Forward Motion

A couple people inquired about the shoe box obstacle course I mentioned in yesterday's post. Yes, I was totally holding out on you. BEHOLD THE THRILLS:

Seven -- count 'em! -- SEVEN entire whole shoe boxes of various cheap-to-middling-quality shoe brands, each filled with wonder, excitement...and ADVENTURE.

Okay, more like "filled with cotton balls, dried beans, crumpled-up paper and packing peanuts."

This is a motor planning activity from The Out-of-Sync Child Has Fun. The boxes can be filled with pretty much any textured material -- carpet, sand, buttons - and arranged in different ways, depending on your desired level of difficulty.

End to end in a straight line (forcing your child to put one foot down in front of the other) is slightly tougher than spaced out and staggered. So to start, I've put them near a wall to help Noah keep his balance. (He's wearing his socks because otherwise he gets too preoccupied with picking beans and packing peanuts from the bottom of his feet.)

After some practice, we try it using only one finger on the wall. And then...

Ta-da! No hands! Hooray!

Aaaaand. That's the shoe box obstacle course. Make one of your very own today! Mine would ideally contain booze and hot fudge, although instead of stepping in it I would just drink it, because I would replace the shoeboxes with a margarita glass and a bowl. Because I am a planner who thinks ahead.

***

In other, more fearsome mobility news, the baby (who as of last night demonstrated exactly ZERO interest in anything but sitting) has spent all damn day scooting all over the damn place on his belly and knees. The only way to thwart him seems to be moving him off the hardwoods and onto the carpet.

So thwart him, I did.

NO. I THWART THEE.

Ceiba demonstrates her own scooting-slash-yoga move. This is the Deboned Chicken.

Ezra responds with the Horizontal Spiderman.

And then moves effortlessly into the I Will Be Crawling By Monday So Lock Up Your Daughters, Your Stray Electrical Cords & The Millions Of Choking Hazards In That Shoe Box Obstacle Course, Oh Crap.

On the Road

I told Noah about the bus. A silly conversation to have with a kid who doesn't have the slightest grasp on the concept of time, but I told him anyway. "Next year, you'll ride the bus to school, and it will come right to our house!" I told him. He immediately ran to the window to wait.

"Where the school bus, Mommy?" he asked, over and over.

***

Ever since I attempted to explain why a featurette about Cruella De Vil from our 101 Dalmations DVD was not the actual movie, Noah thinks her name is actually "Bonus Material."

***

When I ask him to go get something from another room, he walks to the door, spins around and points his finger out to me. "I'll be right back!" he assures me. He talks another step and spins around again, just in case I didn't believe him. "I'LL BE RIGHT BACK!"

***

A baby was crying at Target. "Oh no, Baby Ezra's crying," Noah said. Before I could tell him that it was a different baby, he saw that Ezra was just fine. "It's okay, Mommy, it's not OUR Baby Ezra," he informed me.

***

We had an interview yesterday for a Sensory Integration/Occupational Therapy summer camp. It was. Another thing. Just like all the other things from the past few months. Or years. I forget now. The receptionist was pretty impressed with my binder. Noah played and laughed and attempted to play with another awkward little boy, though it soon disintegrated into his typical blend of dinosaur roars and frustrated, panicked grasping for the right words and finally tears when the other little boy ran away because he was afraid of dinosaur roars.

The therapists looked over his IEP goals and boggled over the idea that someone thought he was ready for pre-writing skills because look at him! Look how he moves! His body in space! His proprioceptive system! His syntax and misuse of pronouns! That poor child has no sense of who and where he is in the world! He needs full-body OT before bilateral integration and at that point the conversation veered distinctly out of the realm of Stuff I Have Googled. I told them he did pretty well with our shoe box obstacle course at home and asked if they had any morning programs in the fall. They did! Here's a brochure.

"PER WEEK?" I squawked. "That's the price PER WEEK?"

They mentioned the possibility of our insurance paying for part of it.

"Uh-huh. Sure," I said glumly.

"I know," one of them sighed, making a face.

Noah didn't want to ever leave. He threw himself into the ball pit and attempted to hold onto the balls like you'd grip carpet. The camp director coaxed him out and back to the waiting room and told me that Noah got the gold star for the least dramatic exit meltdown of the day. "He's FANTASTIC," she laughed. "What an adorable little guy."

