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!

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.

 

 

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.

Evaluation Nation

Where do I begin?

On the one hand, I'm glad I never got around to writing that entry about all the fabulous leaps and bounds we've made with Noah over the past couple weeks -- at least not the version I had in mind, which was puff full of Confidence! We've Turned a Corner, Everything Is Fine Now! We're Totally Going To Rock This Evaluation Wheeeeeee!

(I just love setting myself up to look like a complete jackass on the Internet. I really do.)

On the other hand, I'm glad I at least mentioned it, because otherwise you'd all probably pelt me with your liquor bottles when I tell you Noah's results:

Motor: Failed. Spectacularly.

Vison: Passed. Non-surprisingly.

Hearing: Abstained. With EXTREME PREJUDICE. (Though his tympanogram looked fine.)

Cognitive/Educational Concepts: Passed, sort of. It's complicated. We'll say: Passed. With EXTREME ASTERISKS.

Speech:

Ha ha ha ha. Wait. No. Sit down.

Speech: Passed. Spectacularly.

The speech therapist praised his articulation (ha ha ha), his ability to label objects and actions and answer questions, his spontaneous speech (which mostly consisted of elaborate protestations and declarations of woe, misery and the unfairness of life as he knows it) and finally admitted that she didn't understand why any concern was still being raised about his speech. He's FINE.

And I was all, "Yeah...I've been meaning to blog about that."

Noah's speech has EXPLODED over the last couple weeks. We have CONVERSATIONS with him. He tells jokes, he makes up stories, he answers your questions with honest-to-God actual answers instead of context-less scraps of dialogue from TV or books.

Last week, while we were away, he told me he was sad, that he wanted to go home, that he missed Daddy. When we went away a few months ago, he told me he was sad, but when I asked why he said something about 15 missing puppies and left it at that.

I don't know whether the leap coincided simply with inching closer to four years old, with reducing his preschool attendance, or our discovery that hey! You know how he really, really, really likes music? You think it would be nice if we played more music for him? How about I put my iPod in his room with a playlist of his favorite classical music and the Vince Guaraldi Trio for him to fall asleep and wake up to, or to go "chill out" to in lieu of endless "time outs?" Huh, I dunno, does he seem a little more centered and calmer to you, like his teacher maybe mentioned a few months ago, when she started playing background music during the day?

No, no. Hold your applause. We are not parental geniuses, we're just really, really slow on the uptake.

ANYWAY. The speech ruling did not come as a surprise, though it was still a huge, HUGE fucking relief to hear it.

It was our one small relief in an otherwise hellacious morning, however. You know it's bad when OTHER PARENTS in the screening clinic are giving YOU the "I'm glad that's not MY kid" looks.

I knew this situation was not going to be ideal. I knew it was going to trigger a lot of Noah's worst behaviors. I knew he wasn't going to move from station to stations easily or be interested in the assessment tools or willingly allow them to put headphones on him to test his hearing and I knew that was kind of the point.

I wasn't prepared for Noah being the ONLY kid having difficulties. I wasn't prepared to sit and watch three-year-old after three-year-old obediently leave their puzzles to go show the occupational therapist that they could stand on one leg while my kid howled, screamed, kicked and fought. I wasn't prepared to watch him fail so many activities -- can't copy a circle, can't hold scissors, can't shape clay, can't fasten a snap, can't catch a bounced ball, can't stand on one leg -- one right after the other. I wasn't prepared to see how many of his mastered skills fall to pieces in the face of his unease with structure, demands and transitions. I wasn't prepared for my sweet, loving, gentle little man to smack me -- repeatedly -- in front of the child psychologist.

The upshot: those damn sensory issues, man. We were aggressive with speech and it paid off. We allowed ourselves to be rattled and bullied by a terrible occupational therapist and are paying for that now. The OT today was shocked that Early Intervention graduated Noah on the basis of speech alone, when clearly he has significant motor delays. Follow-up recommended, check.

