Guidance

There's a guidance counselor at my daughter KaTTy's school and the classroom teachers drum up business for her by telling the kids that if there's anything they feel the need to talk about, they can sign up to talk to her.

Naturally, my daughter signed up. I say naturally, but it was a big surprise to me. I don't think of my daughter as "troubled." I think of her as "spoiled." (I was about to say that I, as much as anyone, know that one doesn't have to be "troubled" to see a counselor, but then I thought, "Hell, I was ALWAYS troubled.")

So KaTTy comes home and says, "I went to see Mrs. Dube today."

What did you talk about? I asked.

She told me one item that I thought was a pretty valid subject, regarding hers and my relationship. Then she said she talked about how "our house is messy" and "it's noisy and she can't find anyplace to read" and "my parents never take me shopping or anything."

Upon hearing this, my eyebrows shot into outer space and have not returned since. I know Rex and I view things from the perspective of aging but loving adults, and that KaTTy views things from the perspective of a 9-year-old, but I hadn't realized our points of view were on the first and last pages, respectively, at opposite ends of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. Our house is messy? Yeah, because there are 8 million toys stuffed into every conceivable nook and cranny, onto every available surface (including my snare drum and piano) and piled approximately three feet deep onto every floor. It's noisy? Yes, when the four dogs (two of whom KaTTy begged for) are barking at the three cats (one of whom KaTTy begged for) or the three horses (two of whom KaTTy begged for).

As for the shopping, or the "anything" that we never do for her, picture Rex and I scurrying about the house doing permanent backbends from trying to meet her demands. We've also worn out myriad hoops that we've been jumping through -- sometimes several at one leap -- since our daughter was born. In fact, her visit to the guidance counselor came hot on the heels of a rather large clothes-shopping excursion that involved driving two cars a total of 110 miles. I shan't go into details, but I assure you that that was the day my backbone calcified into permanent bendship.

Despite this horrendous track record, I am determined not to become a helicopter parent. I think when KaTTy goes to college, or to whatever life she chooses away from home, I'm going to apply for the witness protection program and get a new identity. I'm a witness. I witnessed my own fall from dignity.

This week I told KaTTy that she's on her own, that Rex and I are not going to help her one little bit. We won't take her to the library, we won't feed her puppy, we won't muck her pony's stall, we won't prepare a special, separate supper for her when she gags at what we've prepared. "What?" she yells, stomping around. "Aren't you going to FEED me?"

You see why I'm reading up on elder-abuse prevention; quick, before she turns 13. I am not joking. Mrs. Dube, take notice.