Spazzbaby

I remember Alexa once asked her readers when, exactly, babies grasp the concept of gravity. Or at least begin demonstrating a goddamn lick of SENSE. I admit I didn't read the response in the comments. Frankly, I was afraid the answer would be 42.

Ezra is...oh God, he's killing me lately, with his countless, endless, senseless attempts to kill himself. He's still trapped in this hideous stage of pre-mobility, where he doesn't crawl or roll so much as LAUNCHES his body in various directions. If that direction happens to have a soft surface or a paying-attention-type person handy, or at least be free of sharp edges or bottomless furniture-to-floor chasms, well, bonus. But he's not going to be picky about it, or anything.

He doesn't pull up on things nearly as well as he pulls them OVER, and yesterday he spent 20 minutes trying to pull up on our coffee table but kept scooting his body UNDER the coffee table, and then thwacking his head on the underside when he tried to stand up from this wedged-in position, and while I never, ever want to disparage my brilliant, adorable children, our cat used to do the same goddamn thing with the kitchen cabinets. We'd to sit in the living room, listening to the THUMP THUMP THUMP because he couldn't figure out how to keep the door from closing once he got it open a few inches with his paw, so he just tried walking into the closing door FASTER. And you know what? That cat never managed to hold onto a job either. We're still supporting his ass.

I don't remember going through this stage with Noah. If we did, it certainly didn't drag on this long -- according to the almighty archives Noah was crawling and standing and generally upright most of the time by this age -- a month or too earlier, actually.  I remember the bumps and bruises and the terrible sense of doom when he crawled over to the stairs one day and...oh shit, just kept on going up with remarkable skill. When he decided that he wanted to move, he MOVED. Bam. Done. I remember hating mobility, cursing mobility, but I don't remember months of this in-between sturm and drang and loopty-loops off the edges of furniture.

But I don't remember holding Noah on the couch and suddenly SHHOOOWWWWOOOOOOOP! The baby kicks off my lap and lunges headfirst toward Jason, who is sitting all the way across the goddamn room, and for two and a half terrible seconds his body is completely airborne and not in my control at all and his face is heading right toward the edge of that stupid coffee table (mark my words, future generations will look at coffee tables the way we look at BPA-laden bottles and stomach sleeping and opium-laced teething tablets)...and then if I'm lucky I manage to hook my elbow around his neck, or something similarly graceful.

I remember, once Noah outgrew his swing and bouncy seat, taking him into the shower with me. Just...plopping him on the floor of the tub with a toy or two, letting him play and splash in a half-inch puddle while I blocked the rest of the water with my body and went about my business. I do this with Ezra now, only he is firmly restrained inside of a suctioned-cup bath seat with a jury-rigged seat belt, and I shower faster than I ever have in my LIFE because I am absolutely terrified of what he'll manage to accomplish if I turn my back on him for two seconds to rinse shampoo out of my eyes. I cannot rinse! I simply live with the burning!

Ez shrieks and kicks and tries desperately to get his hands in the water -- not really attempting to climb out of the seat so much as leaning over so far and rocking around so violently that I'm afraid the finish on the tub will give out before the suction cups -- and the thought of just SETTING him down in the tub is so ridiculously laughable, and I sincerely hope I didn't advise anyone on the Internet to try my Great Showering Solution because HOLY CRAP, Ezra would be face down in the drain while I moaned from the bathroom floor after he mistook my ankles for bowling pins.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm not lamenting Ezra's lack of real mobility. I know it's not going to get "better" or "easier" just because he can get his arms and legs working in unison. In fact, I imagine it will be quite the opposite. I imagine I will re-read this entry and laugh -- nay, laff! -- at how I was once so concerned over a small potential faceplant into the coffee table, because NOW I can't pull a shirt over my head without him hurtling down the hall at top speed and barreling down the stairs (because he saw something shiny, or a shoe) (he loves shoes. dirty ones. he will scoot quite admirably to get to shoes. and then he will lick them.) (this just in! babies are gross, kind of stupid). I'm sensing that Ezra may not have some of Noah's more sensible, methodical, non-spazzoid traits and tendencies. I'm sensing that he may be quite the opposite. That he will be my boy-boy, my daredevil, the one who hurtles through life at his own pace with boundless, reckless enthusiasm.

And always, ALWAYS headfirst.

