Noah first met his occupational therapist at summer camp. He was three-and-a-half years old and had already developed a fierce dislike of school (and any school-like activities) and a deep distrust of teachers (and any teacher-like adults). But for some reason, Ms. M___ was different. He liked her. He liked her a lot.
For over three years now, she's worked with him. First, almost daily, at preschool, then weekly. She was his anchor, the thing he looked the most forward to all week, the one person who could always — ALWAYS — coax the most and the best from him. Balance, coordination, motor planning, social skills, play skills, handwriting, attention span, self-regulation. She's encouraged him, pushed him and challenged him. But most of all she's believed in him, and loved him. Genuinely, unconditionally.
She's the first person to hear about Noah's victories and breakthroughs, big or small. She is one of his biggest cheerleaders.
She's also the first person I talk to when I'm having a rough time, or need ideas or strategies or some empathy from someone who gets it. Or maybe just to geek out about The Hunger Games. She's kind of been my cheerleader, too.
Yesterday she told me that she's moving on. She's resigned. She's accepted a new job somewhere else, and the countdown to Noah's final session has begun.
We both cried. She cried the hardest.
I haven't told Noah yet. God. That's going to suck.
The good news is that I know Ms. M___ and I are going be awesome friends now, and that she's not really going anywhere. Except maybe to our house, and my couch, since we'll allowed to hang out and drink wine and play with Noah in the backyard.
And you know? It's time. It really is. Noah's doing great. Beyond great, really. And other kids deserve to be great now too. I wish I could tell those kids and their families that man, you guys, you're so lucky.
You're about to meet the person who is going to change your life.
Hey, Internet. It's been real. It's been really very really real.
BUT IT'S ALL OVER NOW.
The walking-up-the-stair like a fully erect homo sapien photo I posted on Monday is not even half of what's going on, of what Not-So-Baby Ike is now capable of.
Turn your back on him for a second and voila! He's pushed a stepstool out from where you "cleverly" "hid" it and...
"What?"
Not pictured: The time he pulled this same trick in front of the open pantry and I found him up on his tippy toes, hurling soup cans onto the floor while trying to reach a box of granola bars.
Personally, I blame the playgrounds. They are giving our country's toddlers an inflated sense of accomplishment and rewarding them for gross motor skill development and I for one will not stand for it anymore.
They are a menace and must be stopped.
Somebody start a petition or something.
We installed drawer and cabinet latches about six years ago. We broke every single one in under a week.
And that about brings you up-to-date on our current level of childproofing, save for a couple baby gates that Noah and Ezra know how to open but never remember to close and that detail will be important in a bit.
I have zero measuring spoons now. I have no idea where he's taking them.
But back to the baby gate thing. I close them, the boys open them. And Baby Ike has developed a near sixth sense when it comes to the opportunity.
We've seen him go UP plenty of times. As of last night, he know thinks he's hot shit at the going down part too.
Which, you know, fine. One less thing to worry about, right? He can get up, he can get back down. Except that he's already tired of the belly-scoot method and tried to walk down the stairs this morning.
Not pictured: Yeah, THAT.
(He's fine. I caught him. And my heart resumed normal function about four hours later.)
Good thing he's so cute. Those genes must survive to adulthood. I'll do my best.
Not all black and white? Or pretty black and white. YOU CAN'T HAVE IT BOTH WAYS. STOP TOYING WITH ME.
Especially in light of the National Zoo's devastating loss of the newborn panda cub this weekend. Which: No joke or snark, I am UPSET. I am feeling genuine feelings of feelingsosity and I don't like it. This goes against every word I've ever written about The Fucking Zoo and how it Fucking Sucks because it's Outside and Full Of Nature and Pooping Things and also Uphill In Every Possible Direction. But there it is. I am really terribly sad and bummed about the poor tiny wittle baby panda and the poor sad mama panda and DAMMIT, NATURE. YOU REALLY ARE THE WORST.
