Therapy

Late last school year, Luca’s teachers asked for a conference with Diana.  It seems as though Luca was going through some anxiety around school and they suggested he go see a child therapist. 

Diana pffft-ed it.  Saying that there was a big difference between having anxiety problems and simply not liking your pre-school teachers.  Who weren’t that cool anyway.  Luca may have his Hamann inherited moments, but he was not in danger of recreating the titular character in “What About Bob?”

I, on the other hand, insisted he go immediately to get his head shrunk.  Because the teacher said so.  The teacher.  Voice of authority for my whole life.  The. Teacher.

Diana reminded me that I insist on taking Grover to the vet every time he hacks up a Milkbone and it costs us $150 every time I overreact.

I ignored her and took it upon myself to find him a child psychiatrist to help him deal with the now life and death mental illness I had conjured up in my head. 

Because our insurance doesn’t really allow for panicky father, the price tag for putting Luca into therapy would be steep.  Like double my first rent in Chicago steep.  But I was willing to plop down any amount of money for my Luca.

The therapy joint also informed us we had to pay for 5 sessions. Up front.  No give backsies.

Can you see where this is going?

Luca sat with the therapist for an hour and did his usual Luca cute routine and unfortunately for her did not do his latest dance.  At the end of the session, the doctor said, “Nope. He’s fine.  Normal kid.” 

The doctor said this while holding her hand in the “gimmie gimmie” style.

I happily wrote the check, knowing at least I felt better.  But Grover has this bumpy thing on his chest we really need to get checked out.