Off To a Good Start

While waiting to pick Noah up from his first day of camp, another mother cheerfully cooed to Ezra and asked about my sling and lamented that her son would never let her use one, but sighed and said she hoped her next baby will be more accommodating. She patted her stomach, which did indeed look rather pregnant, but you know, I'm not saying a damn word unless I see some damn placenta on the sidewalk. I nodded and admitted I never had much luck getting Noah to sit in a sling either, but raved about what a lifesaver it's been this time around. Look at us! Two moms, hanging outside of summer camp, just like any two moms outside of any summer camp, with none of the shadowy adjectives that were oddly absent from the camp signage. Little Friends In Motion, it said instead. It's not occupational therapy, it's fucking toddler pilates.

We collected our older boys and continued to chat on the way back to our cars. Noah was wailing because he didn't want to leave and (as I would later learn) because his shoes were full of dried beans and sand from the camp's own shoebox obstacle course. Her son couldn't get out of there fast enough and she struggled to keep a grip on him. ADHD, she told me. He spent his entire year at preschool trying to climb the bookcases.

I nodded. Noah spent most of HIS year hiding under the table in the play kitchen, I told her.

Ooh, yeah, she sighed. Makes writing that tuition check EXTRA fucking fun, right? (God, I like her, I thought.) At least you didn't get expelled?

We almost did, I admitted. Or at least his teacher...well, eh. It's complicated. We won't be going back there.

She nodded. Our school threatened to expel us, too.

God, I said.

I know, she said. Whatever happened to...you know...TEACHERS? My kid is not a Christmas cookie. He's still just dough! Work with him, teach him!

Oooh. Good metaphor, I thought. I should steal that one.

Her son made a break for it and she started to waddle after him, but paused long enough to ask me one last question. What preschool did you guys go to?

I told her, practically spitting out the name.

(Bitter? Me? What?)

(Yes.)

She froze and I saw all the color drain from her face. Bu-but that's where we're sending him next fall!  They told us they were experienced with...that they were fully equipped...that...

I didn't know what else to say. So I said that I was sorry.

(Think she'll still want to be my friend? I could bring her some Christmas cookies on Wednesday? With a note that says, "I'm sorry I just blew all your hopes and dreams to hell, but look! Sprinkles!")

Beyond It

It occurred to me that I never wrote about our orientation night at Noah's summer camp from a couple weeks ago. Perhaps I initially decided that it was a boring topic that no one cared about. Perhaps I was more than likely right. But camp starts on Monday and I JUST finished filling out all the case history forms and permission slips and assorted release forms this morning, so needless to say, I've got Occupational Therapy Camp on the brain in a big way.

The camp is nice. The camp will be nice. There are three motor skills gyms, a 1:1 ratio between therapists and children and two field trips to a therapeutic pony farm. Every Friday is Water Day, with inflatable pools and sprinkler toys. Noah will have a blast, and hopefully we'll see some real steps forward. Jason was thrilled and pronounced the expense officially more than worth it -- a fucking bargain, were his exact words, I think. I agree. 

Of course, me being the big fat stupid pessimist who wore the wrong shoes and had a headache that was totally probably brain cancer had to go and get overly sensitive and philosophical as we wandered the halls of the facility -- a facility that is primarily used as a special needs elementary and high school for children with high-functioning autism and other speech/motor/sensory problems. I wondered if these students had been through Early Intervention. If they'd gone to special summer camps and exhausted the district's offerings. I wondered if they had, and if this was still the result, costly non-mainstream tuition, worries about college and afterwards, a label that stuck. Our goal had once been "regular" preschool; now we're pinning our hopes on kindergarten. I wondered if these families had similar goals once, and still ended up here.

It looked like any school, complete with lockers and bulletin boards and posters documenting the students' activities and achievements. The photos on these posters were mostly boys, much older than Noah, and...I guess because I KNEW, I couldn't just look at the photos. I saw it. You know? I saw the eyes looking at the camera but not quite focusing. The bodies standing next to each other but without any touching, without any arms slung around each other's shoulders, without the natural ease that comes from knowing the boundaries of your own body and how it relates to the person next to you. I saw slumped shoulders, defensive posture, splayed fingers, low muscle tone, protruding tongues, an endless checklist of stuff I've read about and occasionally witnessed myself.

I was deeply ashamed to realize that I saw all that stuff before I saw the boys, the children, the other people's precious chubby-cheeked babies.

Jason chided me the other day for interpreting almost everything Noah does these days through the filter of his sensory problems. He couldn't just be scared of the flying house in Up. He couldn't just be worried that all the balloons would pop and the house would crash. No, I fretted over his rigid thinking, his terror over the slightest change in routine and things Not Being Exactly Just So All The Time, and the force of his reaction and the volume of his shrieks and on and on it went and I went until Jason suggested that I take a break from all that reading and researching and compulsion to know more! and fix more! and advocate and educate and on and on and etc!

