Freud Jr.

Progeny One has a camping trip coming up that he had to get a physcial for. So I loaded up the boys and took him to the doctor yesterday. As we were waiting in the examination room, Progeny One was laying on the table (crinkling the paper so much I tought I was going to need a Xanax I might add) and looks at me and asks:

"Soooo....when am I going to start therapy?'

"Therapy? For what? What kind of therapy?" I responded, totally perpelexed.

"What do you mean what kind of therapy? The kind where you lay on the couch and talk to people."

I was a little worried. Had I already damaged my child and he was just smart enough to realize it? I thought I had at least five more years. "Do you feel like you need therapy son?"

"Nah...I don't guess so." He replied. A few minutes later, Progeny Two wanted to see what it felt on the examination table. I guess the crinkling paper was like a siren's call to him. After he'd climbed up and laid down, Progeny One pulled up the Doctor's stool beside him and announced P2's therapy session was about to begin.

"So tell me, what are you thinking of right this moment?" he asked his younger brother.

Progeny Two replied, "Cookies!"

P1 turned around and looked at me with a sorrowful look. "He's worse than I thought."