Also the worst: Me, for deciding to tell Noah about the baby panda yesterday morning, while he pondered the above cereal box and asked questions about pandas and hey! Speaking of pandas! There's a brand-new miracle panda baby at the zoo that we can maybe go see in a couple months!
And of course Noah — since he is NOT a bitter jaded Zoo-person like his mother who thinks the pandas are kind of overrated and not worth the line because they just SIT THERE and chew on leaves while the tourists are all OMFG PANDAS PANDAS PANDAS — thought this sounded excellent! Very exciting! Can we go today? Tomorrow? Today?
I totally jinxed that poor baby panda and I feel terrible about it. And now I have to decide between telling my child the truth or inventing a cover story about how the baby panda went to go live on a nice big wide-open bamboo farm in China.
***
Ugh. This is too depressing for a Monday. Let's look at some pictures instead, from earlier in the weekend when life was happy and fun and baby pandas lived forever.
BONUS OF WHAT THE ACTUAL LIVING HELL, STOP THAT RIGHT NOW, NOT-SO-BABY IKE:
Well, let me
tell you WHAT; it has been a seriously exciting 24 hours around here. I mean,
by blogging standards. Okay, by THIS BLOG'S standards.
You know what?
Shut up. Forget I said anything.
Part
Excitement The First: I lost my wallet for 27 whole minutes. Twenty-seven
excruciating minutes, during which I ran around the house like a panicked
flappy loon while Jason called a pizza restaurant I sorta kinda thought maybe I
paid for the check and so maaaaaybe I left it on the table? But he asked them
if they found a "clutch-purse" and of course they hadn't found a
"clutch-purse" and so I hollered at him from two rooms over (where I
was re-digging through my purse for the millionth time because WALLETS DON'T
JUST SPROUT LEGS AND WALK) that no, IT WASN'T A CLUTCH-PURSE, IT'S A WALLET. A
WALLLLLLLL-ET.
He hung up
without clarifying and stared at me. "What's the difference? It's not
there."
"HOW DO
YOU KNOW IT'S NOT THERE," I countered. "You called it a
'clutch-purse.' The results are invalid."
"Amy, do
you really think they would say, hmmm, we did find that orange wallet that no one's
claimed yet, but this guy's asking about an orange clutch-purse. That's two
completely different things! Probably shouldn't even mention it!"
"They
might! Because they are two different things! Although I don't think
'clutch-purse' is actually something people even say but oh wait look here's my
wallet never mind."
It was in the
foyer under the shoe rack, next to some Legos.
Part
Excitement The Second: Baby Ike literally quadrupled in size. LITERALLY.
And he's already getting a headstart on the next growth spurt, with some incredibly tippy-toe balance.
Part Excitement The Third: Back-to-School Night. The always-thrilling experience of getting to perch half a buttcheek on a teeny tiny chair for 45 minutes wishing all the other parents would stop being so goddamned INVOLVED and ENTHUSIASTIC and QUESTION-ASKING-Y because c'mon! We could have left 15 minutes ago! You're ruining recess! Let's bail before she changes her mind and gives us homework!
This was Noah's note to us this year:
Dear Mom Dad,
You are so special because you AlWAYS bRiNe Me to rESturanTS.
Love,
NOAH
Damn skippy, you little pickle. AND DON'T YOU EVER FORGET IT.
They zag. In the most dramatic, bone-meltingly way possible.
I took Noah and Ezra to the dentist this morning — usually I only attempt one child at a time due to my lack of seventeen arms and super-human strength, but thanks to some scheduling weirdness the boys ended up with back-to-back appointments.
But last time things went pretty well, and everybody knows that things like childhood visits to the dentist always move in a logically linear, upward, it-can-only-get-better-from-here direction. Right?
(AH MAH GAH.)
Monsters. Both of them. Boys, I adore you both and am no big fan of the dentist myself but MY HEAVENLY WORD, you were completely ridiculous today. And are maybe kind of lucky that I did not abandon ship at some point during HOUR TWO of the x-ray protest and leave you there.
