My Monkey. Let Me Show You It.

I know. I KNOW I already posted photos of Noah in his monkey costume, but that was a moment of shiny-new costume weakness. A moment I knew I would regret come Halloween. Don't post the monkey costume photos, self, I said to...uh...myself. Because then you will actually have to come up with things to say on Halloween, and dude, you know how you hate coming up with things to say.

Fine. So I have one thing to say: This morning was our first occupational therapy session, and oh, gee! You know what is fun? Listening to your child scream while a stranger attempts to massage his face with a yellow duckie washcloth. And then being asked if your child has any negative connotations with the yellow duckie washcloth.

You mean something like, oh, this very moment right now?

We shall now and forevermore refer to the yellow duck washcloth as the yellow goose washcloth, because, well. Fuck the fucking geese. Seriously. I hate them.

That is a banana in his pocket, but he is not happy to see you or your NUK brush.

And...that's really all I've got.

How about some bemittened sign language?

ABALL!

ASTAR!

ACAR! (Oh fine, acock. abig acock.)

Aannnnd...AMONKEY. We are going to clean UP tonight, I can feel it.

One T-Junction Short of a Very Serious Problem

Oh, it's ON now, motherfuckers.

(You probably thought I was over the train set, didn't you? You probably thought I stepped away and took a deep breath and remembered that the train set does in fact belong to my two-year-old, who is perfectly delighted by his imperfect track layout and that I would be satisfied with watching his innocent delight BUT YOU WOULD BE WRONG ABOUT ALL OF THAT.)

(I have since dragged Jason down into my personal brand of crazy, actually. The family that curses wooden train sets out together, drinks more together, is what I always say.)

(I gotta go now! Bye! Very, very important parenting stuff to do.)

Halloweenie

One drawback to the fancy search bar over to the left: I can now see exactly how repetitive my blogging -- and thus my very LIFE -- has been over the past few years.

I broke my toe over the weekend. The same toe I broke here. I stubbed it on the vacuum cleaner, just like I did here. But it's a different toe than the one I broke here, so I am mixing it up a little bit.

I stubbed it in the morning and did the whole silent-gasping dance around the bedroom, but it wasn't until a few hours later -- while we were shopping for last-minute Halloween costumes for ourselves, more on that ridiculousness in a second -- when I noticed my toe felt a little stiff. I flexed it inside my shoe, and heard an audible popping sound.

"JESUS CHRIST!" I hissed, as I kicked my shoe off to watch the swelling.

"Can I help you?" a store employee, dressed ever-so-conveniently like the deity in question, smirked back.

I followed up with a muttered "mother of GOD," but that doesn't appear to be a very popular costume this year.

***
I cannot remember the last time I got dressed up for Halloween, but we've been invited to a party. Us! Invited places! I know, it caught me completely off-guard too.

I had a lot of great costume ideas, but was ultimately stymied by rush shipping prices and the fact that I have the patience of a gnat when it comes to shopping. (An Audrey Hepburn costume was nixed after 10 minutes in Target when I failed to find a black dress or large hat, and when Jason suggested that there are, in fact, other stores in the world besides Target I announced that I hated Halloween more than anything, ever and I was going to buy a pair of cat pajamas and go as a blogger as imagined by Aaron Sorkin, but Target didn't have those either.)

So we ended up in one of those Halloween stores that crop up wherever a large chain store has gone out of business recently, where your costume options are "Sexy Nurse" or "Sexy Pirate" or "Sexy Rainbow Brite" or "Aw, Fuck It, Here's Some Underwear With Some Fairy Wings."

I bought the first costume I found that covered my stomach and my ass and called it a day. I am not even very sure what it is, exactly. Possibly Marie Antoinette, but with pants? Some kind of royal court gentleman, but in pink? Gender Identity Problems of the 18th Century, but with cleavage?

I don't know, but I am going to wear glittery gold eyelashes and a hot pink bra. It's all sorts of classy.

***
In other Halloween news, Noah has discovered the candy. This was entirely my fault, since I was trying to explain trick-or-treating and the cold, harsh fact that people were going to PUT THINGS inside his beloved pumpkin bucket. For you do not PUT THINGS in the pumpkin bucket.

(NOOOES THEY BE PUTTIN THINGS IN MAH BUKKET, TREATS: DO NOT WANT, etc.)

I think he is okay with the concept now.

Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert? Dessert?

(We possibly ate a little more dessert than lunch today. So what? You gonna send over a squad of Sexy Police Officers over to stop me?)

Checking in

We're good. We're super good.

