Evaluation Nation, Part II

God, these things are getting boring. I've got them down to a science:

Trot child in, answer questions, watch child stack blocks and complete puzzles and string beads, curse self for neglecting to cut child's long fingernails that are now caked with dirt because SOMEBODY has been reading The Snowy Day a little too much and wants to make snowballs out of EVERYTHING, including the mulch outside of school district office buildings, watch child absolutely excel years beyond his calendar age in educational concepts, watch child struggle with scissors and crayons and get increasingly agitated and line up toys obsessively and boil over when he's not allowed to pretend the occupational therapist's pencil is a choo-choo going through a tunnel of blocks, and finally then watch child wander away from the assessment team and get his head stuck in the miniblinds.

Oh, and my favorite: Laugh your damn fool head off when asked if this is what you'd consider a "typical day."

Even the conclusions are reruns now: fine and gross motor skill delays, sensory-integration-related behavioral problems. Oh, is that all you've got? YAWN. Bring it, dudes. I've Googled worse shit than that.

And of course, the least surprisingly thing of all, EVER, in the history of educational assessments, we won't know whether those conclusions will result in actual help and services for another month. Because everybody has to go off and write up reports and mail the reports in triplicate and then get together and compile those reports, each personally leveling two square miles of redwood trees to produce enough paper for all these reports, and THEN we get called back in for the verdict.

He'll also be observed at preschool by the school psychologist, and the special educator wants to talk to his teacher. Who, for those of you just joining us for this exact sentence, has (to date!) attempted to subtly diagnose poor Noah with everything from SID, ADHD, PDD-NOS, Asperger's and probably swine flu. So I bet that phone call will be really fun for her!

What's not routine for me -- what I hope will never be routine -- is the discomfort I get discussing Noah with these people. I know I need to stay on message and discuss what we came there to discuss, and obviously if I thought everything was just peachy I wouldn't be there in the first place, but after two hours of reducing my son to the sum of his quirks -- what he WON'T do, what he CAN'T do -- I start getting agitated. I start thinking of sticking my head in the miniblinds. This is Noah. This is my baby. My heart. Yes, he's a little different, a little difficult, a lot exceptional and I do really believe he could benefit from what our school district can offer but please please please don't look at him like that. Or at me, like that. With the pity, with the hand pats. Judge me for his dirty fingernails, for the fact that I don't know his current sensory opinion on glue, but don't feel sorry for me because my kid is who he is, because we fucking adore him and you should only be so lucky to have a kid like him RAWR SMASH MAMA BEAR HAD TOO MUCH COFFEE I SHIT IN YOUR WOODS WAIT WHAT WAS I TALKING ABOUT?

And then I wonder if I should have kept my mouth shut about how he's usually really well-behaved at restaurants (because he is!!) but maybe they didn't need to hear that part, oh God, our report will say: CHILD BEHAVES AT RESTAURANTS. IS CURED. MOTHER CLEARLY SPENDS TOO MUCH TIME ON THE INTERNET. NO SERVICES REQUIRED.

Anyway. Yeah. It was disastrously normal, overall. Which is good. I think they've gotten a pretty clear picture of what life is like for Noah. Complicated and contradictory, with a side of incorrect crayon grip.

No Day Like Today

Noah's next big evaluation/assessment is first thing tomorrow morning. I've been busily anticipating it all day by not thinking about it. And blowing bubbles in the backyard. Then going to the playground. (The enthusiasm level was higher than in that last photo, I swear, since it's not 900 million degrees today.) Now everyone is running (or sort of lolling and flopping) around the house with no pants on and I don't exactly know what happened to everybody's pants, but I'm going with it. (Typical late-afternoon decline in quality childcare standards, I suppose.) There will pants tomorrow. And a lot of other similarly annoying things. Pants, man. So overrated.

Today though. Today gets two thumbs up.

Meaningless Milestones

We upgraded Noah to a "big kid" booster seat this weekend. It did not go well. It is not going well. I'm not surprised -- honestly, the last time I bought him new SOCKS did not go particularly well either -- but there was no getting around it. Had to be done. Ezra's toes are hanging over the edge of his infant seat and I've been willfully ignoring that fact for a couple weeks and will continue to do for a little while longer, since I need Noah to finally accept the New Seat before the Old Seat reappears with the New Baby in it, lest the Old Baby decide to...to...I don't know. Throw things at him. Whine a lot. Something terrible, I'm sure.

