“I was just thinking about Noah.”
This is always how I start the Me days. Talking about my eight-year-old son.
“How is Noah?” she asks.
“He’s good. I mean, he’s great, actually. But I got another call from his teacher. He did a series of drawings for art class. Or fart class, as Noah calls it. It’s a bunch of wonderful characters, and they’re all based on different kinds of farts. There’s a green thing named Brock who’s really healthy and boring. That’s inspired by broccoli farts. There’s a soda fart called Mr. Bubbles. There’s the LOL FOL. That one’s a cat’s butthole with a capital L on either side of it.”
“A butthole sandwich.”
“Exactly! When you Laugh Out Loud so hard that you Fart Out Loud. LOL FOL.”
“Surely a third grade teacher must have a sense of humor about farts.”
“Well, she was mostly concerned about the lumpy brown one. Noah explained to her that it’s a bean fart. The problem is—he named that one after his teacher. Mrs. Bean. But I explained to her how much he loves Mexican beans. I said she should really be flattered because it’s his absolute favorite thing to eat, and when he farts after eating them he’s about as happy as I’ve ever seen him. She started crying because she felt so guilty about being mad about it, and then she spent twenty minutes telling me about how underappreciated she always feels. By her students, her kids, and her husband. By the time I’d hung up with her, Mrs. Bean was feeling really good about life and really great about Noah.”
“That sounds great.”
“Yeah. The problem is Noah hates beans. And he really doesn’t like his teacher very much. But I didn’t want her to be mad at him. In my mind I visualized dropkicking her into a dumpster when she complained about him not taking his assignments seriously. But my mouth automatically started telling her what I knew she needed to hear in order to feel better about things. About my son, in particular.”
“Well. It’s what we do.”
“Tell little white lies about fart art?”
“Attempt to help people have an understanding of something so they’ll feel better. There’s certainly no shame in that.”
“I suppose not. Honestly, I care more about her feeling good about Noah.”
“Again, that’s understandable.”
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m a little too protective of him. I mean, it’s not like how my mother’s always been with me. I don’t want to shield him from the world. I just secretly want to punch anyone who doesn’t make him feel special in it. He hasn’t found the limits of his imagination. There’s still an entire universe for him to explore, and it doesn’t even occur to him that he might reach the edge of anything one day. That he’ll have to pull back from something. I’m so proud of him and so jealous, and I feel guilty about being jealous, which is so stupid. But it’s true. I’m always trying to draw a perfect circle and beating myself up about it when I can’t. And he’s fearlessly creating new shapes and saying, ‘Hey, Mom! Look what I made!’ I’m so afraid he’ll meet someone who’ll make him feel like those shapes aren’t right or they aren’t good enough.”
Dr. Keller subtly arches a brow. I can tell she’s trying very hard not to lean forward in her chair. “You mean a teacher?”
Here we go…
“I’m afraid he’ll grow up and marry someone who doesn’t appreciate him enough. I know how neurotic that is.”
“Why do you think you’re afraid of that for him?”
“Because I’m afraid of that for me, obviously. I mean, it happened to me. With my ex-husband.”
There, I said it.
I hold her gaze and wait for her to get into it because it’s been many months since I’ve talked about my divorce.
She looks down as she brushes off a piece of lint from her pants. “Last month you said you were having some trouble getting to sleep at night. How’s sleep now?”
Interesting. She doesn’t think I’m ready to get into it yet. She doesn’t like it when I try to force an aha moment. I get it. Therapists make the worst patients. Fine.
“I wouldn’t say I’m having trouble getting to sleep. I’ve started to really enjoy staying up late. It’s like the boring goodie-two-shoes single mom version of misbehaving. After putting Noah to bed for the nineteenth time every night, I get into my Snoopy pajamas, pour myself a glass of wine, play remote control roulette. Watch whatever channel I land on, cuddle with a dog or two, and usually fall asleep to some early eighties comedy starring various Saturday Night Live alumni. That’s my Me Time. So I get a little less sleep, drink a lot more coffee, and now I know that every funny thing I’ve ever heard my dad say was a quote from a Chevy Chase movie.” I laugh the tiniest bit because I love my dad and the thought of him trying to crack me up makes me all warm inside. And tired. Everything makes me tired. I stifle a yawn.
Dr. Keller smiles. “As long as you’re getting enough sleep.”
“I don’t know that I’m getting enough of anything at this point in my life…”
And there it is. That hint of what’s really on my mind.
“Do you ever worry that you’re making your patients worse?” I blurt out. Welp. Maybe I’m still not ready to talk about it yet. “I mean, you’re a wonderful therapist—I’m not questioning your gift for this. I just wonder if I’m the only one who has such a bad case of imposter syndrome.”
She checks the time on the small clock on the coffee table between us, ever so subtly. “We all suffer from self-doubt occasionally, of course. But I think you are very hard on yourself, Scarlett. And I can see so clearly how therapy has benefited you over the years. For instance, it was very difficult for you to come to the decision to leave Adam… Do you remember?”
Hearing his name in this context makes my entire body tense up. My amygdala triggers an anxiety response, and every part of me that had just begun to open up the slightest bit shuts tight like a fist again. Dr. Keller notices this. She probably said his name on purpose to get a reaction. I know that move. I’ll ride with it. I look her straight in the eyes and nod my head once in agreement. Bring it.
“I remember.”
“You felt so guilty about it because of Noah. But it was clear that everyone was suffering, and when you were ready, you faced it. Head-on. You separated from him in a graceful and mindful way that caused as little stress for your child as possible, and you created a co-parenting structure that works.”
I have to laugh at that. “I mean. Adam is a good dad, but I wouldn’t call anything in my life structured. It doesn’t feel that way anyway.”
“I think that’s just you being hard on yourself.”
“Maybe.”
“It sounds to me like Noah is a very well-adjusted little boy.”
“He is. It’s a miracle, but he is.”
“It’s not a miracle, Scarlett. It’s because of how you’ve handled things with Adam. It really is.”
“Okay.” I accept this one thing so we can move on.
We’re both silent for a little while, but I’m not lost in thought this time. I’m very aware that she’s watching me and waiting to bring something else up. I know the pattern of these conversations. On some level, I trust it.