A Belated Non-Update

Sorry, sorry. Sorry!

I mentioned that Friday's evaluation wasn't the important one, that it was probably just formalities and paperwork and that sort of thing, so after it turned out to be JUST EXACTLY THAT I couldn't think of anything to say about it. Formalities and paperwork. The Nonevent of the Century.

A very nice woman came to our house. We all marched downstairs to Noah's basement playroom, which I'd frantically cleaned that morning, and I even stacked the Play-Dough neatly and in rainbow order, like I don't know WHERE Noah gets this crazy need to arrange his toys in tidy little lines; the kid is such a freak sometimes.

She asked a million questions about Noah and pulled out some toys. Noah obliged her requests to put some blocks in a bucket so long as everybody would applaud for him, then called a reflection of himself "ababee" and stared blankly when asked to name some Teletubby dolls. I told her we were more of a Dora and Blue's Clues household, and she wrote that down.

(MOTHER ADMITS CHILD WATCHES CARTOONS. FAIL!)

We signed some forms. We received more helpful worksheets and checklists and a freaking awesome booklet called DREAMS & CHALLENGES that contains the greatest photos of Mall Hair Mom Mullets I have seen in years. The Big Evaluation is still set to August 9th at 9 am. For Noah to qualify for our state's free services, he needs to demonstrate a 25% delay or more during that assessment, independent of his doctor's opinion and all that.

Needless to say, we want us some free shit, so we fully plan to mess with his schedule that day and wake him up early. They're clearly trying to catch him at the top of his game with that morning appointment, so I am going to play that game RIGHT BACK AT THEM. (I'd prefer something later, like in the middle of nap time, after a roundly-rejected lunch of steamed broccoli, and to possibly hold the entire evaluation on the center of the sensory-overloading Gymboree parachute.)

We also need the speech therapy so Noah can get down to the serious business of picking up the ladies.

Look! Filler!

I just got a phone call from Early Intervention: our initial intake assessment (which consists of signing paperwork and making sure that we don't keep Noah locked in the liquor cabinet) has been bumped up from August 8th to...tomorrow morning. 9 am.

I'm thrilled that we're getting things underway as soon as possible, but also pissed as hell because Jason has neglected to put out the recycling for two straight weeks and now I have to go hide empty wine bottles like...like some kind of person who drinks too much wine. God.

Anyway, this isn't the important assessment (the one that will determine what services Noah qualifies for, if any, and oh dear GOD he better fail that one spectacularly), but it's something.

In the meantime, how about some pictures?

Baby vs. Sprinkler, the Final Showdown

(I can SO still call him a baby. He's still got his elbow and knuckle dimples.)

By the way, despite being QUITE the chunker at birth, Noah only ("only") weighs 26 pounds now. He wears 6-12 month shorts. We buy 18-24 month shirts, which cover his belly but the sleeves hang past his elbows. He wears size 7 shoes. None of those numbers make a damn lick of sense to me, which is why he's only in a diaper half the time. Who's he got to impress? Me?

BUT. I KNOW. He needs a haircut. I know. I will.

Tomorrow maybe. Or the next day.

Or Sunday. How's Sunday? Talk to me on Sunday.

(I meant this entry to be funny but it got away from me somewhere and turned out all sappy)

A big manilla envelope arrived in the mail yesterday -- a welcome package from the Early Intervention people. It was addressed specifically to Noah, and cover letter was both exceedingly chipper (Dear Family! Hi! Welcome! Thank you SO MUCH for submitting an application! It was just what we wanted and exactly the right size.) and kind of vague (Someone from our staff will contact you by phone. More information will be available at that time. This letter will self-destruct if fed through a shredder.).

The package included several helpful worksheets and "Help Your Child Learn to Talk!" checklists, most of which boiled down to: Have ya tried reading to your kid, jackass?

***

I was folding laundry in our bedroom yesterday, and Noah was down the hall in his room. Reading book after book after book. He'd pull a book off his shelf and slowly page through it, pointing at objects he recognized, cocking his head and pondering ones he didn't. Then he'd close the book with a soft sigh and reach for a new one. He didn't say a word.