There was a Chipotle like, two minutes down the road. Don't think I wasn't tempted.
Ezra, being three-and-three-quarters, basically behaved like he was three-and-three-quarters. Everything was suspicious and he refused to cooperate and kicked and thrashed around while the hygienist calmly completed the cleaning like it was no big deal. Sure, I will willingly stick my fingers in the mouth of this small raging helldemon. Do it all the time, whatever.
Noah. On the other hand. *presses temples with fingers, scrunches eyes into permanent wrinkles*
I think Noah kind of...broke her, a little bit. (And yes, this is a practice that specializes in special needs.) He kind of broke ME. At one point the hygienist excused herself (probably to take a breather, as I assume throttling your patients is probably looked down on in the dentistry field) and I put my head in my hands and sighed.
"Are you sad, Mom?" he asked.
Oh, God, child. I sighed again and admitted that I was a little disappointed in him, and embarrassed over his behavior, even though I really understood that this wasn't fun for him. But he needed to sit and get the x-ray done, and that was all there was to it, and I couldn't change anything about it, and we couldn't leave until he agreed. So please, buddy. PLEASE. JUST LET THEM TAKE THE PICTURE IT WILL TAKE THREE SECONDS I PROMISE.
"NO! I DON'T LIKE YOU." he screamed, and took off down the hall.
(I should note that this was NOT his first-ever dental x-ray, and that the last time he had one done he behaved ABSOLUTELY IMPECCABLY. Because. I. Just.)
(HEADACKSPLODEYVILLE.)
Eventually I simply picked him up, sat down in the chair myself, wiggled a protective cape on underneath his protesting, crazy-strong 50-pound body, and locked him in a full-body death grip while the hygienist slapped another cape on him and finally, FINALLY got him to open his mouth and bite down on the film.
*click!*
But hey! No cavities for either of them! So we're good for another six months. Except for Noah, who has to go back in three for a panoramic x-ray.
(He's got an adult tooth that's refusing to cut through, probably because there's not enough space. Which I had too! Which lead to this story. Which is something you probably DO NOT want to read about and oh God, OH GOD if Noah has to go through what I did I would just like to go ahead and quit life right now. Or scream "NOT IT!" and make Jason take him to the appointment while I weep at a nearby Chipotle,)
"That x-ray isn't nearly so bad," the dentist assured me. "We could do it today but I think...I think we've all had enough for one day."
Speak for yourself, man. Imma take these kids out for extra immunizations and tattoos this afternoon, just for kicks. Maybe after that I'll stick thermometers in their ears while force-feeding them brussels sprouts.
Before anyone jumps to the wrong (yet probably all-too-common these days) conclusion: No worries, Noah's photo wasn't ganked from my blog or Facebook. TLC is the non-profit organization that has been helping Noah (and us) for years now. It's where he attended the Miraculous Summer Camp of Miracles and The Preschool That Changed Our Lives. He still receives weekly occupational therapy there for ongoing issues with rigidity, self-regulation, social skills, etc. A couple years ago they asked if they could take photos of Noah and his therapist for brochures and stuff, and we agreed. I always forget about it, though, until one of the photos shows up somewhere, blast-from-the-past style.
I don't know how much longer Noah will require OT. (After several ridiculous tussles with several ridiculous insurance companies, we are finally on a plan that covers the weekly sessions without protest, so I am admittedly in no rush to change anything or draw the slightest bit of attention to ourselves.) All around, the reports are good-to-excellent: his teachers, his therapists, even his karate instructors are singing his praises and talking about corners turned, strides made, breakthroughs and maturity and etc. We're firmly in a "flow" portion of the endless ebb and flow cycle that is Noah's unique way of developing. Behavior, focus, flexibility, everything has taken a big leap forward. Even his eating habits have improved.
