Jack had his quarterly visit with Everyone’s Favorite Developmental Psychologist yesterday.
A year ago, hearing the words Developmental and Psychologist together made my heart beat fast and my palms sweat. I had this innate fear of her. I had heard stories in the community…that, you know, she was <insert bad connotation here>.
Our first visit was intense. She basically looked at Jack, proclaimed him FAS/drug exposed/PDD-NOS, and then explained to me (in no uncertain terms) that you can’t roll a cow patty in powdered sugar and call it a jelly donut. I left feeling like I had been run over by a truck. I’m a nurse. I should handle this stuff better, right?
No. I’m still a mom.
Anyway, so let’s fast forward to yesterday.
We’re sitting in her office, which hasn’t been updated since 1973. Except she did add a piece of artwork–there’s a lovely eagle painted on a piece of wood. The eagle is quite patriotic, and has “1776” painted on one wing, and “1976” painted on the other.
She’s sitting there, and we’re having a frank discussion about Prozac. She asks what our intentions are for school for the youngling. I explained our palliative care plight and the fact that we’ll be moving soon. She asked not about the palliative care, but the move. We talked at length of the Secret Location and…
…she said we’d be doing the right thing for Jack.
I think that was my sign.
Moving is not going to make Jack miraculously better, but I think it’s going to give him better care.
It doesn’t hurt that it’s going to help Mom’s mental health either…