He’s four. Pasty-white, squishy chubby.
I’m his patient day camp counselor.
Currently, he’s screeching while incessantly racing around the perimeter of the shade house.
He stops suddenly, begins repeatedly smashing his tender forehead against a support column.
We know not to intervene. He’s unstoppable.
He’s the son of mother’s psychiatrist.
Sadly, this is a true story. Leslie doesn’t know what became of this child. Her mother, on the other hand, thrived, despite her shrink.
I live this every single day.
His mother is a psychiatrist, oblivious to her troubled child.
Well done! Thanks for sharing
JT
Your welcome. This happened over 55 years ago and it still weighs heavy on me.
Sorry—it should have been “you’re” welcome! And I’m trying to be a writer…