And His Favorite Thing in the World is a Treble Clef I Made Him Out of a Twist Tie

The other night we had the TV on and a promo spot for Law & Order: SVU came on -- the one with Robin Williams playing some sort of unhinged psycho,which is only vaguely more terrifying to me than Patch Adams -- and at one point he bellows, "You don't know what I've suffered!"

Noah rounded the corner at this precise moment, and without missing a beat, pointed a chubby finger at us and shouted, "YOU DON KNOW WHA I SUFFER!"

Needless to say, we aren't really dealing with much of a "speech delay" anymore.

He still goes to his little mock special-ed preschool class, and he gets speech therapy twice a month at home, but next month those services will drop back even further when he starts a very mainstream summer camp program at the very mainstream preschool he will be attending in the fall. I've been told that all county-run preschool programs are off the table for him at this point, and while they will test to see if he'll qualify for itinerant speech therapy, it's been strongly hinted to me that I shouldn't hold my breath on that one either.

The only "concern" at this point is his articulation, which (as you heard on the video yesterday) gets pretty unintelligible whenever he's excited or stringing more than two or three words together. Still, however, this falls solidly into the realm of "normal" speech, especially for a child who just started using two-word phrases for the first time a couple months ago. His brain is moving faster than his mouth, which has always been the problem. The difference is that he no longer lets that stop him from TRYING to get his thoughts out, whereas before he seemed to clam up mostly out of frustration that we couldn't understand him, or that the list of sounds he couldn't reproduce was so long and daunting so you know what? Let's just talk more about aballs today.

He's even figured out how to use our non-stop translating against us -- we pretty much run on auto-pilot now when it comes to repeating the stuff he says, you know, to demonstrate the proper pronunciation or to give him two words when he supplies one -- so we have a LOT of conversations that go something like this:

NOAH: (very quietly) eye keem cone?

MAMA: Uh...ice cream cone?

NOAH: OKAY! GOOD IDEA, MAMA! ICE CREAM CONE! YAY!

He outsmarts me with this same trick at least 14 times a day, people. 

Early Intervention has also completely dropped the SPD diagnosis -- there's no doubt he HAD some rather profound difficulties, but as his speech improves and we doggedly continue giving him repeated (yet low-pressure) exposure to the wig-out triggers, it's all become much less of a "problem" and more of a "quirk."

That's pretty much how all his therapists and teachers refer to him now.

"He's quirky."

"He marches to his own drummer."

Independent, but not overly willful. Spirited, but unbelievably sensitive and gentle and kind. Shares well. Extremely aware of other's moods and feelings. Dislikes fingerpaints and transitions, but is the only kid in his class who will eat oatmeal with gusto.

"He's a special one, that's for sure." his teacher says, laughingly shaking her head after class.

He still uses sign language, along with the words, although sometimes he will revert to signs-only when he's shy or scared. He remembers every single one he ever learned, sometimes sending me back to the DVDs for a refresher course.

He can sing all the words to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and Old MacDonald. He will tell you that "you can do anything that you want to do" and then tell you what Blue's dream was about ("A leotard dream! Blue rolllled!"). He will not say his name, preferring to call himself Baby. We've talked about the baby in Mama's belly a couple times but it's not really making much sense, although one time he did lift up my shirt and shouted "ALLLLO BABY! WHA YOU DOIN IN DER? DON WORRY, BABY! I COMING!"

It's funny. When we first started using Early Intervention and speech therapy and sign language, a few people did not hide their opinion that we were overreacting. He was too young, he was just a late talker, God, what is WITH parents and doctors today with their "labels" and their "therapy" and in our day kids didn't talk until the second grade because they were too busy shoveling all the snow off that hill. Okay, maybe that isn't very funny.

First, the sign language flipped a switch for Noah -- the first of many. He understood WHY communication was good. Expressing your needs! Getting those needs met! You could almost see the exact moment the light bulb went on and the signs poured out.

Then came the speech therapy -- which was as much for me as it was for Noah. It was humbling, honestly, to have someone come to your house and tell you how to talk your kid. I've met parents who resist it, for whatever reasons -- they smile and nod during our Hanen sessions and then roll their eyes afterwards and admit that no, they don't really go for a lot of "that stuff" at home. But we did. We slowed down, we made stupid noises and faces and gestures out in public, we signed and talked and listened and pauuuuuused and repeated and then we did it all over again. And it worked. It just worked.