I debated joining him. I should be reading those books TO him. I should be labeling all the pictures and asking him questions and trying to get him to say the words instead of pointing. Maybe work on some sign language! Hover! Teach! Intervene!

I kept folding laundry instead. After 10 minutes I finally heard him speak: Oh no! Oh no!

I went to his room. He was looking at The Giving Tree, which I haven't read to him since he was tiny. It's too long for a toddler, I think; it's black-and-white; there are no pictures of aballs and it makes me fucking cry every fucking time.

He was on the page where the little boy has cut the tree down.

"Oh NO!" he said to me, pointing at the sad little stump. "Oh NO."

I crouched down next to him and explained that yes, the little boy had cut the tree down, and yes, the tree was sad.

"Oh no," he kept saying. His eyes teared up. He reached out for a hug.

I turned the page and kept reading, despite the huge lump in my own throat. The boy comes back. The tree has nothing left, except itself, and in the end, that's all the boy needs after all.

And the tree was happy.

I remember the first time I read that book to Noah. I started crying halfway through because I GOT IT, finally. I was the tree, he was my boy, and the job of sending him off into the world would require so much sacrifice and selflessness on my part, but as long as he was happy, I would be happy. I sobbed because it was all too frightening and beautiful and I wondered if I could handle it.

I have no idea how Noah understood that the tree had been cut down. I have no idea how he knew there was something wrong. But I know he did.

"Oh NO."

I hugged him awhile longer before he wriggled away and ran down the hallway, laughing and yelping in gibberish. Even without words, I knew he wanted me to chase him. So I did.

And the tree was happy.

Momentum

Our county's Early Intervention department called this morning. Initial intake assessment will be done on August 8th at 9 am. The two-hour one, the important one, will probably be done the next day.

FYI to those of y'all using this blog to gauge your own child and the appropriate level of concern: After listening to our worries and the extent of Noah's vocabulary, they originally told us the big evaluation probably couldn't be done until the end of August or even the beginning of September. But once we told them about how Noah loses words (plane/light/fan all turning back into "nah" after awhile, for example, while other words vanish all together), they ever-so-suddenly bumped him up to the front of the line and gave us the August 9th slot.

I have no idea what that means, if anything. And I don't really have much else to say today. I read the new Harry Potter. I got my hair cut.  We bought some ice cream cones and ate them while Noah splashed in a fountain.

Jason turned to me and said, "You know what? I'm not worried about him anymore. I think he's going to be just fine."

"I agree," I said. "I'm not even thinking about it much anymore."

But still. It felt really, really great to get that phone call this morning.

The Fly in the Windex

So it's been a full week since Noah's appointment, since this relatively minor, unbelievably common little thing swept into our lives and just completely trashed the joint. We're still at least a week away from an evaluation and a plan of action, which makes me feel like we're standing still. Except that we're flies, and we're standing in a puddle of Windex, wondering how the fuck we got into this mess in the first place.

Not that I would know what that looks like, or anything.

*cough*

*spritz*

*maniacal laughter*

Anyway. I've spent the past week analyzing and over-analyzing Noah, feeling incredibly guilty for over-analyzing Noah, and wishing I could just go back a week when it was all just a nagging worry (a nagging worry I was perfectly able to push away with a dollop of denial, as evidenced in this post, where I expertly masked the fear that prompted me to make the appointment in the first place by blaming "them" and the easily-scapegoated "they") instead of a nagging question mark of Is He Okay And Why Is He Doing That Weird Thing?

I've also spent the past week going on sangria-soaked playdates, making Thomas go round his wooden track a bazillion times (no, we don't have the killer lead-paint trains, I am sure of it, thanks), emailing with friends and strangers (if I haven't responded to your email yet, I apologize) and shyly wondering if any of those nice strangers would like to go on a sangria-soaked playdate with me, or if that's a Weird Thing, even if I promise not to rubberband a flyswatter to your toddler, unless you are okay with that.

