Chain Reactions: Parenting & Providing Therapy With Perspective

This story begins on a bright, almost fall day. The wind and recent drop in temperature have signaled the beginning of the end of the sweltering summer heat. I’m relieved. 

Summer isn’t my favorite season, and it drags on forever in the south, complete with tornado warnings, mosquitoes, and everything in between. Even so, I am anxious as I transition my children from splash pads and sprinklers to rain boots and cardigans.

Change is in the air, and I’m more on edge than usual. In the midst of it all, are my three very busy, very loud, and very bright-eyed young children. (Kids, if you are reading this, know that you are fantastic and wonderful and I love you very very much) We’ll come back to this beautiful day in a moment—first, some backstory.

Having three kids in four years is not for the faint of heart. There’s mess, noise, chaos, and lots and lots and lots of snuggles. I describe it as delightfully exhausting. As an introvert, I lean more towards the exhausted direction than the delightful direction of this spectrum. 

In the normalities of raising my three children, I also navigate the constant novelties of raising a child with exceptional needs, which previously included the use of orthopedic supports like leg braces and a super nifty walker. I’ve learned about the parent side of the therapeutic process, and wow, it’s changed my perspective as a therapist. 

The day my child first used her walker felt like we bought a Mercedes. During her test drive, my little girl said, “Go fast! I fast! Faster!” as she wheeled around with squeals of glee. I cried. The physical therapist shared in our joy. It was awesome. I’ll never forget it.

This walker. This inanimate object. It had life. It held memories. It was filled to the brim with hope. It touched me. It spoke to me. It was priceless and I would protect it at all costs.

While I watched her wheel around, bumping and scraping our walls as she zoomed through our home (we needed an excuse to start the paint job anyway), I realized with a pang that my incredible child wasn’t ending their therapeutic journey. They were only beginning. 

Woah. This was going to be a lot more work than I realized. 

As therapists, we go to (or receive) a client for an hour, pour our well-intentioned wisdom into suspecting families, and move on our merry way to the next case. Passion notwithstanding, it is a job. 

That’s not to say that our job isn’t difficult, or that we don’t care deeply about the families in our care. It's just that our one hour doesn’t encapsulate what these families experience daily. Early in my career, I remember telling a colleague, “I just don’t understand why families are always so focused on the future. Why can’t they just enjoy working on the now?” 

However, my perspective has changed. As a parent, all I want to know about is the future. The future gives hope because it is unknown. The now is messy, mundane, and sometimes unkind. 

Even joyful moments can be a slap in the face. I’ve been scared to celebrate my daughter’s triumphs because I don’t know if progress will lead to another setback or slogging through a plateau in ability. Questions about the future pound in my head every single day, and I can’t answer them. It’s lonesome and exhausting, but I force myself to live in the moment, because dwelling on the hopes of the future can also lead to facing possibilities that are too overwhelming to face. 

Back to the almost fall day. I decide, because my children are bouncing off the walls and I’m at my wits end, to go to a nearby playground with a bathroom (this is important for later). We arrive. No one is using the playground. 

Good, I think I may have yogurt in my hair and a peanut butter stain on my pants. I don’t want to be that mom (more on this later too). I lug my six, four, and two-year-old children along with my daughter’s memory-rich walker out of our sticky minivan. 

You know that scene in “The Wizard of Oz” where the Wicked Witch of the West says, “Fly my pretties!” to her minions? That’s pretty much me at this moment with my children. 

They run. I collapse in a heap on a bench—finally , peace and a light fall breeze. I place my backpack on the ground, feel a text come in, and do exactly what I tell my clients not to do. 

I pull out my phone. The text is inconsequential, as nearly all texts are, but when I look up two seconds later, my four-year-old son is bolting for the restroom. 

Great. 

I call my six-year-old to follow. My two-year-old shouts, “I stuck!” with increasing agitation from her walker lodged against a rock. 

I breathe. I will not lose my head yet. 

