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Being a Dad

 Diablo Cody made a movie, "Tully," about a childcare provider who is part-saint--and the provider rescues puffy-eyed Charlize Theron from despondency.


I think of this sometimes when I see my child's occupational therapist, who sort of reminds me of God. Life is a long series of consultations with experts--some good, some bad--and the good ones are the ones who listen. 

My child's OT is serene when tantrums occur. This is because the source of the tantrum is a small, adorable child--and the OT hangs onto that fact. She says, "Why don't you just breathe deeply, and your kid will notice this." (And I think of advice from Al-Anon: You can't really *force* sobriety onto an alcoholic, but if you live your own life in a thoughtful way, you might just inspire change in another person.)

Sometimes, the bulk of the hour is silence: My kid might be focused, in a little rocking chair, or exploring a small buzzing massage toy. Then, the OT has several ideas, and she presents them in a way that doesn't feel overbearing: Talk about the textures of foods, mix yogurt with milk so it doesn't spill so fast when the cup is inevitably tipped. Practice sign language. Practice some more. Load up a weighted cart with stuffed animals and march around the living room; pretend you're shopping. When your child won't perform a task, direct your chat to "Mr. Elephant"; sometimes, this exerts a weird, and weirdly effective, form of "peer pressure" on your kid.

In these hour-long sessions, I feel like I'm seeing Yo-Yo Ma with a cello, or Nathan Chen with a pair of skates.

That's what is happening, here, for now.





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