They had one spot left in the camp. They also accepted MasterCard, so we took it.

***

On the way home, I absent-mindedly pointed to a fire engine on the side of the road. Its lights were flashing and a cop was pulling up and...oh crap, there was an ambulance and more firefighters and I'd just directed my three-year-old's attention to a major car accident. The car was facing us, easily visible, smashed to all hell. EMTs were attending to a shaken-looking young woman on the ground. Fuck, I thought.

From the backseat, Noah cheerfully labeled everything he saw. "Look at that FIRE ENGINE! And another fire engine! And a police car and an ambulance! Look, I see them!"

I tensed up, waiting for the rest of the scene to register, when Noah suddenly turned his head and spotted something on the other side of the highway. He shrieked.

"IT'S THE SCHOOL BUS!"

And it was.

No Editorial Comment Needed

I, EEEEEEP.

After the meeting, we all came home, had some lunch, played in the backyard, watched the refrigerator repairman shake his head discouragingly, paid for that head shaking with the for-emergencies-only credit card, and put the boys down for naps. Jason left to spend a couple hours at his office. I called my mom.

I was okay until I got to the part about the bus.

Kids who attend our school district's preschool program can ride the bus. A special bus, just for them, that comes right to your house, with car seats and an aide, and... It's... You know, short.

I stumbled over the word, laughed a little, and started crying.

***

Our district actually has quite few preschool programs -- varying attendance, class sizes and levels of need. Early Intervention assured us that Noah would never qualify for any of them. When I called our former case manager this past winter in a full-scale HOLY FUCKING SHIT THEY'RE GOING TO EXPEL HIM FROM PRESCHOOL WHAT IS WRONG WITH EVERYBODY freak-out, she quickly managed to talk me back off the ledge and reiterated her belief that Noah would not qualify. At the most, he'd "maybe" get itinerant services, which is basically just some poor overworked special education teacher poking her head into your child's classroom a couple times a year to make sure he's not scaling the walls and setting the hamsters on fire.

Beyond that, there are three levels of actual preschool programs that a kid like Noah might attend. For simplicity's sake, we'll call them:

Two-Days-A-Week 'Tis A Flesh Wound

Five-Days-A-Week The Full Monty

Five-Days-A-Week Okay, We're Fucking Serious Here, Your Kid Is Kind Of A Mess

I figured we were talking 'Tis A Flesh Wound. In fact, I was counting on it, and had already preemptively complained to more than one person about how two days a week was going to be such a PAIN, because it meant we'd still need to find something for the rest of the week because of my JOB and STUFF and WHATEVER. I'm...just such an ass sometimes.

The choices laid out for us yesterday included The Full Monty and...the other one, the last one. I think my initial response was something that could only be phonetically described as a squeak.

After some back and forth, the general consensus was that Noah is better suited for The Full Monty plus some weekly one-on-one therapy, although the occupational therapist did not seem entirely convinced. It's two and a half hours every day, in the afternoon, as if designed for parents who would like to keep up appearances by enrolling their child in a typical morning program.

Oh yes, Junior attends Hoity Toity Pants Quadralingual School. It's lovely.  What's that? A playdate this afternoon?

<eyes dart around in a panic>

Um. We're BUSY, SORRY. GOTTA GO.

Technically, Noah could still attend Montessori in the morning. Huh. I have not decided whether to ask for my deposit back yet, though I sure could use it to fix my goddamn refrigerator.

***
The rush of fast and furious and conflicting emotions at these things, well. GOD, is all I can say. I was relieved to hear that they agreed with me, that they Saw It Too, that Jason and I were right after all. But oh, what a bittersweet victory it is, especially when "it" means someone looking you in the eye and saying the words "educational disability' out loud. Then you're all, "Fuck you."

But not really. I liked our IEP team members, I felt their concern was genuine, their determination not to let Noah fall through the cracks (AGAIN) was admirable and The System was working like it's supposed to and all that. They took our concerns and descriptions of Noah's behavior seriously, they understood that a meltdown at a playground is different for us, that it's not the kind of meltdown *your kid* has, no  it's just NOT, that it's like someone set our child on FIRE, that there's no redirecting or soothing, there is only FLEEING. They understood and sympathized that life with such a rigid-thinking, inflexible, easily-overwhelmed preschooler is tiring, draining and that we negotiate with him from morning til night over everything from socks to food to which direction the car is driving.