The special education teacher had the MOST success out of everyone when it came to coaxing cooperation from Noah, and even she was unable to fully complete her assessment. Her take: he's smart, very smart, but the level of non-compliance makes it appear that he doesn't know half of what he really knows, and his non-involvement and discomfort at school are causing him to shed skills and resist absorbing new ones. (When he started preschool he could count to 20 and recognize most numbers and letters of the alphabet. Now he can count to 10 and gets numbers and letters mixed up.) Basically, this is a smart kid on track to hating and underperforming in school because *something* else is going unaddressed. Follow-up recommended, check check.

(Whenever I write stuff like this I invariably get comments reminding me that "he's ONLY three!" like I need a refresher course on my kid's age, or like I'm expecting him to be mapping the human genome as opposed to sitting on the stupid blue carpet at preschool. I used to get the same comments when he was "ONLY two!" Does anyone know at what age people stop hassling you for trying to be proactive about your child's developmental and educational issues, or for taking advantage of early childhood programs that EXIST FOR A REASON? When he's ONLY four? Seven? When he's dropped out and knocking over convenience stores at ONLY 16?)

The school psychologist will be observing him at preschool, and we're going back for another (more thorough, less sensory-triggering, hopefully waaaay more enjoyable for Noah) assessment with the OT and special ed teacher at the end of this month. At that point, recommendations for services will be made. Check check, check.

***

Dear Noah,

I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry Daddy and I had to take you that place this morning, that place with all the cool toys that they only let you play with for a few minutes before whisking you away time and again to go play with less cool toys. I'm sorry that lady tried to put the beeping thing on your head. I'm sorry that other boy grabbed the elephant out of your hand but we made you share with him because we were too busy filling out forms to realize that he was the one who wasn't sharing. I'm sorry the little things are so hard for you. I'm sorry that I just don't understand sometimes.

I'm so proud of you. I'm so proud of you and your smart, wonderful, mysterious brain. I'm so proud of your good strong eyes that never miss a thing. I'm so proud of how far you've come and how well you talk now. I'm so proud of what a happy, confident boy you are, in spite of everything else.

I love you, Noah. I love hearing everything you have to say. I love your voice, your smile, the way I hear you humming along to the music in your room. I love how you manage to thoroughly charm people, even when you're making their job a little harder. I love how you always give me another chance to be a better Mommy, a more patient, fun and understanding Mommy, and how a rotten morning can still lead to a wonderfully sunny afternoon.

You're too amazing for this world, Noah. And that's our problem, not yours. Don't ever forget that.

Love,
Mommy

So Many Entries to Write, and Yet I Give You This

I am losing mah mind over here, people. You know it's bad when I start breaking out the phonetic Southern accent that I don't actually talk with.

1) My baby is SIX MONTHS OLD today. Six! Such a random number to get worked up about, I know, but six! Half a year! Totally in need of a long detailed entry about the state of every tiny little thing he does! But who is going to write that, I ask you. WHO? All my ghostwriters called in drunk.

2) Noah's evaluation with the school district is TOMORROW. At the crack of 9 o'clock. And I've got a whole entry about THAT percolating in my brain, in which I confess that the last couple weeks have actually been w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l and we've made a lot of great p-r-o-g-r-e-s-s and now I have NO idea what to expect from him tomorrow, like I think there might be a chance we get sent home with zero services and I think I might be okay with that, because seriously: w-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l. But the minute I say all of that out loud I just know I will jinx everything and come home tomorrow feeling like a truck up and ran over me, hence the s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g, which probably doesn't work so well on a blog, where everything is spelled, unless the universe gets easily confused by hyphens.

3) My dad was back in the emergency room yesterday, and this time was finally sent home with a new diagnosis other than effed-up lungs: congestive heart failure. Which I know is not quite the death sentence that the "HEART = FAIL" implies, but oh my God. He's already ON every medication in the world, he's already CHANGED his diet a million times over, he's already had TRIPLE GODDAMN BYPASS SURGERY, so...just between you and me, I would still like to tell the u-n-i-v-e-r-s-e to go f-u-c-k itself.

4) Now that I've maybe got a few of you feeling all sorry for me, please allow me to send you elsewhere! There's a new Bounce Back up, where we're talking about the things you wish somebody (fuck you, somebody!) had told you about breastfeeding. I'm also contributing (for a few weeks, anyway) to Clean Freak Confessions, one of those sponsored site things that I have to sheepishly ask you to maybe consider commenting over there and/or thumbs-upping my entries so the sponsor is all happy happy? Y'all are VERY good at making the sponsors happy, I must say, and for that I want to lick all of your faces. I have entries up (so far) about washing cloth diapers and how cleaning can help families coping with illness. Yes, the topic of the site is cleaning. I assume I shall run out of topics in about...oh, already.

