Then he, Sam and I, jump on the highway for the hour-long commute to therapy. It’s exhausting.
We’re working with a graduate student clinic in Auburn. We’re very lucky to be there. The students, completing their practicums under licensed psychologists, have access to the newest theories, the things that might help Sam. Only right now, because it’s the first six weeks, the part where they have to see for themselves that the tried and true is useless for us, we’re trapped in CDI.
Those initials stand for Child Directed Intervention or some bullshit. It amounts to them thinking that because Sam has a lot of attention seeking behaviors, he must be attention motivated. They think that we can manipulate his love of people’s focus into making him act better.
I have explained point blank that if that worked we wouldn’t be here.
But they think they have a new way to go about it. Or maybe they don’t quite exactly believe us. Or maybe they believe us but think our perceptions are necessarily biased. Ultimately they will, as have all their predecessors, actually treat my child.
In the meantime, we have to deal with baby talk. “That’s a great tower.” “I love the patience you showed with those bricks.” Like what, maybe he’ll learn patience with people when he knows damned well Legos are inanimate objects?
CDI has a team based approach, so a pair of shrinks-in-training dissect our weekly interactions. I’m pretty confident that once we get through the “getting to know you” garbage, they’ll be able to help us.
But while we wait this out, Scott and I become the psychologists’ trained seals, pattering out attaboys and hoping we’re wrong. We get on our middle class family act one morning every week and commute an hour each way to buy our son a chance to grow up human. We hold our wedding rings in the palms of our hands and wish for two generations of blessings as we ride into battle.