I had a nice snotty ol' weepfest this morning, reading your comments, and I may have possibly had an imaginary conversation with you (ME: Buh-buh-but I don't FEEL brave! YOU: Go Amy, Go No-ah, Go, Go, Go No-ah!) and then I wandered off to look at lolcats, or something.

Anyway, I needed that. Thank you, everybody, for being so kind. You guys are such a help, you don't even know. You make me a better mother, honestly, by allowing me to sometimes skip the funny and just sort of...BLAH! EEK! GAH! all over the place, and then by helping me through it with all your stories and support.

I've started about five or six DEEPLY META entries about this and the Internetosphere and modern motherhood, but I've deleted them all because they all stink of post-divorce celebrity press releases and belly button lint. (So...sort of like Paris Hilton's perfumes, then.)

Instead, please accept this awkward hug and/or affectionate punch in the arm.

Hug.

Punch.

Anybody else watching Pushing Daisies? Ahem.

Anyway, like I said, we're good.

We're having one of those lazy days here -- it's dark and raining, so we all overslept. Breakfast lasted until almost 10 am and I didn't shower until 2 pm and we ate lunch on the kitchen floor, sharing a bowl of macaroni and cheese while singing along to Raffi. Noah said "more" for the first time ever.

Yep. We're really, really good.

(I'm not sure what I'm more impressed by...the letter sorting or how he very almost has KTHXBYE spelled out.)

Untitled, for Lack of a Title

Once again, I am blown away by the response to Monday's post. (I would link to it but my head feels like it is about to split open and I'm trying not to spend much time looking at a computer screen. Or read. Which means I am typing this entry while staring at the ceiling. I am n0t kiddign.) And once again, it sounds so trite to simply say, "Thank you for all your comments and emails." But...thank you for all your comments and emails.

I'm still a bundle of emotions and opinions about That Thing From Monday. Let's recap!

DENIAL!

I think they may be full of shit. Like a lot of you mentioned, when you go looking for problems, you're going to find them. Especially when it comes to sensory processing disorder. If I said, no, Noah doesn't usually sit still and read books, he likes to tear around the house like a linebacker who just won big at the dogfight, they'd tell me that oh my goodness, your child is not processing sensory movement properly and is seeking extra sensory input with a constant need for motion.

Since Noah does sit still and read books, well oh my goodness, he's seeking to lessen his sensory input because he isn't able to control his body in space.

I just made all that shit up, by the way. Please don't use this blog as a diagnostic tool for SPD. The only real guidance I can offer is that one about the weevils.

But seriously. They asked if Noah was "clumsy." If he "tripped a lot" or "fell more than other children his age." HE IS A TODDLER. ONE WHO TODDLES. I couldn't quite figure out what yardstick they were comparing him against. Yeah...he...falls. Don't...toddlers...fall? Sometimes? What is sometimes? What is a lot? What day is it, and is it noon yet, because dear God, I would like some wine.

ANGER! GAR SMASH!

Seriously, WHY? Why is this happening? Why me, why my baby, why why why whyyyyyyy. I have really tried to avoid the sad little pity party over here, since my God, get a grip, it could all be so much worse.

And a lot of mothers have emailed me with Worse. I've read all about Worse. I'm exceedingly grateful that  y'all are so understanding that Worse doesn't matter when it's your child. You're entitled to a little myopic thinking every now and again, at least at first.  Or maybe at first, and then again whenever the next layer of the special-needs onion (parfait? onion parfait?) gets peeled away.

SAD! VERY SAD! BOO HOO WITH SIGN LANGUAGE TEARS!

I spent a few hours with my friend on Monday. Her son is two months younger than Noah. And oh, man -- all spectacular progress aside -- he's left Noah in the dust. He talks in sentences and paragraphs. He can tell you what he did that day and what he did the day before. He'll ask to sit on the potty and tell you which animals live at the zoo and which animals live on a farm. He'll ask me where my dog Sahba is, whether Jason is at work, whether Noah would like some juice.

Every once in awhile Noah would wander over and join the conversation.

"ABALL!" he'd announce, holding...yep, that's a ball, baby. Good job.

Sigh.

ACCEPTANCE! BELEAGUERED, TIRED ACCEPTANCE!

Fine. Weekly speech therapy, weekly occupational therapy. Can't hurt, might help.

Fine. Maybe Noah does wobble a little more than most kids. Maybe he is a little old to be tripping over his feet as much as he does. Maybe 25 months is a little old to finally be celebrating baby's first zerbert.

