When We Were Little

February 12th, 2025

On Monday morning I took our little grandson, Asher, to see his therapist. He goes there once a week. The therapist is highly competent and has a good relationship with Asher. She knows how to handle the boy, and she truly cares about him. Asher is usually loveable and fun to be with. Usually. Occasionally he has a meltdown. He did yesterday when we arrived at the therapist’s office.

Asher has had more than his fair share of trauma is his life. During his four years in the world, he has already been through a lot of chaos and stress. My wife and I have provided almost all of his safety and security. Even so, that has probably not been enough. That is why he is going to a therapist. Asher needs more guidance and support than Karin and I can give him.

Asher often needs things to be done a certain way. I believe that he wants things done in a particular way partly because he just wants to get his way. Little kids are like that, and so are adults. However, he needs stability. He needs structure. Too much change too quickly can freak him out. It’s difficult for me to know when change becomes too hard for him to handle until it is too late.

We were a bit late getting to the therapist’s office. Her place is on the fourth floor of a building, and we have to take the elevator to get there. Generally, Asher and I have the elevator to ourselves, and Asher always pushes the button for the fourth floor. Yesterday that didn’t happen. Two other people needed to go up from the lobby, and an older gentleman pushed the 4th floor button for us. Bad move.

Asher totally lost it. He needed to push that button himself. When we got to the fourth floor, he was screaming and crying and demanding that we take the elevator back to the lobby and start the journey all over again. I refused to do that. We were already where we need to be. I was carrying him, and he struggled to get free so that he could get back on the elevator. Asher was loud. He was loud enough to entice the therapist to come out of her office to find out what was wrong.

The therapist asked us to come into the room she has set up for her work. It is packed with toys, including two teddy bears that are as big as I am. Asher was out of control. He stood between me and the therapist screaming. The clinician tried to sooth him and remind him to use his words. She told him,

“Breathe, Asher. Breathe like you’re blowing a bubble. Remember how we practiced that? Do you want to blow real bubbles with me?”

No. He didn’t want to blow bubbles. There wasn’t much of anything he wanted to do besides lashing out. He spent a couple minutes hitting me. I just let him do it. It didn’t hurt except for that one shot to my groin. The therapist offered to let him hit the teddy bears. That’s what they were for. He didn’t want to hit a stuffed animal. He wanted to hit me.

His anger abated slightly, but Asher was still too upset to talk. He wanted me to hold him. The therapist wanted me out of the room so she could work with Asher. It was extraordinarily difficult for me to leave. Asher was crying and holding on to my right hand for dear life. The therapist gently tried to nudge me out the door. She assured me that Asher would be fine. I finally left, with Asher screaming as I went outside.

The mall is next to the therapist’s building. I walked in there and wandered to a bookstore. I bought a novel and slowly walked back toward the office building.

I thought as I walked. I experienced intense sadness. When Asher had held my hand, I felt like I was him. I could remember how I felt when I was that little. I don’t recall much from my childhood, partly because it was so long ago, but mostly because I don’t want to remember any of it. I have slammed a lot of doors in my mind. I don’t remember hardly any events from when I was little, but I remember emotions. Those stick with me. When I was a little boy, and I was scared or angry, did anybody hold my hand? Did anybody pick me up when I was crying? I don’t know. I don’t think so. I wanted so much to just pick Asher up and hold him until he calmed down, but the therapist needed me to leave so she could do her job. I had to be an adult and do that.

I got back to the office as Asher’s session was ending. The therapist brought him out. She was smiling. He was laughing with her.

Asher was fine.