5) And hey! Speaking of places to click and read and comment, look at these morons over here at Washingtonian.com. They look familiar. If you're one of the two or three people who have copped to being driven crazy by my refusal to tell you what our "girl name" was, I finally caved and revealed it to the interviewer, because what's the point? If I ever have another baby you just know it will be another boy. Probably twin boys. Or someone will leave an entire soccer team of boy babies on my doorstep, wrapped in Thomas the Crazy-Eyed Tank Engine blankets.

(And in the non-selfish realm of pimpage, check out my lovely new Twitter background & design. It looks like a real blog, where I actually remember to say things and update occasionally! Imagine that! Anyway, the folks at Sweet Blog Design can make one for you. Look, I'm on Twitter, I use Twitter, I totally still do not fucking understand Twitter, but I hear it's all kinds of important and the celebrities and the destroying of traditional journalism and all that. So you better make sure your profile is pretty.)

Square One

Our insurance company finally reviewed our claim for Noah's proposed speech therapy plan.

Denied.

Thanks.

Assholes.

I...I just don't even have the energy to get worked up about it. We'll appeal the decision, of course, but Lord. We waited close to two months for the initial evaluation. We waited another two months for the insurance company's decision. And now. Pfft.

There's a "private" rate for the therapy, of course, but I know it's more expensive than another speech/OT program in the area, a program that I think is more comprehensive, a program that I didn't contact initially because...they don't accept our insurance. Our insurance which, on paper, offers fantastic coverage for speech therapy, so it seemed like a logical trade-off. But if we're going to be paying out of pocket ANYWAY...I should...we should...should we? And then there's another, even better program in the city, which we could afford if we downsize to a condo and reduce our mortgage and again, if we're going to be paying out of pocket ANYWAY, if Noah ends up needing private schools ANYWAY...should we? What if Ezra needs early intervention? What if Ezra doesn't?

The school district evaluation has become our own personal red wheel barrow glazed with rain water.

They graciously offered a private screening, since they typically start with big group clinics where kids play together and there's chaos and lots of transitions and redirection, with one skill set being observed and evaluated right after another. In other words: a total freaking nightmare for a sensory-senstive child, and likely to set off a number of Noah's triggers. They said they'd be happy to adjust their tactics and conduct the evaluations one at a time, in our home. I said no, thank you, I'm sure Noah will be just fine.

I know he won't be fine. I'm practically counting on us being dismissed from the clinic setting early with appointments for private screenings at home. I need them to See It. I need them to see him Fail.

***

We took Noah to Barnes & Noble the other night to pick out some new storybooks and play with the train table. I sat and watched him and paged through a towering stack of parenting books. Books about Raising Your Quirky Sensory-Sensitive Spirited Unpredictable Out-of-Sync Different Child, books that promised Practical Simple Solutions To Everyday Challenges, books that promised to Fix It.

Of course they don't. They look substantial but spend chapter after chapter rehashing the same information, the same in-depth scientific descriptions about Vestibular Systems gone awry. You find some comfort in the anecdotes -- kids who sound so creepily like your kid, parents who also admit to snapping and scolding and just being so tired -- but then the actual strategies are all the same ones you've read about before and tried already. Social stories, check. Take breaks, trust your instincts, shaving cream and bread dough and electric toothbrushes and above all, the right kind of therapy. Which: dooood. I am trying. Two paragraphs about choosing the right preschool (Trust Those Instincts! Talk To The Teacher!) are followed by sections about elementary school and junior high and high school and oh, God. It just doesn't end.

Noah came over to show me something. "A gween train, Mommy," he announced. Two feet away another little boy rolled his eyes and muttered a correction. "Not gween. Green." Noah didn't seem to hear him. He honestly didn't even seem to register that another child was there.

