The One Where Twitarded Goes to the Therapist. Yes, For Real.

Let's just get right down to business, m'kay? I recently took my son to his evaluation for speech therapy. Based on the title of this post, you might imagine how WELL the appointment went. This story is one for the record (er, baby) book and it goes a little something like this:

After a brief talk with the therapist, she pulled out her bag of tricks and got right down to testing LittleBing. She unloaded a doll, a cup, a fire truck, a ball, and a plastic fork. Next came the questions and commands as she tried to figure out what he was capable of understanding. Shall I mention his teeny, tiny attention span before proceeding any further? He has a teeny, tiny attention span. LittleBing quickly grew bored with the toys that she had set out. And this, my friends, is where it gets good (and extremely mortifying). LittleBing marched over to my bag, took out my little bag of minis, unzipped, and emptied. He emptied them ONTO HER LAP. I felt like this was happening in sloooooow motion, and I made no attempts to stop him. I simply watched the whole disaster unfold in disbelief. The therapist picked up my most favorite mini and declared (with a deadpan expression and very unamused tone), "Look. It's a miniature Edward." She might have turned to face me next, and she might have looked at me as though I was insane. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I'm fairly certain that she judged my sanity when LittleBing brought to her attention the fact that I keep PocketBella, PocketAlice, and PocketEdward (of the Twilight variety) in mah purse.

These items, of which I am normally so proud, fell into the therapist's lap.

Not pictured here is the beloved yellow Porsche 911 Turbo. RIP, little Porsche.

So where does Twitarded-love enter the story? Riiiiiiight here. You see, she was so fucking focused on PocketEdward that she failed to recognize the tiny Twitarded pins that I keep with my minis. Until, that is, LittleBing decided that he was not finished in his quest to mortify me. He picked up one of the buttons and placed it very nicely atop her testing folder. Face up. She glanced down, looked questioningly back at me, and then put the button back on the floor with the rest of the Saga-goods that she had removed from her lap.

One of these things is not like the others,

one of these things just doesn't belong...

TeamTwitarded successfully invades the therapist's personal space.

Right. My PocketFigures sat in her lap, and my TeamTwitarded pin rested on her testing papers. Oh, but I'm not finished. She took my fucking Porsche911 (yellow! Turbo! HotWheels!) that goes everywhere with PocketAlice. She took it! When we were finishing up and she was packing her testing toys back into her bag, I took that opportunity to put all of my Saga-goods back into my bag. We were talking about the follow-up as we were tidying, and she picked up the Porsche and put it into her bag. I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that she didn't notice which car she was putting away. Because after the looks she gave me, I don't think she was highly amused by what I carry around in my bag. At the moment, I was a little too embarassed to ask her to give it the fuck back, but my eyes surely revealed the panic that I felt as she packed it away. What was I to do?! What is PocketAlice to do?! She needs that fucking Porsche back, she's feeling antsy without it. Imma gonna swipe it back at our next appointment, you mark my words. Stay tuned...