Do I Hafta?

I don't want to pre-read books for my daughter, Kate. I have my own books that I want to read. NOT HERS. Kate started to read Twilight. Everyone is reading Twilight but not me. If everyone is reading it, I'm the one who won't. Never read Harry Potter or The Purpose Driven Life. Not reading Twilight either.

But, today as I was driving to Ohio for some shopping, Kate was reading. In her young, sixth grader mind, she was unsure of some words and how they fit into the context of the book.

"Mom, what's scintillating mean?" I describe it for her as it relates to "his bare arms."

"Well, how does adrenaline fit in?"

"What's unintentional seduction?"

Shit, what in the hell is in this book? Do I hafta read it? Guess what? I am not. That's why I'm the reality therapist. Really not pre-reading. Really hoping it all stops with a kiss. Really not into reading her books.

Therapist Not a Missionary

I am a therapist and not a missionary. I will help you, but don't push it. One particular child likes to get daily hugs. I always give him a side hug. No, I am not a Duggar, but there is no way that this chest........

is touching this chest.

I try to be therapeutic as I know that everyone needs the human touch( cue Rick Springfield's 80's song, "Human Touch.") He thrives on it, but I had to draw the line when these grimy fingers touched my cheek today.

"Feel how cold my hands are."

Before I could stop him he touched my left cheek right about in the middle- yep, I can still feel it- his hand stroked my cheek.

Let me tell you that those fingers were not just cold. They were cold and clammy. Clammy means sweaty. I'm going to the bathroom to wash my face and redo my makeup.

By the way, don't my boobs look like two cantaloupes without the rind? They do to me.

Answer That One, Women Services

( Old picture, but I'm stuck at work with limited resources.)

She would die if she knew that I was writing this, but hey, for the most part we're all women, I think. If not and you are reading this, well then you're still okay with my topics, obviously.

Miss Thang is having major trouble getting her cycle right. It is a huge pain in the ass for her, and I feel horrible about it. Unfortunately for her, she had to go to the gynecologist's office last Friday to talk about her hormone imbalance.

This doctor is my doctor. He delivered her 12 years ago. He is an older man with a goofy sense of humor. Very non-threatening. My sister is his secretary, so you would think it was a very benign visit.

On the way there we had the following conversation.

"Is he going to touch me?"
"Well, I don't think so, but if he wants to check for cysts, he may have to."

"Eww, how does he do that?"

"Weelll, he has to feel with his finger. Slip them in just for a minute."

(I am cringing at this point, but I wasn't gonna set her up for a surprise. If you're judging me at this point, then you'd better come up with a better solution.)

"Oh, gross. That's an "uh-oh" touch."

Now, she has been plagued by Mr. Matt who comes to visit their school from Women's Services every month. He discusses good touch and bad touch. Sexual harassment. You get the picture. She hates it. He creeps her out.

"Well, no, honey. It's not an "uh-oh" touch."

"Well, would you call it a "good" touch?"

Shit, hell no, I wouldn't call it a good touch. Thank you very much Women's Services. Did you cover this type of touch with her. No you didn't. How in the fuck do I explain this touch with her. She's 12. She's not thinking of all the times that she will go through this when she has a baby. Damn, she doesn't even think about the times when the "good" touch will feel good.

Thank goodness we only had to talk with him. He gave her some hormone therapy pills, and we were off on our merry way.

To you Women's Services, thanks for nothing. AND, what kind of touch IS the gynecology exam?

One With the Bumps

I'm trying to analyze this and getting no where. As we were driving home from our run on an old dirt road today, hubby was swerving this way and that. He does this a lot. He moves the steering wheel one way and then the other. He gets this strange look on his face.

Now let me tell you. This shit drives me crazy. First of all no one wants to think that there may be something wrong with the car, but furthermore, it's more unnerving to watch his face crinkle up as the car sways to the left and then to the right. And, I gotta tell you, there is no fucking sound. No fucking problem with the car. Nada, nothing.

So, I had to get on him and ask why he does this all the time, and he does do it all the time.

He started to explain that it stems from when he used to race motocross. He always had to listen to the bike in order to catch problems before they caused trouble for him. Then he proceeded to get philosophical. "You have to know the bike, and it's the same with the car too. In fact, I know it sounds silly, but you have to be one with the bumps on the road."

Silly? I think that's just plain nuts.

Art Therapy

Wanting to do a little art therapy, I had the all the tools. My little six year old client was all ready to go. She loves to draw, and it's something that we can do together to avoid her negative interactions with her siblings.Her first picture came out quite loverly! It was a picture of her oldest 17 year old sister. Ahhh, this is progress. She wanted to create a picture of her sister with whom she usually fights and argues, and occasionally hits. I am hitting some positive spots in her brain!!!!

The picture came complete with smile and a trendy little outfit which displayed her sister's belly. She laughed and commented on the fact that she should draw the sister's belly button ring.

Delightful activity. Relaxing and calming. I colored pictures while I sat next to her.

Now we have the second photo. Okay, it's okay. Until you start to stare at it. Sister is now smiling with evil eyebrows. Her arms resemble the hulk, and she has a club foot. Well she did in the other picture, but somehow this one looks worse. My client is now glassy eyed and less talkative. I keep coloring.
Looking up from my coloring book as she calls my name, I find this three inches from my face. OOhh, no....this is not good. Damn it. "Honey, slowly put down the crayons. Walk away from the table. Don't look back."

Time for me to high tail it out of there before she starts her progression of art on me. So much for art therapy and my success with yet another client.

The Beginning (or the end)

I am a therapist. I have been a therapist for years. It's my hobby which should tell a lot about me. I drive my children crazy with my advice and my husband nuts with my overanalyzing. Thus, it's the beginning of my journey to insanity ( then end of my sanity), and I have decided to take some of you with me.

This will be offensive at times; I promise.

This will sad at times, I guarantee.

But always this will be the honest stuff. Not the textbook crap and the rosy colored glasses.

Reality therapist for sure.