I wasn't prepared to see Noah sitting there in a booster seat (EDITED TO POINTEDLY ADD: it's a hybrid booster seat model for kids 30 pounds and up, with the back and headrest that you later remove once they're old enough), looking both incredibly grown-up and yet dwarfed by the rest of the backseat, using the regular seatbelt like a regular person. What's this? Where's rest of the harness? Where are all the extra clips and buckles and assorted things that never snap into place when it's raining? I was also rather alarmed by the neck-strangling placement of the shoulder strap, but it later turned out that was only because he was slouching, and the installation instructions clearly state "Do not allow your child to slouch." Which: Okay, and how do you propose I do that, Mr. Installation Instructions? Make him ride with a book on his head? Poke him with a big ol' pokin' stick every now and then? Would it have killed you wire a mild electric shock into the seat?

A lot of our new sibling "issues" with Noah have more or less came down to the fact that he does not WANT to be a "big kid." Telling him that oh, that carseat is for BABIES and this seat is for BIG KIDS and that's a BABY swing and BABIES poop in their diapers and BABIES can't eat pizza and BIG KIDS don't lose their shit over NEW FUCKING SOCKS basically just cements his belief that being a big kid is highly overrated. He does not like the new and different, he likes the old and familar, an infuriating blend of stubborn toddler and cranky old man.

So he hates the new seat and does not give a fuck that it has cupholders (PLURAL CUPHOLDERS! don't sippy cup and drive, kids!) and some patented seat design that allows cool air to flow under his butt and when I call it a big kid seat he corrects me and says no, it's a BABY SEAT. And then I say fine, it's baby seat and suddenly everything is more or less okay for the rest of the car ride.

You would think by now, after having this exact same conversation with him 7,953,005 times since Ezra's birth that I would stop with the big kid hard sell. I don't know where it comes from, this default form of canned-answer parenting that does not suit my child in the slightest, but I've yet to figure out how to coax him through these boring -- yet traumatic and YOOOGE -- rites of passage without at least trying to convince him that growing up is awesome and fun and yay!

Of course, it really isn't. Growing up is hard and it sucks and then suddenly you're the grown-up. Which is hard and it sucks. Hmm, it's like he's already figured precisely how full of shit I am.

Defeatage

Look, unless something spectacularly hilarious happens to me in the next five minutes, I'm posting photos AGAIN and calling it a week. It's either this, or I could talk about who's puking in our house this time. Oh, the thrill. Feel it. YOU FEEL THE THRILL!

So...I don't know. I guess the couch could collapse while I'm typing, or I could trip and fall on my way to the bathroom, and maybe my back-up laptop would go flying out of my hands and land in the toilet in a Poetic Trifecta of Technological Irony. I guess that could happen.

I'll keep you posted.

EZRA vs. FORWARD MOTION

EZRA vs. POLENTA

(Also known as first time in the high chair [BITES KNUCKLE EEP], which I retrieved from the attic and promptly dropped down two flights of stairs. You know the tray part like, comes off? And stuff? And isn't like, a handle? I'd completely forgotten about that amazing feature. Good to know. Anyway, Jason was sure I'd killed myself for a couple minutes there. Sadly, no, not even injured a little, which would have at least given me something to talk about today.)

MOTHER-SON SELF-PORTRAIT vs. THREE-YEAR-OLD

(I seriously had to crop four inches of arm out of that photo.)

Well, I've posted enough photos, I think, and absolutely nothing interesting happened. Although Ceiba saw a squirrel. I'll let her tell you about it.

OMFFFGBBQSQUIRRELYAPYAP

And. Done. Have a good weekend, everybody.

Tick Tick Tick Tick

Wut's this? Another photo entry? Two in a row?

I judge. I judge HARSHLY.

