Out Of Order

I realized (after it was pointed out to me by a sharp eyed member of the audience) that I have spoken a bit out of order. My only excuse is related to my grief at having to say goodbye to Diet Coke, which for now is off limits due to it's incredible heartburn inducing capabilities. Sniff...

My initial intention was to explain what the nine letters after my name actually mean. The hidden agenda with that explanation is to explain why the letters need explanation and why that makes my profession pretty silly. Shall I explain?

The title MA, LLPC, NCC means that I am a Masters Level, Limited License Professional Counselor, and a Nationally Certified Counselor. This means I am certified to provide psychotherapy for individuals, couples, adolescents, kids, substance abusers, and so on. The NCC means that I am certified to do this in 38 states. (Missouri, here we come!)

What this actually means is that I owe the Department of Education a small fortune, and am part of a not-very-elite group of crackpots that have the complicated world of psychotherapy "all figured out". Most of us seem to have pretty high opinions of ourselves and a barely concealed disdain for other members of the social services field. (Sorry, MSWs, we secretly think you stink at therapy but are very glad you are there to help us find community resources.)

What I've come to realize is that all of these letters after my name do not add up to the towering authority that I'd been hoping for. My subordinates (i.e. Husby, Dog and Darling Child) still have limited respect for my commands. I still can't get into the VIP room at the bar or get my meals paid for by my fans. They still won't put me through to George Clooney's personal voice mail, and no one has bothered to listen to my diatribe about why I need a Secret Service agent of my own.

So it has occurred to me that the more letters one has after their name, the less authority one actually has. If some is an MD, for example, you know exactly what that means. Even a PhD is a pretty good indicator of social rank. But an MALLPCNCC? Meaningless, and disregarded. Oh, wait! I could sit through another 12 credit hours and get an LMFT (licensed marriage and family therapist), would I be cool then?

No.

Ooooh, what if I got an LLP(limited license psychologist)? Then I could be MALLPCNCCLMFTLLP and boy, does THAT roll right off the tongue. An even lengthier explanation of that moniker would be required, as well as a much longer payback period on my student loans. Little career opportunities in any of these fields make the joke even funnier.

And the sad fact is that most of us, LLPs, LMFTs, MSWs, LLPCs and so on, do approximately the same thing. We can all be hired for the same jobs, make the same crap salaries, and garner little respect from the doctors. (Whom we often mock but secretly aspire to be.)

So, to answer the question of my sharp eyed reader, the letters after my name apparently don't mean diddly-squat. But they are mine, by jove, and I have a big blue piece of paper from the State Department of Mental Health that says I am authorized to screw with people's minds. Now if I could just find someone to pay me to do it....

What is in a name?

Or, more importantly, what is written after a name?

I have recently been awarded nine letters after my name to signify just incredibly important and smart I am. I am officially Jaime ____, MA, LLPC, NCC. Impressive, aren't I? Yes, I am. Very. I will be available to sign autographs later.

I am also using them as a weapon in my power struggle with Husby, who is struggling to understand my genius. He continues to challenge my authority, despite repeated warnings and reminders that I have nine letters after my name.

"How many letters do you have after your name?" I asked him after he showed casual disregard for my list of things he needed to do around the house.

"Lets see." He counts them on his fingers. "T.h.e. K.i.n.g. O.f. T.h.e. W.o.r.l.d. I count 17, which is way more than nine."

(I'm absolutely certain that Barack Obama does not have to deal with this kind of impertinence with the members of his cabinet.)

One of our intellectually stimulating debates promptly followed, as illustrated succinctly by Calvin and Hobbes:


(Husby is totally like "Gakka Wakka Wakka", and for the record, he started it first.)



All Calvin and Hobbes images are copyright © Universal Press Syndicate and the original artwork of Bill Watterson.

Taking Turns

- Awesome Wife: "I'm not going to let you have the last piece of pie ever again if you don't bother to wash the pie plate after you're done."

- Husby: "It's your turn to do the dishes."

My turn? I didn't know we were taking turns. It is now his turn to clean the bathroom, bear a child, pay the bills and give the dog his medication. And it is my turn to do whatever I feel like all the time.

