TIMMY by Vicki Allen-Hitt

Timmy was the first child I treated in therapy. Unsure of what approach to use, I soon realized having the undivided attention of an adult with no judgment might be all a child needed.

In the phone intake, Lara told me she had two boys, and her frustration was off the chart. She needed an appointment as soon as possible.

“I can see you tomorrow at four.”

The next day I walked out to the waiting room and found her seated. She was dressed in jeans and a halter top and looked way too young to have two children.

  “You must be Lara. Come in.” Once in my office, I said, “Have a seat.”

She frowned. “Why do I need to be here? Can’t I just bring my son in? He’s the one with the problem.”

“It’s important for me to know the family background.” I picked up my notepad.

She exhibited no emotion as she gave me the family’s history. “Johnny, the boys’ father, and I were partying and were free from our parents. We were having a great time.”

“Then what happened?”

“I got pregnant. He was making good money. Right after Bobby was born, he got arrested.”

“What was the reason?”

“He was selling dope and landed in jail for two years. My parents thought I knew what he was doing, but I didn’t. Now I’m twenty with two babies, I had to crawl back home and beg my folks to let me stay with them. I had no way to support myself and the boys.”

“What is it like living with your parents?”

“Awful. They’re retired. Then I show up with two rambunctious boys. I’m trying to find a job. I’m not having any luck. My parents hate the noise and the messes. Timmy is the worst. He’s such a rowdy kid. I need you to teach him to behave before my parents kick us out.”

The following week, Lara arrived, dragging Timmy into my office. He was long-legged for a five-year-old with a mop of brown hair, dressed in a striped tee shirt and jeans.

“You behave. I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour.” She glared my way. “Right?”

Once she left, Timmy stood frozen in the middle of the room.

I smiled. “How about we sit on the floor? We can build something with the Legos. Want to get them?”

He ran to the table and grabbed the container.

“You can dump them on the floor. Want to see who can build the tallest tower?”

“Sure.”

As we erected our towers, I asked questions. “You’re five. How old is your little brother?”

“He’s four. He doesn’t get into trouble like me.”

“Why you and not him?”

“I’m too noisy. It makes my grandpa angry.”

“Does grandpa like to watch television or read the paper?”

“He likes his programs.”

“Do you understand why he gets upset?”

“No.”

“You don’t like to get yelled at, right? If you were watching your favorite cartoon, would you want people making a lot of noise?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s what upsets your grandpa. Do you know what an inside voice is?”

“No.”

“I’ll show you what I mean. I’ll go first.” With a soft tone, I said, ’Nice to know you.’ Now, you try your inside voice.”

Timmy lowered his head. “I like you.”

“Good job. Try using it in the house.”

“Do you think he wouldn’t get so mad?”

“I think your grandpa would like it.”

All the time we talked, we continued to build our towers.

“Wow! Your tower is taller than mine.” I said, “Great job. Now let’s put away the Legos.”

As he collected all the pieces, I worked alongside him.

“Thanks for being a good helper.” I handed him a drawing tablet and crayons. “Would you like to draw me a picture of your house?”

He lay on his stomach. I remained quiet and watched as he drew a house with a pitched roof, large front windows, and two perfectly shaped doors, one smaller than the other. One door he colored red. The other he colored black, pressing hard until the crayon broke.

As he finished, I asked, “Do you like to draw?”

“Mommy says it keeps me out of trouble.”

“Want to tell me about your drawing?”

  “Sure.”

“It looks like you have two doors. Can you tell me why?”

“The smaller door is a magic door.”

“Why is the door magic?”

  “It lets me in when it gets dark outside.”

“Why are you outside when it’s dark?”

Timmy frowned. “I get too loud for Grandpa, so I have to go out on the porch.”

“But your magic door makes you feel safe?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

  “Your mommy will be here soon,” I said. “I hope you have a good week.”

I opened the door and walked him to his mother.

“How did it go?” she asked.

I gave Timmy a hug. “Good. Right, Timmy?”

He smiled and hugged me back.

Once they left, I sat at my desk. I was exhausted. I knew the problem wasn’t the boy but the mother. Lara was overwhelmed trying to raise two boys, and she needed parenting training. Timmy was a typical five-year-old, energetic, curious, and healthy.

After two more visits, Lara said, “I can’t afford Timmy’s therapy. Besides, his behavior is the same.”

I wanted to say, “You come instead of him, and I’ll give you some parenting skills. I know how tough this is for you.”

My instincts told me she wouldn’t see it that way.