Focus—the bathroom.

In the chaos of a now crying toddler, a semi-protesting six-year-old, and my mission to meet my four-year-old in the bathroom, I abandon my backpack and child’s walker without a second thought. 

This is fine. 

I open the door to the bathroom and am met with a massacre. I will save you the gory details, but suffice it to say, my four-year-old found the toilet…sort of. 

Okay, this is completely fine. Breathe. 

I close the door behind me. My son’s soiled pants are clumped on the floor near the sink. Excrement everywhere. After I finish collecting myself, I turn and see my six-year-old inspecting the soiled pants. “Don’t touch that!” I say in a panic. 

It was a rookie mistake. Any knowledgeable therapist knows you must put all requests in the positive (“Keep your hands to yourself” might have been a better option) but alas. What does my six-year-old do in response? 

Naturally, they stick their hand directly in the soiled part of my four-year-old’s crumpled pants. My soul nearly leaves my body. Apparently, she only heard the “touch that” part of the request. 

This is less fine. Breathe twice. And a third time.

Finally. Finally. I can get everyone washed and cleaned. There’s one problem, though. My backpack, which I regrettably abandoned outside, has the change of clothes for my darling son. 

So here I am, in a tiny family bathroom. I have one screaming toddler, one wiggly six-year-old, and my very strong-willed, half-dressed four-year-old insisting that I can pull fresh pants out of thin air. 

I breathe. It catches in my throat. This isn’t fine. I am functioning at 110%. I feel my lizard brain creeping in. My jaw is clenched. My eye may or may not be twitching. The frizz factor on my hair is unacceptable. A drop of sweat is running down my back. 

Nope. Not okay. Definitely, not okay. Still, I press on. 

I march myself and the troops (some clothed, some not) to the playground to retrieve my backpack with the necessary equipment. And what do I see? 

Three tweens are having a full-on tug-of-war over my daughter’s walker. That precious, precious walker is imbued with hope, love, and direction. At this moment, it may as well be my fourth child. 

My soul leaves my body, and is replaced, naturally, with the embodiment of Zeus. I point, summoning the powers of Olympus.  

“That is my daughter’s medical equipment. You will remove your hands from it at once.”
 

I didn’t yell. It was sort of a guttural sound. Like a sea lion? Or a passionate whale? Anyway, it scared the living daylights out of everyone on the playground, including me. 

Honestly, this story ends completely fine. Those poor, sweet tweens were ushered off the playground by another apologetic adult. I was profusely embarrassed, and my four-year-old somehow found his pants amid the chaos. And guess what? I was that mom. 

I was overwhelmed, frazzled, and struggling. That’s okay, because the present is messy, and we learn in mess sometimes better than we learn in perfection, but it’s critical to keep an eye on these types of chain reactions. 

My point in telling this story? As therapists, it’s essential to be mindful of where our parents and families are on the continuum of chain reactions like the one above. 

For example, if a parent has been fine with reducing services due to their child’s progress and suddenly wants more services, instead of asking, “Why are they doing this? Don’t they trust me?” ask, “What is going on in their lives that may be instigating this change in preference? Is there a chain reaction that has occurred or will occur?” In other words, don’t make it personal. Make it practical and applicable to the family. 

Do you have support available to families who are dealing with being on and always on the brink of a meltdown or anticipating never-ending chain reactions? This is especially important for families who are faced with socio-economic challenges, cultural or language barriers, and any other additional stressors (i.e. move, new baby in the home, divorce). 

As a parent, I implore therapists to consider that while our services are needed and critical, they aren’t always at the forefront of the minds of families in the present, even if the future needs of their children are (see in defense of my child’s walker).

Recognize the mess. Acknowledge the future. Be understanding in the present. Build and change. Laugh and cry. Simply be. Your impact may be bigger than you realize, even if your services sometimes feel unimportant or disregarded at the moment. 

As a parent, thank you for what you do. Truly.

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