But wait! Here comes the excuse:

Jason took MY similar-looking-yet-naturally-completely-different-and-non-compatible power adapter by mistake this morning. You know, because I have done ABSOLUTELY NOTHING about the dead Macbook, other than sit and glare at it, because I'm so terrified that I'll find out that none of the data will be recoverable, therefore sitting and glaring seems like the less-scary, more procastinationlicious option. This means I'm still using an ancient Windows laptop that came with two batteries: one really small one with about two hours of juice and one bigger one with about eight hours, but of course the bigger one doesn't work anymore and the small one works for MAYBE an hour and I have other deadlines today like the Hoover Clean Freak site and ALSO I AM HOSTING A PLAYDATE TODAY ALERT THE MEDIA I AM ATTEMPTING TO MAYBE MAKE A NEW MOM FRIEND, and this is actually our second playdate (OMG) and on the last one I asked her what time it was and she said, "4:20" and I was all, "haaaaaaaaaaa 4:20" because it looked like she was laughing a little too but then after I laughed she got confused and was all, "wut?" and I was all, "NOTHING!" so my point is I need to be on my best behavior today and have a lot of wine bottles to hide before she gets here and anyway that's why I'm just posting photos today.

Wake me up when you're ready to punctuate again, lady.

Look Out! He's Got The Crazy Eyes!

 

In case you were wondering, no. I don't think he's quite ready to wean.

So You've Gone & Left Your iPhone in a Bathroom Stall at Nationals Stadium

Some handy steps and pointers:

1) STOP TAKING YOUR PHONE INTO BATHROOMS ALREADY, ASSHOLE.

2) Call phone, repeatedly. Curse out the automatic voicemail messaging service lady.

3) Head to Guest Services and the Lost & Found. Blank when they ask you to describe the phone. "Uh. It's a phone? 'Bout this big? Grayish/blackish/silverish? Supercute photo of this here baby *gesture to baby asleep in your cleavage* as the wallpaper when you turn it on?"

    3a) Blank even blanker when they ask you for a phone number in case the phone does turn up. Run outside to find husband and ask what the hell his cell phone number is. Get impatient while husband blanks and pulls out his phone to search for his own damn number.

4) Hike back to bathroom to check for phone one last time, completely missing the childish look of wonder on your son's face during the post-game fireworks, for which you waited through extra innings of complete boredom for and are now the assholes who have babies and preschoolers out in the city at 11 pm at night and ARE ALSO PHONELESS, THIS IS ALL THE FIREWORKS' FAULT SOMEHOW.

5) Inventory the contents of your phone. Naked MySpacian Photos: Negative. Preshus Baby Photos: Check, Of Course, Naturally. Place Where Preshus Baby Photos Are Properly Backed Up: On the laptop with a busted hard drive, check. Tangram App High Scores: Shit, motherfucker.

6) Call phone service provider and disable the phone, lest bill get racked up sky-high by some jerk using it for naked MySpacian photos and hijacking your Twitter and Facebook (I'M IN UR SOCIAL MEDIA NETWORKS, SUPERPOKIN UR FOLLOWERS).

7) Get recognized by readers an unprecendented THREE TIMES in a single weekend, bitch and moan to two of them about iPhone, give third reader a look of soldiering on in the face of unspeakable tragedy like a brave little toaster, leaving her probably wondering what the hell is so awful about buying goddamn lettuce at the farmer's market.

8) Notice an unfamiliar number calling Jason's cell phone. Think about answering it for him. Decide not to, because ewwwww phones!

9) Log onto Facebook. Find message from a total stranger who found your phone and has been trying to reach you all weekend, a task made infinitely more difficult since you went and disabled all text/phone/internet capabilities and kept ignoring those "unknown caller" numbers, but they refused to give up and tracked you down and would like to make sure you get it back, especially since it's full of adorable baby pictures, OMG.

10) Give humanity a big slobbery kiss, because seriously. I REALLY LOVE THAT PHONE.

Six Months

How? How how how?

How are you six months old already?

Don't make me bust out with the "but it feels like only yesterday!" cliches, young man.

But seriously, weren't you a tiny smushy little newborn a few days ago?

Oh, mighty Ez, it's going by so quickly it hurts.

Everywhere we go, people ask. "Is he always this happy? Is he always this good?" And I have to sheepishly admit that yes, you are.

You smile at everybody, and they of course smile back. How could anybody not smile at you, all round and satisfying and Gerber-baby perfect?

