If you thought new windows were boring, just wait until you hear about my new dishwasher

Over the weekend we got a letter from GE kindly informing us that our dishwasher could potentially and possibly and also very bloody damn well likely set our house on fire. And then they offered us $300 towards a new one, presumably without the HOUSE GO KABLOOMIE feature.

Unlike when Fisher Price informed us that we were the proud owners of several toxic tub toys (assholes, by the way. and Mattel too. can't we parents buy cheap plastic crap in the likeness of brain-rotting TV characters with confidence?), we were actually happy to hear about this recall, since we thought the dishwasher was a piece of shit to begin with and planned to replace it anyway.

So we bought a shiny new dishwasher this weekend, and I am currently twiddling my thumbs and waiting for it to be delivered and installed today.

(Aren't you impressed at how good my typing still is?)

Yes, this is truly my only news to report. Yes, this is truly what my life has become.

If you read this post (go on, I'll wait, I'm thisclose to getting a traffic bonus for the month over there and I also need some damn drapes), you'll know that I was hoping to have a different sort of news for you.

I was so sure I was pregnant. It felt right. It felt...gassy. The timing of the OPK pointed towards a 34-day cycle, which was precisely what I'd had the month before, and two back-to-back same-numbered cycles were all it took for us to conceive Noah, and day 34 came and went and I got carsick on the way to dinner and my boobs hurt and I silently thanked God in all His heavenly wisdom for giving me this amazing gift right when I needed it the most and laughed at all the JUST RELAX people I could scientifically and personally tell to go to frigging hell.

I went through at least nine or 10 pregnancy tests. I kept waiting for them to tell me what I already knew. I kept waiting for the faintest trace of a second line. I ran out of tests around day 39, baffled and confused by the definitively negative results and the definitive lack of a period.

(Day 43, it showed up. FORTY THREE, WHICH MAKES NO SENSE ON ANY LEVEL.)

So I am not pregnant, and I don't think I actually ovulated after all, and I also think I am completely crazy and delusional and can apparently will fake pregnancy symptoms into existence through the power of my crazy delusional mind. So. Bonus!

Anyway.  That was this month. It sucked. Good riddance, month!

Hello, next month.

Me = nuts, and still not understanding that I'd be better off just tossing dollars into the toilet and peeing on them directly, and also does anybody have one of those fancy expensive fertility monitor types that you aren't using?

(I will now go back to trying to get Noah to sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on video, because he substitutes MAMA for all the words, and after you hear it you can't possibly blame me for wanting 10 more just like him.)

That's Hott

I wrote this sign as a reminder for the window guys, who are here today to finally install our long-awaited new and non-crap windows, but I'm finding it extremely helpful for myself, as I keep walking into the bathroom, noticing the sign and making a panicked run up the stairs, cursing the terrible inconvenience of not being able to use the toilet closest to my body at all times, and finally remembering how I used to live with just one toilet that was on a different floor about 99% of the time, even while pregnant, and I wonder: where the fuck was my medal?

In other news, did I mention the new windows? The team descended on our house about an hour ago and I am surrounded by a literal symphony of destruction as they smash and destroy the old (chipped peeling drafty non-stay-upping) windows and there is no better sound in the world. I'm tempted to ask them to leave one behind for me to take a baseball bat to, Office-Space style, in the backyard.

Jason and I had a little anniversary thing last week -- nine damn years, he's been putting up with my nonsense -- so we celebrated this weekend by pawning Noah off on the in-laws and heading downtown to a hotel. I believe there was supposed to be some romantic connotation to that, but all I could focus on was I GET TO SLEEP IN! I GET TO SLEEP IN!

Jason had champagne waiting in our room to set the mood, while I blew past it and collected every extra decorative pillow in the room to block the half-inch of natural light that could potentially poke through the bottom of the curtains and wake us up in the morning. Jason awoke in tomb-like pitch-blackness around, oh, 11 am, while I woke up every hour on the hour from 3 am on because nobody tells you that you are physically unable to sleep through the night after giving birth because somewhere, out there, your child might need you to change his pants or get his foot unstuck from the crib slats or check to make sure he's still breathing.