I was tempted to leave comments open on a couple of last week's posts. (I close comments after I post something new since I've found that's the most effective way to keep the conversation from heading south once the Random Drive-by Googlers arrive or from later discovering that some extremely sensitive spambot also has a few suggestions for helping speech delays, all of which appear to involve ora1 s3x with h0t s1uts.) The stories and experiences described there are invaluable and anybody who is dealing with any sort of developmental delay, major or minor, should read them. We have doctors in this crowd, did you know that? Teachers? Speech pathologists? I should alert my ad people that hot damn, I think some of these people can read after all.

If I may poach and republish some of your brilliance for my own nefarious, run-on-sentence-loving reasons, I wanted to highlight this comment from Helen:

I started off reading this post and thinking just what you said some people would think. I have 2 autistic sons and find myself getting irrationally insulted every time I read of another parent who thinks this is the worst thing that can happen. Then, THEN I stopped and caught myself because hell, I cried BUCKETS for WEEKS and months when we first knew that my silent Isaac, with his obsession for neatness wasn't just the best baby in the world who tidied up after himself a lot but was autistic oh my hell.

Seth, with his aversion to food and don't put more than one kind of food on the same plate or the sky will fall in but hey chameleons should be primate because they have thumbs and why don't all 2 year olds think this way? Wasn't a genius with eccentricities but gasp autistic in his thinking.

Now? Now they are 5 and 6, they ARE just tidy and eccentric and genius and just the way they are.

You should cry if that is how you feel, throw things if it helps, hate the tidy lines of toys, wish he would talk in brilliant sentences...and then let it all sink in that he is glorious Noah, who is just as he is. The day you look at him and imagine how dull life would be if he were just like every other kid...then you'll read posts by other moms worried about these things and feel a bit insulted because who the hell wouldn't want a kid exactly like Noah? Who would want their kid to be 'ordinary'?

My Isaac is so different from other kids, he stands out like a sore thumb but everywhere we go he is adored, his classmates adore him, his teachers weep at the thought of him graduating, he is divine. I shudder at the idea of him being at all any other way. Seth (6) is hysterical in his professor like way of thinking, skinny little nerd boy who couldn't ever be like other 6 year olds. Wouldn't change a thing. Noah is perfect, whether he talks or not, whether he has 'issues' or not. Divine, funny, delicious boy. Lucky you.

(Don't you just want to soak all that mama-love up with a sponge? I just revel in the loveliness.)

New parents are afraid of autism, it's true. And anything remotely autism-like. Probably irrationally so. It's partly because we don't understand it -- I mean, hell, I'd say most of what I used to know about autism came from a Babysitter's Club book I read ages and ages ago, even though I'm not sure the author knew that much more about autism other than what she learned from Rain Man. The stuff I remember scared the crap out of me for years -- the brilliant, adorable baby girl who just shut down, practically overnight, around age 2. Who didn't talk at all, who flapped her hands and never made eye contact and who hated being touched but could play the piano beautifully and do that weird trick with knowing what day of the week any date fell on and never, ever got any better.

In short, autism = one-way ticket to freakhood, a bogeyman who came in the night and locked your baby's brain up in Rapunzel's tower, never to be released.

I obviously know a lot more now. Mostly from blogs. Autism is...well, it is what it is. It's not a death sentence, or some horrible, insurmountable killer of dreams...for many kids it's just a necessary label to get them the help they need, and with that help, a label that may one day fade back to "quirky."

As Karianna said, "a label is just a word. It doesn't need to be a whole sentence unless you make it so."

(By the way, I put this in the comments but I know I'm probably the only person who actually read all those comments [twice!], but our pediatrician actually has an autistic son. His son is grown now, and even attends community college. He [our doctor] is considered an expert in autism and autism-spectrum disorders, so no, I don't believe he's just jumping on the sensory-processing bandwagon because he got sent a brochure about it, and gee, this brochure sure does sound convincing-like.  He made it very clear that he is certain Noah is not autistic, but definitely exhibits signs that his delay is neurological in nature.)

