It was time. She was having rough days 9 out of every 10 school days. Her impulsivity was significant — she was lying, stealing, and sneaking food each weekend. Every once in a while, we had that uneventful day. The last one still fresh in my memory.
“Isn’t it great I had a good day?” she asked me, her wide toothy grin in the rearview mirror. She has the look of wanting validation. “Yes, it is. It’s a day you can have every day.”
Again, she revisited the topic. “Isn’t it so special! I had a great day! Are you happy, Momma?” I answered, “Yes, I am. I know you can have lots of good days.”
The self-praises continued that afternoon. By dinner time she had revised once more, “I love having good days! I was so special today, right Momma?” I made the silent coyote signal with my hand, gesturing for her to be quiet. Then I corrected, “It’s not special and you are not behaving special. Your teacher said it wasn’t a bad day. That’s what she said!”
And there it was, my words cutting through the glee. Yes, it is time. Our former therapist emailed me back with instructions to fill out the intake paperwork so that we can schedule a consultation with her. Within 18 hours, I had completed the hefty packet and hand delivered it to her office. I wrote her: when are you free?