It felt good to say all that stuff out loud, finally. To let my shoulders slump and admit defeat, that I just don't know how to help him anymore, and that I'm sick of his issues slowly taking over more and more and more of our daily lives.

And then I saw Noah playing quietly on the other side of the room, lining up some dinosaurs, still the perfect chubby-cheeked baby they handed me in the hospital, still one of the best things that's ever happened to me, still one of my favorite people in the entire world. I snapped my shoulders back to attention and asked that they add more social skill measurements to the IEP goals.

***

I am so beyond angry with Early Intervention right now I could almost hit "send" on any of the very screechy indignant emails I've composed. We shouldn't have graduated. Noah should have transitioned to the district a year ago. We shouldn't have had to endure this crappy, confusing mess of a school year on our own; it shouldn't have taken this long to get back into the system. Advice to anyone currently in the under-three EI world out there: Do. Not. Let. Them. Graduate. You. Do not let them make you feel guilty for taking up a space in a class or a therapist's appointment slot. Do not agree to end services without an official transition process at three years old. Do not let them tell you what the results of that process will "probably" or even "likely" be. Get the results yourself. Show them EXACTLY who your toddler gets his stubborn streak from.

***

After it was all over, the occupational therapist pushed a piece of paper towards me and handed me a pen. Signing would make it official. I picked up the pen and my hand shook. The words blurred and I suddenly felt overwhelmingly nauseated.

Jason commented that he was pretty sure Ezra pooped. I immediately volunteered for diaper duty and shoved the forms at Jason before bolting from the room. I couldn't do it. I didn't necessarily need more time to think about it -- I knew this was the right decision for us, I was happy with the recommendations and the goals. I think we got pretty much the best possible outcome. Nothing will even happen until next fall, anyway, as we all agreed it's best to allow Noah to finish out the final weeks of the school year as planned. There will likely be more decisions and appointments and hurdles and questions this summer. An IEP means there is accountability, legal protection, help. Noah needs this, he does, and there is no shame in that need and he will be even more extraordinary one day because we addressed that need.

But I still couldn't bring myself to be the one to sign the paper. I don't know why.

Qualified, Quantified

...IEPified.

It feels like it changes everything and nothing, all at the same time.

Bitter Greens

One day, someday, although my money is on it not being today, I will learn to shut my stinking piehole and not tell the Internet things. This was published yesterday, and you'll notice that I ever-so-casually mentioned that yeah, neither of my kids have any food allergies! Isn't that great? I mean, so far, and all, knock on Ikea end table made of a wood-like material.

So of course after dinner last night, poor Ezra erupted in hives all over his arms and legs. Mama erupted in a case of raging alcoholism.

And because I'm a cocky know-it-all MORON, I'm having a hard time pinpointing what caused the reaction, since while my in-laws were here we showed off Ezra's admittingly amazing palate and appetite like a goddamned party trick, allowing him to eat pretty much anything off the table without keeping track of how many new ingredients he was getting exposed to and how many times. I THINK we can blame it on some spring garlic that I bought by mistake at the farmers' market and just started using in place of leeks (which Ezra has eaten multiple times, which is what I meant to buy but was in a hurry and grabbed the wrong stalks), in a couple of his veggie dishes and stews. And my mother-in-law gave him something else with regular garlic, I think, so...yeah. I was really on the fucking ball this weekend.

It wasn't that terrible of a reaction, as these things go -- he barely seemed bothered by the rash and it never spread to his torso or face -- but irregardless I'm demoting him back to Normal Baby Eating Habits for awhile, all single-ingredient and boring and shit. No more lamb stew with chickpeas and eggplant! No barley and asparagus medley! Eat some stupid sweet potatoes like the rest of the seven-month-old population. Sorry.

