"The Jumperoo"

“The Jumperoo”            1050 words

Therapists have therapists—in case you don’t know or never thought about it. After listening to people’s problems all day, you can get to feeling that life is a sewer and that people are just sewer rats living in an environment that’s not good for them. Let me tell you, talking over your clients’ problems with another therapist—even laughing at clients— can feel like a badly needed vacation.

I had known the family for fifteen years, during which time they lived in my building. I remember when I first saw them. I had just left my building for my evening walk. The couple were sitting on their terrace in the early evening, and their son—the one who would now be coming to me as a patient—was their first child.

The couple faced each other, sitting in outdoor chairs. Between them, their son played in a Jumperoo—a trampoline that held the infant in the middle of the jump mat, so that the top half of his body showed above it and the bottom half showed below. Every time he hit the floor, his legs would strike the floor and send him up. Then the weight of his body would send him down. Then the Jumperoo would send him back up. Then down.

I considered the tableau of father, mother, and baby the picture of familial bliss! I thought the baby made a delighted sound whenever he went up or down (I only imagined this, as I couldn’t really hear the baby from street level, nor could I see any of them well in the fading twilight). I thought the baby’s enjoyment of the toy was a delight his parents must feel too, having found a toy that was bound to tire him so that, when bedtime came, he had no trouble sleeping.

Now, as a therapist, I know that human beings can be creative when it comes to interpretating life events. I say this because the infant, now grown up—fifteen, to be exact!—told a very different story.

“My parents asked me to see you,” Mark said, “because they are child abusers who thrive on seeing how much pain they can inflict!”

 “Why do you think that?” I asked.

 “Because that’s what they do!  Why, they used to put me inside this contraption that only looked like a trampoline! It was more like a strait jacket, holding me up while it let me fall down, until my feet hit the floor hard, then the trampoline sent me up, then down, for another painful landing! I laughed—only pretending to enjoy myself—to prevent them from punishing me worse! I was just a baby! My parents—total child abusers—had no reason to torture me!”

I thought I’d heard every lie teenagers tell. Nevertheless, I scribbled a note to myself to check reviews of the Jumperoo.

“And you remember this?” I asked. “Most people don’t have memories that early.”

“Absolutely!”

“Have you discussed this with your parents?” I asked.

 “Your face shows you don’t believe me,” Mark said, “which puts you squarely on their side!”

“Why do you think I need to take a side?”

“Because you’re an adult, and adults are the tormentors of the children they bring into the world!” Mark replied.

At my monthly appointment with my own therapist, Henry laughed to hear me tell Mark’s story.

“Sure!” Henry said. “And he probably also said, ‘They fed me, but they didn’t care when baby food got all over my face and chest.’” Then Henry—mimicking actor Peter Lorre’s menacing, half-crazed voice—said:  ‘I could feel the wet coldness of the apple slop on my face. The slop would drip down my onesie, making its way slowly—inch, by excruciating inch—down my romper!  It was disgusting! They were shameless! Their feeding ritual happened like clockwork, three times a day!”

I laughed, then said, “I’m probably going to hear Mark say next, ‘Then they sent me to school—another form of torture!”

“Then they encouraged me to date!” Henry added. “I wonder what hell they’ll come up with next!’

We laughed uproariously.

I saw Mark once more, but he was reticent, so I didn’t get much out of him. Then he didn’t appear for the third session. When I called his father for an explanation, I got no return call. I stopped by their apartment, but no one answered.

It was soon time for my monthly appointment with Henry.  After hugging me and saying hello, Henry said—his face looking very serious— “I was going to call you yesterday, but I thought, ‘It can wait for today.’ The oddest thing happened! The father of that family that owned the Jumperoo contacted me. He found my name in the classifieds of the community newspaper, the one we both advertise in. I just yesterday had the first session.”

“One of the first things he wanted to talk about was how he and his wife had treated their children, beginning with their first son. Then the father described the exact contraption you described! The father said that when he and his wife first put their son in it, the baby enjoyed it. But after ten minutes, his smile left his face, as if he no longer found it amusing. Then he looked as if it wasn’t funny at all. Then he began to cry, but they ignored him.”

“The way they looked at it was:  They could ignore his crying now, or ignore it later, all night long. Damned if they were going to stay up all night! He and his wife made a choice, which the father now thinks was wrong. He realizes their son had NO choice—no choice but to stay inside the Jumperoo, going up and down, up and down, relentlessly! They knew it was painful to him because besides crying—when he couldn’t stand the physical and emotional discomfort any longer—one might even call it pain—he’d pass out! They’d put him to bed and more or less enjoy the evening. They even slept well.”

 “Why was the father seeing you?” I asked, guilt beginning to rattle my sense of being competent at my job.

Henry’s face echoed my guilt. “The father feels the Jumperoo was just the beginning. He thinks he may have abused all three children their whole lives.”