The Report

The report arrived on Thursday, all 20 pages of it. Twenty single-spaced pages to describe something I summed up in about eight paragraphs. I've never looked so concise! Or so predictably clueless, as I was so smug in my confidence that this evaluation held no surprises or new information, that there was nothing anybody could rattle me with anymore. Am like stone! Or steel! With a soft, delicate side, and damn, I can't seem to come up with the perfect oxymoron here to describe my tough-yet-fragile nature. Steel Cadbury Creme Egg? Close enough.

So the "developmental evaluation report" arrived and I read it and I read it again and I pulled out some books and I looked up some terms I didn't understand ("tactile hypersensitivity" and "poor bilateral integration and coordination" and "disorganized motor planning") and nodded and put the report away for awhile.

And then a few hours later I stomped around the house and was all, "What do they MEAN Noah's play skills are 'simplistic and immature' for his age? What the fuck is a 'play scheme'? And why are they grading his 'play skills' anyway? I did not take him in there for concerns over his 'play skills'. Grrrr. And rawrrrr. And etc." I read it and re-read it again and read it out loud to Jason.

Later I was trying to translate the report for another mother* ("Well, basically he has bad handwriting? He can't use scissors? Eh?"), and watched her eyes narrow and her mouth start her response before I was done talking: Don't you think kids just outgrow this stuff? Don't you think we put too much pressure on them? Don't you think this is all just a load of autism boogeymonster hullabaloo?

You'd be proud of me, Internet. I just shrugged and said: Yes. And no.

There is truth to the idea that when you go LOOKING for stuff, you'll find it. Every evaluation we've gone to has had a different point or objective, and every evaluator has ultimately found "stuff" in his or her target realm. Since this report came on behalf of the school district, there is of course concern over Noah's "significant" delays in pre-writing skills and his difficulties behaving in a group setting. But at the heart, it's still the same old thing: underlying sensory integration dysfunction. We toss a few more labels on top of it to drill down to the specifics, we look at it from a different angle and setting and try to figure out what's a problem and what's a quirk and peel away the layers and it's like parenting the World's Largest Onion Parfait.

On Friday, at the Mother's Day party, I watched Noah's teacher call the class to the blue carpet. I watched Noah obey and take his spot. I watched him sing the attendance song for each child, and sit patiently while each child got a chance to jump up and down and then describe what kind of jumping they'd performed. There were ballerina jumps and princess jumps and crazy jumps and when it was Noah's turn he stood up and jumped and called it a racecar jump.

He was observed today by a member of the school district assessment team, and his teacher fretted that she'd only stayed for less than an hour, that she hadn't fully "appreciated" what class is like for Noah. I got the distinct sense that his teacher was annoyed because Noah had actually behaved the whole time. I assured her that the report "appreciated" Noah's difficulties and was really very thorough and accurate. We go back on the 20th to hear the district's decision, and incidentally find out just who was wrong about Noah. Early Intervention assured us -- over and over andoverandover -- that Noah would not qualify for special ed services. His teacher clearly thinks that's the only place he belongs. The report seems like it agrees with her, at least in part.

I put the report in the binder where I keep all of this stuff.  And there it sits with everything else, suddenly not looking so thick or daunting anymore, just a few pieces of paper, just a tiny sliver of the story.

*NOT the 4:20 playdate friend**, oh no. This was a mom who has consistently scared the crap out of me all year for some reason, which is why I ended up blabbing on to her about the report in the first place, because she asked me where Noah would be going to summer camp and I PANICKED and started compulsively oversharing as a defense mechanism.

**Oh my God, so on our playdate on Friday? Her phone rang? And she answered it and said, "Can I call you back, I have a friend over right now." And I'm such a dork because inside I was all, "SQUEE SHE CALLED ME HER FRIEND!"

Let's Make It Official

Look, I totally won a major award:

The rest of y'all can suck it, frankly. Or else face the VEINY HANDS OF COMPETITIVE FURY. RAWR.

This award came as a complete surprise, as I was the only mom at the preschool Mother's Day party to forget a camera, thus missing the class performance of "Mommy Is My Sunshine." My friend* offered to make me a copy of the video she shot, so I'll at least get a copy, albeit a copy probably focused on the wrong kid. But whatever. You can't be the center of attention ALL the time, Noah. Especially not in mementos of your own childhood. You might grow up to be a blogger, or something equally hideous.