(In his defense, I reluctantly admit that it would be also be my turn to mow the lawn, lift heavy things, install light fixtures and endure life with an obnoxious pregnant wife.)

Oh, how far we've come...

It has finally occurred to Husby and I that we are to be parents again in rather short order. (I say six weeks from now, most likely. Anyone care to make a wager?) We have decided to re-decorate the room donated to the dog and make it into a baby-friendly nursery. The feelings of the displaced dog have been noted and disregarded. Sorry, Murph.

Part of the redecorating process has included the removal of the previous owner's curious choice in carpet, a rust colored eyesore with yellow spots. The removal of this carpet, courageously undertaken by Husby alone, has left us with a bit of repair work to do on the baseboard trim.

For this, Husby needed some different nails than we have in our collection. Having been stuck in the house for an eternity, I volunteered quite happily to go to Home Depot all by myself and pick up the nails. (There is also a craft store next to Home Depot that I wanted to go into all by myself.)

For the better part of an hour, I wandered up and down each aisle in Home Depot. I looked at tiles, wood floors, sinks, toilets, light fixtures, power tools, lumber and cabinetry. I walked past a display of bar stools and had a funny mental image of me sitting on the bar stools and waiting patiently.

"Uh, can I ...help you?" Imagine how uncomfortable the employee would be, asking what should be a pretty routine question.

"Yes, I'd like a tall Labatt's and an order of potato skins," I would reply.

"Um....ma'am, this is Home Depot."

"It says very clearly that these are BAR STOOLS. I would like a beer and some potato skins, if it isn't too much to ask. I've been waiting for a long time." They insisted that there was no beer in the entire building.

So I settled for a box of nails and two packages of lawn/leaf bags and left the store. On to the next adventure - The Craft Store.

I love craft stores. I would cheerfully spend hundreds of dollars each week at the craft store if I could, buying tons and tons of projects and being totally proud of myself and my outrageous creativity. Actually completing these projects is an entirely different prospect altogether, and completely irrelevant to this conversation.

Up and down the rows I walked, looking at each and every item in the store. I was going to milk this adventure for everything I possibly could. I finally had the freedom to listen to my own inner self asking if I could have this or that. No toddler was going to out-selfish me this time! This was All About Me.

About halfway around the store, I realized anew how much my life had changed. I had volunteered to go get nails? That can't be good.

The Children

A short time ago, Husby was cheerfully musing about the impending arrival of another baby.

"We're going to have two! We're going to say things like 'I have to go pick up the children' and 'I have two children' and things like that."

I put on my most patient expression. "Who is going to take care of all of these children?" I asked. "Who is going to make sure that they have seasonally appropriate clothes that fit, that their fingernails are trimmed, that they have snow boots and snow pants and wear sunscreen? Who is going to feed them nutritionally sound but interesting and creative meals three times a day?"

"Momma!" he crowed, pleased with himself.

"Who is going to get them vaccinated on time, get their pictures professionally taken at appropriate intervals, find affordable but quality daycare, nurture a love of music, reading and learning, teach them not to swear or spit or kick their friends, not to burp at the table?"

"Momma!" he shouted.

"Who is going to know without looking where the bandaids are, which child likes chicken nuggets and which one likes mac 'n cheese, when was the last time this one pooped or that one puked, how long it has been since that one ate a peice of fruit? WHO will do that for all of these CHILDREN?"

"Momma!" he raved. "But who is going to play with them?"

At the same time, in two very different tones of voice, we shouted "Daddy!"

No wonder he's so chipper about the whole thing. I'm making him a new playmate.

Toddlerhood

I have recently cut back my hours at work from three to two days per week, and the impact on my lifestyle has been surprisingly intense. I'm now spending five days straight with Baby Girl, who has responded to this increase in attention with an exponential rise in interrogation.

On Tuesday night, after I pick her up from daycare, I think that her voice is the sweetest thing in the world. The most innocent question, i.e. "What doing, Momma?" sounds so cute coming from that tiny little voice and that tiny little person.

