I should.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
