Skip to main content

The Behavioral Coach

 It's said that "The Simpsons" has the success it has because of its twin subjects: family and folly. There will always be family; there will always be folly. We will always feel an interesting ambivalence toward our blood relations. We will always behave in silly ways. And so there will always be "The Simpsons."


My son has a behavioral coach who visits on Tuesdays. I find this person well-intentioned and somewhat exasperating. She has built a career on challenging the gospel of potty training--the gospel that says, "Your child must display curiosity and readiness before you begin the process." The behavioral coach says, "Nope. Not true."

The coach's prodding so deeply irritates my son, he has started to shut her out. He isn't subtle. "Go away," he says, when she arrives. "Bye! Bye now!" Sometimes, he holds up a hand and says, "Stop talking. If you talk, I'm going to hit you."

Once, the coach suggested that my son needed visual cues; he needed to see photos of the afternoon ahead, so he wouldn't be surprised and aggressive during the 4pm visit. I thought this was bullshit. My son wasn't surprised by the visit. He was just pissed off about the potty training. He was rude to the coach because she pissed him off.

I didn't say any of this.

My secret is that I'm always on Joshua's side. The coach arrives and suggests a board game; Josh is tired, he has been in school, and he does not want to focus on color-coded cards and plastic chess pieces. He wants to be outside, to shoot hoops. I feel a profound identification with my son in these moments.

That said, I do think it would be great to get the potty situation under control. And so--like Marge Simpson--I drink a little wine. I cross my fingers. I nag a bit more than I'd like. Here's hoping for change.























Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more