By Friday, things sound a bit different. "What doing, Momma?" is now answered with "Walking a thin line between sanity and calling social services on myself, dear child."

I've realized this week that toddlers are a combination of two things; curiosity and greed. What is it? Can I have it? What is that, what are you doing, what is he doing, what is she doing, what are they doing....and can I have it? I need that, Momma, can I have it? The first question is occasionally difficult to answer, but the response to the second question is typically NO.

The problem with toddlers is that explaining what it is and that no, you can't have it, does not end the conversation. The question will be repeated, like a song stuck in her head, until something else comes along to grab her attention.

My sister passed on a great bit of wisdom when she theorized that explaining things to a toddler can be like reasoning with the unreasonable. I know from my training as a therapist that Baby Girl doesn't have the brain structure to process all of the information that she is receiving. I imagine her brain is sort of like a mail room for a huge office...tons of information comes in all the time and she is furiously sorting through it to figure out where it goes. It must be frustrating to have a letter jammed in the system, or come across stuff that doesn't fit in to her current filing system.

(But seriously, don't take it out on me! I just work here!)

I realize that some of my growing sense of alarm is tied to the fact that there is another child set to make her debut in the very near future. When difficulties arise, the question in the back of my head is not "Can I have it?" but "How am I going to do this with two kids?". Followed quickly, of course, by "What was I thinking?"

Hubsy, one of those irritatingly optimistic people I've discussed in previous posts, had some interesting insight. He started off by saying something along the lines of "I think there is..." before I cut him off.

"Let me guess," I said with no small measure of sarcasm. "You think there is a way of looking at the bright side that is going to make all the difference?"

He looked a bit hurt at my seemingly random attack on his positivity, but forged fearlessly ahead with his idea. "I think that in three years, the two of them will play together like puppies and take some of the heat off you."

A part of me knows that he is right, but most of me got stuck on the "...in three years..." part. I'm only promising good behavior on an afternoon-by-afternoon basis. Talking about three years from now is assuming a lot.

Hubsy, seeing the look of dismay on my face, tried a different approach. "Well, at least you'll be able to go to the bar soon!"

Now, that's more like it.

Er...

It has come to my attention that I have been less than direct about marketing my new outlet for self expression. I've had a few people recently say "Why didn't you tell me you were writing?"

Er...um...because someone might READ IT? Eeep!

So, I just stood on a virtual rooftop and shouted "Hey, World! I'm writing a blog! Wanna read it?"

And now I feel a little exposed. Sort of how one would feel if one took off one's pants in the produce section at the grocery store.

What if it is too much "mommy blog" and not enough "science blog"? Too much "churchy blog" and not enough "tattoo blog"? What if they really see me, really hear me, and figure out who I really am?

Well, isn't that the point? This whole thing has been in part about self discovery and acceptance. It is about consciously examining the journey through life. It is about recognizing the fact that we all have the right to be here on this planet, and that my voice is worth using.

It is also about documenting the really funny stuff that Husby and Darling Child say, so they have appropriate ammo for their future therapists. I strive for accuracy in reporting, folks.

So here I am, world, sans pants at the grocery store. And I'm alright with that.

A Brick Through My Window

"The significant problems we face cannot be solved by the same level of thinking that created them." - Albert Einstein

My last post about Fowler's fourth stage and my permanent residency there sparked a comment from a pal that has triggered an avalanche of thought. Her point on approaching the Bible from a different perspective is something I've heard before and rejected because it doesn't fit with my current struggle. It is not up to me, I reasoned, to debate the interpretation of the Bible. I believed, until yesterday, that the current interpretation of the Bible by my more educated elders was the only possible option.

To the current administration, challenging their interpretation is frowned upon using this line of reasoning:
1. We can't cherry-pick what parts of the Bible we believe based on our own discomfort.
2. The Bible is the infallible word of God and is not up for debate.
3. We know more than you because of years of extensive education and study.
4. Because I said so.
5. Sit down, Jaime, and shut up. Please.