Then came the social therapy -- the tears at Lunch Bunch from us both, picking up the red-faced tear-stained toddler after Kids at Play, feeling like my heart was going to break because THIS was too much, too hard. And now I get glowing reports every week. He stays in the class because they like a few well-behaved "example" kids to help the newer additions...and because he just loves it so much that I asked his service coordinator that as long as we aren't taking a spot away from a kid who really needs it, could he please just keep going until summer camp starts?

Now when I tick down this list of victories for some people -- victories that came much sooner than we expected, but were hard-fought all the same -- I still sometimes get that dismissive wave of a hand. "And you were sooooo worried," they say with a bemused smile. Silly neurotic first-time mother.

Yeah. You know what? I was worried. And so I did something about it. And I would do it all again.

 

The Toddlerese Phrasebook

"Mama in der? Mmma an na na a CHOUND? In der? IN DER?"

(Mama, do you hear the sound that is coming from that general direction over there?)

"A cow! Jump cow oh uh na amoon!"

(The cow jumped over the moon.)

"A TRAIN! A TRAIN! CHOO CHOO!"

(A TRAIN! A TRAIN! OMFG!)

"Aw, a boo hurt! Na ma a ban aid? Boots?"

(I have injured myself and require a licensed-character Band-Aid.)

"RAWR! RAWR! Onster anna book anna yoo turn da page! Oh no!

(There's a monster at the end of this book and you turned the page! Oh no!)

"No poop."

(I don't care what you smell, woman.)

"Oh no! A messth! Whew! Dapeart? Okay."

(I would like to reverse my earlier position re: poop.)

"I know. In der. A dridge. Ohhh, down. An tuntel. Up up up an der."

(A complicated description of the engineering of drawbridges. I am told I wouldn't understand.)

"Oh maaaannnnn!"

(Success! Swiper the Fox has been foiled yet again!)

"A nack? Okay nack. Nack oh der."

(May I have a snack? Actually, I'm just going to go ahead and answer in the affirmative that yes, I may have a snack. And I'm going to go eat my snack over there. Smell ya later.)

"A chide an mah polpet! A polpet, Mama! Choon an polpet!"

(Uh.)

"DADA! DADA! WHEAH ARRRRRE YOOOO?"

(Dada, Mama is currently denying me the object of my heart's desire, please come home from work to rectify the situation.)

Stuff, and Then: Surprise! MORE WHINING!

THINGS MY CHILD WILL SAY IN FRONT OF ME, BUT NOT IN FRONT OF ANYONE ELSE, INCLUDING THE &$@* VIDEO CAMERA, WHICH MEANS ACCORDING TO THE LAWS OF BLOG IT'S LIKE HE NEVER SAID THEM AT ALL:

1. Hmmm. I know!
2. ONE MINUTE!
3. Dog! Dog! Where arrrrre you?
4. Won, Too, Tee, ready or not here I come!
5. Oh mah gawd!

WORDS MY CHILD CAN READ VIA THE REFRIGERATOR MAGNETS, BUT ONLY IN FRONT OF ME BUT I SWEAR, PEOPLE, I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP:

1. Oops
2. Egg
3. Noah
4. Hot
5. Ass

NUMBERS MY CHILD LEAVES OUT WHILE HE COUNTS TO TWENTY:

1. Four

NUMBER OF TIMES IN THE PAST THREE DAYS I HAVE TACKLED MY CHILD, DIPPED HIM IN CADBURY CREME EGG FONDANT AND SWALLOWED HIM WHOLE:

1. 567,987,001

I expected pregnancy to sort-of suck. I mean, honestly, it sucked last time too. Although I would probably never let myself use that word, since I still remember walking through the pregnancy and family planning section of the bookstore years ago, a massive dose of Clomid coursing through my system, and seeing that book called "Pregnancy Sucks." And I blinked and sniffed and thought, "Ungrateful bitches."

I keep saying that I feel better this time than I did with Noah, although Jason is often there behind me, shaking his head, because he thinks this go-round is just as awful. I'm not throwing up as much, that's for sure -- maybe four or five times total so far, with at least three of those times being more the fault of a skull-bashing migraine than traditional pregnancy nausea.