After checkout we went over to visit some friends in the hospital who just had a baby, and I held that tiny squeaky little boy for as long as I could, nuzzling his delicious little head and assuring my friend that seriously, this is the best thing ever and you are going to have so much fun.

I didn't tell her about the sleep thing though. What's the point? She'll learn and then one day withhold that very information from another friend who is debating having children, and instead tell her that this is the best thing ever and she is going to have so much fun, and that's how the human race has existed all these years.

On Friday Noah started calling things HOT, complete with a jazz-hand-like STOP! gesture and a slobbery attempt at blowing. The sun poking through the (crappy crappy soon-to-be-gone) windows is HOT. His morning toaster waffle is HOT. My coffee cup is HOT. If I ask him to find something HOT in Goodnight Moon he immediately points at the fireplace.

One of his little friends has been saying HOT for months now, and I know I've read about other people's toddlers doing the same thing.

But I can't help it. Noah says HOT. Our first non-noun. Our first concept, our first adjective and our first word without the "a" sound in front of it.

I'm so proud of him. And it's the best thing ever.

Assessment

I woke up this morning with a weird sickish vibe -- similar to the feeling I get right before flying cross-country. By myself, with four connections.

I had at least three anxiety dreams last night, all of which were about me oversleeping and having to let the evaluation people in while only wearing my underwear. So I woke up at 6 and was dressed and ready and staring at the door by 7.

They came at nine. Two ladies -- one speech pathologist and one special education teacher. They were warm and friendly and lovely. They took one look at Noah and gasped. "He's GORGEOUS!" they gushed. I liked them instantly.

Jason stayed home and we sat on the couch, while I positioned myself best for subtle kicks to his ankle if he got too braggy about Noah's abilities because THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR THAT. STICK TO THE SCRIPT. ALL IS DIRE AND LOST AND WOE.

They gave Noah a series of puzzles and toys and simple instructions. His Royal Hamness excelled at almost all of them. He looked for praise and smiles and deftly manipulated pennies into a coin slot. He didn't understand when they asked him to find a matching car, because lady, you've got a car right there in your hand, so why would I waste my time finding another one? My time is precious, you know. Gimme that acar.

He scored at 20 months for cognition and receptive language. 21 months for fine motor skills. 26 months for social-emotional.

17 months for expressive language and gross motor.

Five months behind.

But not a 25% delay.

I started to quietly freak out. Do I take their word for it? Them, with their checklist and filled-in-bubble-circle worksheet and some random mathematical formula? Do I take him to a private practice? Do I keep pushing?

Do I really need to keep pushing? Fuck. I'm all lost again.

But then they told me they're qualifying Noah for services anyway.

Turns out there's a bit of back door into our early intervention program. A catch-all diagnosis of "atypical development."

Which for Noah means that he excelled at verbal skills before 12 months (babbling early, expressive jargon, etc.) and then slowed down right at 12 months (slow to point, gesture or wave). And then he's been at a near-standstill for about five months now. That's enough to get him in the door and enough to get him all the free help he needs.

"He could just be a late talker," the speech therapist said. "But I'm certainly not going to take that risk. There's no point, when I know we can help him."

"He just needs a little help," the teacher said. "I can't wait to work with him. I'll bring toys, and we'll play and talk and he'll have tons of fun."

(I was practically weeping with gratitude and relief at this point.)

So in a few weeks Noah will begin weekly sessions with the special ed teacher (the speech pathologists are generally reserved for older, more critical-case kids). She'll come to our house once a week, every week, for at least six months. He'll get a free hearing screen in a week or so, and at least three sessions with an occupational therapist to assess the sensory issues and give us techniques for dealing with them. In the fall we can attend a mock-preschool (run by the early intervention program) together, where he can interact with kids who are facing the same issues, where he won't stand out like a sore, silent little thumb.

I'm so overwhelmed at this point I don't even know what else to say. It's a good kind of overwhelmed, because I honestly can't think of a better outcome. Noah is fine. It is not a major delay. And yet he is still going to get amazing and individualized care and he is going to TALK UP A STORM.

Oh, here come the tears again.

