Poem: "Guidance Counseling"

[ysabetwordsmith]

This poem came out of the August 16, 2011 Poetry Fishbowl with some inspiration from previous discussions about the folks in Monster House.  It was prompted by aldersprig, eseme, fayanora, and janetmiles.  It has been sponsored by janetmiles.  You can read the other Monster House poems on the serial poetry page of my website.

Guidance Counseling

The counselor from my daughter's school
had insisted on a home meeting this time,
probably wanting to see whether
the odd little girl's home
had anything actionably odd about it.

If only she knew.
Of course, we put some effort
into making sure that wouldn't happen.

The gargoyles were safely stone during the day,
the radiator dragon had been moved to the basement,
and our other housemates could either stay out of sight
or hide in plain sight.

"Your daughter seems a bit ... agile,"
the counselor said, sitting down on the hide-a-bed couch,
"for someone legally blind."

"She has excellent proprioception,"
I said smoothly.

Meanwhile my daughter sat primly on the easy chair,
hands folded in the lap of her yellow dress.
The glass eye hung over her chest,
innocent as a bauble, yet secretly watching all.
Somewhere nearby, I suspected,
would be her seeing-eye gremlin
that only she could see.

I had never asked exactly how she perceived the world,
though surely it must be a bit different --
it was enough
that she could get around comfortably,
and no matter if she tended to look above people's heads
instead of meeting them eye-to-eye.

"She wants her own library card,"
the counselor said.

I flicked a glance at my daughter.
"Do you really?" I asked.

"Of course," she said
with a delicate little sniff.
"The library has audiobooks,
and you can ask to get Braille books,
and anything else I'm sure
somebody  would be willing to read to me."

The rocking chair began to rock, slowly,
without any visible push.
A patter of knocks and clangs
sounded from the pipes.
The counselor jumped a little.
The baby in his playpen giggled.

"Yes," I said dryly, "you'd have
no shortage of volunteers for that."

"Her mother isn't even home,"
the counselor whined.

"Her mother is trying to fix a bug at the bank,"
I said.  "Besides, we have ...
an extended family."

"Grandma helped me with my science project,"
my little darling said brightly.

"Which you didn't even finish,"
the counselor said.

"I told  you that it melted,"
my daughter said.
"If you don't believe what I say,
then there's really no point
in me talking, is there?"
She flitted up the stairs.

"She has a point," I said.
Then I saw the hairy hand
ease out from under the couch
and slowly pull a thread
on the woman's skirt.
She gave an irritated twitch
and shifted position.
I stretched out a leg to kick the couch.
The hand withdrew.

The counselor grumbled.
"She doesn't behave  like the other children
with visual handicaps at school."

I shrugged.  "The other two
have differerent handicaps," I said.

"Maybe you should get her
a seeing-eye dog,"
the counselor said.

"I thought you were complaining
that she was a little too good at getting around,"
I pointed out.
"Besides, the guide dog schools
won't take anyone under sixteen."
The counselor blinked.
"You didn't actually check that
before you came over here, did you."
Then I sighed.  "I'm not sure that a dog
would do well in this household, anyhow."

"Why not?" the counselor asked.
The pipes clanged.  Something skittered.
Mascara-fringed eyes opened wide.
"You don't have vermin  here, do you?"

I laughed.  "No, definitely no vermin."
The baby pulled himself up, popped the latch on his playpen,
and headed for the radiator at top crawling speed.
I scooped him onto my lap.
"We just have kind of a lively house."

"How old is  he?"
the counselor said, staring.
"Children shouldn't be able to open that gate!"

"He's ten months old," I said.
"I know, the gate's not much use,
but people would probably freak if we padlocked it."
"Maybe you should put him in a mesh playpen,"
said the counselor.
"We started with that.  It lasted a week,"
I explained.

My son tried to crawl out of my lap
into the rocker, which was rocking again.
I sighed and plunked him onto the cushioned seat,
on his back, keeping a hand on the chair
just for show.  The rocker rocked,
a slow sleepy rhythm.

"Aren't you afraid he'll fall out?"
the counselor said.
"I mean he just got out of the playpen..."

I chuckled.  "He won't fall.
Nobody falls out of that chair.
Look, he's already asleep,"
I said, and so he was,
safe in the embrace of the slatted sides
and the little old lady ghost
who was invisible at the moment.

"Hmf.  This just doesn't seem like
an ideal home environment,"
the counselor said.

"Two incomes, a warm roof overhead,
and plenty of loving relatives."
I ticked off the points on my fingers.
"I'd say that puts us ahead of at least half
of the families at school ... including yours,"
I finished, with a sharp look at her ringless left hand.

"Well!  I'll just be going,"
the counselor said in a frosty tone.
She stamped her narrow feet,
shaking off the subtle, teasing hand.

I opened the door for her.  "You know,"
I said softly, "I appreciate you looking out
for the kids at your school.
Really I do.  I'm sure some of them
need the oversight you provide."
Then I leaned a little closer. 
"But if you make my daughter cry,
you will not enjoy the results.
Have a nice day."
I shut the door behind her.

"Do you think she'll cause trouble?"
asked the bogeyman,
sidling around the corner
to peek through the curtained window.

Together we watched the counselor
scramble into her car and peel away,
leaving behind a cloud of blue smoke
and several small parts on the ground.
"I doubt it," I replied,
wondering just what the gremlins
had been up to out there.
"She'll probably convince herself
that coming here was a bad idea."

Then I kicked the couch, saying,
"And what do you have to say for yourself?"

"Me?  You  were the one
who let her sit on the hide-a-bed,"
said the monster under the bed.

Comments

Re: Well...

[the-vulture.livejournal.com]

Ya know, I really had to think on that one. I can only recall one such incident, when I was working a bookstore with an in-house cafe. I was helping a customer with some severe form of motor-neural impairment (like MS or cerebral palsy) by carrying a number of technical manuals to a table for him. My manager at one point pulled me aside and questioned my assistance. I had to point out to him that physical impairment did NOT equate to mental impairment. That incident really surprised me and I think the reason for that is that, outside of childhood bullying, I so very rarely see that kind of treatment of disabled people. I've heard of it happening of course, but never witness it first hand.

Re: Well...

[ysabetwordsmith.livejournal.com]

See, this is an example of divergent experience influencing how people write or read things. *ponder* It may also be relevant that you're in Canada and I'm in the United States. You folks have better health care and more civility up there. Parts of the U.S. are more accepting. The Midwest, not so much. I went to a college here that's one of the better known for accommodating disabilities, and some of the examples are just appalling. I once had to rescue a girl in a wheelchair from a bathroom, which she could get into but not out of due to the placement of the large wastebasket. I had some sharp words with the staff about the need to put a short wastebasket under the sink instead. And the truly maddening thing? The first several people to discover the problem walked away and did nothing, not even notify someone else.

Re: Well...

[the-vulture.livejournal.com]

Okay, fair enough.

Just to add data to this, my experiences include the UK, as well as a number of regions in Canada.