***

Tomorrow morning is our IEP meeting with the school district. The last report arrived yesterday, from the school psychologist who observed Noah at the evaluation and at school. Still not getting any easier to read these things. Or write about them. The details are Noah's, not mine. Seeing him reduced to such clinical language, his behavior framed as unrelentingly negative, reminds me that this blog shouldn't do the same, but should be the alternate record, the one with the good stuff, the funny stuff, the stuff about the kid who I love the stuffing out of, no matter what.

Regardless, I think it's okay to share that I am very anxious about tomorrow (Jason too), even though I know we won't have to make decisions on the spot, or anything. (I've dragged my feet on a few health-related doctor forms for precisely this passive-aggressive reason: I want an excuse to stall and hem and haw afterwards.) We're more or less assuming at this point that Noah will qualify for some level of help. My wager on just what level (he could attend as little as two days a week and as often as five, or get itinerant services as needed) changes by the hour.

I was getting pretty comfortable with our initial decision to keep him more or less mainstreamed and send him to Montessori, where at least THERE the teacher observed some of Noah's more -- ahem -- self-directed behavior and immediately framed it as a positive, as a good thing. We're not getting much of that from anyone else, frankly, though I know in order for Noah to qualify for the district's preschool program the evaluators HAVE to make everything sound dire and significant. I don't want to turn down free services for reasons that might have to do more with my own wounded pride than me really truly knowing the level of help my child requires. I also don't want to hand him over to a program -- because it's free, because it's the almighty school district -- that aims to squash the very things that make Noah who he is in the name of getting him to some lowest-common denominator level of "success." I don't want to lose my grip on the fact that we are talking about PRESCHOOL.

I don't want to let him down; I don't want to admit just how lost I am sometimes. I do want to take him out for lunch and then go to the playground. Yes, let's just do that instead.

If This Post Had a Topic, I Would Summarize It Wittily Here

Oh, hi. I spent the weekend stuck in the house with two feverish children. And my in-laws. And the two aforementioned feverish children, in case you missed that previous, uh, aforemention. That I mentioned. Afore.

That means you're in for a THRILLING post today. Seriously, buckle up, and try to keep up with all the different plot points I'm going to throw at you via The Only New Photos I Have To Post Where Nobody's Nose Is Running  And/Or A Seriously Pissed-Off Teething Baby Is Not Wailing At The Camera:

This is Ezra sitting up on his own. He rarely needs the crash pillow anymore. Not that he ever actually falls in the direction of the crash pillow. Usually he just aims for whatever pointy, unyielding object is nearby.

And OMG, it's a slightly different angle of photo, taken less than 30 seconds later!

I just don't want you guys to miss a THING that goes down around here, is all.

AND THEN HE TOOK THE BOOK OUT OF HIS MOUTH!

BET YOU DIDN'T SEE THAT ONE COMING.

Whew. That was exciting. Almost as exciting as the new front door handle Jason installed this weekend. Because the other one broke! And then just like that, we had a new one! And it only required THREE trips to Home Depot! I mean, by Ikea standards, that's one damn successful undertaking.

In conclusion: teeth, fevers, in-laws, door handle. I am also a little hungover. Here is a photo of me looking terrible:

And that about brings you up to speed. The end.

Breaking: Movie Stars Are Short, Need Sandwiches

(This fucking economy, man. Hollywood is HUNGRY.)

So last night I had the distinct privilege of being Linda's plus-one for the big! red blue carpet! premiere! of Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian. (The PR team in charge of the outing: "You have a blog too? That's adorable!")

This is how we do big fancy movie premieres in DC, you guys:

Port-o-potties as far as the eye could see. As we pulled up in our glamorous stretch limo short bus in front of the Air & Space Museum and a huge crowd of people who had apparently not figured out that the celebrities were already inside, I could barely contain my excitement and sudden terror about tripping on the bus steps and falling flat on my face.

I did not fall down, which meant it was now time for the descent into increasingly embarrassing fameball douche behavior.

"Smile, people in crowd who don't have tickets to get in! We're posting these on our MOMMYBLOGS!"

(I cannot lie, though. Linda. Sundry! Seriously just as funny and wicked and potty-mouthed as you imagine, or at least desperately hope. Port-o-potty-mouthed. Between her sailorspeak and my tendency to worry out loud over whether my breasts were leaking, I think we made an AWESOME impression on the Hershey's PR people. By the end of the night we were speaking exclusively in some kind of weird mind-meld twin-speak where we finished each other's increasingly obscure sentences. The fact that she's getting on a plane to fly back across the country right now pretty much symbolizes everything that is wrong and unfair with the world.)