I wasn't sure what to expect of you, little man. I was comfortable with the idea of you, of a boy, of another baby just like your brother. I generally assumed you'd be more difficult, harder to please, more awake-all-night-and-crying-all-day simply because your brother wasn't like that, therefore I was due.

You go to bed like clockwork and you sleep all night. You take naps. You cry when you are wet, when you are hungry, and when you want to be held. Though you always, ALWAYS want to be held. I sometimes feel guilty that I am not documenting your babyhood enough, either in words or photos, but then I remember that most days you don't let me put you down long enough to grab the camera or type with both hands free. I put you down -- only for a second! I'm right here, I'm still here, don't cry! -- and your entire face immediately melts and you start to wail. Piteously, despairingly...and when I reappear as promised one second later and you flash the sort of smile that most humans reserve for the airport, reuniting with a long-lost loved one, after an extended tour of duty overseas.

You are so easy to love, it's ridiculous.

You aren't much for those milestone charts -- something that amuses me, since your brother blasted through them, always at least a month or two or three ahead of his age, before grinding to a halt around his first birthday and forever humbling me and changing my expectations of this motherhood business. You, on the other hand, have no interest in rolling over onto your tummy, or sitting up on your own. And you know what? That is damn fine with me. You'll get there when you get there, and I know we'll get there entirely too soon for my tastes. In the meantime, I'll take all the extra immobile cuddles I can get.

Although "immobile" isn't entirely correct, since you have gotten pretty good at the upside-down-crab scoot, where you arch your back and neck and kick your feet and propel yourself across the floor, or very nearly off the edge of the changing table, as we recently almost learned. Yes, please give me some time before you start crawling. My reflexes are a tad rusty.

Eating, on the other hand! That's where you're a viking. You will eat anything. Everything. Stuff that a six-month-old semi-toothless non-sitting-upright-assisted baby should have no business eating, and yet you reach for it, grab it, gum it expertly without the slightest cough or gag. You drink water from my cup, steal your brother's orzo and parmesan, chomp on teething biscuits and delight in every fruit and vegetable puree I can think to offer you. With the notable exception of green beans. Not a fan of the green beans.

It's gotten a little overwhelming, actually, trying to keep up with your appetite and your zeal for new and different flavors. And yet I have to admit to being really freaking proud of you when I lazily bought jarred versions of some of your favorites  -- squash, sweet potatoes, blueberries --and you rejected every. single. one. with a look of extreme disgust.

(Your father is beside himself with joy, I'll have you know.)

You adore your older brother, and the feeling is rapidly becoming mutual, as you sit and laugh hysterically at each other for no apparent reason at all. Your laugh is a squeaky little giggle, and you reserve it for only your most favorite people.

I keep talking about your smile, I know, but I have to tell you: there's a smile that I don't have any pictures of, that I don't think I'll ever have a picture of. It's a smile you only give to me -- it vanishes the instant my face disappears behind a camera, or when you sense there's anyone else in the room with us. You give me this smile in the morning, as we snuggle up to nurse. You give me this smile in the afternoon, as we curl up on the couch to settle you down for a nap. You give me this smile when I kiss your chins or belly or sing you a song and it's a smile I will never forget, and I will never feel guilty for not sharing it with anybody else in the world.

Evaluation Nation

Where do I begin?

On the one hand, I'm glad I never got around to writing that entry about all the fabulous leaps and bounds we've made with Noah over the past couple weeks -- at least not the version I had in mind, which was puff full of Confidence! We've Turned a Corner, Everything Is Fine Now! We're Totally Going To Rock This Evaluation Wheeeeeee!

(I just love setting myself up to look like a complete jackass on the Internet. I really do.)

On the other hand, I'm glad I at least mentioned it, because otherwise you'd all probably pelt me with your liquor bottles when I tell you Noah's results:

Motor: Failed. Spectacularly.

Vison: Passed. Non-surprisingly.

Hearing: Abstained. With EXTREME PREJUDICE. (Though his tympanogram looked fine.)

Cognitive/Educational Concepts: Passed, sort of. It's complicated. We'll say: Passed. With EXTREME ASTERISKS.

Speech:

Ha ha ha ha. Wait. No. Sit down.

Speech: Passed. Spectacularly.

