And This Was BEFORE They Handed Out the Vibrating Pens

I just got back from a parents' workshop thing at Noah's school. And it was a very useful workshop, really, about how to encourage fine and gross motor development through toys and play at home. I was especially pleased to learn that I can totally do all of Noah's Christmas shopping at the $5-and-under store, along with like, some bubble wrap. The problem started when one of the therapists demonstrated a toy hanging from a doorway, designed to turn a regular balloon into a sturdier punching bag. Another parent requested the brand name, which was Balzac.

"I guess they mean like, ballsack," she said, kindly providing us with a handy mnemonic device, while jiggling the thing idly in the palm of her hand. I choked on the inside of my lung, briefly, before clearing my throat and muttering apologies for startling the grown-ups.

Then we moved on to wheelbarrow walking. A very helpful handout was provided.

Life in Color

Honestly, he's done it for as long as I can remember -- as soon as Noah had the vocabulary down, he described songs in terms of color. One day he asked for the "yellow song," and sobbed while I offered up track after incorrect track of Raffi and Dan Zanes, desperately trying to figure out what the hell song he was talking about. A song about rainbows? That paint-mixing song from Blue's Clues? Big Bird? I finally gave up, assuming it was probably some blasted Moose and Zee segment from TV with a yellow background or yellow flower or something similarly random.

Then, later: a scary movie theme. Violins in minor key. Ominous timpanis. His eyes grew large and he fled the room. "NO RED SONG," he said. "OFF. NO."

For awhile, we assumed he was assigning colors in lieu of how the song made him feel. Yellow = happy songs, red = angry, scary. Then came pink songs and purple songs. And he learned how to express how he was feeling with real words, but the color thing persisted. I cycle through my iPod or the radio pre-sets in the car and he regularly makes his requests from the backseat. "No, Mommy," he says politely and articulately, "I want the yellow song."

Once a song has a stated color, it never changes. Yellow songs tend to be upbeat, playful. Most children's music, Jack Johnson. Although his current radio favorite, You're Gonna Go Far, Kid by The Offspring, is also a yellow song. Red songs are usually in a minor key, or somewhat dramatic sounding. Classical music, the theme from The Incredibles. Anything with a strong bass line or heavily orchestrated with woodwinds and strings is either purple or pink. Everything from The White Stripes to Coldplay to Beyonce has been lumped into the purple/pink realm. 

Songs are never green and only rarely blue. Some songs don't have a color, Mommy. I mean, God. 

Sometimes I catch him squinting, idly attempting to pinch or swat at the area in front of his face. 

He is left-handed. He has a near-photographic memory for things he hears, and near-perfect pitch when he sings. I am officially pretty sure we can add synesthesia to our list of Quirks That Make You Go Hmmm.

It seems both entirely logical and yet grossly unfair for a kid who already struggles with ordering and processing his senses to be given the added complication of synesthesia.  His teachers and therapists (all of whom I've had to educate on my theory; most of whom seem to think I'm talking New Age psychobabble nonsense) report that as noise levels go up, Noah's coping skills go down. He hides, he covers his ears, he wanders around in circles or becomes utterly fixated on a soothing, repetitive task. Amateur singing, whether by me or a teacher or anyone without a record deal, pretty much always drives him bonkers. "STOP!" he shouts. "YOU DON'T. YOU CAN'T." Certain music has the opposite effect -- simple piano music soothes and centers him, though so far his perfectionist nature has kept from experimenting very much on his own keyboard.

And yet, when I read about it, and about all the amazing musicians and artists and great thinkers who have had variations of synesthesia and used it as a gift, an enhancement, a privilege to see the world in a completely different way than the rest of us, I can't help but be more than a little impressed at just how much wonderfully mysterious potential is inside that quirky little brain.

In Which a Good 75% of You Will Glaze Over By Paragraph Four

Since you guys proposed SO MANY awesome topics yesterday Tuesday, I shall continue to mine them for awhile, or at least until something actually important happens in real life that requires a veryimportantblogupdate!, and no, I'm not counting last night's Tuesday night's all-night preschooler-puke-a-thon. (He's just fine now, of course, which is good because we are plum out of clean sheets.)

From Cagey:

I have been reading The Unhealthy Truth and seem to remember you mentioning it on one of your Advice columns. The book is blowing me away and I am shocked at how few folks realize how food can really affect us - say, Red #40 for example.

I was wondering your thoughts on this and if you have seen whether certain things affect Noah. For example, artificial colorings are the devil now in our house because my son flips his lid every time he has them. And this is the same kid who can eat ice cream and go right to bed! For him, Red #40 is like main-lining a bit heroin.

Yep. I did write about this book, mere HOURS after I'd finished reading it, while I was freshly seething with rage. I have since gone back and re-read sections and pondered it some more and guess what! I AM STILL ANGRY.

(Hold on, 'cuz it's about to get screedy and caps-locky up in here.)

(I mean, more so than usual. And about other things besides an overflowing coffeemaker, or something.)

For the record, I am not a big conspiracy theorist. I am more of skeptic than a believer, and while I certainly gotten crunchier in recent years with the cloth diapers and homemade baby food and all, I still am a BIGFAN! of things like modern medicine and scientific advancements. I'm allergic to most antibiotics -- HIGHLY SO -- thus personally have always had to depend on alternative treatments for myself, and I'm not trigger-happy with the prescriptions when it comes to the kids. But both of the boys have gotten both seasonal and H1N1 flu shots this year and I would jab 'em in the arm again in a heartbeat. We fully vaccinate, falling on the "debunked" side of the vaccine/autism fence, although I think the chicken pox one is bullshit. (I never had it, and have to depend on the half-assed, temporary protection of the vaccine myself. Glad it exists; disagree that it belongs on the childhood schedule; worry about kids not getting their boosters and getting sick as adults.) I've seen the Feingolding gone amok at Noah's school, am a bit weary of suddenly every problem in the world being blamed on yeast and gluten, though I have nothing but sympathy for parents and child dealing with honest-to-God allergies and am extremely careful about sending Noah to school with clean peanut-butter-residue-free hands and non-triggering snacks, and would hope others would do the same for us. So basically, I was expecting to agree with some of what this book has to say...but also to roll my eyes at a lot of it too.

My eyes bugged out of my head, but they sure didn't roll. I'm not going to get into all of it -- the genetic engineering and corn refiners and the FDA's refusal to protect us from stuff that's long since been banned or flagged as dangerous overseas (soy baby formula, anyone?) -- but seriously, IS GAH HEAD EXPLODING TIME NOW.

Anyway, the whole artificial coloring thing. Yes, they affect Noah big time. They are banned in our home. Red 40 and Yellow 5 are just like...I don't know. Tiny seismic earthquakes through his neurological system. Artificial flavorings, too. He gets hopped up and agitated...while also weirdly shutting down at the same time. Loss of eye contact, anxiety, tantrums. He defaults back to echolaic speech or just goes silent. Anecdotal? Coincidental? Totally, sure, maybe. But it's so fucking scary, you guys. So why even argue, when it's a pretty safe assumption that Red 40 and Yellow 5 are two little things that we can all live without just fine?

And they are in EVERYTHING. It doesn't have to be garishly candy-coated. It's stuff that should technically, be healthy. Yogurts. Granola bars. Fruit snacks. Boxed cake mixes (seriously, why the FUCK does a CHOCOLATE CAKE need both red and yellow food dyes?). Toothpastes, kiddie vitamins and cold medicines. It's BULLSHIT, trying to shop at a "regular" grocery store when you need to avoid this stuff, even more so when (like us) you've also cut out high-fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated oils for various other Frankenfood reasons.

We're lucky that we live in an area where Whole Foods is about as common as any grocery store, along with Trader Joe's and several year-round farmer's markets where we buy pretty much everything from produce to grains to meats and fish. (Up where my parents live, you either live on one fancy organic aisle at the Acme or drive close to an hour to the nearest Whole Foods in New Jersey.) We're also very lucky that we can afford to shun the processed foods and eat organic, local, humane, sustainable and all those other hippie food buzzwords. I'll sacrifice plenty of other columns in our budget before I cut food corners, particularly for the kids. (She says while wondering if it's too early to switch from coffee to Coke. And fun-sized Snickers.)

And it took us a long time to get fully here, by the way. Hell, we potty-trained with M&Ms, fed Noah Flintstones vitamins, brushed his teeth with sparkly blue Disney-branded toothpaste. It really wasn't until we stopped giving him anything artificial that we really saw how little it takes to really affect him, be it candy or fast food chocolate milk or a fruit-flavored Triaminic strip. We don't deny him the occasional treat or get hysterical if friends or family offer him something we wouldn't necessarily feed him at home...we just sort of know what we're in for and up our focus on the rest of his diet for a day or two.

If you are unsure of how or where to start, The Unhealthy Truth is a great book for this as well -- at least after scaring the pants off you the author devotes a chapter on how to prioritize your grocery list and budget, taking baby steps to avoid the "worst" things and slowly get your kids to accept healthier versions without feeling like you've just ripped the rug out from under them and clobbered them with a Deprivation Hippie Stick.

Anyway. I actually wrote the bulk of this entry yesterday, right before my parent-teacher conference at the public school program. And finally, OH GOD FINALLY, I got to sit there in front of a team of teachers who had nothing but lovely, wonderful things to say about my child. What a delight and a joy he is, how smart and funny he is, and how much progress he's already making. I'm certainly not all, "OH, IT'S ALL BECAUSE WE THREW OUT HALF OF HIS HALLOWEEN CANDY. ARE BEST PARENTS EVER."

In the grand scheme of things, it's admittedly a tiny part of the puzzle. Though WOW, did I ever have a lot to say about it.

In other news, Noah is kicking ass at school. And I'm committing that phrase to published type: NOAH IS KICKING ASS AT SCHOOL. We celebrated by not coming right home so I could sit around and finish this entry. I hope you understand. It's been a long time coming.

Three-eyed two-horned flying blue chocolate phobia eater

Much like last year, Noah refused to wear a costume to school. "NO COSTUME," he shrieked at the merest suggestion of dressing up. "JUST NOAH."

At one point he said he wanted to be the house from UP -- purposely choosing the most terrifying cinematic experience of the past year, as he howled in fear and had to be removed from the theater pretty much every time the house appeared on screen, and he had nightmares about floating houses for weeks. THANKS FOR ALL THE WHIMSY, PIXAR.

Although he's since worked through that fear pretty well -- at his request, we took him to see it again at a second-run drafthouse theater just a few weeks ago, and he loved it -- I was skeptical about this costume request. And indeed, when we did obligingly attempt to thoroughly traumatize him with a trial run of cardboard-box-with-balloons-attached, he would have none of it.

So on Friday, the day of his school parties, I distracted him with a waffle and shoved his green Steve-from-Blue's-Clues shirt from last year over his head.

 

A few minutes later he contemplated a sleeve, and sensing that trickery was afoot, made me promise that the green shirt was NOT A COSTUME. NOT A COSTUME, MOMMY. JUST NOAH.

All of his teachers assured me (when I gave them a heads up on the whole "oh hey, my kid is terrified of Halloween costumes" thing) that this is a pretty normal thing, both for this age and especially for the Kids Like Noah set. Most four-year-olds are still trying to figure out the distinction between real and pretend, while Noah needs and depends on his routines and rituals more than most. He hates -- HATES -- anything out of the ordinary or anyone acting the slightest bit "different." (Last week one teacher had her hair straightened and Noah burst into tears at the sight of her, because her hair wasn't "wiggly" anymore.) Class parties, field trips -- these aren't fun, they're stressful, even scary. 

And so Jason and I, FINALLY, ON SATURDAY, LIKE OH MY GOD WE'RE MAYBE CATCHING ON A LITTLE BIT, decided that we would not push trick-or-treating just because it's "fun" and "he'll like it once he does it" and...I don't know. All the reasons we always stupidly drag Noah to things that we THINK are part of a nutritious balanced childhood.

We told him we could go trick-or-treating if he wanted to, but yeah, he needed to wear a costume. We showed him the options (all leftover rejects from last year) and pretty much left it at that. He seemed quite okay with the idea of skipping it all together.

Then our doorbell rang, and our first trick-or-treaters arrived. Within 30 seconds Noah bolted upstairs and came down with a costume in his hand.

He's a monster. He says RAWR and he scares you when he says RAWR. Just FYI.

 

A boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do for candy, apparently. I asked him what he wants to be next year and he said "nothing! I don't! I won't!" and collapsed in a dramatic, exhausted slump, like OH GOD, AGAIN? This would be much easier if you people would just hand over the chocolate. I have no more patience for you and your weird Earth ways.

 

Ezra has no opinion on the matter, but was just vaguely passively happy to be there. He would like to point out that many houses explicitly gave Noah "candy for [his] baby brother" and yet he has not seen a single bite. Not cool, dude. NOTCOOL.

Yes He Can

The Out-of-Sync Child describes a child with dyspraxia as the "I Can't Do That" child. They sit on a bike but have to stare at their feet to get them to pedal...stare at their hands to make sure they are steering...and when they raise their head to see where they are going...the pedaling and steering stop, and the bike doesn't go anywhere. They climb stairs slower, they jump later, and the worst part is, they know it. Their friends can draw things that actually look like things with crayons, their peers skip happily around the playground, the toddler next door races around on his tricycle, and they know it. They remember the frustration, the falls, the failure.

So they look at the bike and say, "I can't do that."

And the parent of a child with dyspraxia shrugs, and says okay. He can't do that. Or he won't do that. Is that the same thing? Are we expecting too much or too little?

We ask the teachers and the therapists and get different answers. He can't process who/what/when/where/how questions. He can't pedal a tricycle. Eh, that's pretty common. I wouldn't worry about it. Here, practice some writing some letters with him this weekend.

Conversely: Letters?! Handwriting?! He's not ready for that. We need to focus on the gross motor skills first, the pragmatic speech, his receptive language processing.

***

Last week he met a little boy his age at the park. The little boy had a scooter. He chased Noah around and around on the scooter. He didn't speak English, so they didn't talk. They just chased and chased and chased and laughed and on the way home Noah announced that he wanted a scooter.

I said something non-committal about his birthday -- yeah, I would just LOVE to go out an spend money on another damn toy that he won't actually get on or go near in real life, like the big wheel and the tricycle  -- but Jason, ever the optimist and big giant SUCKER when it comes to that boy, went out and bought him a scooter.

And he loved it. He was cautious at first, and kept his foot on the ground more often than not. He would only go in a straight line, and then jump off in a panic right before it collided with the sofa. He was adamant that he only wanted to ride it inside, not outside.

But a neighbor's little boy rode past our house one morning. He had the same little scooter. Noah saw him out the window and shrieked in delight and he needed his scooter he needed his SCOOTER. We all dashed outside and holy crap, look at him riding his scooter. He can do it.

"He needs a helmet," Jason fretted, and I groaned again. Art-project visors are one thing, but a helmet? He'll never wear one.

He accidentally crashed into the back of our neighbor's legs and fell down. He was fine. And he got back on the scooter.

***

We refinanced our mortgage this weekend. A better interest rate, lower payment, all around a good thing. We'd originally talked about the possibility of getting some cash back to renovate the kitchen, but now it's going towards the first installment of Noah's tuition. We couldn't find anyone to watch the boys during the closing, so I'd brought some toys and puzzles and hoped it would go quickly before they started getting too antsy.

Sure enough, Noah finished the little puzzle I'd brought in no time, and was not interested in anything else. The closing agent offered him a legal pad and a pen and he made some halfhearted scribbles. In desperation, I drew a capital L...the letter his teacher had told us to practice. Noah immediately shifted his grip of the pen and copied my lines.

"Dowwwwn, and across," he said. "And that's how you make an L!"

He then covered the paper with L's of various sizes, dowwwwwn and across.

When the closing was over, the guy collected his pad and pen. I asked if I could keep Noah's doodling page. I pressed it between the stacks of loan documents because I didn't want it to get crumpled.

***

Later, a stranger fitted him for a brand-new helmet and he did not protest. He just wanted to get back on his scooter. Until, that is, he spotted someone else's brand-new bike by the cash register. A big-kid two-wheeler, with training wheels attached. He climbed on it and slowly, surely, steadily...began to pedal towards the door. Jason and I just stood there stupidly, too shocked to actually do anything. A salesman intervened before we managed to snap to attention.

"I can ride a bike!" Noah shouted. I have to admit, he sounded a little surprised.

***

He spent the rest of the weekend on that scooter. Down hills, around corners, laughing as other little boys chased after him. He puts his leg out acrobatically and glides, trying out figure eights and perfect circles and wanting to go a little further from home each time, finally having fun like any other kid, because he is, and he can.

Yesterday @ 1 P.M.

So...yeah, OBVIOUSLY it went way better than that. I mean, I knew it would, even while lying in bed at 4:07 A.M., all saucer-eyed and tense, like WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ABOUT, because I honestly had no idea I was that worked up over it. This is...what? Evaluation number five or six this year alone? The seventeen-dozenth since this all started over just about two years ago?

Up until last night I hadn't even double-checked the appointment time, so I guess my subconscious decided to SURE SHOW ME how entirely NOT used to this shit I am after all. Triple-check and obsess while you're AWAKE, next time, sweetcakes. Or face our nocturnal wrath. And...imaginary stressful haircut scenarios.

(I have been putting off getting a trim for a few weeks, actually. Maybe I should put a reminder in iCal, just so I don't have to wait for my brain to inform me that my hair looks like ass.)

ANYWAY.

It went well, as they tend to go whenever I am left out in the waiting room rather than brought along to sit there and apparently provoke all kinds of horrible uncooperative behavior. We get the full report tomorrow (TOMORROW. as in THIS CENTURY.) but it definitely sounds like Noah's speech delay has been bumped up out of "severe" and into "moderate"...or possibly even "mild." We are like, the valedictorians of quirk! 

And oh. Yeah. There was one other mother in the waiting room and...she...she totally reads this blog. And it was really nice to have someone to talk to and joke around with and help keep Ezra from disappearing down hallways at rocket speed, but the whole time I was desperately hoping I was just coming across as even slightly normal because secretly I was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT, BECAUSE I CAN SEE THE FUTURE I AM TOTALLY PSYCHIC YOU GUYS.

(Last night I dreamt something about having to protect Ceiba from some kind of insane feral cat, but the worst part was that the whole thing was secretly videotaped and posted to Gawker, like MOMMYBLOGGER IS SO MEAN TO KITTY CATS OMG SCANDAL.)

(In other news, I have decided that Unisom is Not For Me.)

Today @ 1 P.M.

It starts off badly, right in the parking lot. It's crowded, very crowded. I see someone pulling out of a spot on the end and am halfway in before another car appears out of nowhere, honking and yelling. I protest meekly before backing out and taking another spot down the row, only to realize that it's too narrow and I cannot open the doors and get the boys out of their seats.

I stand there, panicking. We are going to be late. Suddenly, three girls appear and offer to help. They know our names and I realize they know us from my blog.

Somehow, we're all inside. It's bigger than I remember -- more like a cavernous warehouse than a waiting room. There are dozens of people milling around rows of chairs and cafeteria tables. I check in with the front desk (Noah Storch, speech evaluation, 1 P.M.) and we're instructed to wait and listen for our names.

We wait. And we wait. There are books and toys but neither of the boys wants anything to do with any of them. Names are being announced over an echo-y loudspeaker that I can't understand. Noah has climbed up a bookshelf and when I leap to retrieve him I notice he's wearing a Pull-Up. Why is he wearing a Pull-Up? He doesn't wear Pull-Ups. I look at his face and hair and...it's like he's morphed back into the two-year-old version of himself. And what's that awful sme...oh, GOD.

A woman appears, clearly annoyed. They've been calling our name for 20 minutes, why didn't we respond? I stammer an explanation and ask for five minutes and a changing table and am informed that if we forfeit this time slot we go to the back of the line. She questions the state of Noah's potty-training and I stammer again -- no, seriously, I'm so confused, he's totally trained, I don't know what's going on today -- she simply scribbles something on a clipboard and storms off.

Our turn comes up again and we're directed to a random set of chairs in the middle of the warehouse, and after I sit down I realize I have left the baby behind. I frantically look over and see that the three blog readers have appeared again. They are holding him, and nod to me reassuringly. It's okay, it's all okay.

I don't remember anything about the actual evaluation. It was too loud and I couldn't hear anything. We're waiting again. The toy area has been changed into some kind of stage, like for a puppet show. Ryan Seacrest hands me some sheet music and orders me to sing. I stand there and face a bored-looking audience, all uncomfortably perched on tiny preschooler-sized plastic chairs. Clipboard Lady comes midway through the song -- a showtune from Little Shop of Horrors, though not one I've ever heard before -- and tells me that the evaluation results indicate that I need a haircut. Luckily, they have someone on staff who can handle it.

I'm whisked out of the huge waiting area and through a series of cluttered rooms -- they look nothing like a school, but more like a grandmother's house, full of not-particularly attractive knickknacks. A woman surveys my hair and shows me some photos of other bloggers. Their hairstyles are all very short and I tell her that I don't look good with short hair. She tries to insist but I finally hold my ground. NO SHORT HAIR. I MEAN IT. She sighs and rolls her eyes at me, but wraps a brightly-colored knitted afghan around my neck and begins cutting, assisted by a cranky old man who looks like Noah's morning school bus driver. She makes about four snips with her scissors and my hair looks absolutely amazing. Then she asks for $750, plus another thousand for the evaluation. I gasp and tell her I don't have that much, and she removes the afghan and I'm in my underwear and Clipboard Lady asks about the whereabouts of my children and I realize I don't even know the names of the three blog readers but suddenly they are there too, without Noah or Ezra, and they shrug and say they can't help me anymore and I start crying and then I wake up and it was four in the morning and I've been awake ever since.

***

Noah has yet another evaluation today. For speech, at The Preschool. Starts at 1 P.M. I think it's going to go great!

Year of the Promise

Oh good Lord, what a day.

We had our home visit this morning with a bunch of school district people, including Noah's teacher (who I recognized from her Facebook profile, which I felt all sneaky about until I remembered how spectacularly Google-able we all are, so you know what? I'm going to just shut up, except to say that she and Noah had a nice talk about Pixar's Up, and right then and there you could SEE him fall in love with her, like, HARD).

Our home visit was supposed to start at 8:30, they arrived at 8:15, and yet I managed to get on one woman's permanent shit list because I took five extra minutes to finish brewing some coffee. Which I was making so I could offer them some coffee, but she terrified me so much that I refused to leave my seat for the entire visit, sitting upright with my hands folded, moving only to pick up an alarmingly large clump of cat hair from the baby's path but then I didn't want to get up to throw out the cat hair and so I panicked and put it in my pocket and then this OTHER woman saw me do that and gave me a weird look, like oh, God, she probably has a fingernail collection somewhere too.

(Typing that reminded me that I never took the clump of cat hair out of my pocket.)

Right off the bat they informed us that Noah's vaccination and health forms either never arrived or got lost and oh! You know how school starts on Tuesday? Yeah, don't bother sending him without those forms. I suppose I should be grateful that they did give me 15 extra minutes of heads up on that, because OH GOD, FORMS. This is something that you need to call your mother about right now and thank her for dealing with all your life, because you seriously have no idea. Doctor's offices and forms. You need the forms. The forms need the doctor. Your doctor needs $10 per page (two-sided is two pages! don't even think about it!) and five to seven goddamn business days, minimum. Twice that in "back-to-school" season, which of course runs from May to October, and then again in November to January. To just...get a form signed, same-day...unheard of. At least around here. Please don't tell me about how your pediatrician will sign forms if you happen to bump into each other at the grocery store because your town is just delightful and small and everybody hugs everybody all the time. I stopped to get cash before going to the pediatrician because I was full-on ready to bribe an office assistant into letting me bribe a nurse to sign an immunization record that I spent 20 minutes filling out myself so all it needed was one signature and a stamp.

The good news is that they agreed to sign it. Later. Six hours later, which in DoctorFormLand is like FedEx getting a package to China in 20 minutes.

Other than the forms, and the glares about the forms, and the talk about swine flu, the visit went well. Lots of questions and note-taking and no bullshitting around about what Noah needs to get out of this school year.

But...I don't know. There was something -- Jason felt it too, even though we couldn't quite articulate it -- that made us feel very, very. VERY GOOD about the decision to send Noah to an additional program. (I really need better nicknames for the preschools, by the way, other than "district preschool" and "The Preschool," especially since the capital letters are hard to say over the phone. I've been inserting dramatic pauses and using this movie-trailer-narrator voice but I think I'm annoying people. Perhaps the fake echo is too much?) Maybe the act of retelling our long history with Early Intervention put the pattern into sharper focus: Noah receives services and therapy, Noah responds remarkably to the services and therapy, services and therapy get reduced or stop altogether, Noah struggles and regresses without them, despite us kicking our own asses to do everything we've been told to do for him. Maybe it was when we were asked what our singular most major concern is, neither of us could answer, because it's not that simple. There isn't just one thing. So it makes sense that there isn't just one solution, either.

One night at the beach, Noah was having a hard time. I've already forgotten the details, the trigger. No matter how many times it happens, I can't seem to stop myself from asking "what's wrong? what's wrong, baby, what's WRONG?" Of course, he doesn't answer. He can't answer. We have a good dozen books on the subject and even they seem to mostly be guessing at the answer, at what it's like for a kid like him. Something was just WRONG, something he couldn't explain to us, something we couldn't fix.

And I stopped asking what was wrong. Instead, I made a promise. I told him it will get better and that it won't always be like this. The world will not always be so scary and strange. It won't always be like this.

I am keeping that promise. I am keeping. That. Promise.

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!")