But I like my kid the way he is. You can call it a disorder, but I know.

I know perfect when I see it.

Post-Processing

Please indulge me, because this is exactly what I needed today.

Professional photography by Kaileen Galhouse.
Music: Calico Skies by Paul McCartney

(Last year's session with Kaileen is here, if you're in the mood for TWO sappy montages and a good dose of OMFG WHERE DID THE BABY GO?)

Faster faster more more more

Sorry, sorry. Forgive the pun, but I needed a few hours to process everything. I was extremely cheerful for about 10 minutes after the therapists left this morning, but after describing the evaluation to a couple friends I realized that oh my God, I really just want to go to bed for days.

(And Girl Scout cookies. I really, really want some Girl Scout cookies.)

The evaluation went well, in that Noah easily qualified for weekly occupational therapy sessions for oral and gross motor skills and a host of sensory-processing issues.

It didn't go well, in that Noah like, easily qualified. For a lot more than I was expecting, honestly.

Every question, every answer, every knowing "mmm-hmmm" rattled me more and more, since I would describe what I thought was something fairly innocent -- something that makes Noah so unique and special -- and they would mark another symptom off the SPD checklist.  He's cautious and thoughtful and would rather sit and read books than dive-bomb off the couch.  Well, that's probably because Noah is not processing his responses to physical movement properly.

Wait. What?

He toe-walked the entire time...something we thought he'd more or less outgrown...and at one point he wobbled and fell over while standing completely still. His speech therapist said she's seen him do that before. I bit my lip and tried not to cry, because my God, I never noticed.

I've preached and clucked that sometimes, the single best thing you can do for your child is admit that something is wrong. Today I had to put their checklist where my mouth is, and I didn't like it.

I'd been thinking about this comment by zdoodlebub all weekend:

Nothing in the future will ever come as close to all the emotions and fears you had the first time someone confirmed that, yes, there may in fact be something wrong with your perfect child. You are doing the work and thankfully you are blessed with professionals who are on task and proactive. Emotionally, however - it's all downhill from here. That mommy-vulnerability blister is now a callus. It may act up when you have to wear new shoes, but not for long.

So true. Ridiculously true.

The first time around, with the speech delay, was terrifying. It was huge. It was a wig-out of spectacular proportions.

This time I'm just sort of...cranky. Skeptical. Done. Worried about how I'll get all my writing deadlines done with two weekly therapy sessions.

Worried that there's something else I'm missing. Something that's just waiting to march into my house, clipboard in hand, and ask me where the hell I've been, what with my kid walking into walls and climbing down stairs with a two-handed, white-knuckled death-grip on the railing.

***

There's no doubt in mind that if I ever needed to throw myself into oncoming traffic in order to save Noah, I would. Without hesitation.

In fact, the only part of that imaginary scenario that makes me anxious is the fear that I wouldn't be able to get my body in front of that car fast enough.

Over it, Under it

Noah's getting his oral motor skills evaluated by an occupational therapist on Monday.

He's made incredible progress over the past month and a half -- it's been hard to know what necessitates an update or not. Sit? Dessert? Hop, tick-tock? Clue? Big truck? The way he imitates Cesar Millan's patented TSSST! sound when Ceiba barks?

But. One problem. I'm the only one who can understand him.

(Car + Truck = Cahck = Noah joyfully shrieking BIG COCK! at every possible occasion)

His speech therapist doesn't think he's like most children she treats, since he's clearly ready and willing to communicate at a much higher level than he is. (Based on the way he plays and the signs he uses.) But something is stopping him. Something is causing him to make an M sound with his front teeth sticking out over his lip, and to go out of his way to avoid sounds that create vibrations in his mouth. Something is definitely up with his pronunciation.

He won't pucker his lips or make a fish face or eat with a spoon. Food must be extremely crunchy (cracker-like) or practically mush. He won't let us touch his mouth and brushing his teeth takes two people holding him down and ends with at least two people crying. He still won't blow on the damn bubble wand.

Once again, we're back in Squishy Diagnosis Land, since I imagine 99.9% of you read that paragraph and went, "Uh, honey? He's TWO."

His speech therapist thinks, when you put the whole picture together, that Noah is not processing sensory input from his mouth correctly. Oral defensiveness. Eh. Fine.

I'm not worried about Monday's assessment -- his regular therapist will be there, she hand-picked the OT and I am confident in her ability to advocate for Noah. (She's pushing for weekly OT sessions.) It will be here at home, and mostly consists of me feeding Noah a snack while the OT watches. (Although I AM a bit concerned about serving the best snack -- what IS the proper menu for showing off poor oral motor skills? Cheerios? Granola bars? Duck l'orange served with herbed mashed potatoes and paired with 2007 Green Juice?)