The speech therapist praised his articulation (ha ha ha), his ability to label objects and actions and answer questions, his spontaneous speech (which mostly consisted of elaborate protestations and declarations of woe, misery and the unfairness of life as he knows it) and finally admitted that she didn't understand why any concern was still being raised about his speech. He's FINE.

And I was all, "Yeah...I've been meaning to blog about that."

Noah's speech has EXPLODED over the last couple weeks. We have CONVERSATIONS with him. He tells jokes, he makes up stories, he answers your questions with honest-to-God actual answers instead of context-less scraps of dialogue from TV or books.

Last week, while we were away, he told me he was sad, that he wanted to go home, that he missed Daddy. When we went away a few months ago, he told me he was sad, but when I asked why he said something about 15 missing puppies and left it at that.

I don't know whether the leap coincided simply with inching closer to four years old, with reducing his preschool attendance, or our discovery that hey! You know how he really, really, really likes music? You think it would be nice if we played more music for him? How about I put my iPod in his room with a playlist of his favorite classical music and the Vince Guaraldi Trio for him to fall asleep and wake up to, or to go "chill out" to in lieu of endless "time outs?" Huh, I dunno, does he seem a little more centered and calmer to you, like his teacher maybe mentioned a few months ago, when she started playing background music during the day?

No, no. Hold your applause. We are not parental geniuses, we're just really, really slow on the uptake.

ANYWAY. The speech ruling did not come as a surprise, though it was still a huge, HUGE fucking relief to hear it.

It was our one small relief in an otherwise hellacious morning, however. You know it's bad when OTHER PARENTS in the screening clinic are giving YOU the "I'm glad that's not MY kid" looks.

I knew this situation was not going to be ideal. I knew it was going to trigger a lot of Noah's worst behaviors. I knew he wasn't going to move from station to stations easily or be interested in the assessment tools or willingly allow them to put headphones on him to test his hearing and I knew that was kind of the point.

I wasn't prepared for Noah being the ONLY kid having difficulties. I wasn't prepared to sit and watch three-year-old after three-year-old obediently leave their puzzles to go show the occupational therapist that they could stand on one leg while my kid howled, screamed, kicked and fought. I wasn't prepared to watch him fail so many activities -- can't copy a circle, can't hold scissors, can't shape clay, can't fasten a snap, can't catch a bounced ball, can't stand on one leg -- one right after the other. I wasn't prepared to see how many of his mastered skills fall to pieces in the face of his unease with structure, demands and transitions. I wasn't prepared for my sweet, loving, gentle little man to smack me -- repeatedly -- in front of the child psychologist.

The upshot: those damn sensory issues, man. We were aggressive with speech and it paid off. We allowed ourselves to be rattled and bullied by a terrible occupational therapist and are paying for that now. The OT today was shocked that Early Intervention graduated Noah on the basis of speech alone, when clearly he has significant motor delays. Follow-up recommended, check.

The special education teacher had the MOST success out of everyone when it came to coaxing cooperation from Noah, and even she was unable to fully complete her assessment. Her take: he's smart, very smart, but the level of non-compliance makes it appear that he doesn't know half of what he really knows, and his non-involvement and discomfort at school are causing him to shed skills and resist absorbing new ones. (When he started preschool he could count to 20 and recognize most numbers and letters of the alphabet. Now he can count to 10 and gets numbers and letters mixed up.) Basically, this is a smart kid on track to hating and underperforming in school because *something* else is going unaddressed. Follow-up recommended, check check.

(Whenever I write stuff like this I invariably get comments reminding me that "he's ONLY three!" like I need a refresher course on my kid's age, or like I'm expecting him to be mapping the human genome as opposed to sitting on the stupid blue carpet at preschool. I used to get the same comments when he was "ONLY two!" Does anyone know at what age people stop hassling you for trying to be proactive about your child's developmental and educational issues, or for taking advantage of early childhood programs that EXIST FOR A REASON? When he's ONLY four? Seven? When he's dropped out and knocking over convenience stores at ONLY 16?)

The school psychologist will be observing him at preschool, and we're going back for another (more thorough, less sensory-triggering, hopefully waaaay more enjoyable for Noah) assessment with the OT and special ed teacher at the end of this month. At that point, recommendations for services will be made. Check check, check.

