The following is part of a long online thread about "peeves". The item
in my files is undated, but the file is date-stamped July 1997. This is
right up there with one of MY school peeves, "Zero Tolerance". If you
haven't seen my rant on that, it's at http://www.thisistrue.com/zt.html
---

<sigh> Your comment reminds me of one of the run ins I've had with the
school psychologist.  After our discussion, I've gained a reputation of
being unreasonable and my daughter has gained the freedom to construct
anything short of atomic bombs without psychological interference.

If I haven't peeved about this in the past, I certainly should have and
if I have, I beg the readers' indulgence.

It all started shortly after my ill-fated Parent-Teacher Conference (as
did my public school reputation for being unreasonable).  Within a week
of this conference, I received a phone call from said 'psychologist'
requesting that I present myself in his office to discuss my daughter's
'problem'.  When questioned, he indicated that the 'problem' was
different than the one the teacher and I discussed (which was not
addressing adults by first name), but coyly refused to 'discuss a
situation of this magnitude over the phone'.

The following day, at the appointed time, I appeared with offspring in
tow. Horrified looks resulted and said offspring was shuttled off to
play
in the gym.  Apparently these discussions are SECRET.

He began by folding his hands on top of his desk and wearing his
'saintly, patient' expression.  *This* is a man who has not only READ
the
psych books but *believes* them.

       "Has Lauren appeared depressed or been behaving unusually at
home?"

       "No, she has not."

       "Her behavior *hasn't* changed?!"

       "No it hasn't. Pardon my abruptness, but precisely *what* are
        you driving at?"

He is now refusing to meet my eyes and fiddling with a paperclip on the
desk.  Hmmm.  I should have trundled my copy of 'Body Language' along
with me.  He could have fidgeted and I could have merrily looked up all
the underlying psychological causes.

       "Well, erm...you see, Lauren is using only black crayon when
       she's drawing and studies have indicated that when this occurs
       the child is usually depressed and attempting to deal with
       repressed emotions."

       "Ah."

At this point, I was having considerable difficulty repressing one of my
own emotions....namely laughter.  What rocks do these nitwits crawl out
from under?  Realizing that my original response would be a Bad Thing, I
quickly pasted my Concerned, But Amused Parental Expression on and
continued:

       "Have you considered asking Lauren her reasons for using black
        crayon?"

Shock.  Horror.  Complete dismay.  He actually began stammering.  One
does NOT ask the child.  It could cause deep-seated emotional problems,
stunt their growth, cause them to suffer from low self-esteem and
possibly begin hanging about on street corners with gangs of second
graders.

I excused myself from his office, ostensibly to collect myself, in
actuality to collect my offspring from the gym.  I arrived at said gym
to
find my depressed, repressed, emotionally devastated monster attempting
to deal with her deep-seated frustration at not being able to reach the
rings.  Was she crying, fussing or sulking?  Nope.  She was trying to
negotiate with the custodialdrone for a stepladder.  At this point, I
decided she was entitled to draw with black crayons the rest of her
life,
if that's what she wanted.

We meandered back to the office and I ignored the look of distress that
was shot at me.  I parked my recombinant DNA in a chair with orders
to 'Behave like a lady.' (Yeah, I know.  So sue me.)  The conference
resumed, this time I addressed my questions to Lauren.

       "Lauren, Mr. Shit-for-Brains indicates that you only use black
       crayon when you're drawing."

       "Yeah."

       "Do you *like* drawing in black?"

       "No."

       "Then why do you do it?"

I was treated to the expression that is reserved for humouring slightly
thick parents and watched as my offspring pasted on her Mom's Old Lady
But Harmless Expression:

       "They make us line up in alphabetical order when they pass out
       the crayons.  And I'm always last in line...there's nothing left
       *but* black!"

I turned to witness what our psychological brainchild is making of all
this.  He has gone strangely quiet.  Fine.  This interview is over as
far as I'm concerned. Although I confess, I couldn't resist lobbing one
more over the fence at him.

       "Thank you sooooo much for your concern regarding my daughter's
       emotional well-being.  I suppose your job would be *much* easier
       if all depressions could be cured by simply starting the crayon
       box from the other end of the queue.  In the future however, do
       you think you could at least ask *her* before you haul me in
       here?"

He managed to mutter something which I took for assent neither Lauren or
myself has heard anything from him since.

Deirdre Sholto-Douglas