She asks me about his diet as he looks out the window and asks about the parking garage across B Street.
"Are there certain textures he doesn't like?"
"Have you ever parked there?"
"Bananas," I say. "He's never liked bananas."
"Have you ever parked down there?"
She swivels in her chair and tells him, "No, because I don't work in that building I work here."
"How do you get in the parking garage?"
"Through the opening in front there," the Neuropsychologist tells Elias.
"How do you get up top?"
"There's a ramp,"
"Does the car go onto an elevator?"
"No. There's no elevator. There's a ramp that the cars drive up to the top." She turns back towards me and smiles.
I shrug my shoulders and smile back.
"Is he a picky eater?"
"Yes, definitely."
Elias leaves the window and walks over to her desk. He leans his whole upper body on it and plays with one of her papers.
"Elias, are there any foods you don't like?"
He rubs his eyes and looks down at the paper, "My Mom already told you."
The doctor looks at me surprised. "He hears everything," I say.
For the rest of our interview, she has Elias work in another office with the test practitioner. We close the door so I can talk freely about his anxiety, frustration, aggression, and rage.
I track it all back to the impending arrival of his sister and the transition to a full school day, the year he started Kindergarten. Prior to that year he was my happy go-luck guy who never melted down.
"So this has been going on for four years now?" She looks at the paperwork I filled out prior to the appointment.
"Yes, but its gotten worse. And better. I don't know it's like it comes in waves. Nick and I will have just finished talking about how smooth its been when he'll suddenly lose it over something that seems so small. Or right when I think I can't take it anymore, we'll have a good couple of days."
We talked about Olive coming into the world as a screaming infant with colic and Elias's sensitivity to loud noises. How she started moving and messing up his orderly environment. And that now, we are in the stage of imaginative play and his concrete logical mind struggles with her creative notions. Not to mention her constant needling, or her: "Elias, I show you how to do it!"
Of course he wants to pull out her hair and scratch her face off. Yank her arms out and push her to the ground. Talk about the good ole days: "Remember when it was just me Mommy, before Olive..."
He spent four nights up in Palmer with his grandparents two weeks ago. When they dropped him off Olive was playing with one of our old phones pretending it was a camera. "Elias, say cheese!" Instead of smiling he walked across the kitchen and stiff-armed her into the stove where water boiled. Bruce and Kathy hadn't even left the driveway yet.
If I could be in his mind, I'd guess he was thinking: Maybe if I push her she'll just disappear. He just had 100 hours of only-child time and now he's back with this girl who disrupted his life to begin with, taking away his Mama and changing everything about his world.
"But it use to be mine," he says about all her hand-me-down furniture, stuffed animals and toys. And I think he kinda feels that way about me too.
She used to be all mine.
Even at nine, he will push his way onto my lap if I'm snuggling with Olive. The two argue about who gets to sit next to me anytime chairs are involved. "No I want Mommy"
"No me."
"No Me!"
And all I want is a moment to myself, with only my dog for company. To walk out the front door and lose myself in Snap dragons, Pansies, Gazanias, and Canary Bird Vine. Flowers that don't argue or talk back. That never scream bloody murder when a big brother merely takes a toy. Never yell: "I just need to hit you! I want to hit you!"
I could just walk out that door.
But instead I sit across from a neuropsychologist the day after Elias endured seven hours of testing while I filled out a stack of assessments. Never. Sometimes. Often. Always. I don't know, it depends on the moment. Sometimes never. Sometimes always. Often.
Talking is easier for me than filling out those dumb forms. And I feel comfortable with this doctor. I appreciate that she removed Elias from the room.
"When I came in this morning, all everyone could talk about was how cute he is. But I'm sure you hear that a lot."
"I do and on those days when he's making me crazy, it sure helps to see him through someone else's eyes."
As I leave her office, I feel as though I just finished an hour of therapy. I talked about all the hard shit and she didn't try to make me feel better. She didn't offer platitudes. She never said, "But your such a good parent." "This is just a stage he's going through." "God chose you."
She just asked questions and listened, really listened to my answers.
And when Elias asks the test practitioner to ride down the elevator with us, and he bounces up and down on his canes in anticipation, I see him through her eyes.
And, damn, that boy is cute.
Christy,
You are truly one of the best writers I have ever encountered (and I read a lot). I look forward to reading your book someday (please write one. I know that would be a Herculean task but someday it will happen )
Posted by: Lauren Long | 08/19/2013 at 07:21 AM
Lauren thank you for such a great compliment. I'm honored! And I do hope to write a book someday. I have pages upon pages of material I just need the time to re-read and develop a structure. This summer I planned to work on it but then we had so many warm sunny days that I never even turned on the computer and got lost in the garden instead.
Posted by: Christy | 08/20/2013 at 07:36 AM
Glad this visit went well! Elias is all that and then some :)
Posted by: Kate | 08/21/2013 at 03:09 PM
I'm so glad this went well!
Posted by: bec | 08/27/2013 at 04:31 PM