What’s in the Label?

Standing around the kitchen of a buddy of mine who had recently received a $350,000 MacArthur Genius Grant for his lifetime achievements in the field of poetry, it occurred to the few remaining guests that there are only so many ways to say “congratulations” and even fewer ways to say “Man, that is a LOT of money for writing poems” and so it was time to clean up some plates and cups before heading back to our Non-Genius-Award lives. Even big celebrations at this stage of life involve more half-eaten bagels than empty wine bottles, so there were more plates than glasses to deal with. After watching the MacArthur recipient struggle unsuccessfully for some minutes to negotiate the placement of a bowl in the dishwasher rack, his wife took the pewter object from him, placed it effortlessly in the machine, and remarked, “yeah, he’s a genius.”

Yet my topic this week is not about “all kinds of minds” and how we should allow our children to excel in those areas in which they have aptitude and enjoyment rather than berate them endlessly regarding those areas where they lack skill. Nor is my screed this Tuesday about how, had Thomas been forced to master “Dish Placement” before moving on to literature, our world would be a poorer place. Instead, I want to examine my own label, that of “mental health professional.” Do I possess enough mental health to be considered stable, never mind in possession of enough of said quantity to dispense it to others? Is my buddy a genius just because he got an award for $350K? Am I qualified to give advice about how to bring up healthy kids just because I–er, well–give advice about how to bring up healthy kids?

So, to determine my status, I performed the following assessment: I took my precious six-year-old daughter and our equally adorable brown dog outside where we proceeded to stand for some time, waiting to cross the busy street on which we live. Needless to say, no car stopped to let our intrepid party cross. Indeed, no car slowed down. It could be argued that no driver looked away from simultaneously applying makeup, drinking coffee, changing the CD, and talking on the phone to notice our minor plight. My mental health question is this: how angry is it appropriate to be, not being able to cross the street in front of my own house with my daughter and dog?

Clearly, I am fortunate beyond reason to even live in a house; few people in the world do. I am not addressing my sense of entitlement nor am I thinking about one of my old students who, at the ripe old age of 35, sold some software to AOL for tens of millions of dollars and retired–doubtless to a less busy street. No, my question is simply this: how angry is it appropriate to be that no driver in this town will stop to allow a child and a dog to cross a street? If I am indeed a mental health professional, my mental health should not be negatively affected by standing with my daughter and our dog on the curb for a few interminable minutes waiting to cross the street as cars speed obliviously by.

Or should it?

What about the fact that I was here first? I was born and bred in this town. I have lived in Miami for 57 years and paid prodigious taxes for most of them. Who are all these tourists? Don’t you agree that they’ve got their nerve coming down here from the tundra of New Jersey driving on the street where I have lived for generations? And what about common courtesy? And what about the fact that they’re all watching movies and writing novels while driving, not paying attention to children and dogs on the side of the road at all?

Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere. Because my annoyance at not being able to take my daughter and our dog for a walk is based on deeper issues, issues that have nothing to do with what I originally said they have to do with. My annoyance–now solidly a 17 on a scale of one to ten–isn’t about the infinitely rude drivers at all.

So now, let me ask you: when you gently and politely inquire as to whether or not you’re able bodied, healthy, 17-year-old son will put away the laundry that you were gracious enough to wash, dry, fold and leave in a basket outside his door after only being asked 47 times, are you just annoyed–as you could very well be–or is there an underpinning of not feeling valued? Or are you concerned about a future in which your son continues his slovenly ways and ends up drinking wine in the gutter? Or are you pissed at your ex-husband who never helped with the laundry either?

When you tell your son to do his homework, is there a resonance for you relating to your son’s academic future or lack of one? Do you catastrophize in a way that your son does not?

Gentle, directed advice for this week: when you feel yourself getting angry with your kids, S-T-O-P and ask yourself the question: why am I so ticked off? If the answer has more to do with yourself and less to do with the kids, it just might be time to take a break. Might I recommend taking the family dog for a walk?