It finally occurred to me that I don't actually know precisely what the Bible says about the things I struggle against. For an example, what specific Bible verses condemn homosexuality? I have heard the rhetoric, but have I ever read the source? Like a brick through a window, my old perception of my problem shattered and a new perception appeared.

No. I hadn't read it. I had sat like a dumb sheep and let them tell me what they thought the Bible said. Surely they have all the books, they've done the Bible studies, attended classes and learned to translate stuff from the Greek and Hebrew and came up with this stuff. But WHO are they?

This is where my buddy's comment about appreciating the source of the information triggered a new line of thinking. They are, and have ALWAYS been, both male and in the racial majority. Of course they, the current and past interpreters of the sacred text, have an agenda. It doesn't make them bad, but it doesn't make them automatically right either. How would I know if they are right, if I don't read the books and make my own conclusion?

Because, seriously, this is a group of people that likes McCain. (I know.) In jest, I argue that obviously they have a deplorable lack of decision making skills to fall for the blurge that came out of the conservative right wing this time around the track. In earnest, I argue that their very interpretation of reality is different than mine.

And yet, I hear the argument that the Bible is not current political posturing and cannot be evaluated at a situational level. You can't decide what the Bible says because it isn't convenient for you to go with the current level of thinking. Also, just because our current (evil) culture is telling you that it is ok to live with your partner before marriage, support gay rights, read books and listen to Obama doesn't give you the right to change the Bible. The Bible, as the infallible word of God, is not to be manipulated to say what matches any one personal agenda. (Oh no? Isn't that what they have been doing this whole time?)

That is the argument that I used to bash my head against when trying to reconcile the two, seemingly opposed, belief structures I have. That is how I used to tell myself that I would be stuck in stage four forever because I couldn't reason my way past the arguments against both things that I know to be true.

But Einstein tells us that we cannot solve our problems at the same level we were using when we created them. So a new level of thinking is required. And so here it is:

The Bible is the infallible word of God. The interpretation of the Bible into political beliefs and cultural prejeduces is the fallible word of People.

This is huge. This concept is probably not earth shattering to some, but to experience it myself has really been a shock. That is a key part too - I experienced this change instead of just thinking about it at an academic level.

A few things stand in my way:

1. Studying the Bible myself isn't going to be easy. I don't read Greek or Hebrew, but I will have to apply as much to this process as to any other academic pursuit.
2. I'm part of an establishment that doesn't particularly respond well to being confronted, especially by uppity, educated women.
3. I could be wrong.
(4. Super secret hidden reason: I could disappoint my parents.)

But this, more than anything, represents a primary struggle in my life. Why wouldn't I devote the time and energy to this, what could turn out to be the most important crisis resolution I've ever tackled?

And, seriously, what else do I have going on right now to occupy my enfeebled brain?

- Thanks go out to Colleen, who kicked me in the head with her comment.

Fowler's Fourth Stage

I first ran into Dr. James Fowler, PhD, (developmental psychologist, Methodist, Director of Faith Development at Emory University) in my first class in graduate school. He has written the book, quite literally, on the stages of human faith development. He outlines six stages in how humans develop faith in a higher power. It struck a chord with me then, and it continues to echo in my daily struggle to resolve this spiritual crisis.

Check it out:

"The fourth stage is known as Individuative-Reflective. This is primarily a stage of angst and struggle, in which one must face difficult questions regarding identity and belief. Those that pass into stage four usually do so in their mid-thirties to early forties. At this time, the personality gradually detaches from the defining group from which it formerly drew its identity. The person is aware of him or herself as an individual and must--perhaps for the first time--take personal responsibility for his/her beliefs and feelings. This is a stage of de-mythologizing, where what was once unquestioned is now subjected to critical scrutiny. Stage four is heavily existential, where nothing is certain but one's own existence, and disillusionment reigns. This stage is not a comfortable place to be and, although it can last for a long time, those who stay in it do so in danger of becoming bitter, suspicious characters who trust nothing and no one. But most, after entering this stage, sense that not only is the world far more complex than his or her stage three mentality would allow for, it is still more complex and numinous than the agnostic rationality of stage four allows."

from: http://jmm.aaa.net.au/articles/2219.htm

Nice, right? I especially like the parts about disillusionment, and becoming a bitter, suspicious character. Oh, and the bit about this stage being particularly uncomfortable and lasting for years and years? Sweeeet.