(We're totally getting Noah's hearing checked anyway. I mean, I love our doctor and all, but still. We're in charge of things around these parts.)

(Also, I had tubes in my ears when I was five. I was practically deaf before, and my mom loves to tell the story about how she brought me home, turned on Sesame Street only to have me clap my hands over my ears and complain about how LOUD the television was.)

Jesus. What was I saying, before I went all parenthetical?

Right. The fear.

You know why I'm afraid of autism? Of delays and labels and illness and stuff that just ain't right with my kid?

Because I am afraid of myself. Of what I am capable of, of what I can handle, and that it won't be enough. There.

I woke up the other day with a fantastic idea. I could go back to work. At a real job, an office job. I could put Noah in a really good daycare center, where he could spend time with kids who talk and teachers who have a damn clue how to handle his tantrums and I could get dressed up and spend time with adults who talk and do things I have a damn clue about, like proper subject-verb agreement instead of teaching a stubborn-ass toddler the sign for milk.

Would that be bailing? Or just recognizing my limitations? I'm not even sure.

(God, I took a break to make Noah lunch and am already rolling my eyes as I reread this. I certainly have a knack for making every little thing into the end. of. the. freaking. world, don't I?)

I know things will get better. I know things are honestly not that bad now.  I know the worry will fade and I'll once again look at Noah as THE AMAZINGLY AWESOME NOAH, WHO ENJOYS ABALLS AND KISSES AND HAS THE BEST LAUGH IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE instead of this little ball of mystery quirks and frustrations and other things that I might be missing.

We all want our children to be perfect and beautiful and happy and brilliant and beloved by everyone they meet. (I'm projecting wildly here, yes, but bear with me, I've officially been an expert at this for a whole seven days now, har.) It hurts when you're told something different, be it a speech delay or ADHD or a heart problem or even just a bunch of mean kids at school who pretend to wash the slide for cooties after your child goes down it.

And it's scary when you're the grown-up, the one who needs to be strong and wise and tell them that everything is going to be okay, even when you don't feel strong or wise or know for sure if everything is going to be okay.

When the mean kids at my school pretended to wash the slide for cooties after I went down it and followed me to the swings with their invisible cans of cootiespray and then to the monkey bars and until I just stood in one spot by a tree for the rest of recess, I went home and I cried on my mom's lap for hours. I snuffled into her shoulder while we rocked in the same chair that I've always rocked Noah to sleep in. And she was strong and wise and told me that everything was going to be okay.

And it was.

Lady of the Flies

Jason has advised me to change the subject, by the way. After I got a little blubbery for what was probably the 20th time over the weekend about all the emails and comments and that rare sense of being understood (you get me, you really get me!), he gently reminded me that the Internet will turn on you faster than a...um...fast, spinning-type thing...once the Get Over It Mafia decides that it is time to get over it, and the fact that you are not getting over it suggests a calculated decision to exploit your child in exchange for delicious, life-affirming triple-digit-comment numbers.

What can I say? I have been blogging too long, and also have a very rich fantasy life. And I enjoy dipping it into some velvety paranoia once in awhile.

(Also: Using delicious, rich, dipping and velvety in the span of two sentences suggests that I am hungry, and should go make some pudding. There. You now know everything there is to decoding my psyche.)

So I sat down and tried to think of something else to talk about, and all I can come up with are the flies.

You see, we have flies. And...

Yeah. Flies.

The hardwood install required a lot of open windows and propped doors, so we noticed a bit of an insect problem in the immediate days afterwards. Mosquitoes and gnats and such. Possibly one bee that was the biggest fucking bee I have ever seen, and I thought maybe we had their queen (Protect the queen! Which one's the queen? I'm the queen! No you're not, etc.) and could make some demands, but Jason thinks it was some kind of burrowing bee and those are like, the worst kind of bee ever, even worse than the Africanized ones, because they BURROW and probably have OPPOSABLE THUMBS and this whole suburban jungle thing makes me miss the city terribly, and people, we had COCKROACHES and CONFUSED FLOUR BEETLES in the city, but there's something about big-ass burrowing bees that suggests that I am about to be outsmarted.