(You know what's responsible for THAT? A McDonald's Happy Meal hastily purchased at a drive-through while traveling to the beach this summer. He was too busy watching the damn TV in the damn minivan to protest. He discovered that McDonald's cheeseburgers are delicious, and has since been completely willing and enthusiastic to try other new foods in case they are also delicious. This weekend we went to a restaurant and he ORDERED A STEAK. What in the hell of a what, I ask you.)
Before school started, he was worried. He's beginning to sense that he's a little different, and aware that certain things are harder for him. He wants to do good and be good, but just...can't, sometimes. Even after all these years of camps and schools and evaluations and therapy, he's never asked why he goes to TLC or has two classrooms at school, or what "OT" stands for.
I've written about the semi-complicated process of sponsored posts. I love them, I need them, I also kind of fear them because I tend to overthink them. What if the client hates it? What if you guys hate it? Cue the self-doubt-fueled writer's block gaaaaahhhhhhhhh.
But then sometimes a sponsored post comes along that involves hanging out with an old friend, gossiping, drinking beer and cooking mussels and hot dogs and sauerkraut over an open flame on a bar counter wait WHAT.
There's a month-long sauerkrautaganza going on in D.C. right now called Kraut Rocks. Top Chef's Spike Mendolsohn is the host and several other local chefs are featuring their take on sauerkraut on their menus. I was asked to write a post about it.
Amy's Mouth: Sure! Why not?
Amy's Brain: Why not? You mean other than the little fact that you don't particularly like sauerkraut?
Amy's Wallet: QUIET, YOU FOOL.
At first I thought maybe I would do a cooking demonstration of my own, or we could visit one of the participating restaurants and photograph me attempting to gain a new appreciation of sauerkraut the superfood, but then when I saw the final list of chefs I remembered that OH YEAH, THIS HAPPENED.
"This" = appearing as a judge on an episode of Throwdown With Bobby Flay, once a upon a time, a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away where I only had ONE CHILD and was only about 10 weeks pregnant with Ezra.
As I (repeatedly) mentioned in my posts about it, Throwdown judges are punked right along with the local chef. In our case, the local chef was Teddy Folkman of Granville Moore's. We've been buds ever since.
(You may also remember him — or a totally unfairly edited, pretty much fictional version of him — from The Next Food Network Star. He's shrugged that one off; I still get rage-face-y over it. SHUT UP TELEVISION YOU ARE FULL OF LIES.)
ANYWAY.
(Holy cats, this is the longest wind-up ever, no?)
Teddy seemed like 1) the perfect person to re-introduce me to the wonders of the kraut, and 2) the perfect opportunity to get paid for doing something I'd totally do for free.
In this case, consume some alcohol and then come dangerously close to setting my hair on fire.
(Look at those percentages. LOOK AT THEM.)
(Look at how well this could end. LOOK AT IT.)
Teddy, being awesome AND a fairly regular, long-time reader of this very blog, came up with a pantry-raid idea for our little cooking experiment. He grabbed a ton of typical kid-friendly ingredients and other stuff most of us are likely to have on hand, and proceeded to explain that you could make a broth for mussels (his specialty) with just about all of them.
Right down to the dehydrated cheese packet in a box of macaroni-and-cheese.
(Cook milk, butter and shredded real cheese with powdered cheez product, add mussels, serve over the pasta and favorite chopped herbs.)
It was like an episode of Chopped. Only drunk.
Then he put me to work on our Frankenkraut creation.
My crowning contribution to the proceedings: I can chop hot dog coins like nobody's bizness, yo.
He offered to let me actually cook the mussels, at which point I put down the knife and laffed and laffed, because dude. I like you. I really don't want to burn your restaurant down.
So, into the pan went:
Butter
Sage
Hot dogs
Sauerkraut
Spicy mustard
An apple juice box
Beer (a pilsner)
And mussels.
...
You guys.
YOU GUYS.
AH NOM NOM NOM.
These suckers smelled amazing. The sauerkraut broth? So full of win. I loved it. I am totally stealing it. I am brining my Thanksgiving turkey in it. I am going on a sauerkraut recipe bender AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME.