At our IEP meeting, when Jason and I started talking about all the different tactics we've tried to help strengthen Noah's skills in certain areas, the occupational therapist suggested that we could maaaaybe start relaxing now. We could let the experts handle things and get back to the business of simply enjoying our child. I just stifled a snort because LEAVE SHIT TO THE EXPERTS? AS IF THERE ARE ANY EXPERTS. HA HA. EXPERTS. THAT'S A GOOD ONE. The importance of being part of your child's therapy is undeniable -- YOU know your child best, YOU are there day in and day out, YOU have more of an impact than 45 minutes of therapy a week. YOU. YOU YOUYOUYOU. Don't forget that, don't slack off. And don't fuck it up.

This is..a tremendous amount of pressure, particularly when you're talking about your firstborn, when you feel like such a goddamn ROOKIE about even the simplest thing. Noah has completely shattered my expectations of what motherhood would be like. He has both humbled and enriched me. He has given me a greater sense of purpose but also the occasional feeling of drowning in my own inadequacy.

(And a tendency towards overwrought metaphor, apparently. Yeesh.)

One of the things I am guilty of is keeping a List. It's in my head, though I've occasionally rattled off a few choice items to Jason and my mom and in imaginary blog postings that I compose while brushing my teeth, before I have coffee and think better of it. The List is the answer to a question that no one has ever asked me.

Do you think Ezra is...you know...the same?

The List is evidence that no, I don't think so. From his early back-and-forth conversational coos and strong preference for me, to his fascination with Baby Faces books and joyful interest in other people. He babbled at people instead of inanimate objects. Ezra loved the feel of grass beneath his legs and between his fingers -- Noah simply raised his legs up away from it until he toppled over. Ezra eats anything and everything -- Noah's textural issues were already becoming apparent by this age. Ezra does not appear to be as sensitive to music and sounds, but does complain when his diaper is wet or when he is cold. Ezra waves and claps and mimics certain noises and facial expressions -- the very first official warning flags we saw at Noah's 12-month appointment when he couldn't do any of that. The List is long, very precise, with dozens of little moments that I've filed away for reassurance later.

But again, Jason has (rightly) pointed out, it's not fair to suddenly look back and sweep every memory of Noah's babyhood -- every personality trait and preference for different books, everything that we once celebrated as being part of our "exceptional" baby -- under the rug of SID/SPD and the looming Spectrum. It's not very fair to Ezra, either, to observe him strictly through that lens, hovering over him with a checklist in hand, breathing a sigh of relief every time he acts "normal" or "typical," instead of just viewing the differences as just that: Two. Freaking. Different. Children. My. God.

It was a bad night, that orientation night, because I realized that more and more, I only saw it. I was losing sight of my own baby, my child, my amazingly smart, sweet Noah, and letting his quirks and issues and my worries and fears for his future cloud over the son.

***

This week there was no school, no camp, no playdates or birthday parties or anything we had to do. We rarely got dressed, Noah watched TV whenever he asked nicely, dragged as many toys into the living room as he wanted, and ate macaroni & cheese for lunch pretty much every day. If he asked for white milk in a red cup and the red cup was dirty, I rinsed out the red cup rather than engage him in an argument about the blue cup. We cuddled and tickled and roughhoused. We made a big happy birthday banner for Jason using fingerpaints. He asked for a napkin after every other paint streak, and I gave him as many napkins as he wanted. When we were all done, we hung it on the front door. 

It remains pretty much the only thing we accomplished all week. And I feel pretty good about that. Camp starts on Monday; this week was a week to enjoy being with my boys, my beautifully different, equally essential boys, a brief vacation from it.

 

 

I Should Not Be Left In Charge Of Houseplants, Much Less Babies

Despite some threatening poses, Ezra is still not technically for-real crawling yet. He rolls, he scoots, he hurls his not-entirely-under-control torso towards the edges of furniture while I desperately lunge for his ankle like a clawless bear batting at a salmon, but he is definitely not yet achieving true forward propulsion with a purpose.

(People like asking you if your baby is doing such-and-such yet. Usually because it's a skill THEIR baby mastered two months before the milestone chart said he should have mastered it, and they know this. Also because they are assholes. No, my three-month-old isn't saying "Mama" yet, what the fuck? Yeah, and my four-month-old still flops over sideways if you try to make him sit up on his own. Which I do. While yelling "TIMBER!" It's a teaching tool.)

(Honestly, Ezra has taken his time on most of the big motor-ish milestones like rolling over and sitting up and...I don't know what else he's "supposed" to be doing now. Second children definitely get the "ehhh, fuck it" benefit on this stuff, plus a better appreciation for how simple life is before mobility is attained.)

(Not that Ez isn't brilliant in his own brilliant way, or anything. He waves and sort-of claps and likes to have conversations with you involving nothing but tongue-clicking.  And he's pretty good at pulling up on anything that cannot actually support his weight, requiring constant rescue from underneath empty hampers and baskets and this one plastic piano thing that I THOUGHT was designed for the pulling-self-up set before quickly learning otherwise oh CRAP. So that, and eating. He's very good at eating. His appetite is enormous and his palette is adventurous. His tray-to-mouth coordination is impressive, his pincher grasp is wise beyond its years, his spoon skills are...well, a tad Ted Striker-like still, but you've gotta respect his ambition. I am already planning his future in competitive eating. Your days are numbered, Kobayashi!)

ANYWAY. Not crawling yet. He came extremely close last night, while Jason and I watched, waiting, anticipating, my fingers inching towards the camera while Ez pushed up on his hands and knees and rocked back and forth, his eyes locked on a toy a few feet away. His knees made their move and...

BAM. His arms forgot to do their part and he toppled over, face-first into the floor, just BARELY missing both the blanket and the pillow we'd arranged around him for just this very purpose.

And because I am a very concerned mother who sleeps with a milestone chart under her pillow and Googles "hardwood floors baby brain damage class action lawsuit" pretty much DAILY, I laughed at him. Then I picked him up. And fed him some Indian food. For dessert he ate a dill pickle.

Today, though, I learned another important and humbling lesson: Just because your baby isn't technically mobile doesn't mean you can't lose them. I learned this lesson when I lost the baby. In my bedroom.

Noah was playing with Max (our sainted, patient cat) on our bed; Ezra was on the floor with a bucket of plastic blocks. I went downstairs to start a load of laundry and was back upstairs within five minutes or so. Noah was still on the bed (though the cat had apparently had quite the fuck enough and fled) and the baby was...

...not where I'd left him. At all. Or anywhere nearby. I stood there for a second, turned around, then back again, scanning the floor like I was looking for my other shoe.

"Ez...ra?" I called out. (What, doesn't YOUR 8-month-old say, "Over here, Mother! Present!" when you call out his name? No? Ohhhh. Well. I'm sure he'll do it in his own time. *headpat* )

Not getting a response, I questioned the three-and-a-half-year-old, and was informed that Baby Ezra was hiding. (Everything, though, that is not currently visible to Noah is "hiding." His shoes are hiding. His lost toy that he simply cannot go to sleep without is hiding. His butt is hiding, etc.)

Just when a variety of horrible scenarios started flashing through my head (stairs! toilet! dingoes!), I heard a muffled squawk of indignance coming from under the bed. I pulled up the bedskirt and. Yep. There he was. Halfway under the bed, juuuust past the point of comfortable arm's reach, and from the looks of things he'd propelled himself backwards the entire way.

And because I'm an asshole, I laughed at him again. And he scowled back at me, which was awesome. He might not have the crawling thing down quite yet, but he's already growing up into a real little person who has already had enough of my shit.

I'm onto you, woman.

Obligatory Oh God Don't Make Me Write Sentences Yet Post-Vacation Photo Entry

(Suck on THAT post title, TinyURL!)

Four solid days of zero Internet access. Once I got over the initial convulsions and hallucinations of trolls and unanswered important emails and OMG What Topics Are Trending On Twitter RIGHT NOW, the symptoms eventually settled into a vague itching sensation.

Although...on second thought, maybe it was just sand.

It looks sort of like food, but doesn't taste like food, but maybe I should eat it again, just to be sure.

Nope. Not food.

On the Naughty Seat (damn, those things are EVERYWHERE) for throwing sand. Can't you feel the love?

The last time he went anywhere near the water of his own free will, thanks to a Father-Son Wave Incident on our first day there. He really loved the pool, which was thankfully indoors and a good retreat for when the weather turned to absolute ass. Of course, if you comment that you'd never know I was at the beach, what with my continued winter whiteness, I will probably cry a little bit. But I did read the shit out of a couple novels with zero literary value but a ton of sex scenes, so it's not like I accomplished NOTHING all weekend, or anything.

I left my iPod behind, and Jason's uncle called this morning to let me know he'd found it and would mail it back. He also mentioned that next time they really wouldn't mind if we left Ezra behind. You know, for a few days or months or FOREVER. He was kind of a hit, that one.

Really, all things considered, the whole trip was a hit. I knew for sure the night I went in to check on the boys and realized that Noah was no longer in bed...

But had opted to curl up behind the door, on the floor, snuggled up against our beach blanket.

I'd Say Something About REALLY Needing This Vacation...

...if only I didn't have to take my beloved rotten children with me.

(Alternate Title: My Own Unintentional Personal Testimony to Bad Mothering)

SCENE, YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, ABOUT 24 HOURS AFTER I WARNED JASON ABOUT THE IMPORTANCE OF NOT PUTTING THE BABY TO BED IN JUST A DIAPER, AS HE'S BEEN GETTING A LITTLE GRABBY WITH THE VELCRO TABS ON HIS SUPER-FANCY CLOTH DIAPERS, AND ABOUT TWO HOURS AFTER I PUT HIM DOWN FOR A NAP WEARING ONLY A TOO-SMALL DISPOSABLE DIAPER BECAUSE I DIDN'T FEEL LIKE RETRIEVING A SUPER-FANCY CLOTH DIAPER FROM THE DRYER ALL THE WAY DOWNSTAAAAAIRS WAAAAHHHH I'M TIRED

I heard Ezra stirring in his crib and I went immediately to collect him waited until he sounded good and mad before getting up off the couch.

I walked into his room. His diaper was off. There was...oh my God. Everything. Both. Everywhere. The sheets were soaked in three distinct places. And the...yeah. All over the sheets, the crib, THE BABY. The baby who lifted his head and beamed ear-to-ear when he saw his loving fucking horrified mother and that's when I saw the poop all over his FACE and immediately rushed over to rescue the poor thing from the filth turned and left the room to go back downstairs, sat back down on the couch and felt sorry for myself. And then I told Twitter about it.

When I returned, I was better prepared to properly deal with the situation. Because this time I had my phone. I took a picture and promptly emailed it to Jason with the subject line: YOU NEED TO COME HOME RIGHT THIS MINUTE. I QUIT.

EPILOGUE

Two baths...TWO baths were required. (Helpful Hint: Don't forget to check behind the ears!) The good news is that I finally had a good reason to finally get around to finally removing those terribly dangerous crib bumpers that I wasn't supposed to ever have on in the first place, I KNOW, but I've just been so terribly BUSY. Rest assured that the bumpers are off and firmly in the category of Things We Shall Never Speak Of Again. because even though cloth diapering has given me a stronger stomach for this sort of thing, there are just some indignities from which fabric and padding cannot ever recover. Sorry, Wendy. You had a good run.

Luckily, the baby is even cuter than an old hand-me-down bedding set, so he can stay.

23 Minutes

Dear Well-Meaning People At Our Vet's Office,

I know. I KNOW. He LOOKS CUTE. He's all blondish and be-dimpled, dressed up exactly like a real live human being with the polo and the shorts and the sandals. He'll tell you his name and his dog's name and his baby brother's name (though probably not in the same order you asked the questions). In other words, he LOOKS like the kind of kid you can win over with stickers and small plastic dog figurines...and inviting him into the back while you administer our dog's Bordetella vaccine sounds like a great idea, except for the part where you can't and it totally fucking isn't.

I don't know. I DON'T KNOW. He loves stickers! Especially circle stickers! Small plastic choking hazards are his FAVORITE! I don't know why today he's decided that stickers are the equivalent of putting dirty Band-Aids on his shirt and small plastic dog figurines are like, beneath him or something, God, and why his only true love in the world is your ceramic business card holder. Wait. That one I know. Because it is 1) Breakable, and 2) FULL OF A MILLION AND ONE FUCKING BUSINESS CARDS.

I do know a little more. See? He's three-and-a-half. Probably closer to four than I ever let myself admit, because FOUR. That's a PERSON. That's...not this kid right here, who is shrieking that I DON'T NEED TO LIKE TO READ A BOOK NO THANK YOU when I offer him something from your dog-eared collection of dog-themed children's books as an alternative to the business card holder. He is both acting his age and totally NOT acting his age, and I hope and pray this is just kind of part being this age. Dear God. He also, for the record, loves books, although today has been one of those fucking days where I would secretly like to fashion some kind of helmet that beams Yo Gabba Gabba directly into his brain if it would make him sit still and stop rolling around on the fur-covered floor like the Incredible Human Swiffer With Extra Whining Power.

(You're welcome for the clean floors, though. Don't mention it, we're just happy to help.)

I must admit to bullshitting you when I was all, "Noah, be GENTLE with Ceiba's leash, remember how I showed you? Don't pull on her, be GENTLE. You know better." Confession: I've never shown him how to walk the dog on her leash because he refuses to even acknowledge her waffle-stealing existence 99% of the time, like, I'm not even sure he's aware that we have a dog. I think he considers her more on par with an annoying battery-powered blinky-bloopy toy, and he has never ONCE been so fascinated with her leash and walking her around in circles as he is today and honestly I'm starting to wonder if maybe another mother and I got our children mixed up in the parking lot.

Please don't offer to let him go in the back with you please don't offer to let him go in the back with you please don't, oh crap. You did. Okay, watch this; it's really cool. I'll try to say "No, let's stay out here and wait together, okay?" and see how many words I can get out of my mouth before the screaming starts.

Three words! It's a personal best!

Fine. We'll go in the back -- path of least resistance and all, and a fierce desire to GET OUT OF HERE ALIVE -- and oh, look. There's dogs and cats in cages! He would like to stick his hand in those cages, and then he would like to run around and collide into pricey medical equipment. This is a TERRIFIC IDEA. You can tell that the vet thinks so too! Hi, Doctor. Yeah. It's us. There's an olde ancient Internet acronym for your facial expression. Double You Tee Eff, I believe it is called.

Okay! The vaccine took all of 30 seconds, which TOTALLY made this entire transition to the back room necessary and time to go back out front, Noah! Noah? Get...git...over here...now...hiss...gah...I will PUT YOU in the cone of shame, child, I KNOW they make them for your neck measurement I swear to...

Okay! Time to pay, make follow-up appointments at which I will feel deathly guilty over the state of my pets' dental hygeine, yep, I'd love a reminder card, something to look forward to! This! All over again! And oh God, please let the sticker thing go, I don't know WHY he's being such an ass about the sticker and I'm just all around mortified by this entire excursion and...wait...what are you asking him about?

Are we going to the bea...SHIT SHIT DON'T SAY IT DON'T SAY THAT WORD STOP.

Oh, hell. Yes, we needed the Bordetella because we're going to the b-e-a-c-h. On Friday. Which means it's totally not something we've mentioned to the c-h-i-l-d yet, because...well, never mind. I'm just going to crumble a couple of your business cards into earplugs for the ride home when he realizes we're NOT going to the beach right now and thinks that he's being punished for not being a good boy and perhaps I'll let him think that. Or not. I haven't had time to process my remaining patience level.

In summary, Well-Meaning People At Our Vet's Office, please accept my official and heartfelt apology for bringing an unhinged class five tornado onto your premises. Especially without a leash. He's really not usually like this, except for whenever it matters. THEN HE IS PRECISELY LIKE THIS. Thank you for maintaining that you found him utterly adorable, right up until the moment we left. Though I also wouldn't blame you if you're totally blogging about us right now.

Sincerely,
Amy

PS. I am also sorry that my dog has such a weird, unpronouncable name. Before her next visit I'll train her to respond to Sheba or Sayiba or something like that.

PPS. He really did cry the whole way home about the beach. It was kind of sad, since I do still like him a whole lot, in spite of everything. I wasn't mean about it and tried to explain that we're still going, just not today, but it didn't really do any good. Turns out he mostly just needed a nap. This has since been rectified. Within 30 seconds of getting back home. With extreme prejudice. And door locks.

PPPS. The little one sure was cute, right? HE liked your stickers.

PPPPS. Though for future reference, eight-month-old babies should not be given stickers. Particularly eight-month-old babies who belong to harebrained, distracted mothers who are trying to wrangle a sobbing preschooler and a freaked-out hamsterdog who just wanted to wind her leash around everybody's fucking legs, because she might not notice until much later that the sticker has mysteriously vanished. He's going to poop it out momentarily, I just know it. I wonder if we'll still be able tell what brand of heartworm pills provided the stickers! Oooh, suspense!

Monday Hodgepodge

Picture of the day:

I would have cut the crust off your sandwich for you, kid. All you had to do was ask.

Secondary picture of the day:

<insert BANG BANG THUMP THUMP WHO THOUGHT THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA before viewing>

Story of the day, in which my husband goes to extraordinary lengths to conceal the fact that we'd forgotten that the refrigerator repairman was coming to the house and were not home at the agreed-upon appointment time:

We were at a park with the boys when Jason's phone rang. He recognized the number and was all, OH SHIT OH RIGHT THAT, but instead of answering like a grown-up and admitting that hey, we're not home right now, something came up, give us 20 minutes before you send the guy over (as they were only calling to confirm our at-home-ness before dispatching the repairman), he inexplicably launched us all into a confusing campaign of intrigue and subterfuge, opting to call them back once we were on our way home to claim that oh yes, my wife is at home, I don't know why she's not picking up the phone there, maybe she's outside! Let me try to reach her.

Then he hung up, waited five minutes and called them back to say that yes, my wife is at home, send the repairman over. And he drove on, confident in his strategy of deception because the office was XX minutes away and we were only X minutes away, and when I pointed out that they probably just dispatched the guy from wherever his last job was, which could have been around the damn corner from our damn house for all we damn knew, Jason looked a little concerned, but still maintained that his plan was masterful and brilliant, if possibly a tad pointless, because I didn't quite get WHY we were going through all this, since I was pretty sure this was why the company had the call-before-dispatching-even-if-you-have-an-appointment policy to begin with, BUT ANYWAY, there was no reasoning with him, he was either posessed or mad with power or both, plus it was kind of amusing, especially when I turned around to remind Noah about the importance of always telling the truth, except for when you forget to update your Google calendar. The Baby Jesus says it's okay then, and that's the real reason why Easter is always a different date every year.

But then! Just when we thought we were going to get away with our evil scheme! We pull onto our street and realize that the REPAIRMAN WAS ALREADY THERE. OUR WEB OF LIES WAS UNRAVELING BEFORE OUR VERY EYES. So Jason drives by really fast and goes around a little loopy cul-de-sac thing, stops the car and orders me and Noah out of the car and instructs us to walk the rest of the way home and claim that we were playing outside around the corner, and then Jason drove back to the house and pretended like he had no idea where we were and let the guy in. The guy who:

1) I'm pretty sure saw our car sort-of pull up and then speed off to hide around the corner, and
2) Probably passed the very area where I claimed Noah and I had been playing, and
3) Was very grumpy, and probably more than a little pleased to report that our refrigerator is actually quite fucked and must be replaced after all, you lying sacks of shit.

THE END.

In Other Words, GO BACK TO BED

After spending most of yesterday debating whether or not to reschedule an appointment for a professional family portrait session because Noah had a Raging Fever of Mystery, we decided to go ahead with it. Five minutes before we needed to leave the house, Ezra pitched headfirst off of our bed and collided with a scratchy wicker laundry basket on the way down to his ultimate faceplant on the floor. Because Mama was busy putting on mascara. I mean, of course I was. The evidence of the fall is JUST as pretty and photogenic as you can imagine.

That can so be Photoshopped, right? Hell, I managed to fix it pretty well with just the eraser tool and some camouflage in Microsoft Paint:

See? All better now.

On the plus side, Ezra suddenly started waving HI! HI! HI HI HI! to everybody he meets, which is just as adorable as you can imagine. I mean, holy crap, it's cute. Except for maybe today, when he frantically flapped his hands at dozens of strangers while we were out at lunch, and the gesture could have easily been translated as HOLY SHIT, LOOK AT WHAT THEY DID TO MY HEAD. YOU GO CALL FOR HELP, I'LL STAY HERE, THIS BLONDE ONE IS REALLY EASY TO DISTRACT.

The Missing N

Today was the last day of preschool. A stunningly non-momentous occasion, made even more so by the facts that the end-of-year party already happened yesterday, and that our classroom's little fake diplomas had mysteriously gone missing. We were presented with a laminated piece of construction paper with a poem on it instead. I'm sitting here staring at the thing, thinking...well, I guess I'm supposed to keep this, because they LAMINATED it, but...eh, I guess I'll just put it up on the fridge, or something. Or in this nice pile of bills.

The year ended with a whimper and a sensory bang, as Noah whined all the way to school that he didn't waaaaant to go to school for the paaaaarrrrty, he waaaaaanteeeed to goooooo toooo Bennnnnjaaaamiiiinnnn's houuuuuuuuuuuuusssssssse, and we were late and I was annoyed and had left my coffee on the kitchen counter and realized that the baby had horked blueberries onto my boob and was busy trying to adjust the sling to cover the stain when Noah took one look at the brightly-decorated classroom, with paper lanterns and inflatable beach toys hanging from the ceiling, and decided that whining was not enough to express his displeasure and launched into full-on screaming. The fake grass festooned around the doorway had the audacity to TOUCH HIM when I took his hand and tried to encourage him to go in, and he collapsed on the floor and howled while everybody in the room -- teachers and kids and parents and siblings -- turned around to stare at us just in time to watch him kick over a row of tiny adorable chairs.

"I. WANT. TO. GO. HOME." Noah wailed.

So I shrugged, made eye contact with my one friend in the room -- the one who had spent the entire day before decorating the room and icing shark and beach-themed cupcakes -- and mouthed an apology before walking back out.

"Okay. Let's go home." I told him. "Whatever you want. I'm done."

We made it halfway down the school's hallway before Noah started to mayyyyybe reconsider his stance on the party. He looked absolutely miserable -- he didn't like that different room, with all the extra people and the things and the loudness...but. There were cupcakes.

The cupcakes won out, and we returned.

I am always simultaneously encouraged and heartbroken to see firsthand just how much Noah struggles in situations like these. He TRIES! He tries so HARD! I watch him attempt to talk to a classmate and...his words just fail him. The words sort of...fall out of his mouth in a jumble instead of an ordered sentence. ("Hey what you doing down there with the carpet truck tunnel?" instead of something like "Hey, are you making a tunnel for the truck on the carpet?") His peer will generally sort of regard him in confusion for a bit before simply turning away because he's not making any sense to her. And then Noah, apparently used this kind of response, will either try again using something he's memorized from the TV (which makes sense, because at least on TV that line seemed to work in a give-and-take conversation), or simply flit off to a corner to talk to himself, or line up some toys in rainbow order, turning his back on the rest of the world for awhile.

And then he gets up and tries again. And again and again and again.

***

Today was anti-climatic. Half the class was already off and gone on summer vacations, stuff was rapidly disappearing off the walls and bulletin boards, and I realized I'd neglected to even get a card for Noah's teachers, much less a gift. His teacher hugged me anyway and told me to patient, to fight, that while it might seem dark and scary and sad right now, we'd get there. Someday, we'd get there.

I collected a thick pile of art projects and photos from his cubby and we left for the very last time. For old times sake, I felt just as nauseous and anxious as I have every day since...oh, December, since his teacher threatened to expel him.

***

I don't usually make a habit of reading my archives -- I regard them for the most part as testaments to what a moron I once was, though the un-moroning of Amy is still a work in progress -- but the other day I happened across of the first entries I wrote about preschool. And I REALLY couldn't read them. My hope and optimism are so fresh and unwounded and downright dripping with sugary sweet naivete. This was going to be okay! This was going to be more than okay! I'm going to just go ahead and stop worrying about anything because we're SO TOTALLY OKAY!

Reading them is like watching a teenage girl in the grips of puppy love throttle towards the inevitable heartbreak while doodling little hearts all over her angst-y mix tapes.

***

When I got home I started sorting through the pile of art projects -- the first real bounty I've seen in months, since our last progress report noted that "Art is no longer one of Noah's choices." There was a baggie full of small squares featuring letters of the alphabet. I sat on the floor and lined them up.

The kids had done one square a week, as they worked through each letter. Our collection is missing N, and then stops all together at S, marking the point when Noah either stopped participating all together or when the teachers decided to stop fooling us and making squares for him.

I tried to find any evidence of Noah's actual handywork -- I'm pretty sure he did the E, because the three googly eyeballs are lined up to perfectly resemble a traffic light: red, yellow and green. I know he didn't do the G because it's got another kid's initials on it. Several of them give me a clear mental picture of his teacher trying hard, cajoling him, bribing him, pleading with him to just put a prepasted and precut-out figure SOMEWHERE on the paper, look, here, I did part of it for you, before Noah finally maybe obliged and placed a letter halfway on the paper before running off to the corner to line up more toys.

Basically, just like we do at home, over everything, every day of our lives.

Most of 'em, though? Noah totally had nothing to do with. Good thing they're not laminated.

***
Tonight we're going to a parents' orientation thing at the OT/sensory integration summer camp Noah will start in a couple weeks.

(By the way, does anybody else get as annoyed by the "no children allowed" nature of these things as I do? Hi, I've just handed over half of the contents of my savings account to you, could you maybe think about bringing in some college interns for the night to watch the kids for an hour so I don't have to pay a babysitter with the change I found in my couch cushions?)

I have rearranged my entire life to accomodate taking Noah to this camp, my mornings will be spent camped at a Starbucks or wandering around Not Buying Things At Target and hopefully keeping Ezra somehow entertained and adequately mothered while waiting to pick Noah up -- since the traffic won't allow for driving home and back in time. I have filled out all the paperwork, the case histories, the my child does this never/sometimes/always questionnaires; I have collected the previous evaluations and assessments and the triplicate copies of our IEP. All so we can start over, try again.

I am hopeful. I am optimistic. It is going to be okay.

It's going to be more than okay.