Night at the Museu: Battle of the Smithso!

 

My shoes. I would have gotten a pedicure, but I figured that's what the celebrities were expecting me to do. And that's precisely when they eat you.

RED BLUE CARPET PRESS LINE JACKASS TIME OMG

Our first movie-star sighting! And it's the Butterscotch Stallion himself! He is short, for a stallion. Could strap on the old feed bag for sure. Toula! Eat something!

(Check out Access Hollywood's coverage and you'll see Linda trying to nonchalantly snap Owen's picture behind him. And to think, my elbow almost had its big break!)

(I am the blindingly reflective white person suppressing a cough in the way, way background at the 1:18 mark in USA Today's coverage, however.)

My camera thinks Owen Wilson should appear in one of those "Talk To Chuck" ads for Charles Schwab.

The back of Robin Williams' (very short) head. The lady in the sequins appears to be conducting an in-depth interview with his shiny jacket.

Ben Stiller. He's blurry because my camera doesn't have enough megapixels to properly focus on someone so tiny.

Ricky Gervais, who despite being considered on the portly side, basically looks like a completely normal and healthy-weighted person in real life. I'm goddamn chubbier than he is. Jason could fit half these people in his pocket. Noah could snap Ben Stiller like a twig.

And yes, if you're sensing that I've developed a bit of a complex about this, you are correct. Now sit down and eat some ham.

I think this was the RENO 911! guys (who wrote the movie), but. You know. MY THUMBS ARE TOO FAT.

Hank Azaria. Looks like a giant in IMAX, is not really. Fact! Was really, really funny, both onscreen and off.

Amy Adams. A reporter friend of mine said she was rude. I nearly tripped right in front of her on my way to my seat; got a vague sense she was horrified at how close the Dirty Normals were premitted to get to her. She's tiny and Disney princess-like and WHATEVER.

I've never in my life been to a movie premiere before -- I didn't know they'd have THREE people introducing the movie (well, one person introducing another person who introduced the person would actually introduce the movie) ("Movie? This is Crowd. The Crowd would like you to begin so they might rip into their gigantic boxes of Hershey's candy without it echoing throughout the theater. Crowd, this is Movie. Movie enjoys long walks on the beach and also thinks you are fat."). And I didn't know that people would applaud like, EVERY name in the opening credits, which did get awkward because some people got a lot of applause and then like, other people only got applause because they brought their mom.

Also everybody went nuts at the first shot of the Air & Space Museum, like OMFG THAT'S WHERE WE ARE RIGHT NOW! HOLY SHIT! EVERYBODY WAVE AND MAYBE THEY'LL PUT US ON THE JUMBOTRON!

Then there was the afterparty. Drinks, canapes (INCLUDING SANDWICHES!) and possibly more celebrities to harrass, but I was pretty over it. It had been hours since I'd blabbed endless on about my children with anybody, so save for one terrifying moment when Linda and I were approached by a couple of clearly very confused teenagers with cameras, that's exactly what we did for the rest of the night.

It's actually really hard to know which camera to look at on the red blue carpet. This is why movies stars are better than us: superior camera-looking talent.

Tonight I'll be back at another IMAX theater, but one more closer to my natural dork habitat: we're seeing STAR TREK again. How many times do you think Amy Adams has seen Star Trek? None, I'll bet. None times.

I WIN.

Clobbed

So I didn't update yesterday because I couldn't think of anything to write about. Some half-formed possibilities included:

Wow, Gee Whiz, But Lots Of People Have Similar Problems With Their GPS Unit, Howza About That

Pooping On The Potty as a Diabolical Stalling Tactic

Didya Ever Go Too Long Without Logging Into Facebook and Then You Log In and It's All Like, Whoa, And Stuff?

This Coffee Tastes Like Shit

I came very close to settling on possibility number five, which was: Here, Have Some Baby Pictures. But for some reason Jason took our camera to work on Monday and I have not seen it since, and honestly Ezra has been so PARTICULARLY CANTANKEROUS since getting his vaccinations on Tuesday that I don't feel too badly for letting this week go by un-photographed. He pretty much looks like this:

>:-(

Only, you know, louder and more 95th percentilish.

