Too young? Or, older than you think.

I read in the paper, yesterday, that a kid – 8 years old – was denied admission to Law School. What is happening in this world? I thought lawyers welcomed any support whatsoever. But, maybe it is a bit threatening to think an 8 year old might be able to do your job. And, with the job market as it is…

Admission officials said he must first graduate from high school and college. But why? No can remember those lessons and what’s wrong with moving straight into the profession that is your calling? At least, that’s how I see it.

This conflict escalated to litigation because the applicant’s father, considerably older than eight, and, himself, a lawyer, filed a suit on behalf of his son. There are wheels within wheels involved here and meanings and labels seem to shift every time I try to get a handle on this.

The kid is an obvious prodigy. Or, something. It’s inarguable that he is young. At least, he wanted to pursue something as reasonable as the law. What if he had wanted to go into a less exacting field ? Like literature or therapy?

Imagine, you arrive at your weekly session and the receptionist, Johnny’s mother, asks you to take a seat. This could be reassuring or really disturbing. Instead of Newsweek or Good Housekeeping, the side tables are piled with Highlights for Children and People, Jr.? There is a faint music in the background. It is a medley of the songs of Hannah Montana. Only the truly erudite recognize this.

The door opens and the young, and I mean young, therapist invites you in. He gathers his Batman cape about himself, as you precede him into the room. There are two piles of pillows and he gestures toward one.

After settling on the floor, you face each other and you notice, not only the deep seriousness of his expression, but also the brightly colored toys scattered about his office. He waits for you to begin.

When he notices your puzzled look, he suggests, “Perhaps, we should start with what you are feeling at this moment?

You blink and mutter, “You wouldn’t understand.”

When he answers, you realize that you weren’t aware of speaking out loud.

“Is that a kind of projection?” he asks.

There are still thirty-five minutes left. A therapeutic lifetime. You frantically search for an excuse that might get you out of there without appearing desperate.

Finally, you jump up and, to those calm, knowing eyes, you say, “ I completely forgot.” You lunge toward the door, while at the same time, trying to maintain some semblance of a grownup façade. “I have to pick up the kids! Next week, okay?”

The door slams behind you and you smile and nod to his mother, as you head for the relief of the hallway.

Junior emerges from his office. He instructs his mother, "Get my lawyer! I mean, get Dad on the phone. I've got an idea."