***

Dear Noah,

I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry Daddy and I had to take you that place this morning, that place with all the cool toys that they only let you play with for a few minutes before whisking you away time and again to go play with less cool toys. I'm sorry that lady tried to put the beeping thing on your head. I'm sorry that other boy grabbed the elephant out of your hand but we made you share with him because we were too busy filling out forms to realize that he was the one who wasn't sharing. I'm sorry the little things are so hard for you. I'm sorry that I just don't understand sometimes.

I'm so proud of you. I'm so proud of you and your smart, wonderful, mysterious brain. I'm so proud of your good strong eyes that never miss a thing. I'm so proud of how far you've come and how well you talk now. I'm so proud of what a happy, confident boy you are, in spite of everything else.

I love you, Noah. I love hearing everything you have to say. I love your voice, your smile, the way I hear you humming along to the music in your room. I love how you manage to thoroughly charm people, even when you're making their job a little harder. I love how you always give me another chance to be a better Mommy, a more patient, fun and understanding Mommy, and how a rotten morning can still lead to a wonderfully sunny afternoon.

You're too amazing for this world, Noah. And that's our problem, not yours. Don't ever forget that.

Love,
Mommy

So Many Entries to Write, and Yet I Give You This

I am losing mah mind over here, people. You know it's bad when I start breaking out the phonetic Southern accent that I don't actually talk with.

1) My baby is SIX MONTHS OLD today. Six! Such a random number to get worked up about, I know, but six! Half a year! Totally in need of a long detailed entry about the state of every tiny little thing he does! But who is going to write that, I ask you. WHO? All my ghostwriters called in drunk.

2) Noah's evaluation with the school district is TOMORROW. At the crack of 9 o'clock. And I've got a whole entry about THAT percolating in my brain, in which I confess that the last couple weeks have actually been w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l and we've made a lot of great p-r-o-g-r-e-s-s and now I have NO idea what to expect from him tomorrow, like I think there might be a chance we get sent home with zero services and I think I might be okay with that, because seriously: w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l. But the minute I say all of that out loud I just know I will jinx everything and come home tomorrow feeling like a truck up and ran over me, hence the s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g, which probably doesn't work so well on a blog, where everything is spelled, unless the universe gets easily confused by hyphens.

3) My dad was back in the emergency room yesterday, and this time was finally sent home with a new diagnosis other than effed-up lungs: congestive heart failure. Which I know is not quite the death sentence that the "HEART = FAIL" implies, but oh my God. He's already ON every medication in the world, he's already CHANGED his diet a million times over, he's already had TRIPLE GODDAMN BYPASS SURGERY, so...just between you and me, I would still like to tell the u-n-i-v-e-r-s-e to go f-u-c-k itself.

4) Now that I've maybe got a few of you feeling all sorry for me, please allow me to send you elsewhere! There's a new Bounce Back up, where we're talking about the things you wish somebody (fuck you, somebody!) had told you about breastfeeding. I'm also contributing (for a few weeks, anyway) to Clean Freak Confessions, one of those sponsored site things that I have to sheepishly ask you to maybe consider commenting over there and/or thumbs-upping my entries so the sponsor is all happy happy? Y'all are VERY good at making the sponsors happy, I must say, and for that I want to lick all of your faces. I have entries up (so far) about washing cloth diapers and how cleaning can help families coping with illness. Yes, the topic of the site is cleaning. I assume I shall run out of topics in about...oh, already.

5) And hey! Speaking of places to click and read and comment, look at these morons over here at Washingtonian.com. They look familiar. If you're one of the two or three people who have copped to being driven crazy by my refusal to tell you what our "girl name" was, I finally caved and revealed it to the interviewer, because what's the point? If I ever have another baby you just know it will be another boy. Probably twin boys. Or someone will leave an entire soccer team of boy babies on my doorstep, wrapped in Thomas the Crazy-Eyed Tank Engine blankets.

(And in the non-selfish realm of pimpage, check out my lovely new Twitter background & design. It looks like a real blog, where I actually remember to say things and update occasionally! Imagine that! Anyway, the folks at Sweet Blog Design can make one for you. Look, I'm on Twitter, I use Twitter, I totally still do not fucking understand Twitter, but I hear it's all kinds of important and the celebrities and the destroying of traditional journalism and all that. So you better make sure your profile is pretty.)