I'm so grateful we live here. I'm so grateful our pediatrician didn't hesitate and didn't drag his feet and I'm so grateful that our friends and family supported us in our decision to make a Big Fucking Deal about this.  And I'm so grateful for all of you, dear little internet people, for giving me hope and help and head pats -- and for loving and cheering Noah on as much and as loud and as often as you do.

(The evaluators were extremely impressed by the depth of our knowledge about speech delays, particularly when I told them I'd chucked all of our non-straw sippy cups, and I apologize for taking credit instead of admitting that yeah, the Internet People told me to do that.)

So I guess, now that we're officially through the dark time of questioning and worry, it's my turn to pass on advice and words of wisdom. The first bit of advice is to mix your self-tanner with body lotion, especially around your elbows. And then I would say, for anybody who is worried about their own kid, to just go ahead and make a Big Fucking Deal about it if you have to. Be it a speech delay or SPD or just a creeping worry because your child is not doing X, Y or Z.

It sucks admitting that there's something wrong with your child, but you aren't doing them any favors by denying that there's something wrong.  I would rather be told I am overreacting than find out later that I underreacted. You aren't wasting anyone's time by getting things checked, by calling your state's early intervention program and jumping through the hoops and in the end, even if everything is fine, you will sleep better knowing that you got it checked out. You are not being neurotic.

You are just being a parent, and that's a wonderful, terrifying, amazing thing to be.

It is too hot to write anything; here, have some pictures

My lands. I just went outside to toss an entirely reasonable number of empties into the recycling bin and nearly caught on fire.

Had a playdate with Jodi and Michael yesterday; a playdate that ended with me sort of...camping out at their house for a really long time, well past reasonable playdate hours for various complicated reasons, one of which is that I'm an asshole who doesn't really plan her days all that well. And I think that is perfectly illustrated in this photo:

That's my kid, eating another kid's dinner, wearing a dishrag for a bib.

(REDRUM! REDRUM!)

Luckily Michael seemed more than happy to share.

Did you know that  2.5 year olds are like, fully formed little people? Who don't sit in high chairs or use bibs and can like, TELL you that they don't want their little lion, they want their BIG lion, and also about the time they saw a polar bear at the zoo?

Noah spent most of our time at Jodi's playing with a bag of Dungeon & Dragons dice. Oh, and playing in a fort that her husband made for the boys after he got home from work, because you know, I WAS STILL THERE FOR SOME REASON. I DON'T KNOW EITHER.

And now a lighter moment in the life of Noah, Dungeon Master.

About 10 minutes later I found him dunking the bottle in my coffee mug. Am guessing Smushie Baby wanted something a little stronger than Invisible Milks.

(By the way, I do realize that by admitting publicly that my kid doesn't talk, I also have no choice but to be honest about the origins of the name Smushie Baby and her Invisible Milks. It was...uh...Jason! Jason named her that. Totally.)

Dirty Spoiled Rotten Scoundrel

Oh my God, can you even stand it?

A trip to Target for a picture frame and some coffee filters resulted in an inflatable Thinking Chair instead.

Luckily I have learned that a paper towel can be used instead of a coffee filter. That's one to grow on!

Not much else to report here. Still marking time until our assessment on Thursday, still alternating between worry and heartburn and feeling pretty optimistic about everything, especially since Noah said "bye-bye Dada" this morning, all by himself, the first time we've EVER heard two words put together, even if "bye-bye" still sounds suspiciously like "ball-ball."

He's saying "truck" again, but now we've lost "car." I blame the SUV market, frankly.

We also went back to that Moroccan restaurant (shut up. the bastilla is soooo freaking gooood.) with some friends, and after insisting OVER AND OVER LIKE ASSHOLES that we needed to go early, before the belly dancing, because Noah would freak out otherwise, well...you can probably guess what happened.

We were just waiting for our check when I noticed it was pretty close to dancing time, so I pulled Noah onto my lap and told him that "the pretty sparkly lady is going to come out and dance, but if you don't like it we will go outside and play, okay?"

I don't think he heard me, because he was too busy FALLING COMPLETELY IN LOVE with the dancer and at one point jumped off my lap, ran right to her and...well. He shook his little diapered booty and danced with her.