*Also known as the 4:20 Playdate Mom, who I think I can safely call my actual friend now, as we are set to have playdate number THREE today, oh my God. Will I have to put out? Does my hair look okay?  Should I wear my Phish t-shirt?** My #1 Mom Award? Because I won't lie, I still haven't taken it off, nor do I really want to.

**I would wear my Battlestar Galactica t-shirt, but I wore it last night to the Star Trek movie. Which: OMGEXPLODEYAWESUM. You should take your mom to see it this weekend, if your mom is anything like me.***

***And by "like me" I mean an AWARD-WINNING #1 MOM BOO-FUCKING-YAH, SUCKERS.

Blah Blah Whine Cough Etc.

The past 24 hours or so have not been my finest, parenting-wise. I know being sick and barraged by the unbelievable, unrelenting NEEDS and WANTS and WANTS-MISTAKEN-FOR-NEEDS of children* (who now outnumber you, huzzah!) can eventually make the most patient soul alive possibly crack into a million grumpy shrill pieces, or at least that's what I NEED** to believe so I don't feel so lousy about my two-millimeter-length fuse.

Last night while waiting for Jason to come home I got so increasingly short with my children that I:

1) Glared at a six-month-old baby with the glare of "You Better Knock That Shit Off Or I Will Turn This Car Around/Send You To Your Room/Give You Something To Cry About." It was surprisingly ineffective!

2) Caused Noah to tentatively and sweetly ask, "Are you happy, Mommy?", which made me feel so guilty and mean and GAH, but then he kept asking it over and over again and by the 25th time the guilt had worn off and I yelled that "NO, I'M NOT HAPPY." Then he said, "Don't worry, Mommy. It's okay, Mommy," and I wondered if he found ME that annoying when I used those same canned phrases to snap HIM out of a bad mood.

And it pretty much went on like that until bedtime. At which point I put Ezra down in his crib and FLED back to the bathroom where I treated myself to a delicious shot of Nyquil, reasoning that I had until at least 6 am before I had to deal with either of them again, which meant HOURS of peaceful, drug-induced stupor. I was in bed at 8:30 pm and sound asleep by 9 pm after watching about 15 minutes of The Princess Diaries. (I've never seen it! Still haven't! Don't spoil it for me! The suspense over when Anne Hathaway's character discovers the wonders of flat-irons is what makes it great!)

Ezra woke up at 3 am. Noah followed at 4 am. I dreamt that my blog turned into a talking squirrel named Martin and in order to post updates I had to feed nuts to him using a Morse-code-like rhythm. It made sense at the time.

I'm feeling much better today, though I admit my patience is a lagging indicator. Jason and I are supposed to go see the new Star Trek movie tonight, and while part of me feels guilty*** for going to a crowded movie theater while coughing in the height of manufactured swine flu panic season, part of me knows that if I do not get a couple of hours away from my beloved preshus children I will soon be discovered locked in a closet feeding trail mix to an imaginary squirrel named Martin.

<photo inserted just for the sake of making me sound like the most awful person ever, like who could glare at that face? who? me, that's who, and he probably only partially deserved it>

*And don't even get me started on the pets! Pets! Seriously, how old do cats have to be before they develop opposable thumbs and can open their own damned can of cat food? Wait. What? Really? Awww, fuck that shit.

**Need! There's that word again! If you are reading aloud, please to pronounce as NEE-EE-EE-UD to better convey the goddamn whining that's been taking over our household. Also, stop reading aloud. It's creepy.

***Oh Jesus Christ on a cracker, is there anything I don't feel guilty about? Let me check. Well, I don't think I'm DIRECTLY to blame for the stock market crash, and I was on the phone when the housing bubble burst and I've also never watched The Hills so I probably didn't cause Speidi, even though I have admittedly continued to acknowledge their existence. So that's three! I should write a goddamn self-help book. I'll call it Why Everything Ever is All Your Fault: How to Turn Guilt Into Squirrels That Crap Solid Gold Nuggets.

Oink

Funny. There's nothing like a sore throat to suddenly change you from one of those "swine flu = overblown media creation = everybody should just shut the fuck up about the swine flu" people into one of those "desperately Googling swine flu symptoms = oh my god I'm totally dying of swine flu" people.

In other news, I'm sick! Again. It's delightful. Just when I thought I was fresh out of moans.