Also we saw a snake once, and a fox. We live next to a highway off-ramp. I bet if we moved a couple blocks inward we'd have a pet giraffe by now.

Anyway. We also noticed a couple run-of-the-mill houseflies got in. And we swatted at them and trapped them in between the storm windows and the screens and waited for them to die. But they did not die, but instead got it on and had babies, who are currently making sweet love to the inside-the-house-omg-side of my kitchen windows.

Several times a day I brace myself and go in there, rolled-up US Weekly in hand, and whack the shit out of them with the Bikini-Ready Bodies spread. A few things I've learned:

1) Just because a fly drops to the ground does not mean it is remotely dead. It is merely stunned -- 'tis a flesh wound! -- and when you return with a tissue to clean up the carnage it will be gone, and it will heal and learn and assimilate and you will find it later doing the backstroke in your Pinot Noir.

    a) As such, you must whack the fly until it squishes.
    b) Have some Pinot Noir first.

2) A single US Weekly is sturdy enough to withstand about a dozen whacks before the staples give out and your floor will be littered with Fashion Police photos of Mischa Barton, who is actually kind of improved upon when covered in bug guts.

    a) As such, use Vogue. You can't afford any of that shit anyway.

3) In the end, it's pointless and futile, because the flies are here, and they are in charge, and we are all probably going to die of...whatever diseases houseflies carry. Black death? Mad Cow?

I tried Googling for (oh jesus a fly just flew right over my head, the ones from the kitchen probably sent him on a scouting mission) better housefly-killing tactics, and most of what I found involved polite recommendations to take out your trash occasionally. You know, stop living in filth. I do so love the head scarves, Edie, they're quite revolutionary, but perhaps it's time to move the rancid piles of rotted vegetables outside?

So that's it. That's my non-speech-delay-related story for you. We have flies, and they are gross, and by extension we are gross gross grossy people who live here covered in gross. We're getting our windows replaced in a couple weeks, which I'm hoping will help things (that is, if the killer burrowing bees don't get inside during the install process and take up residence under the floorboards, Hogan's Heroes style). In the meantime, if anybody has a recommendation for an effective trap or flypaper or possibly some kind of nuclear bomb (that's safe to use around children and pets, naturally), I'd certainly love to hear about it.

(Tomorrow I shall perhaps change the subject back to speech delays, but I bet y'all are fucking grateful to hear that now, aren't you? Am genius. Am goddamn blogging genius.)

Talking Enough For the Both of Us

Video of me. (It's off the homepage now, so click on "Videos" and then "Keyboard Confidential.")

Podcast of me.

Another podcast of me.

There. Go. I can't bear to watch or listen to any of them. I am hiding behind my fingers at the THOUGHT of watching or listening to any of them, but it's okay if you watch or listen just PLEASE DON'T TELL ME ABOUT THEM. La la laaaaa.

The video is an interview from last year's Blogher with the lovely Leah of leahpeah. And me. And my upper arms and the not-flattering right side of my head.

The first podcast is from the panel I was on at SXSW Interactive earlier this year. It's been available for awhile but I finally decided to link to it today, since it's suddenly some kind of Amalah Talky Moving Picture Media Day over here. I talked a lot, I remember, even when questions weren't really directed at me. I also brought the sap near the end, and generally just kind of sucked. Everybody else was smart and pretty though.

The second podcast is from that Sirius radio show I did last week. It was very early and they made me talk about the iPhone.

Speaking of Blogher, and SXSW, and the iPhone, I guess I should make some kind of official announcement that no, I'm not going to Blogher.

