The Face of Awesome

I don't know about you, but I'd give money to that face.

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. 

And so we had our first real talk about it. About some of it, anyway. 

(I try not to hammer you guys with tons of self-promoting links, but this week's Advice Smackdown is more personal than usual, so if you follow Noah's story you might enjoy it.)

A few weeks later, he doesn't seem too worried. He seems happy. I'm happy. 

When he saw his picture on the brochure that came in the mail, he didn't ask what it was for or why he was on it. 

Instead, he held it up over his head. "Look Mom," he shouted. "I'M FAMOUS!"

 

Little Boys All in a Row

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. 

BRB.

Port Chaos

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:

Your Offers Exhaust Him from amalah on Vimeo.

First Grade, First Grade

On Friday I took Noah to his school's Open House. We met his new teachers, checked out his classrooms, and I was completely thrilled to see that the school assigned him to the teachers of his dreams, to exactly the kind of teachers Noah has historically responded best to and worked hardest to please.  

(Young, babyfaced-types with gobs of enthusiasm and no fear of Bribery With Snacks.)

(I am about 99% sure his special ed teacher from last year hand-picked them for us.)

Before we left, Noah insisted on visiting every former teacher and classroom. There were big hugs and high fives and marveling over his missing front teeth from his kindergarten teachers (and yes, Hot Teacher Is Still Hot, Only Now More Tan And How Did I Not Notice The Tattoos Oh My God), and then we stopped in to visit his preschool teacher. He had the same teacher for two full years of the Preschool Education Program (PEP), though it already feels like forever ago.

Noah ran in and gave her a hug and they chatted about his summer (BEACH WATERSLIDES BEACH AND 14 MILLION HOURS OF LEGO), and I stood there and stupidly beamed at him, all big and huge and grown-up looking. 

And then I saw the other parents. The other parents with the terrified, nervous faces, because it's not the same for them. A classroom visit is never just an informal, no-big-thing. For them, this visit is loaded with meaning, with promise, and with a million things that could go wrong. What if my child doesn't like it here? What if they have a fit, a tantrum, an "episode?" Are the other kids "the same" as my child? Better? Or worse? Autism? SPD? Downs? Non-verbal? Is that kid still in a diaper? Does anyone notice that my child is still in a diaper? 

And:

What if this teacher can't help? What if this wasn't the right decision?

I knew what they were thinking because I remember thinking all of those things, forever ago. 

I tried to make eye contact and smile at a couple of them, perhaps so I could work in an encouraging comment about how wonderful this teacher is, or how happy we were with the program or something.

But they were all watching Noah. Handsome, bubbly, talkative Noah, proudly announcing his first grader status and talking about waterslides.

He was all the encouragement I could possibly offer to any parent in that room. Look at him. Listen to him. You'll get here too. It's scary and overwhelming right now but you can do this. Keep swimming. Keep fighting. You'll get here too.

He's a first grader now. Officially.

Bring it on. 

While You Were Sparkling

So I was going to write about Sparklecorn today and how it all went down. Picture nine straight hours of rolling anxiety attacks...several honest-to-God crying jags alongside the ladies of the CheeseburgHer party... the prospect of partying in the equivalent of a flourescent-lit produce aisle at Wal-Mart...begging for decorating help via text, email, Twitter, a bullhorn on Times Square...a cake that got stuck in traffic...missing keys to electrical boxes...getting personally singled out and screamed at by the first irate party guest who walked in the door (because we started late) and crying again because oh my God I'm all sore muscles and exposed nerve endings, stop yelling at me, YOU KNOW THE USUAL. 

But then I looked at the first batch of photos and all that bullshit up and fell right out of my brain. I can barely remember a minute of it now. You guys are just that pretty, I guess. 

***

This bullshit, on the other hand:

I don't know what this child ate while we were away, but look at him. Standing there, reorganizing the spice rack. On his LEGS. 

BOY LEGS. With kneecaps and shit, instead of gnocchi-chub-pillows. 

He's walking everywhere now, officially, picking up more and more speed by the minute. Talking too, or at least trying to. "Eat? Buh? Eh? Cat? Meh? Yite? Gog?" 

If you guess incorrectly at what he's trying to say he will give you a withering look and sigh. "Hmmphf" apparently translates to "I pity your feeble brain, but I believe I asked for some Cheerios. Chop chop."

(Though I'm getting pretty good at understanding this age: today I asked him if he was crying because he tried to taste an antibacterial wipe he found in my purse. He tried to deny it for awhile but I knew the truth.)