I felt all fine and dandy all week and came in contact with all sorts of wonderful people (sorry for possibly giving you swine flu, wonderful people.), and even went out on Monday night with the DC Metro Moms to have dinner at Spike From Top Chef's Restaurant, which is actually called Good Stuff Eatery, but I can't stop calling it Spike From Top Chef's Restaurant. It was a lot of fun and I don't think I harassed a single reality show star AND I even remembered my camera. Though once I came home I realized I'd taken exactly two pictures: one really blurry picture of my french fries and one picture of a bobby pin on the ground at the Metro station (because I'd been texting Jodi while getting ready? complaining that I really needed a bobby pin for my hair? and even though I know I own a good million and four bobby pins I couldn't find one but then there was a bobby pin lying right there on the ground and oh...never mind).

Hmm...what else should I talk about? Talk talk talk. Typitty type. Man, my throat is sore. I need to shower. I think the baby is waking up. I think Noah is being observed at school by the district as we speak, but don't quote me on that because I tried to write a check today and dated it in April and then required actual convincing that no, it's not April anymore. I feel like there was something I was planning to talk about today but no longer remember a whole three paragraphs in. Yep, the baby is definitely waking up. Yep, I REALLY need to shower.

In summary, I like things and places and blogs but not being sick. Look, here is a picture of a baby. I think babies are nice. Now I shall sneak off before anybody notices that I just typed a string of sentences that don't actually say anything oh God why am I still typing just STOP, jackass okay I'm done.

That Thing You Do, Illustrated

"What are you DOING to him?" Jason asked.

 

"What?" I asked innocently, while adjusting the zoom on the camera. "I just wanted some pictures of those faces he makes when he does that thing -- when he cries the minute I walk away and stops once I walk back and..."

"And..."

"Okay. Yeah. Maybe this isn't the type of parenting moment I really want documented."

"Eh, look, now he's fine! Hi, happy baby!"

"That was still kind of mean."

"I think that's the kind of call only the Internet can objectively make."

My Boys

Noah hands me his sippy cup. Strawberry seeds have stopped up the straw. "It's clobbed," he says.

***

Ezra sits on our bed, propped up by a pillow. He falls backwards and fights his way back up, officially sitting unassisted for the first time. He looks at me and beams widely, clearly impressed with himself, before flopping over sideways.

***

Noah throws his arms around me and squeezes hard. "I wuv you," he sighs.

***

Ezra sits on my lap while I amuse him with funny faces. He lets out a tremendous burp. After a second or two of surprise, he cracks up laughing.

***

Noah and I march around the house, room by room. We tiptoe through the living room, dance through the dining room, skip through the kitchen and creep up to the coat closet in the foyer. I open the door. "IT'S A BEAR!" he screams. We run through the kitchen and dining room and living room and jump onto the couch and under a blanket. "And the bear. Goes back. To his cave." Noah says. "The end."

"One more time, Mommy." he begs, for the seventh time in a row. When I don't answer, he does. "Ohhhkay. One more time, Noah."

***
So far, Ezra eats sweet potatoes, butternut squash, asparagus, leeks, zucchini, potatoes, prunes, peaches, apples, pears, plums, banana, blueberries, avocado, oatmeal, polenta, risotto, lamb, fish, pancakes, broccoli florets, pizza crust, and pasta.

I tell Noah that I'm sorry, we're out of frozen waffles. He puts his hands on his face and drops his chin to his chest. "Poor little thing!" he wails.

***

Ezra sits on the couch, smiling happily. I get up and walk to the kitchen, and with each step his little face melts and pouts and finally scrunches up into a wail. I jump back a few steps, into his line of sight, and the smile and coos immediately return. I take another step away, and it happens all over again.

***

Noah emerges from his room post-nap. He squints in the light of the hallway, his face still marked by wrinkled sheets, his hair an impossible mop of bedhead, several inches of round belly exposed between his shirt and underwear. He blearily spots me down the hall in my room. "Oh!" he says. "Hi there!"

***

Ezra sits up, wobbily, peering into his baby mirror. He leans back, then forward, back, forward. He's delighted. He's playing peekaboo with his reflection.

***

Noah and Ezra are over there, laughing hysterically. The laughter dies down momentarily, only to start up again whenever they look at each other. Noah collapses on the floor in a fit of giggles, Ezra laughs so hard he gets the hiccups. I am not in on the joke, but I feel priviledged to be there anyway.