Last year ClubMom paid all of my expenses, but there's no such deal this year. Going to SXSW was super expensive, as was, you know, BUYING A DAMN HOUSE. Then Jason came home with the iPhone and a look on his face that clearly said he had no idea why he came with the iPhone, it was just THERE and SHINY and GADGETY. It was only after I ripped the box open (instant 10% restocking fee!), used the phone, fell in looooove with the phone and possibly licked the phone that I realized I was holding my airfare budget in my hands.

I wanted to take Noah with me, which means two plane tickets, and there's no way I can ask anyone to share a hotel room with us and our perfectly-timed hangover-hour whinefests. I am not that shitty of a friend, honest. And now there's the speech thing. I'm hoping we'll at least be getting a call from the county's EI program by then and possibly even have an evaluation scheduled. Or we'll just spend the whole time at the playground, while I get dirty looks from other mothers who think gawd, another one of those pushy neurotic momzillas who uses sign language with her kid, I bet that's why he's not talking, sniff.

So. Not going on account of ass = broke and baby = also needing a bit of a tune-up, sort of. I'm bummed, since it's always so nice to hang with everybody and put faces to the fonts and such.

I'll double-check the couch cushions, just in case we've dropped a grand worth of change in there, but if that doesn't work out, I hope y'all who are going have fun, and are kind to each other, and remember that in the end, we're all just a bunch of raging dorks with computers. (See: all the links above, oh my god DORK.)

I may have also spent my alcohol budget on a tricycle, but dude. Worth it.

One-Track Mind

Noah's fortune cookie:

Amy: *gets all weepy, because there is will! there is way!"

Jason: Noah could totally spot the typos in this one.

Jason's fortune cookie:

Amy: *gets all weepy, because we will not remain idle! we will press forward! we will get through this!*

Jason: Wait, did I just get insulted by a cookie?

Amy's fortune cookie:

Jason: Huh?

Amy: Dude! We're totally going to an orgy.

With Your Cards To Your Chest, Walking On Your Toes

<blah blah insert insincere apology for not posting yesterday here blah>

I woke up in a terrible, horrible self-pitying funk on Friday. Noah was humming away in his crib and...all I heard was a symptom on a checklist. (I should clarify that Noah's babbling is not really "babbling" sometimes -- he usually just hums a steady vowel sound but changes his pitch and inflection. He mimics the melody of speech but not the lyrics.) It wasn't my son, it was my son's "disorder," and the realization that I was letting this "thing" change how I look at him sent me on a huge crying jag.

And I know (AH KNOW) that this thing is not a big huge serious thing. In the realm of big huge serious things, this is a blip. A trifle. A story we will one day laugh about, probably while trying to have an adult conversation over the din of Noah's VERY IMPORTANT STORY ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED ON DORA TODAY MAMA, DORA WENT OVER THE TROLL BRIDGE AND YOU KNOW WHAT? MAMA? YOU KNOW WHAT? THE TROLL WAS GRUMPY.

But while this is a tiny thing, this is also MY BABY we are talking about. My baby, who is struggling. Who is getting labeled with Big Bad Scary Words. Who needs help and seriously, Montgomery County Department of Health & Human Services Infants & Toddlers Early Intervention Division, I left a message over an hour ago and you haven't called me back and I NEED YOU TO COME HELP MAH BABY.

A friend called on Friday night to find out if everything was still okay/fine/perfect, since I didn't post at all. I told her I couldn't bear to publish another entry harping about it, because you know. The Interweb Pain Olympics. The nice, supportive comments eventually morph into people telling me to Get Over It, Let Me Tell You About My Kid's Cancer Or Don't You Know That So-And-So Has It Worse And So-And-So's Baby Just Died And I've Had 37 Miscarriages, You Selfish Whore.

"I'm just trying to keep everything in perspective," I told her. "I can't write about how upset I am, because I shouldn't be this upset. He needs speech therapy, not a fucking brain transplant."

"What the fuck," she said. "Get mad. It's okay to get mad. It's okay to admit that this sucks, that this isn't what you wanted for your kid and you are mad about it. I don't care if you read some blog about somebody giving birth to a four-headed autistic monkey child who already has breast cancer, it's fucking okay to get mad."

