It was about five pm and I had just wrapped my last therapy session for the day. I was just packing my things away when I overheard my eight year old client Jack* talking to his mother. By talking, I mean it was the Spanish Inquisition. His mother was grilling him about what we did during the session. The conversation went something like this:
Mom: What did you do with Teacher Ariane?
(Start of Segue)
People call me "Teacher" at work because of some stupid tradition which dictates that if you, god forbid, do a little instructing, you become a "Teacher" by association. I have nothing against teachers, believe it or don't, it's just that I'll never be comfortable with the label the way I am comfortable with "dude" or my own, personal, given name. For example, I have been begging our new receptionist at the clinic, for the last three weeks, to drop the "Maam" (Don't even get me started with that awful, awful title of "refinement", I only call women "Maam" when I'm secretly mocking them in my head.)
I finally had it this afternoon with the receptionist and finally told her, "If you call me Maam again, I will gut you like a fish. Alive."
Hopefully, that sent the message across.
(End of Segue)
Mom: You fixed puzzles? Okay. What else did you do?
Jack: Tool shelf.
Mom: You also fixed a tool shelf? Nice. And then what else?
Jack: Draw story book.
Mom: Then you drew a storybook. Is that all you did?
There was a pause. Which was followed by what could have been a sigh. And then, he answered.
Jack: Working. Always working.
And even though I couldn't see the satisfied look on his mother's face, I knew that Jack had finally given her the answer she wanted.
I think I should start working my clients like a nine to five. Only I already am working a nine to five, and oh boy, is it fun.
And if you're Sheldon Cooper, yes, that was sarcasm.
*not his real name