At least he still looks a couple years younger than Noah, right? Who is all, suddenly, six-going-on-12.

And Ezra is three-going-on-what-the-hell, weren't YOU just a baby five minutes ago?

Sigh. It's never going to stop, is it?

(I don't know who is more underwhelmed by that thought, me or Ike. MO-O-OOM!)

It's No Leg Lamp, But...

Noah brought home his first Major Award on Friday from camp. 

Why yes, that IS a repurposed Sprite bottle painted neon yellow and held together with duct tape Hogwarts House Cup. (Exclamation Point!) Noah won it at Harry Potter Camp, which is an actual thing our YMCA actually offers every summer. 

"A thing" is as detailed of a description as I can offer, because I have no idea what actually went on at Harry Potter Camp. There was a sorting ceremony, though from what I gather only about four children consented to being in any house but Gryffindor and the sorting hat was maaaaaaybe kind of a pussy about it and gave in. They played quidditch and Noah also came home with a "textbook" that contains two recipes: One for "DRAUGHT OF DEATH" and one for a love potion.

I don't know. It's the YMCA. Seems legit, right? 

Anyway, Noah was very upset during the last couple days at camp because Gryffindor was losing the House Cup contest to Ravenclaw. (Teams gained points by completing advanced wizardry moves like "put on you listening ears" and "don't hit people, you guys.") (So obviously those four little teacher-pleasing Ravenclaw brown-nosers did great, AM I RIGHT?)

But in the end, Gryffindor pulled ahead and claimed the House Cup on the very last day, and for reasons that I am not 100% clear on, Noah was permitted to take the actual cup home with him. He claims to have simply been the best behaved that day and singled out for his general awesomeness, a boast that I'm ashamed to have maaaaaybe doubted a little and countered with some leading questioning of the 1) are you sure they didn't just give one to everybody type, followed by the 2) omg, did my kid steal the Hogwarts House Cup variety.

I think what actually happened was a very, very kindly camp counselor who decided to bestow the cup on the kid she sensed it meant the very most to. 

Who knew there were real-life wizards and witches staffing Y summer camps these days? 

Ezra & His Brothers

(AN ONLY SLIGHTLY CONNECTED SERIES OF RANDOM PHOTOS)

Awwww.

Whuuut?

Awwww!

Seriously whuuuut?

Awwww, some more.

AwwwwhaaaaahaaaaaaaaHA HA HA HAHAHA. Whuuuuuthahaha, etc. 

(BONUS: THE REASON I MOSTLY ONLY HAVE PHOTOS OF TWO OF THEM AT A TIME)

The Next Big Thing

We met with a new child psychologist this morning. So I spent last night organizing and re-filing the mountains of old paperwork we've collected over the years. Old evaluations, assessments, treatment plans, progress reports, IEPs, re-evaluations, insurance rejections and appeals and God knows what else. 

Something old, something new, something photocopied, something blue.

(The cup. The cup is blue. The cup is also full of vodka.)

Reading through those old files is both oddly inspiring and completely masochistic. On the one hand, how far he's come! The things he says and does! The mind-boggling number of victories, both large and small (and medium and miniscule!), that we've celebrated since that fateful day when I took my non-verbal almost-two-year-old to the pediatrician. When that pediatrician cocked his head to the side and asked, "Does he walk like that a lot? On his toes?" 

He did it. We helped. I have no doubt that the things we've done and the people we've worked with have absolutely helped. There are miracle workers in that pile of papers. Bona fide. 

And yet. Ugh. The mistakes are all there too. The consent to discontinue services form I signed for Early Intervention. The progress reports from the mainstream preschool he never should have attended. The very first psychological evaluation that revealed a child buried so deep within himself, that made me wonder if we'd ever be able to pull him out, that made me wonder how in the world I'd missed how serious things were. Noah wasn't just "challenging." Noah was...well, something with an acronym. Something with a diagnosis, a code, something that probably wouldn't just vanish at the end of the "terrible threes."

(And the money. Oh my God. The money.)

But then this morning, we were asked for that diagnosis. And for the millionth time we sighed and shrugged. It's complicated. Little from column A, a little from column B, a little from column Planet Quirkozoid of the Weirdo Nebula. Nobody will commit to Any One Thing and there's always an asterisk after every evaluation. He's Spectrummy and Inattentive and Hyper and Uncoordinated and Anxious and Rigid. He's also Smart and Imaginative and Verbal and Affectionate and The Type Of Kid Strangers Watch At Parties And Declare That There's Nothing Wrong With That Child, So Why The Hell Do You Have An IEP Again?

