Pill-Popping Katie and Her Parents, The Pushers

Katie the Dead Bride, Halloween 2008

Our daughter Katie turned eight in November. She’s a bright, sunny, sweet, sensitive, smart, funny kid.

Unfortunately, she’s had trouble sleeping through the night — and, particularly, staying in her own bed — for the past several months. Rachel mentioned this to the pediatrician at Katie’s “well-baby” (annoys her; heh) checkup.

The doc — a Brit we’ve seen since we moved to Asheville coming up on seven years ago, whom we love and who knows us and Katie very well — put that in the hopper with a couple of other ancillary issues (e.g., nail-biting; eyes often red by the day’s end), and concluded that maybe Katie’s feeling a little stressed out. Her recommendation? A therapist who specializes in helping kids deal with stress.

I’m proud to say that none of us, including Katie, reacted in anything like the stereotypical way to this suggestion. Rachel and I both believe in therapy (as long as it’s not with, you know, my PhD in psychology, completely nuts dad). And Katie seemed totally nonplussed by having someone new with whom to “discuss her worries.”

The appointment was yesterday, and it was fine. If I describe the therapist, Laurie Ivler, as a middle-aged, flowing-skirted, vaguely crunchy kid therapist, the image you get in your head is probably just about dead on. We all talked for about 40 minutes, then she and Katie spoke alone for about 15. We have a plan, and it sounds like a good one. So all’s well.

The very best moment, though, was when Laurie asked Katie about her bedtime routine. It went something like this:

Laurie: “So, what happens at bedtime, Katie?”

Katie: “Well… I brush my teeth and do my rinse. And then I get in to my pajamas. But I don’t like the pants.”

Laurie: “Do you get too warm?”

Katie: “Yeah.”

Laurie: “And then what happens?”

Katie: “Then I usually read or my mom or dad reads to me for a few minutes. And then my mama kisses me good night, and my daddy sings to me, and then he kisses me good night.”

Laurie: “And then he leaves?”

Katie: “Usually.”

Laurie: “Usually?”

Katie: “Well, sometimes they give me a pill to make me sleep.”

<silence>

Laurie [eyebrow slightly raised]: “What… kind of pill?”

Katie [vindictively toward us]: “A round white pill that tastes awful when I chew it!”

<silence>

Rachel: <shakes head>

Matt [laughing]: “Thanks, K.”

Awesome.

It’s true: Sometimes, if it’s crucial that Katie fall off early enough to get a decent night’s sleep, and she’s been having trouble, we’ll give her a half or, rarely, a full melatonin. On the recommendation of… (wait for it) her pediatrician.

In the aftermath of Katie’s little inadvertent (and, of course, ultimately inconsequential) bombshell, I remember thinking to myself, Okay, this is no big deal, but make sure you don’t overreact, or the therapist’ll think you’re covering. Wait, “covering?” My god, you’re paranoid.

In any case, we must have handled it okay. DSS didn’t break down the door in the night. At least, not that I can recall. After all, I was slumbering under the weight of Vicodin and Tylenol PM.

-=-=-=-=-

UPDATE: I just related this tale to my mom, who laughed, then told me about a similar scene with she, me and my brother when I was, I dunno, seven or eight. I don’t remember it at all, but apparently, when the social worker asked each of us to name what made us saddest, my brother broke down into near-sobs, and said, “I never get any mail.”