The Psychotherapist

When my kids were about one and half, I met a mother of twins that lived several streets over from me. Since our kids were pretty close in age, we scheduled a playdate. She was, by profession, a psychotherapist and I was afraid she would be analyzing me the whole time. The woman was nice enough, I suppose, though I could tell we would never be real friends.

First of all, when I went to her house for our morning playdate, she had the nerve to offer me tea. I'm a mother of twins for crying-out-loud! I drink the hard stuff! Give me coffee and make it strong and snappy you freak! I quieted my thoughts and tried not to be so judgmental. Later, we were playing in her backyard with our kids and when it was time to come back in, Max threw a hairy fit. She took her kids and my other son Ben into another room and said, "let's give them some time alone together". I immediately thought, Hey! Where are you going?!! Don't leave me alone with this lunatic! Come back! He's a nut! HELP ME!

Oddly enough, she never called me for another playdate, which was an overall relief to me. However, after reading this blog I realize that I am indeed in need of mental help and should have signed up for multiple sessions with her.