I ended up putting all the books back on the shelf. As I tried to remember where I'd gotten each one, I stared at the rows and rows of parenting books. Books about diet and discipline and how to get your kid to do this and that and coping with this and that. Bullies, anxiety, allergies, learning disabilities, illness, grief. It's tough for everybody, the books seemed to say. It's a terrible business, this raising human beings thing.

***

We got home and put the boys to bed and I stood outside Noah's door for a bit, listening to him talk.

"Not gween. Geen. Not geen. Guh-een. Guh-reen. Guhreen! Good talking, Noah. Not gween. Guhreen."

Pansy

I spent all weekend planting things. OUTSIDE things. OUTSIDE, where there are bugs. Worms. Dirt. Nature.

After working diligently for two whole minutes I commented to Jason that this wasn't so bad. This wasn't so bad at all!

We've spent the last 10 months or so going back and forth about whether we really want to stay out here in the suburbs -- we kind of hate it, honestly -- and we were *thiiiiiis close* to making an offer on a condo in our old neighborhood (hell, practically in our old building) right after Ezra was born (hell, he was still pruny and gory) but then waffled for five minutes because HELLO, pruny gory baby and our house wasn't ready to sell (despite our best psychotic nesting efforts) and then the condo went under contract and All The Stuff With Noah happened and finally we both admitted that yes, we really really really do want to move back to the city but it's just not the right time yet, maybe next year, in the meantime, let's get outside and plant some goddamn tulips.

So there I was, planting things -- some bulbs for next year, some shrubs and groundcover and a million and four purple and yellow pansies -- and after I planted the third bulb and STILL hadn't gotten bored and/or irritated enough to wander away from the project, I degreed that yardwork really wasn't so bad.

That's when Jason noticed that I was planting two-year-old dead and dried-out husky shells of bulbs instead of actual living bulbs that would...you know...grow. He suggested I move on to the pansies.

I spent hours planting pansies. Yellow, purple, yellow, purple. We dragged Ezra's Jumperoo out onto the lawn with us, using him as bait to Finally Get Our Neighbors To Talk To Us, while I planted and planted and every exposed inch of my skin broke out in various kinds of rashes (when I was in elementary school and was quizzed on my extremely long list of allergies I usually gave up halfway through and simply said I was allergic to "OUTSIDE").

(Photo not actually representative of this story, but inserted anyway because HELLO TALKY.)

When I was done, I had several garden beds of somewhat pathetic little lines of droopy pansies -- nothing like those landscaping shows that I watch whenever I'm in a "let's make the best of the suburbs!" mood. (Whenever I'm in a "screw this, let's move back to the city!" mood I watch shows about real estate, and whenever I'm in a "we probably couldn't move even if we wanted to because goddamn this economy!" mood I watch the Food Network for 76 hours straight and order a lot of pizzas.)

We still decided it was a Good Start, since the previous owners hadn't exactly exerted a ton of landscaping effort either -- when we visited an area nursery soon after we moved in we found a clearance table all the way in the back that featured every single plant and shrub currently residing in our yard. Next weekend we mulch, or something, I don't know, and then after that we start on some serious vegetable container gardens in the backyard. Or something. I don't know! Last year we grew herbs and tomatoes and this year Jason bought a book and is growing salad and peppers and is promising me all sorts of amazing things and I think he may very well have lost his goddamned mind.

Meanwhile, every indoor plant we brought here from our old condo has died of root rot. I feel very responsible. My misguided belief that we really needed More Closet Space led to plant genocide, including my favorite jade plant, which was the first one to die, and at the time I was all, "oh well, who cares, I have extra bathrooms!" but I've never stopped thinking about that plant, because I loved that plant, and I miss that plant, and how lovely it always looked on the windowsill at our old condo. And while I'm no gardening expert or a pyschologist, I get that it's probably not REALLY about that plant.

Meanwhile, I have a splinter in my foot and my back hurts and I couldn't sleep last night because I was stressing about how we need to cover our new plants with some sheets tonight so they won't freeze and do I have enough clean sheets? But I suppose that's preferable to stressing about April 16th, the freshly-set date for Noah's evaluation with the school district -- speech, motor, hearing, vision, social skills, sensory issues, the whole shebang -- an evaluation that will likely decide for us whether we belong here or elsewhere, whether the district will help him or if we remain on our own, whether it's worth staying where we're unhappy or time to move on, Montessori vs. special needs vs. something in between, public vs. private, suburbs vs. city, whether or not we'll still be here next spring when the periennials return.