Everybody in the restaurant started clapping for him and I pulled that "OH GOD I'm so EMBARRASSED" face while I led him back to our table but then Jason and I looked at each other and just started grinning like big sappy damn fools.

Overload

A comment from mcewen, from a couple days ago:

I've just been reading some of your first posts from way back when. I wondered if you ever did too, just to see how much your life has changed?

I avoid my own archives like the plague, actually, since every time I go through old entries I cringe and get all delete-post-happy. But trust me, I know what you mean, and it does blow my mind sometimes.

Especially since I still wouldn't change a thing.

I've gotten quite a few emails (politely) asking for more details regarding the squishy and mysterious "sensory issues" I keep dancing around. Everybody wants to compare notes. Everybody wants to know whether they should worry. What does your kid do; mine does this; our therapist said this but our doctor said that.

Here's the thing: I am not a doctor or an expert and in fact, have not yet read more than five pages of the book in that photo, and I read those in the aisle at Border's while Noah pitched a fit and the woman who was thumbing through What To Expect While You're Expecting stared at the book in my hands with this absolutely terrified, ashen look on her face. And then, true to Helen's words, I got all silently bent out of shape because WTF, LADY. MY KID ROCKS. MY KID COULD KICK YOUR ZYGOTE'S VESTIGIAL TAIL.

I've started entries about the symptoms of SPD that we see in Noah, but I end up deleting them. Partly because I've been talking about this stuff non-stop for like, a million years now and I keep waiting for the chance to change the damn subject already, and partly because it all sounds so TERRIBLE. Like life with Noah is such a STRUGGLE. Like we are constantly on the verge of an eardrum-shattering meltdown because of a string of blinking Christmas lights in a cheesy chain restaurant.

But yes, now that you mention it, Noah cannot stand blinking colored lights. We had an extremely unfortunate experience last week at a Moroccan restaurant when they very suddenly turned the lights down, fired up some pulsing beats and sent out a belly dancer. Then they turned on some multi-colored strobe lights and Noah started screaming. Not crying. Not fussing. Screaming. His face registered no emotion -- not fear, not sadness or pain -- but he screamed. Over. And. Over. I dove to remove him from the high chair and get him outside, but the instant I touched him he recoiled as if I'd slapped him.

And that's the sort of thing we're trying to muddle our way through. Trying to separate the "normal" terrible-not-quite-two behavior from the...well, the rest of it.

He hates walking barefoot in the backyard and will stay on the deck until I put his shoes on. When he was tiny and I'd place him on the grass he'd raise his chubby little legs up until he eventually toppled over. He goes up on his toes when he's on hard surfaces like wood and tile, but loves running barefoot on the scratchy carpet in the basement. Tags in clothing don't seem to bother him in the slightest, but when he's overwhelmed, the slightest touch causes him to cry out like he's in pain.

His pronunciation is bizarre -- if I mimic the movement of his mouth and tongue when he says "aball" I'm surprised at how hard he's working to get the correct sounds. He creates unintelligible nonsense words and then applies them consistently to objects with completely different-sounding names.

He loves patterns and order and prefers his toys lined up, end to end. He can say the letters in his name except for N, will hold up his fingers to count but can't say any of the numbers. He can identify pretty much any object in a picture book, but will simply shake his head no and push the book away if you ask him to name what he's pointing at.

I remember, a long LONG time ago, reading a blog about a child with SPD. For the life of me I cannot remember any of the details, except that I was not pregnant yet and thought the blogger's son sounded like a nightmare. Like the absolute worst-case scenario and wow, she's handling it so well but personally I would rather stab my eyeballs with the toothpick from my martini than deal with that kid all day.

Noah is still so much damn fun. It's hard to keep from chomping on him all day; he's just that delicious. As I finish up this entry he's making faces at himself in the mirror and cracking himself up.

Oh, wait. Now he's trying to ride the cat. Hang on.

His brain works. He's all there. I see glimmers of an amazingly smart kid.  I see the easy-going temperament that made his newborn days almost criminally easy bashing up against something that's keeping him tongue-tied. For now.

I see Noah, for now. I still wouldn't change a thing. He is perfection.

I hope you see it too.