I Think I Need a Shrink

The other day someone suggested I should see a psychologist. She’s probably right.

Who wouldn’t after spending 45 minutes at the pediatrician's office, alone in a small patient room with a three-year-old and a one-year-old? It's one thing to be home with your full defense arsenal -- books, toys, Dora videos and straight jackets. But the doc's office? It's like being behind enemy lines.

First, an intern came in to assess my one-year-old son Johnny’s cold then declared he had to go get the pediatrician for a second opinion because, well, he's an intern. Nobody believes him. By then I had no diapers and Goldfish rations ran out.

“Daddy, I have to go potty,” says Belle, my three-year-old daughter. So I lug my sick son – who, at 18 months is already as tall and heavy as his big sister – and Belle to the rest room. I look for a nurse or pediatrician to inform them where we’re going so we don’t miss a turn, but it’s a ghost town. Maybe they heard us coming? ("Quick, hide in the toxic waste bin!")

Back in the patient room, Johnny lunges for the used syringe disposal box while Belle jumps onto the doc's stool-on-wheels, coasting and spinning across the room, tongue hanging out like a dog in a convertible.

Johnny is screaming and Belle’s giggling. Johnny figures out how to open the door and run down the hall. Now Belle’s REALLY giggling.

After carrying Johnny back into the room like a riot cop pacifying a protestor, Belle begins running in circles in the room singing, “Fishing down the escalator, fishing down the escalator...” Now there’s something out of a psychedelic M.C. Escher rendering.

After about 20 minutes of that, I stick my head in the pediatrician’s sink to get a thorough rinse. Or was that my children dunking me?

I tried to cope by discussing with Belle and Johnny the elect-ability of Hillary versus Obama, or what free agents the Packers, Bears and Cowboys might sign this off-season. “The McCain-Feingold Bill,” I said to them. “Discuss.”

Johnny and Belle stared blankly at me for a second then went back to reaching for the stethoscope on the desk.

I can see my psychologist now, holding up an ink blot and asking, "When you see this, do you visualize a moth… or your son jumping off the patient table?"

I suppose I can look on the bright side. Maybe the shrink will publish my case study in the APA’s next edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM).

It would probably read something like:

“Symptoms indicate post-traumatic stress and separation from reality. Diagnosis: Just-Took-The-Kids-To-The-Doctor-And-Got-Left-45-Minutes Syndrome.” Text book.