Exhaustification

Oh my God, y'all.

So Monday night* the phone rings, it's my mom, my dad is back in the hospital. Irregular EKG, lung problems, dizzy spells with chest pains and problems breathing, yadda blah etc. By midnight, he's been admitted, by Tuesday morning the doctors are all, MEH, go home, it's all probably nothing. Have some more Xanax. (My mother is EMPHATIC that these episodes are not panic attacks, as he already HAS panic attacks and takes Xanax for them but there is also Something Completely Different going on that no one seems willing to get to the bottom of.)

Oh, but before you go home this here nurse is gonna draw some blood and slap a bandage on you while completely forgetting about the massive amounts of blood thinners you're on and WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU ARE THINKING WE ARE ALL MAYBE LESS THAN COMPETENT?

I was all set to do that EVERYBODY! IN THE CAR! NOW! thing that I do, but I woke up with a cold, another blablittyblatbitch cold, hopefully the last one for winter (just in time for ALLERGY SEASON!). But still. Two topics that this blog has covered a few too many times in recent months: mortality of aging parents and mucus.

AND THEN! Something weird and complicated and completely boring happened with my phone and a voicemail from LAST THURSDAY suddenly appeared in my inbox and lo, this phantom voicemail was the school district, calling at long last to schedule Noah's evaluation. And I immediately called them back, all AAAAEEEIIII and OMGGGG and the nice lady who answered informed me that "everybody" was out at clinics that day and could I call back on Thursday? And then I said, "Sure! No problem!" And then I went home and bit my pillow and my brain leaked out all over it so FINE. NOW I HAVE TO DO LAUNDRY.

And then I thought to myself, "Self, you should just not write about any of this and hope that by Wednesday morning everything in the world is just magically all better."

(My optimism! It borders on deranged.)

Anyway. Hi, Wednesday! You sure did turn out to be overrated.

Here: Have a baby story. Ezra officially clocked in at five months old on Sunday, and according to my email newsletter of things to obsess over this month, he should be fully rolling from front to back by now. And I thought: Hmmm.

He can roll from his side to his front, but I'm not sure I've ever seen him roll back over from tha- OH LOOK THERE HE GOES.

So now we're at that delightful stage where I put him on a blanket, on his tummy, like I've always done because he actually really loves being on his tummy, only now he rolls over immediately and then squawks in protest because he hates being on his back WHY AM I ON MY BACK HALP HALP MOOOMMM!

And then I flip him back over and put a toy in front of him and he's all YAY I LOVE THIS TOY I'M GOING TO ROLL OVER WITH JOY OH FUCK NOW WHAT.

Therefore, I don't feel guilty about slapping bibs on him that represent my own personal belief system and values. He can't even READ yet. God. Those baby newsletters a load of crap.

* I know, I know. The recent-ish compulsion to start sentences off with "so" is SO on the top of my list of non-adorable grating blogging tics** to get rid of, along with overuse of "apparently" and "totally" and of course, ending every sentence with CAPS LOCK, but I am apparently totally unable to DO THAT, SO...

**Oh, God. I bet a good 25% of you never really noticed that I do those things all the time but now it's going to drive you completely batty everytime you read an entry here, sorry.

A Million Tiny Updates

My coffeemaker randomly overflowed AGAIN this morning, despite my remembering the inner basket and the filter and the carafe and it wasn't my fault and basically I HATE IT AND ITS ASS FACE.

***

The unthinkable (yet long-predicted-by-readers-of-this-blog) thing finally happened last night: Jason and I both turned to Noah -- our precious little speech-delayed child -- and begged him to please, just shut up for a goddamn minute, just be quiet, oh my God, my eardrums cannot take another second of full-volume chatter about goddamn Corduroy and his goddamn button and HERE COMES THE CAT! HERE COMES THE CAT! HERE! COMES! THE GODDAMN! CAT! and seriously, child, do you ever stop to breathe anymore?

***

(I assure you that last bit had a LOT fewer "goddamns" in real life.)