The assessment will hopefully tell us more about the nature of Noah's delay and I'm sure I'll get more handouts on strategies and activities and checklists. Make Mealtime Less of a Wartime! Better Speech Through Stickers! 101 Things You Should Be Doing With Your Child Every Single Day If You Want Them To Not Flunk Kindergarten! Ready...Set...Bribe!

I'm encouraged and discouraged and neutral and anxious and tired and ready to fight some more. Again.

Still Not Really That Busy

But you should know that I have indeed stepped away from the train set.

Actually, I take it back. I am busy.

Lot more playing outside to do. Be back later.

One T-Junction Short of a Track

You know how some bloggers come back after a few days of not updating and talk about how BUSY, SO VERY BUSY they were, and you think, "I bet you were not really that busy." 

Well, I was not really that busy.

The other half of Noah's train table finally arrived, as did a bunch of Thomas the Tank Engine recalls-in-the-making train sets.

I should have known I was getting in over my head when I read the user reviews on Amazon...someone would complain that a certain piece had "two female ends" and thus wouldn't fit to form a circular track and blah blah blaaah, and then a hundred people would vote the review "unhelpful" and there'd be a series of rebuttals from Little Engineer in Little Rock and tommylovesthomas and hotdude4673 about how like, heh, the trains aren't meant to only go in CIRCLES and two female ends are actually really HELPFUL if you actually KNOW ANYTHING about TRAINS, unless you're like, heh, trying to replicate the track from the infamous Percy Saves the Day episode, which, heh, had a COMPLETELY BACKWARDS t-junction, like are we supposed to believe that was some sort of MAGIC t-junction? I mean, come on. Go buy some stupid cheaty wacky track and leave the fancy bridges to the REAL fans, loser.

Meanwhile, I was still at the "two female ends" thing.  Schwaa? And also, haaa? And also, why does that make me think of Fergie?

So I ordered some random (London, London) bridges and a track expansion set. I opted not to go for the the "buy this item with a DEGREE IN CIVIL ENGINEERING FROM PHOENIX UNIVERSITY" combo deal that Amazon thoughtfully offered, which was probably a mistake.

I have very literally spent the last 48 hours huddled around that train table, attempting to create a seamless track layout, failing miserably, drinking heavily and cursing. Always with the cursing.

Every attempt leaves me with at least one corner like this:

Go on, Percy. I dare you.

Percy's all, "Bah. And fuck you."

I have determined that I need to drive to the nearest hoity toy store and buy a couple specific pieces of track to finish our layout, despite the fact that Noah does not care in the slightest, and has instead been amusing himself with one 6-inch piece of track (that I randomly and heartlessly take away with each new layout attempt) and a plastic Tonka minivan for the past two days.

Yes, I fully realize that I'm being ridiculous.

And yes, I fully realize that the train set is his. The train set is not mine. I need to back away from the train set.

I think I have perhaps gone a little mad.

Sir Topham Hatt, totally sloshed again, is wondering how many damn bridges one stupid isle needs, and also how long it will be before he summons the courage to finally jump and end it all.

Yeah, it's true. Fucking stop work orders came in this morning. Some bleeding-heart pussy liberal discovered a nest and some rare bird eggs over there by the bridge -- no, not the suspension bridge,  no, not the toll bridge either, the sling bridge, over there, less than a foot away from the other bridges -- so for now, the track's ending here. So help me God, the union better come through this time for us -- my wife's been laid up on concrete blocks for months.

WANTED, ENGINE OF INTEREST: ENVIRONMENTAL DUMPING WITH MALICIOUS INTENT TO KILL RARE BIRDS. If you know the identity of the train pictured in this photo, please contact Sodor authorites.

"Old tires? Dead bodies? This isle sure ain't what it used to be," the sheriff thought bitterly to himself. "I gotta flip some track over to the roadway side so I can get the hell out of here."

Thomas has a Twin Peaks experience and meets his evil twin. "I think I can...DESTROY YOU, MOTHERFUCKER!" he said with a chipper glint in his eye.

"This is the worst disaster in the history of Sodor," the sheriff said, "A simple action switch track over yonder could have prevented this. It's like our entire community was designed by a backwards child. And wait...what's leaking from that cargo box...is that nuclear waste? Oh, the humanity!"

"Hic," said Sir Topham Hatt cheerfully, from his place in the gutter.