Then I was going to write something about my boobs, because they have been up to no damn good lately, as in my once abundant reserves of milk appear to be d-r-y-i-n-g u-p no matter what I do, no matter how much I nurse or funky tea I drink or Fenugreek I choke down, plus the baby WILL NOT STOP BITING, and then my period started and I got all weepy, but I was afraid if I wrote that entry I would: 1) jinx things even more, 2) get tons of assvice, 3) accidentally talk about my period.

Wait. Fuck.

Then I tried to do a little interview with Noah like this one Linda* conducted with Riley, but..um...yeah, it came out a little more like an interview with some kind of keyword-powered googlefail bot than I thought it would. Perhaps we'll try it again next year.

What is something I always say to you?

I don't wanna play the question game. I wanna play the monkey game.

What makes me happy?

Smiles?

What makes me sad?

<pulls skin on face down to create dramatic frowny face and reveal interior of eye sockets>

How do I make you laugh?

<fake laughs>

(Mother slowly getting the sense he doesn't quite have the who/what/how concepts down yet.)

What do you think I was like as a little girl?

A beautiful girl. A hot girl.

(That is correct, sir! Finally.)

How old am I?

Two.

How tall am I?

No. You cannot be tall. I say no.

What is my favorite thing to do?

Lie on my couch.

What do I do when you're not around?

<turns around in circles>

If I become famous, what would it be for?

No.

(The rest of the questions were pretty much more of the same, with just a few variations on "No" and "NOOOO" and <silence> and inquiries about the whereabouts of his tractor, his toothbrush and his butt.)

*I'm meeting her tonight! In person! For the first time, despite owning a ton of her maternity clothing. Huh. We're attending a FANCY RED-CARPET MOVIE PREMIERE together. For a kids' movie, but we're not taking our kids, and now that I've at least posted SOMETHING to my stupid blog, you must excuse me, because I have figure out what to wear and also hopefully lose 10 pounds.

To Do: Drive to Doctor's Office, Walk in Door, Fail Spectacularly

Here, I drew you a picture of our trip a new pediatrician this morning:

 

(Click to embiggen and like, really DRINK IN the artistry of those brushstrokes)

After regarding the mailbox for awhile and determining that it was, in fact, a standard blue United States Postal Service mailbox and NOT a pediatric practice with a bitchin' infant drop-off system, I figured we should head towards the nearest actual office building. Which as you can clearly see, is Not The Doctor. Not Our Doctor, anyway. There were many doctors in it, and I'm sure they are lovely doctors, even if the design of their building leaves something to be desired, as...I don't know, I figured DOORS are usually somewhat adjacent to PARKING LOTS and basically ended up circling the entire building -- like some kind of suburban obstacle course designed by MC Escher -- before finding the door. Which was Not The Door To The Doctor Anyway.

The Doctor was at 101313 Major Big Ass Road. Not The Doctor was 101310 Major Big Ass Road, although the building number was -- YOU GUESSED IT -- not anywhere near the goddamn door, but sort of diagonally facing the road, and blocked by some trees.

And that's how I ended up wandering down a major big ass road with Ezra strapped to my chest and Noah's hand in mine while I barked threats of NEVER WATCHING TELEVISION EVER AGAIN AND THAT INCLUDES THE LITTLE MERMAID SO HELP ME GOD if he dared pull his hand away. It was either that or the swamp, or scaling a fence.

(Or getting back in the car and strapping everybody back in and like, driving to the correct building. But I think it's pretty clear that course-correction out in the field is generally not one of my strengths.)

EPILOGUE:

We made it to The Doctor.

I did not like This Doctor as much as Our Old Doctor (who is now out-of-network; I may never really stop crying), but Noah thought the office had much cooler toys (meaning germy-looking busted-ass plastic baby toys instead of lovely hand-painted wooden bead mazes).

Ezra weighs 17.6 pounds and is in the 25th percentile for weight and height.

His enormous head is enormous. 95th percentile enormous.

I gave my GPS a good stern talking-to, it responded by moving my home address 100 yards north into a drainage ditch.