We talked with her for close to two hours. We probably could have talked for another two, easy. At the end, I handed her the freshly organized binder, full of the Old. 

I'll pick it up next week, when we once again start something New. He'll visit and play and talk about his feelings and fears and what it's like to live inside his head. They're going to do some yoga together. 

In with the New, onward, ever upward, packed to the gills with hope and optimism. He can do it. We can help. 

Places My Children Insisted They Were Not Tired

At the airport:

On the plane:

At the dinner table, night #1:

At the lunch table, day #2:

At the beach:

At the beach:

At the beach:

On the bus back from De Palm Island (home of the water slides):

(Not pictured: Ezra, Ike and Mama similarly tanked out in the back row.)

At the dinner table, night #3:

(TRIFECTA ACHIEVED.)

In the crib:

In the bed:

(More photos at the Amalah's West blog here and here.)

Kindergarten, Day 180

SHUT UP NAPKIN YOU ARE DRUNK.

Noah graduated from kindergarten yesterday. My god.

At last year's preschool graduation "ceremony," he threw a fit about the hats and tossed his certificate on the floor in protest just seconds after receiving it. 

This year, I left with video footage of him holding hands with his classmates while singing a song ("First Grade, First Grade" sung to the tune of "New York, New York"), complete with choreography and a dramatic bow at the end.

There are still issues, yes. We are still struggling with some things and will be taking steps this summer to deal with those things (anxiety, attention, self-esteem, etc.), lest anyone reading these last couple entries think I'm like, "ANNNNNNNDDDD CURED! All done, that's that." Noah remains a bit of a tough nut in some respects, but then in others....

Well, he's just another kid in the big ol' general education kindergarten room. And I can't begin to express how happy that makes me. 

***

And now that the school year is over and this topic has been thoroughly (and hilariously) discussed over on Instagram, I suppose I can finally address the former professional soccer player in the room. Yeah. Noah's kindergarten teacher. He's...uh-huh. I know.

Both Noah and Ezra had male teachers this year. It's a shame that men in early education are such a novelty, but they are, and I was admittedly pretty surprised that we ended up with two in the same year. 

On Back to School Night, waaaay back in September, there was like, a laughably palpable wave of ZOMG amongst the room mothers when we all realized that oh, him? That's the new teacher? Wait. He's. Kind of. Ridiculously good-looking? Okay! No afternoon pick-up in pajamas THIS YEAR THEN. 

The classroom volunteer sign-up sheet has been solidly full ever since.

I should also go ahead and zoom in on the classroom aide, as well:

WHAT THE HELL, RIGHT? ON WHAT PLANET DOES THIS HAPPEN?

Now, even if these men are not your particular type, try to imagine watching them do stuff like...pouring tiny cups of apple juice. Straightening hair bows. Tying shoes. Giving gentle, reassuring head pats and pep talks to scared, vulnerable little humans. Magically bringing the din of close to 30 children down to silence with nothing but a couple hand claps and a soft-spoken "okay boys and girls..." Teaching your child how to read.

Right? You see it now. YOU SEE THE PROBLEM I HAVE BEEN DEALING WITH ALL YEAR. 

I like to think of myself as a sensible, non-giggly sort when it comes to omgboyssss! I'm happily married, I don't flirt or get crushes, and I've even gotten much better about not falling apart into complete doofusdom when confronted with minor celebrities.  

And yet I am sure Noah's teacher thinks I have some kind of brain damage, because whenever I'm around him I just talk and talk and talk and flap my hands around and try SO HARD TO BE FUNNY AND COOL that eventually he's like, "Uh...I gotta go like, teach and stuff now. Young minds of America and all that."

Then he backs away slowly while I stand there grinning and nodding like a crazy person, probably failing to notice that Ike has once again managed to yank my shirt down and my nursing bra is showing. 

Ezra, at graduation yesterday: You bitches be crazy. Talk to me when there's cake. 

For the record, he's married and his wife had a baby a few months ago. Noah came home super excited because he decided that he also wants to be a daddy AND a teacher when he grows up. You can be both, Mom! Isn't that cool?

Yes, dude. It's very cool. 

Anyway, thanks for being such a cool teacher, Mr. D. Sorry for being such a spaz, but my kid loved you. Turns out that's a slightly contagious emotion.