Of all the issues to which I expected to apply my clinical problem solving skills, this is not one. My four-year-old client farts in the middle of therapy. Loudly. Flagrantly. And he's getting bolder about it. The first time it happened, he looked at us (myself and the other clinician) with a big grin pasted across his face. After the most recent episode, he laughed out loud. We're not quite sure whether the key to extinguishing this off-task behavior is to ignore it or address it directly. Maybe I should add it to my list of objectives: The client will produce /l/ in all contexts and refrain from flatulence in the therapy room. It seems to happen whenever he is having a good time. Regardless, he makes it clear he's having a good time whenever it happens.
Hey, did I ever tell you guys that I'm inbred? Yup, the ol' family tree branches out, then straight back in. It was a long time ago, so I'm sure all the genes have sorted themselves out by now. It is kind of interesting to think, though, that my grandfather had eight brothers and sisters who were also his third cousins. His parents were his second cousins once removed.
If you're wondering how all this came about, I'll try to explain the logistics. Once upon a time there were two brothers. They each had children (first cousins), who each had children (second cousins), who got married. Far enough apart to be legal, but not far enough to be called "distant." Now there's a culture that doesn't let anything get in the way of love. Hooray for my Alabama ancestry.
(Derek, don't kill me for posting this.)
xoneltrip: well when you need a laugh tonight just think of derek getting the digits of a bi porn star who is the granddaughter of the biggest political figure of the gulf war :-) and think of how funny life can be sometimes
Do you ever find yourself in a situation, an encounter, that you know is ordained by God? There is some meaning or purpose for your being there—for your being you, there. Right then. You are completely in the moment—so self-aware that every nerve ending tingles—as if the Holy Spirit, the Cosmic Stage Manager, had just whispered in your ear, "You're on."
And you blow it.
You know there's something you should be saying. Some way to acknowledge God, to meet that person where they are, to validate the encounter in terms of His kingdom. But you just stand there stupidly with a "Thanks," or a "That's ok," or a "You, too," and then leave as soon as possible because you know it's too late to say anything worthwhile.
I trust the Holy Spirit to give me the words in these situations. I just wonder if I know how to listen.
I love old journals. The trick is wait so long to read them that you can't remember what you wrote. Like today when I found this 5-year-old wishlist:
4-15-00
"Things I Would Ever Want a Guy to Do for Me"
open doors - all doors
pick up the check
sit next to me with his arm draped over the back of the chair
share an umbrella
make me a milkshake
serenade me outside my window
hold me
take me camping, skiing, boating
wear a suit
take me dancing, especially swing
write a poem or a song, or draw a picture for me
fix dinner
surprise me
give me flowers
spend time with me
miss me
take care of me
ask me to marry him
ask my dad's permission first
love me