So hi. I am fine. I am keeping things in perspective. I am also a little mad, a little frightened and would chew my right arm off if it meant all of this would go away and Noah could talk.

After talking to some friends and wonderful Internet strangers, I've submitted an application to our county's early intervention program, which is supposedly the best in the area. And free! FREE. After living in DC for so long, the idea of state-run services that you can actually use and aren't total crap is blowing my mind. It's like we moved to a whole 'nother country. After months of doubting (and yes, even regretting) our decision to move here, it looks like it may have been the best thing we possibly could have done.

It'll take about two weeks to process our application and get an assessment scheduled. In the meantime, I managed to hustle myself a discount on some Signing Time DVDS (if by "hustle" you mean "opened up an email from someone who works there offering a discount, then crying some more because YOU PEOPLE ARE ALL SO WONDERFUL").

(And now it's time for another parenthetical tangent! I want to clarify that the earlier posts about the Bilingual Sign Language Genius Child at Gymboree were NOT any kind of slam or mockery of the idea of baby sign language. Not at all. I tried signing with Noah early on, but he never picked up any of it and I got lazy and let it go.  My issue with the Bilingual Sign Language Genius Child was wholly and totally about her mother's awful and obnoxious superiority complex about it.  Her daughter was incredibly sweet and smart, but her mother! Oh my God, she was terrible. I try very hard to not use my blog as some kind of passive-aggressive bashing ground, but this woman made me want to stab myself in the fucking eyeballs. She was show-offy and pushy and and would never ever shut up about all the classes and activities her daughter was enrolled in and blah blah blah, she just soaks this stuff up like a sponge, she craves being challenged, she's just so smart. HATE. BURNING IRRATIONAL HATE. LOOK. I KNOW THE SIGN FOR BIRD. LET ME SHOW IT TO YOU. IT'S ALL ABOUT THE FLIPPING WRIST ACTION.)

Anyway. I am really fucking grateful for you guys. I need to tell you that. I have read every comment. Every email. And I have repeated your stories to friends and family to help them understand what we're dealing with and read at least two dozen hundred of them out loud to Jason (who, if we may keep this between us, is fuh-reaked out and possibly had to leave work early on Thursday because he was so rattled, and my God, that man worships that child). You have helped us immeasurably.

I mean, have you Googled "sensory processing disorder toddler speech delay" lately? Have you seen the horrible no-good death-destruction-DOOOOOOM stuff that comes up? I understand it's a new thing, and still a relatively squishy kind of diagnosis, but my God, those symptom checklists? It's a wonder that ANY of us can get through the day without a temper tantrum because OMG CEILING FANS AND POLYESTER CLOTHING! I'M OVERSTIMULATED! I'M OVERSTIMULATED!

But I also understand what a relief it is to have something -- anything -- that finally seems to explain why your child is different. To look at the checklist and sense that satisfying *click* as your child snaps in like a puzzle piece. A diagnosis that "qualifies" you to get the help you need.

If Noah does have an SID/SPD, I believe it's a very mild one. We have the toe walking, the food texture issues, drooling and an increasing resistance to transitions. (Carseat! NOOOO! Out of the carseat! NOOOOOO! Inside/Outside! NOOOOOOO! Parachute time! AM GOING TO DIE NOOOOO!) We have a kid who is different, in ways I'm not sure I can articulate.

But mostly, we have a kid who desperately wants to talk. A kid who understands most of what we say and who doesn't understand why we don't understand what he says. A kid who is sweet and affectionate with everyone except that other kid on a playdate who knows how to ask for juice. Then he pushes. He hits.

The last 48 hours or so have been....weird, honestly. It's like someone just turned on the lights, and holy crap, they're 400-watt bulbs.

It's shockingly clear to me now that this is not temperament. This is not something he is just going to "snap out of" and start talking in sentences one random day. This is not something I am going to gamble with because I'm suspicious of all this "sensory" bullshit and whatever, in my day we didn't care if kids didn't start talking by age seven and also. Snow. Uphill. Both ways.

