After our alarming parent-teacher conference with Frowny Mc Brownie, David and I part with a small fortune to consult with highly recommended, Ivy League-trained pediatric behavioral psychiatrist. “She’s the best of the best,” our pediatrician asserts.
The six weeks’ wait to see her feels like six years, during which time I am beside myself that we live in a world where a first-grader seems to need help but will not receive it for more than a month.
We answer questions about my pregnancy and Dora’s delivery, and questions about Dora’s first few months with reflux. We convey Dora’s alert, sweet, and curious nature, and her countless ear infections. We answer questions about our respective family histories, questions about he state of our marriage and our parenting philosophies. David and I answer the last two questions with surprising synchronicity despite having never having discussed either topic. We answer like long-time Improv partners, crafting shared answers which, while true, still feel precarious as one of us unwinds it, checking each other with our eyes before proceeding down any one corridor too far.
The doctor, reminiscent of Judge Judy in both appearance and affect, seems satisfied and moves on to ask about Dora’s sleep habits.
She finds an answer in the long pause before either of us respond. Read More