Lists. The Final Blogging Cop-Out Frontier.

THREE MOST AWESOMELY ESSENTIAL BABY TOYS

1) Munchkin Mozart Magic Cube, gift from sister

2) Spare toothbrushes, gift from dentist

3) OMSORG shoehorn, Ikea, 99 cents

TEN THINGS MY PRESCHOOLER WILL EAT

1) Pizza crust

2) Grilled cheese sandwich crust

3) Bread, but without the crust

4) Macaroni & cheese fromabox fromabox thatisnotfromaboxnoooo

5) Sticker Cheerios (Honey Nut Cheerios)

6) Pananas (bananas)

7) Nolabars (granola bars)

8) Trader Joe's Vegetable Masala Burgers

9) Anything you liquefy in a blender, pour into a sippy cup and call it "juice"

10) Air, probably. Does it have a crust?

THINGS MY BABY WILL NOT EAT

1) Uh.

2) Hmm.

3) He didn't seem too fond of that lettuce leaf the other night?

4) But then he grabbed some parsley leaves right off the plant in the garden and ate those?

5) Yeah, I'm stumped. He eats everything.

THINGS MY PRESCHOOLER SAID "I LOVE YOU" TO TODAY

1) Plastic DVD case, The Polar Express

2) Toy boom box from Yo Gabba Gabba playset

3) Thomas the Tank Engine packpack (backpack)

4) Book dust jacket, Knuffle Bunny Too

5) Sippy cup of "juice"


THINGS MY PRESCHOOLER SAID "YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND!!" TO TODAY

1) Mama

THINGS MY BABY WILL MIMIC

1) Tongue-clucks

2) Clapping

3) Waving

4) Rasberry-blowing

5) "Da da"


THINGS MY BABY WILL NOT MIMIC

1) "Ma ma! Mmmmaaaa mmmmaaaaa. Come on. WTF. MAMA!"


THINGS I DID THIS MORNING

1) Spent hour transferring contents of refrigerator in kitchen to much-older-but-at-least-mostly-consistently-working refrigerator in basement and several coolers in preparation for the delivery of our new refrigerator, purchased last weekend after finally giving up on:

        1a) refrigerator in kitchen to magically fix self, stop randomly letting everything in the freezer melt while everything in the fridge turns to ice, and yes I already suggested putting the ice in the fridge and the milk in the freezer but Jason wouldn't let me so WHATEVER

        1b) appliance repairman who made several hundred dollars in useless repairs to give us our money back because...because...I don't know why, it just seems like the sporting thing to do, but then again, we did this to him

        1c) randomly coming into a shitload of free money so we wouldn't have to pay for a new fridge with the credit card, but apparently it takes a LOT longer than I thought for the widow of the Former Prime Minister of NewZealandTown to monetize four hundred million American dollars through the Bank of Nigeria.

2) Waited all morning and afternoon for call about the delivery of the new refrigerator.

3) Scolded preschooler for smearing mustard in his hair.

4) Noticed even larger dribble of mustard down the front of my own shirt.

5) Dug up receipt for new refrigerator in order to call and Get Huffy About It.

6) While on hold, noticed the bolded, all-caps, circled delivery date on the reciept said "7/17/09"

7) Hung up phone, sheepishly.

8) Shrieked in terror when phone immediately rang afterwards, like omg I hung up on Sears and now they're mad at me!

9) Realized that the downstairs refrigerator is leaking all over the floor, our washing machine no longer recognizes the 2nd Rinse function and our stove thinks the broiler can go fuck itself.

10) Nobly and selflessly rescued bottle of Yuengling from certain spoilage in busted-ass fridge.

Life is Boringful

Some days I can't think of a single thing worth writing about.

 

Some days, nouns and verbs and adjectives simply have nothing to add.

Some days, I simply won't forget.

Testing, Testing

Why, hello! Sooooo very glad to be back in the land of working Internet access. Ours was shut off yesterday. Not "down," shut off. Along with our cable. Because we rule at life and money. RULE I SAY.

Our credit/debit card numbers were apparently "compromised" after a break-in at our bank, so we were issued new ones a few months ago. And while we THOUGHT we'd gone and updated all the various auto-billing and auto-pay thingies, I guess we never got around to the Internet and cable. And the bills kept arriving in the mail, past due balances and late fees adding up month after month, but we did not realize this, because, well. We never opened the envelopes. Because of the auto-pay! RUN MY LIFE, CREDIT-BOTS.

At some point, Jason realized Verizon was trying to bill a no-longer-valid card and updated it. And then Verizon tried to charge the new card for...like...many hundreds of dollars in past-due charges. And the new card was rejected, because we only had...like...zero hundreds of dollars in the account. And boom! Shut off and shut down.

I don't want to bore y'all to death with the run-down of What It Took to get everything turned back on yesterday, but let me summarize thusly: GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, VERIZON FIOS. I may be broke, but I still have my pride and a general understanding of the "transfer" function on most business phones. Stop telling me I need to call another number after I've spent 45 minutes on the number the "denial of service" roadblock page on my computer told me to call, alternately arguing with an automated-voice-bot thing or on hold with someone who 1) cannot find my account, and/or 2) cannot take my payment ANYWAY, and/or 3) cannot transfer me to someone who can, because I need to call another number.

But hey! Don't forget to remind me for the three dozenth time that I can pay my bill online. Which is a FANTASTIC idea. Quick, turn my Internet access back on so I can get online to pay my bill to get my Internet access turned back on and OH SHIT I'VE FALLEN INTO A LOGIC WORMHOLE AAAAHHHHHHHHHH

(I eventually paid using my phone. Which hoooo, boy, THAT was a good time, trying to correctly enter a 20-digit account number and credit card information without fat-fingering anything, and also I had to GUESS at my account balance because the login you use to pay your bill is not the same login you use to view your bill, I mean, of course it isn't, and I didn't have that other login, because every time I tried to register for it Verizon told me they couldn't find my account, please call Customer Service, eat shit and die.)

(Wait. Did I say something about NOT boring you with that story? Huh. I am quite a liar!)

Anyway. Here. Look at some photos of some kids I know.

(Here's Noah back in the day, in the same outfit, though slightly younger and a LOT balder.)

Neck Cramp, Camp. Hey, That Rhymes! I Hereby Declare This Entry "Cohesive."

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!

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.

 

 

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.

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.

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.