Neck Cramp, Camp. Hey, That Rhymes! I Hereby Declare This Entry "Cohesive."
July 06, 2009
There was a time when my Monday posts almost always included a description of how I'd managed to injure myself over the weekend. I fell out of cabs, tripped on my stilettos, got drunk and fell down hills with staggering frequency. Such were the occupational hazards of being young and fabulous and dripping with disposable income.
NOTE: If I'd fallen down this weekend, I could have typed "How the mighty have fallen!" and then been all, "LITERALLY!" and then been all, "RIM SHOT!" and then you guys could have been all, "UNSUBSCRIBE."
I did not fall down this weekend. But I certainly did not let that stand in my way.
First, I bit my tongue, and then accidentally stabbed my gums with a fork five minutes later. Drew blood both times.
Second, I woke up on Friday morning with my neck...just...oh God, it was just ALL WRONG. I couldn't move it to the right without PAIN, oh God, the PAIN. If I may just Drama Queen all over the place for a minute or two, I am fairly sure this was the most pain I have ever been in, at least since the time I had to work a trade show floor for eight hours in high heels. Also: labor, and whatever.
I tried heating pads and those sticky hot wrap things and Ibuprofen and stretching and massage and moaning. And I spent the next two days with my head sort of cocked to the left, which might explain why that weird lady at the playground kept trying to talk to me about her dog, a dog she carried around in a sling, therefore she felt entitled to offer me advice about babywearing, up to and including reaching out to grab my baby's foot and attempting to shove it into the sling because she was afraid I would let a door slam on it. My facial expression may have read "holy FUCK do not TOUCH him," but my head position just screamed, "oh, how INTERESTING, please do go on!"
NOTE: If you're wondering how I was carrying the baby around in a sling if my neck was so grievously injured, I can tell you: leftover c-section Percocet*. It actually worked so well that it freaked me out a litle bit. Like, OH! This shit is fantastic! I totally get Celebrity Rehab now! I'm sorry I judged you, Jeff Conaway! I'm going...to stop after one dose, I think. Maybe give the heating pad another try.
The neck injury was caused by too much Wii Bowling, by the way. When you reach Pro status your ball gets all sparkly and stuff.
*For the record, I feel overwhelmingly un-pregnant. I'm telling you now, I'm confident it's a big fat no. Although I did have one of those OH SHIT, FLIPPER-BABY moments a few hours after taking the Percocet and had to go Google it. Luckily I was reassured that one measly little incident of borderline prescription drug abuse would not result in a flipper-baby. I was also reassured because Percocet makes everything alllllll riiiiiiight.
Okay. So on to Noah's summer camp, which has nothing to do with my neck. I don't think. Yet. Give me another can of Coke and a solid hour of naptime and I just might get ridiculous enough to try to end this entry with some sappy, circular metaphor of some kind. And then I'll be all, "BOO-YAH" and you'll be all, "I SAID UNSUBSCRIBE,."
You guys, the camp is SO GREAT. Every morning Noah waits impatiently outside the classroom door while the therapists and grad students finish up their strategy session, he barrels in at top speed and checks out every play/sensory/tactile station that's been set up around the room. He may wave me off or grant me a quick kiss goodbye...but probably not. He gets pretty busy pretty quickly. He plays in the ball pit and rode on a scooter -- I know he did these things because HE TOLD ME SO, HIMSELF, AFTER I ASKED.
<places hand on heart, faints dramatically, re-injures neck>
They've started him on the Wilbarger Protocol, two times per morning session. After Noah's very first transition-related tantrum at circle time (AGAIN with the fucking circle time; I seriously wonder if Noah would be more interested if they called it octogon or trapezoid time), the OT managed to get him to tell her why he was so upset: he put his hands over his head, attempted cover both his eyes and ears, and said, "It too much. It hurts."
<is just going to type the rest of this entry from down here on the floor, if that's all right.>
The brushing technique is one of those weird, quacky-sounding OT things -- deep massage with a plastic surgical brush? what? -- but apparently, it's working rather well. It calms him down and reduces the endless wandering, fidgeting, reciting. And he is an angel -- AN ANGEL CHILD FROM HEAVEN -- for hours after camp. Today he announced it was time for a nap and I pouted, because man, we're having so much fun! I wanna keep playing! I don't wanna put you down for a nap! Stay here and tell Mama about the ball pit again!
They've also given Noah a specific diagnosis from under the big umbrella of sensory processing/integration disorders: Dyspraxia. While other therapists we've met with have left it non-specific, because Noah exhibits behaviors from ALL OVER the goddamn place, this team believes Noah will actually benefit from a more targeted diagnosis and treatment plan. Since getting their assessment, I pulled out my old dog-eared copy of the Out-of-Sync Child and reviewed my answers to all the zillions of checklists it contains, and would you believe that 99% of the sticking boxes from the stinking dyspraxia lists are checked off, and yet I still fretted more about whether Noah was OVER-responsive or UNDER-responsive, because THOSE checklists were split about 50/50, so WHAT DOES THAT MEEEEEAN?
It means learn how to read a fucking graph, asshole.
Anyway. Camp is great! Hooray camp!
Actually. Hang on. Lemme fix that.
Noah is great! Hooray Noah!