Here's a video of Teddy making another version of kraut mussels and then drinking beer with Spike, Mike Isabella and Ryan Wheeler. So basically a recreation of our cooking session, only with more talent and dignity.
(Locals can actually order this dish at Granville Moore's this month...the rest of you GET IN THE KITCHEN AN' MAKE ME SUM MUSSELS)
Giveaway! Check out the recipes and pick a favorite. Tell me which it is and win a $100 prize pack (t-shirt, coffee mug, one of those beer steins from the video that I am TOTALLY COVETING and a restaurant gift card).
People, this happened. This happened and I need to thoroughly document that this happened.
Because it will probably never happen again for at least another three years.
All three of them!
Sitting together!
For multiple willing minutes! Making physical skin-to-skin contact without howling about being pinched or bothered or mortally wounded by their brother's knee because it's touching me and it burnsssss! IT BURRRNNNNSSSSS!!!!
Sure, they are obviously deep into video-stare mode. On a school night. Fine.
(They are watching Ratatouille in speshul celebration of Noah eating pork tenderloin and mashed sweet potatoes and LIKING THEM BOTH, OMG. Because Remy taught him that it's okay to taste things together and he's suddenly been all "cheeseburgers! steak! things with sauce on them!")
(And yes, Ezra donned an apron for the occasion.)
(Ike's all, meet me on the holodeck, ladieeeezzz.)
WHATEVER. POINT IS, my multiple children sat together long enough for me to frantically take multiple photos of them before...
Crap. I've been spotted.
The hamming-it-up-for-the-cameras has begun and...
Gotta go rescue baby before Extreme Hugging To The Exxxtreme devolves further into wrastling and screaming.
I feel like we're maybe starting to get our sea legs back, a little bit, when it comes to taking our herd of children out into the world. The addition of a third baby was no big thang at first, back when he was more like an easily-portable, wearable meatloaf. We could still go places and do things — one of us could strap the baby on our back and we'd each take responsibility for one other child. (Though we definitely had our fair share of BUT I THOUGHT YOU HAD EZRA ZOMG moments.)
But now Ike is a third wholly-formed child; a third independent sentient mobile walking/running vulnerable disaster area. Now it's zone defense. It's taking calculated risks that Noah doesn't need constant monitoring on the playground or is continuing to walk behind us at the aquarium, or that Ezra will stay put at the front of a store for five goddamn minutes if you hand him an iPhone. With Ike, you cannot take such risks. Turn your back on him and he'll have found something disgusting to eat on the floor OR have managed to pull over a jewelry display and leave you on the hook for the world's ugliest broken piece-of-shit plastic necklace that still costs EIGHTY FUCKING SIX DOLLARS.
(True story!)
But still! We try! We took the kids to a children's museum yesterday and had an AMAZING time, but oh sweet baby cashew Jesus, it was exhausting. I lost Ezra three times. I went 20 minutes without a Noah sighting as he disappeared deep within a tree-story treehouse. I carried Ike up and down flights of stairs and chased him around hallways and exhibits, and at one point sat in front of a woman dressed like Mother Goose who was singing me (and only me) a song because all the babies (including mine) had lost interest and crawled away but I didn't want to be rude.
I finally excused myself because Ike climbed on top of a bench and was throwing blocks at a nearby pack of non-mobile floor-infants.
Jason and I took turns so we each got to do one exhibit one-on-one with each individual kid. I took Noah through a puzzle house and let Ezra cook me lunch at a play diner.
I'm not sure Jason tolerated a sit-down with the Lonely Mother Goose Lady, though. I think his designated Ike Activity involved an empty hallway. Ike went APESHIT over that awesome, mind-blowing hallway, man.
After the museum, we celebrated the usual way, with mediocre tourist-trap food, eaten in an exhausted, glazed-over manner. And Ike demonstrated his new favorite communication technique:
