The (Belt) Loop

Last week, Noah decided that he wanted to quit karate.

I've always told him it's okay if he wanted to quit karate (usually mid-argument over getting his uniform on and out the door in time for class), but he's always insisted that no, he doesn't want to quit. He wants a black belt. 

Well, that's not technically true, I guess. There was one point in kindergarten when he said he wanted to quit, but didn't like our stipulation that sure, you can quit, but you need to go tell your teachers in person. He waffled for a bit, then finally made it into the office, where he quickly changed his mind after 30 seconds of pep talk from a specific instructor. (Who he worships, but kind of in the same way one worships a terrifying, vengeful god.) He kept at it and seemed to be even more dedicated to the black belt goal than ever, after that.

This time, that particular instructor is out on maternity leave, and he had no such qualms about sauntering right in and quitting. 

And my bluff was called.

I don't WANT him to quit. Sure, I can think of a million other things I could do with the monthly tuition and all the schlepping back and forth two times a week, every week. (Four times, actually, now that Ezra's involved and on a completely different class schedule.) But he's worked so hard at this and come so far, plus exercise and focus and discipline and (yes) self-defense skills and etc. And he's good at it. He really is.

But if karate wasn't fun and he hated it, what can you do? I hated piano lessons and ballet with the heat of a thousand suns as a kid and finally my parents had enough of my whining and let me quit. I regret quitting both; not that I was particularly skilled at either, but it'd be nice to have something to show for the time I spent doing each, like being able to play something besides Twinkle Twinkle Little Star or walk across a floor without falling on my ungraceful ass. But I don't blame my parents for "letting" me quit — I was completely adamant about the decision. 

HOWEVER. In my preemptive defense for the rest of this entry, Noah didn't want to quit because it wasn't fun and he hated it.

He graduated to the "big kid" program a couple months ago and yes, it's much harder and more demanding and it's technically for 8 to 12 years olds, and he's in there at 7.5 because he simply tore through the little kid program at a breakneck pace and never missed a belt test. But that wasn't why he wanted to quit either.

He wanted to quit because he'd gotten the names of two katas (forms) mixed up and was convinced the teachers were teaching him "wrong." He argued with them and stressed about it and wouldn't listen to any explanation. And then he worked himself up into a classic rigid-thinking lather about it, refusing to admit that he'd made a mistake and refusing to see any other course of action other than quitting. It wasn't that he didn't know the forms or couldn't perform them properly — he was just...well, he was stuck in the loop and couldn't get himself out. 

We talked. We bargained. Private lessons. A couple weeks off. His instructor demonstrated the forms and explained the differences. We assured him that the name mix-up was understandable and no big deal and not worth quitting over. We called the instructor out on maternity leave on the phone and had her talk to him and promise to come see him do the forms once he felt better about them.

Noah immediately agreed...until we hung up the phone, at which point her god-like influence evaporated and he went right back to being a rigid little ball of anxiety over it. 

We eventually left without resolving anything. I told them not to start the cancellation process even as Noah burst out of the office and shouted "I JUST QUIT KARATE!" to no one in particular. 

Ezra had just finished his class, so I took all three boys to a coffeeshop for our traditional post-karate snack. And then immediately made the mistake of trying to resume negotiations with Noah. Why? I DON'T KNOW WHY. I'M NOT VERY GOOD AT THIS. STILL.

A very loud, very public tantrum followed, the kind that makes EVERY PERSON AROUND YOU stop and notice and judge you accordingly for not controlling that child, that child who is too old to be acting like that. Or, among the more sympathetic, judge you for making that poor child sob like that, you stage-mothering monster. 

(The situation was made even more surreal by the fact that this guy, in all his neon question-marked glory, was sitting two tables away.)

We immediately left, of course. I got a very nice long look at the tile floor on the way out, lest I make eye contact with anyone. Not my finest hour, by a longshot.

I tried to drop the subject at home, though I did send Noah to his room to calm down. When I went to check on him he seemed more open to discussing things again and I got him to agree to help me count his belts. I bet him he had completed more belts than were left in his path to a black belt. He disagreed, claiming that black was too far away and he'd never get there anyway.

I won. Ten belts down, seven to go. He seemed genuinely surprised. I left him to contemplate the math.

Jason came home, was briefed on the day's events, went upstairs...and everything promptly fell to pieces again. 

"You weren't kidding," he said sadly. "What do we do?"

We discussed the options. We could let him quit, obviously. We could let him take a break and continue to reason with him in the meantime. We could simply toss him in the car and drag him there. 

Or we could bribe him.

Over dinner, we talked about other things. A couple things nicely dovetailed with the issue at hand and I tried some social story Jedi tricks on him. "Hmm, so it sounds like you made a mistake but admitted you were wrong instead of getting upset about it! And everything was still okay! That's great!"

(Noah immediately glowered at me. I know what you're doing, woman, and it's not going to work.)

Finally, we bribed him. We incentivized him, tempted him, made him an offer he could not refuse.

If he makes it to black belt, we will take him to Legoland. 

You could practically HEAR the record scratch in Noah's brain as the needle jumped off the track. Redirection? Achieved. Rigidity? Left in the goddamn dust.

He ran upstairs to put his belt back on. "I'M GOING BACK TO KARATE!" he shouted. "QUITTING IS NOT FOR ME AFTER ALL."

Ike followed him, and came back downstairs with one of Noah's older belts. "Hawp?" he asked me.

I woke up at 4:30 this morning, staring at the ceiling and rehashing yesterday's (COPIOUS) parental failings and worrying that we'd done the wrong thing. The bribe — ahem, I mean the INCENTIVE — felt like cheating, and maybe we should have let Noah make the decision, even if we thought (or knew) his reasons were coming from a questionable source. 

Noah woke up at 7:00, and sailed through the morning like a weight had been lifted. He was his bubbly, happy self for the first time in...oh.

Since he told me he wanted to quit karate last week. Huh.

"I'm so happy I'm back in karate, " he said with a big sigh, over breakfast. "I'm going to learn the forms and it's okay that I had the names wrong. Mr. W will show them to me and then! I'm back in karate! For good this time!"

I still don't know if we did the right thing or not. But this morning I just lifted my arms over my head.

"WHEEEEE!" I said, and I gave him a high-five. 

Bright & Shiny & Full of Win

The meeting went just as well as expected, which is to say awesome, which to say I love everyone and everything right now. Including you! Oh, you. Come give us a cuddle.

Noah will transition to the general education classroom for math after spring break, surrounded by the nicest, most supportive team of bona fide Noah Fangirls that we've ever encountered since starting this journey over five years ago. These people looooove him and think he's amazing. And of course I tend to agree.  

I should note, in case anyone was/is concerned that we're getting rushed or pushed out of services: There is actually no change or reduction at all in the number of service hours on the IEP. As Kari explained in her comment: It's simply a placement change, aka where he will RECEIVE those hours of service and special ed support. Least Restrictive Environment; pull-outs vs. integration; etc. But the support is still there: The school is still being held accountable to make sure Noah's needs are being accommodated and that he makes progress on all his academic and behaviorial goals. He'll continue to receive one-on-one OT and be allowed extra time for tasks and testing and to leave the classroom for walks/breaks for self-regulation and he'll have personal token system and blah blah blah I'll refrain from typing out his entire dang IEP. 

This is a really good leap for Noah to take, but there is still a fully operational safety net underneath him in case it doesn't work out. And it's probably still more like "baby steps" than an actual "leap." But still BOO YAH YAY HE IS DOING SO AWESOME.

Also, because important:

This. Yes. SOON.

Pomp & Circumstance

So that...figured.

Despite all my big talk and confidence on Friday, Ezra completely freaked out and melted down at his first belt test. It was held in a different room, with a different instructor, and Ezra decided to show his displeasure with these changes by being as obstinate as humanly possible. 

"Okay, boys and girls, everybody please sit criss-cross applesauce facing me."

Ezra sits criss-cross applesauce facing the opposite side of the room.

"Everybody line up in a straight line right here."

Ezra plops himself down in a random corner, seven feet away.

"Everybody stand up."

Ezra sits down.

"Everybody sit down."

Ezra stands up.

Aaaaaaaaand ecetera. 

I pulled him aside on at least two different occasions and told him we'd need to go home if he didn't start...uh, where to begin? Cooperating? Listening? Participating? Doing everything that is the exact opposite of what you are doing right now? 

He did not want to leave. He cried and begged to stay when I offered him his shoes, which made me feel just great, super great, I'm so glad we're spending a ton of money every month for this enriching experience, but then he would re-join his class and remain completely paralyzed by stage fright or shyness or general being-four-ness. 

Luckily, the program has pretty low standards when it comes to the preschoolers, and they let Ezra stomp on his board and get a new belt, mostly to boost his confidence for next time. Hooray, everyone's a winner! 

He was clearly thrilled.

So was Ike.

On Saturday we got to experience that thrill ALL OVER AGAIN, when it was Noah's turn. And of course, since he was the one I was worried about (he's been really struggling with attention and impulse control in class lately, to the point that I wasn't sure he was going to be allowed to take the belt test), he completely rocked it the fuck out. 

Noah's test took me by surprise in another way, too: I didn't realize it would officially mark his graduation to the next level of the program, the one for eight-to-12 year olds. He's still only seven, so I mistakenly assumed that he'd kick around in the same class until his birthday. 

Nope. Starting today he'll attend the big kid class, with a new instructor, officially on his way to a real honest-to-God black belt. 

We also have an IEP meeting this afternoon.

No suspense or surprises this time, though, since I already know the team's recommendations and agree with them. Today we will come up with a transition plan to move Noah 100% back into the general education classroom by the end of this school year. 

Uh-uh. That sentence. I just typed that sentence. 

He'll still have an IEP next year and goals and specialized support in the classroom, but he will no longer be pulled out of general education.

Yes. That sentence just happened too. 

And it's the right call, as much as I kind of not-so-secretly love that Noah has essentially been getting one-on-one tutoring this year as the highest-functioning kid in a very, VERY small classroom. He does just as well in the regular classroom and he actually gets his best grades in the gen-ed subjects. Overall is progress has been (as his teachers all put it) "AMAZING." It's time to step up the game now.

Sometimes I thought this day would never come. 

And yet I always knew this day would come. 

 

Downs & Ups

UP:

He's a brown belt now. Which (if you aren't up with the karate-belt-color progression, and don't worry, I only know because there's a cheat sheet on like, every wall of the dojo) is the highest belt for his current age group. He's determined to make it all the way to black belt.

(Please note the Ezra Legbomb in the above picture. Sibling belt tests are exhaustifying, y'all.)

DOWN:

He had a panic attack when Jason emptied a new box of Cheerios into a space-saving plastic container. He screamed and cried and hurled his body around. It wasn't right, normal, regular. A tiny deviation from the constantly running script in his head and the world crashed down around him. 

I wrapped him up in blankets and talked about the time Baby Ike got into the Cheerios and dumped the entire container upside down the floor, which was just so silly, remember? Then I changed the subject completely. It's not like Noah could explain what was wrong anyway, and the last time I pressed him for answers in a situation like that he started talking about hating his "wrong brain" and my heart near ripped in two.

The next day, he had a mini-meltdown at school over a social studies lesson. Everyone was taught how to say hello in another language, and given a badge identifying what country and language they "were." Then they were supposed to mill around the room and practice saying hello to each other.

Noah was Eygpt. No, Noah was NOT Eygpt. The sea of everyone pretending to be from somewhere else, saying different words, the idea that "hello" is not always "hello" was all too much and the rigidity amped up and gaaaaaaahh that was the end of that. 

I picked him up from school and drove him to his weekly therapy appointment. They moved marbles from their Regular Bowl to a Different Bowl. Then they put them into a box of tissues, which was just so silly, Mommy. Later, he got a bag of Doritos as a reward for saying the word "merci."

UP:

When school started this year, Noah insisted that he did not know how to read and would refuse to even try. Every unfamiliar word was an unbelievable source of stress for him, for he refused to sound anything out because he might get it wrong. This perfectionism crossed over into writing and...well, lots of things. 

He's reading above his expected grade level now. He loves to write and tell stories and is no longer concerned if his spelling is perfect. Math is a strong suit, and his behavior at school (the occasional rigidity tussle aside) has been impeccable. On Monday nights, after dinner, he sits down with that week's homework packet (due on Fridays, go at your own pace)...and does the entire thing, cover to cover. 

On other nights we have to invent homework for him. Illustrated book reports are a popular choice, or math problems, or seeing who can list the most adjectives or nouns.

He reads bedtime stories to his brothers; he does fractions over breakfast with his pancake. I still have to remind myself to pick my jaw off the floor, sometimes. And to let go of my own worst fears and anxieties. Like he has, and continues to do. 

ADHD and dyslexia are now off the table, diagnostically. He is not on the Spectrum. All signs are pointing to a very smart, very quirky, visual-spatial learner who is slowly outgrowing a myriad of sensory issues and developing at his own zig-zaggy pace. 

The Downs still happen. For anyone who reads this blog because they see their own child echoed in the archives, yes. The Downs can still be scary, and frustrating, and make me feel like I'm doing something wrong, or at least not right enough. Noah is not a light switch, who will one day just flip completely to "easy" or "typical." His wiring is so much more complex than that, like a electrician's lighting board at a giant stadium concert.  

But the Ups happen more often now, and are higher and better than ever before, and the stadium is full of cheers and applause from every seat in the house.

Because we all know what's coming next is going to be awesome. 

Family Homemade Chaos Night

NEWISH RECENT HOTNESS: Family Homemade Pizza Nights. 

Okay, I'm perhaps overstating the "homemade" part. We use pre-made frozen dough from Whole Foods. We dump canned tomatoes in the food processor with a handful of bagged pre-peeled garlic and some olive oil for the sauce. Top with cheese, pepperoni and oregano. Bake on a cookie sheet at the highest temperature your pathetic electric oven can crank up and CLEARLY you will be immediately transported to a rustic pizzeria in Italy. Or maybe just to that pizza joint at the airport. Close enough.

I am not, however, exaggerating the "family" part. We get pretty super into it. We may or may not have special outfits.

Complete with accessories.

Ezra is always nice enough to lend Ike one of his non-pizza-specific aprons. 

(What? Don't all four-year-olds own multiple aprons?)

Family Homemade Pizza Night is strictly pants-optional, however.

As for Noah...

Once upon a time, getting him to touch something like raw pizza dough or pepperoni would have been unheard of. So was getting him to help in the kitchen, willingly. Pressure! Instructions! Expectations and blenders and all kinds of squishy things!

It's all different now.

Super different now.

Not to mention we did have a very special guest of honor over recently, someone Noah wanted to impress with his pizza-making skills extra badly.

The Occupational Therapist Formerly Known As Ms. M___. 

Who is now known, around these parts, on Family Homemade Pizza Nights, in a much less formal capacity. 

So Long & Thanks For All the Fish

I used to wonder when we'd be "done." After the speech therapy? Occupational therapy? After the mock preschools, special preschools, summer camps, kindergarten or...? 

I don't even know what I thought "done" meant. No more therapy? No more IEP? A final ruling out of SPD, PDD, ASD, ADHD, AFLACDIAFOMGBBQ? A child with no label? A child who is "cured" and "easy" and "totally predictable" and "not such a quirky little amped-to-11 question mark?" 

Obviously, duh. Bless my precious little heart, I just wasn't that bright. Noah is who he is, he will always be who he is, and we will always — ALWAYS — do everything we can help him be the best Noah he can be. You know, like we do for all of our children. (It's not like non-SN kids simply raise themselves with a little help from a pack of neighborhood dogs, after all.) There is no "done," really. 

But we are done with occupational therapy. His therapist is moving on to a new job, after all. We're not transitioning him to someone new, because really, it's time. It's a good stopping point, and he's ready. His final session was yesterday, full of hugs and high fives, Chipotle gift cards and a book Noah wrote for Ms. M__ called The OT Teacher From the Black Lagoon. 

I also used to think that when we were "done," I'd spike a football and celebrate. No more driving! No more waiting rooms! No more insurance hassles and bills and appeals! Look at my kid and how far he's come and how awesome he is! Party on Thursday afternoons! BOOYAH, BITCHES. WE'RE OUT.

Instead, as we walked through the lobby and back to our car for the last time, I felt a terrible pang. This place, these people, this weekly ritual. So profoundly important to us for all these years, and now?  Done.

Done. Whoa.

And in the end, it was mostly...momentously unmomentous. Discharge report will go in the mail, okay, goodbye. Goodbye receptionist, goodbye other waiting room parents, therapists, evaluators, random employees who still know all of our names and remember when Ezra was only a baby and Ike didn't exist and oh right, when Noah didn't even really talk. For all these people, it was just an awkward wave and a...yeah, this is it, we're done. See ya around but probably not, I guess.

But also: Look at my kid. Just look at how far he's come and how awesome he is.

So thank you. To all of you, from all of us. 

Occupational Gratitude

Noah first met his occupational therapist at summer camp. He was three-and-a-half years old and had already developed a fierce dislike of school (and any school-like activities) and a deep distrust of teachers (and any teacher-like adults). But for some reason, Ms. M___ was different. He liked her. He liked her a lot. 

For over three years now, she's worked with him. First, almost daily, at preschool, then weekly. She was his anchor, the thing he looked the most forward to all week, the one person who could always — ALWAYS — coax the most and the best from him. Balance, coordination, motor planning, social skills, play skills, handwriting, attention span, self-regulation. She's encouraged him, pushed him and challenged him. But most of all she's believed in him, and loved him. Genuinely, unconditionally.

She's the first person to hear about Noah's victories and breakthroughs, big or small. She is one of his biggest cheerleaders.

She's also the first person I talk to when I'm having a rough time, or need ideas or strategies or some empathy from someone who gets it. Or maybe just to geek out about The Hunger Games. She's kind of been my cheerleader, too. 

Yesterday she told me that she's moving on. She's resigned. She's accepted a new job somewhere else, and the countdown to Noah's final session has begun. 

We both cried. She cried the hardest. 

I haven't told Noah yet. God. That's going to suck. 

The good news is that I know Ms. M___ and I are going be awesome friends now, and that she's not really going anywhere. Except maybe to our house, and my couch, since we'll allowed to hang out and drink wine and play with Noah in the backyard. 

And you know? It's time. It really is. Noah's doing great. Beyond great, really. And other kids deserve to be great now too. I wish I could tell those kids and their families that man, you guys, you're so lucky.

You're about to meet the person who is going to change your life. 

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!"

 

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. 

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.