This is a blip. A trifle. This is something we're going to overcome.

A Different Kind of Okay

Well. He's speech delayed. All official-like.

Oh, dial back on the melodrama, Self. Whatever. He's okay. I'm okay!

I was a little late to our appointment. Because I kept changing my shirt. I was looking for my most-capable-looking outfit, as Cher Horowitz would say, and couldn't figure out how best to look like a responsible, informed mother...but, you know, not like a helicoptering stage mother who spends too much time on Google. I am thinking that mother owns a lot of sweater sets.

In the end, I wore shorts and a tank top. But! I wore a BELT. I was READY.

I read all of your lovely comments while we waited in the exam room (iPhone! iPhoneiPhoneiPhonemmmm), and after the dozenth or so story about a late-talking kid who went on to be perfectly fine and smart and become President of the United States and inventor of the TiVo, I began to feel really silly for even being there. This is ridiculous! He's fine!

So I shoved my phone back in my bag and waited for the doctor to come in and tell me how fine everything was.

Noah was particularly charming during the entire appointment and clearly developed a wee little grandpa crush on his doctor. He kept hugging him. He slapped him five and grinned like a loon and the doctor declared him utterly delightful.

The only thing he did not do was talk. At all. Not a word.

I rattled off all of our words: Aball. Adada. Amama. Ababy. Car. Banana. Oh no.

"Banana?" the doctor asked. "Does he really say the whole word?"

"Well. No. It's more like nana."

He nodded. And then he crossed it off the list. Not even partial credit! Way harsh!

I listed our sort-of words. Ball-ball for bye-bye. Eee for eyes. Dar for star and awawa for butterfly. Nah for Noah. I didn't mention abeer, but Noah hasn't said that in ages anyway.

I told him how Noah loses words or simplifies them over time. That's when he noticed Noah was walking on his tiptoes.

"Does he do that a lot?"

Fuck. Yes.

As today's modern neurotic parent knows, walking on tiptoes is your one-way ticket to the magical, fuzzy land of "sensory integration issues."  Add in some drooling, tantrums at Gymboree and a heap load of food and texture issues...and bam! You've just been upgraded to first-class.

The doctor took one look at my face (which, did I mention by this point I'd broken out in lovely Something-About-Mary-style hives all over my face and neck? Because I totally did. So much for my capable-looking tank top.), and immediately began to tell me over and over (and over again) that no! NOT AUTISM! NOT ASPERGER'S! WE ARE NOT TALKING AUTISM HERE PLEASE DON'T FREAK OUT.

I assured him that while yes, I am a neurotic mess, autism has never once been on my list of Things That Could Be Wrong With My Kid. (Thing #1: Almost Too Cute And Delicious, Thus Irresistible To Bears.) Who, by the way, is trying to tickle your thigh. Could you please indulge him and pretend to laugh, Doctor?

"Don't call yourself that." he said, while miming a hearty knee-slap. "I mean it. This is your child. You're supposed to worry about him."

So. Noah definitely falls into the 25% delayed or more category, and qualifies for a more thorough evaluation.  His doctor strongly believes some kind of sensory processing problem is the cause, but that it's probably nothing that can't be corrected before kindergarten.

I now have a list of early intervention centers and phone numbers, with the words DON'T PANIC written on it in large, friendly letters. (I may have written them. I have lovely -- if remarkably childlike -- penmanship.)  And I've been advised to start signing with him. (Karma has bitten me in the ass. And it has a beak. Like a duck.)

Part of me wonders if we're just making A Thing out of Not A Thing. Part of me feels relieved that this prickle of worry that I've been simultaneously ignoring and stressing about for months may have been justified. That all those times I said, "I think there might be something up with Noah's speech," only to get brushed of with a dismissive wave from friends ("Oh, stop being so neurotic"), I was actually right.

Most of me wishes I'd been wrong. But all of me will do whatever Noah needs me to do, and will love him just the way he is, because please. He's fine. He's okay. He's perfect.