***

I went ahead and sent in our deposit to the Montessori preschool. I just don't feel -- right now, anyway -- that Noah's little quirks and "issues" and "whatevers" are enough to justify pulling him out of the mainstream. I...yes. I feel that. I'm still not totally back up to my old confidence levels regarding my decision-making skills for him, but I finally pulled my ass out of that "paralyzed by past actions into complete inaction" sinkhole I've been in for a few months now. If he succeeds at this school, he could potentially stay there through sixth grade. If it's still not the right fit, well, we've still got two more years until kindergarten to figure this shit out, and hopefully by then Ezra will be off the boob and Mama will be on the Xanax.

***

My dad came home from the hospital yesterday. YESTERDAY. It's been...I don't even know how long it's been. It's been a long bumpy story with no end in sight and more collapsed lungs! and pneumonia! and infections! and heart palpitations and chest pains and breathing treatments and incompetant cardiac rehab centers and...and...is it okay if I just mash my fingers down on the keyboard for a bit? Yes? Okay. OSFHGOSDHFOASJDASLMAEOHRHFFOEIJDJGPS.

Thanks. I feel better now. My dad feels better to be home, I know, but...he's not really better yet. He is and he isn't. I don't know. There's a lot of medical equipment in the house and therapy and my mom is pretty scared and I haven't been talking about it because it's hard to talk about because I'm NOT THERE and haven't been able to be there and I don't feel like I have a good grasp on the situation. And MAH GOODNESS, if I could get a good grasp on one! single! fucking! situation around here I WOULD APPRECIATE VERY MUCH, UNIVERSE.

***
Wait. Hang on. There is one thing going ridiculously well, provided this next paragraph doesn't up and jinx everything: Ezra is sleeping through the night, allllll night. Every night. In his crib. 9 pm to 8 am, at least. Unswaddled, even. He's gotten mighty proficient at getting his thumb into his mouth (with a bare minimum of face-and-eyeball poking from bad aim), and is completely in love with Noah's old Fisher Price crib aquarium. (We also took down his mobile, which apparently was scaring the crap out him.) We bathe, we rock and sing and nurse, and he just...goes to sleep, like a perfectly reasonable person. I keep the video monitor aimed direction at him (we're getting some rollage, people, and he's developed quite a penchant for tummy sleeping) all night, but with each passing night of solid, uninterrupted sleep and waking up to a perfectly contented and alive baby, I'm relaxing about it. Ever so slightly, with maybe only ONE nightly jerking awake in confusion because OH MY GOD WHERE IS THE BABY DID I JUST KICK THE BABY OH WAIT THAT WAS THE CAT.

SORRY CATZZZZZZZZZ.

He's also taking predictable daytime naps -- two nice ones, the second of which often overlaps Noah's nap (which is hit-or-miss some days, but at the very least involves a decent chunk of Quiet Time In Your Room Reading Books I Do Not Care If You Sleep But By God You Will Stay In Your Room Until Mama's Eyelid Stops Twitching).

My only guess as to the cause of this belated Christmas miracle is that we've been following Ezra's lead when it comes to solid food as opposed to the books and rules and such. (Within reason, of course.) He wants solids twice a day. He wants his cereals chunky and substantial and not thinned out (the initially rejected barley cereal became a runaway hit once it spent the night in the refrigerator and got really plump and sticky). He wants to hold and gum on his own rice rusk, dagnabbit. He wants MOAR SWEET POTATOES and you BETTER be planning to share that avocado slice from your sandwich, missy.

And because I am frankly, fresh out of Fretting, we go with it.

(I still have a really good supply of Hovering, of course, ready to whip out at the first sign of gagging or choking or...uh, allergy-ing. Although mostly I Hover to prevent sibling grilled-cheese-related plate swipings, because HOLY CRAP, this baby likes food.)

He still lovvvves nursing, even though I do miss the exclusive closeness we had before, even though my head sometimes spins by how quickly it's all happening this time.

He is still such a darling lump of baby, though, with insane little thighs and cheeks and funny squawks and faces, whose needs are uncomplicated and whose happiness is infectious, whose whole face lights up everytime I simply walk into the room. It's been a long winter, and I cannot even imagine what these past few months would have been like without the wonderful ray of sunshine that is This Boy.

(And that goes for this crazy monkey, too.)