I sometimes struggle over what constitutes an entry here...what's an important enough development to put into words and demand your eyeballs and indulgence, or what I should just post on Twitter, or maybe email to friends, or just file away in my own memory.
So this one is just for all of Noah's virtual aunts and uncles and cheerleaders, those of you who never. ever. fail to leave wonderful comments about him and your own children and family members, full of ideas and suggestions (to Liz, who suggested supplying Noah with word choices to encourage him to talk about past events [i.e. did you eat pizza or hamburger buns for lunch? did you go on the slide or hang out with those no-good ruffian beatniks at recess?]: THANK YOU. I gave myself the world's biggest forehead slap for not ever once thinking of trying that, and surprise! It works! Most of the time. I don't THINK his teacher's name is Ms. Pinky Dinky, but maybe I'm wrong).
I picked Noah up from school today -- his first Thursday class ever, and was greeted by his teacher, who was ECSTATIC. He'd had a great day -- his BEST day, thanks to a few new classmates who are a tad less "exuberant" (as she put it) than some of the Monday/Wednesday/Friday kids. Noah seemed less overwhelmed and was happy to play quietly with them throughout the day, following his calm little friends to circle time and snack time. He stayed focused and didn't wander away from the group constantly like he always does. I guess the hyper-verbal and in-your-face kids would bother him and trigger one of his little sensory-overload fits where he needs to step away and flit around the room while reciting scenes from The Incredibles and just...you know, generally be weird for awhile.
People, he FINGERPAINTED today.
His teacher smiled when she told me, and nodded extra-knowingly at my shocked, slack-jawed reaction, because...FINGERPAINTS?
It turns out that in addition to having one boy with PDD-NOS, his teacher ALSO has a son with SID. Mild, like Noah's, but enough. Enough to raise red flags and eyebrows and make you feel like you're constantly strapped on a roller coaster while blindfolded -- are we headed into an upside-down loop-dee-loop or just one of those times where you get turned a little sideways and whipped around the track for a bit?
"I've been through it," she said, "I get it."
Anyway. I'm really happy that Noah will be there five days a week now, and that it was even an option for us -- there were three full-time spots left and a set of twins snagged two of them just hours before I decided to sign Noah up. The money is...well, it is more money and it is more money than I'm probably going to find in our couch cushions...but it's just something we'll make work because we need to make it work.
This blog is going on five years old now, and while I couldn't even count the number of dumb entries I've started and deleted and even published and deleted while trying to figure out what was vaguely post-worthy, I don't think I ever imagined that one day I would sit down to tell the Internet that MY SON FINGERPAINTED, in all caps, like I expected the ceiling to open up and dump balloons and confetti on us.
But here we are. It might not seem like much, just another mother blogging all her insignificant little dreamy dreams and the sort of thing that makes people yell that NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR KID, GAWD, but I know a lot of you DO care, and that means so much to me, so fuck everything and bust out your party hats because Noah had a kickass day at preschool and even if tomorrow sucks and I call for that private evaluation next week and end up crying about it and he never touches the fingerpaints again, today was a good, good day.