I'm quite firmly entrenched in stage four, and struggle every day to make sense of two diametrically opposed belief systems. On the one hand, I believe in the essentials of Christianity and consider myself to be a Christian.

On the other hand, I support gay rights, a pro-choice platform, Kid Rock, tattoo parlors, beer, smoking, liberal use of the F word, co-habitation before marriage, Democrats, critical thinking, and women's rights.

My non-churchy friends say "God loves us. He wants us to be happy. Don't sweat it. You're a good person". Ok, but the Bible says three out of those four tenants are dead wrong. God does love us, true, but our happiness is not guaranteed. We should be sweating it, and I'm technically not a good person at all. My churchy friends don't say much because I don't think they really know about my divided belief structure (except the tattoo part, which is sort of obvious.)

I would sincerely, truly love to "get over" one of the branches in my belief tree. It would make things a hell of a lot easier for me if I could just look past the dissonance between my Christianity and every other belief that I hold. I've even tried ignoring the conflict for years, in the hopes that some spontaneous resolution would appear. (It didn't.) But to forsake either side of the dichotomy would be like deciding suddenly that something that profoundly guides us, like education, is just no longer something to believe in. There is no choice in the matter - education, Christianity and equal rights for all people are all fundamental and essential parts of my interpretation of this world.

So, seriously, what does one do with this? I've begun to read about Fowler's stage 5 in case there are any tips for making the jump out of this treacherous and irritating stage. Can't stop going to church, can't stop believing that women are equal to men and that missionaries are a bad idea. I can't believe that either part of this belief structure is wrong, despite the fact that they represent oppositional ideologies.

The last four years of weekly church attendance have left me more conflicted than ever on this topic. Now, more than ever, I can't walk away from either side. My training as a therapist has convinced me that ignoring the problem will most likely result in substance abuse or neurosis, so that isn't the answer either.

Either way, stage four is getting a little old. I'd like to get a free level up to stage five, but I'm pretty sure that isn't how it works. Dammit.

If you can't say something nice...

Then come sit next to me.

I will readily admit that I'm a "glass half empty" person. Optimism is just not my strong suit, my style, or my default posture. I'm a grouch, a scrooge, a Negative Nancy. (I also answer to "Sally Sensitive", but that is a different conversation for a different time.)

This is not to say that I'm horribly negative, really it isn't. I'm actually quite fun to be around, especially if there is wine or chocolate. And there are times when I get tired of listening to myself complain and make a real effort to join the "sunny side up" people.

The problem with those shiny-happy bastards is the subtle, yet quite tangible, insistence that they are better people than those of us with a slightly darker temperament. There is a smugness associated with optimism. We are encouraged to stay positive, look on the bright side, see the good in everything. The implication is that a positive outlook is right and good, while the sourpuss perception is lazy and undisciplined. It's easy to see the bad stuff, they say. The hard part is to look beyond it and see the good in everything. And then they bask in their own goodness of scoring higher on some imagined scale, and pat themselves on the back for being such a great person.

The Negative Nancies will say that we are just being realistic, which isn't exactly accurate either. Realistically, good things happen just as frequently as annoying things. The problem, as always, is perception. It is what we focus on that defines our world view. Both positive and negative perceptions of the world are most likely distortions.

So, say the naturally optimistic, start focusing on the positive. I sarcastically (and figuratively) smack myself on the forehead and shout "Duh! Why didn't I think of that before?" and then kick one of those optimists in the shin.

Now, I realize that having a genetic disposition for being a grouch is no excuse for mental laziness. I realize that Ireallyshouldtrytolookonthebrightsideandseethesunnysideoflife and blah blah blah. Whatever. It is also important to recognize and accept oneself for how they truly are. I am not going to allow optimists to convince me that I am a bad person, and that they are better off for having a sunny disposition.

I say it again: Like Popeye, I yam what I yam. I'm a grouch, and I'm ok with that.