I didn't get migraines last time, though. Definitely not. And those of your who have ever suffered from migraines, pregnancy-related or otherwise, well -- you know. Migraines are more than a headache. They manage to hurt both before and after the actual head pain. You feel them in your shoulder blades, in your eyeballs, your stomach. Light hurts. Sound hurts. Movement hurts. After it goes away you're left exhausted and shaken and terrified that it will come back because you just can't fathom living through that kind of pain again. They have colored my entire world in dark, dismal hues that I can't see past right now.

I used to get migraines a lot -- in high school and my early twenties, mostly, when I was in the thick of eating disorders and jacked my blood sugar all up for the sake of size zero jeans. I never had a single headache once I got pregnant, though. The nausea was bad, I lost weight, I got slammed with anxiety attacks because OMG WHAT HAVE I DONE I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH A BABY OH SHIT, but no headaches. And even at my sickest, I really did have a deep and profound appreciation for pregnancy and all the glorious suckitude that came with it -- even if I rarely admitted that yes, wow, this sure can suck sometimes.

This time, I am happily and completely anxiety-free. Dude, I WANT this baby. Jason and I both WANT this baby. Badly. We are, simply put, so fucking excited about having another squeaky little newborn here. Another year of fat baby thighs and rapid-fire milestones and we cannot wait to hear what this little being has to say when s/he starts talking, whenever s/he chooses to start talking.

In the meantime, though, I am impatient. I want the BABY. The CHILD. The little THING in my ARMS.

The migraines -- and I've had at least a dozen of them so far -- are worse than labor. Worse than the morning sickness. They take me away from Noah and turn me into a shitty, lazy mother who leaves the TV on all day and slacks on her writing deadlines and gets short and irritable with anyone and everyone. Some days I'm okay. I get a little caffeine and watch my blood sugar and use a cold compress at the first little twinge in my eye sockets. But then there are days when we're out of easy breakfast options and Noah needs to get to some activity and we're running late and I suddenly feel my stomach lurch and my shoulder blades hurt and I know I should go lie down and take it easy but I can't, I just can't. 

And then Noah cries because we have to leave the park and I've yanked his arm too hard and scared him and Jason comes home and I yell at him to shut up and leave me alone when all he tried to do was talk about his day and make a suggestion about dinner and then because I've been in bed for hours I can't actually sleep at night and spend hours and hours pacing the house and watching crap TV until Noah wakes up exactly 20 minutes after I've managed to fall asleep.

The only pregnancy-approved painkiller option (besides Tylenol, pffffffft, I spit on you, aspirin has always been my drug of choice) would be narcotics, which my doctor doesn't want to prescribe unless the headaches continue beyond week 13, and honestly I don't really want narcotics either. Codeine, Vicodin...I don't mess with that shit when I'm NOT responsible for a vulnerable, developing being. I wouldn't fault anyone for turning to them, however, and I am not trying to be some kind of pregnant martyr, but they just aren't for me.

My parents are here this week, to help me out and care for Noah while I "rest" and "take it easy," although it's already translating more into "frantically digging myself out of the professional black hole I've made for myself over the past few half-assed weeks."

I wish I were writing funny stories about oh my gawd! Pregnancy Brain made me walk out of the house with no pants on! Ha ha ha! I wish I could look at my round belly with a sense of awe and wonder instead of, "Oh. It's just bloat. Whatever."

I wish I felt better. I wish I felt like a better mom right now. And a better pregnant lady. And less like an ungrateful bitch.

But pregnancy...well, it's not the baby. I get that this time around.  I get that my attitude towards the whole messy gestating process does not mean I have the same attitude towards the baby. They're more separate this time, since last time I couldn't really fathom anything beyond pregnancy and the hypothetical idea of a newborn who would grow up into...a kid? A person? Pshaw! Crazy talk, that.

Maybe I have my priorities more in order this time? It's not about me and a big show-offy belly and prenatal massages and piles and piles of itty bitty clothes? It's about just one fleeting step in the process of being a family? The pain of struggling to build that family is still fresh, but doesn't sting as much, because I've already been blessed worlds and worlds over.

It's a miracle and a gift and exactly what I've wanted for ages now...but it's also kicking the living shit out of me. I have three weeks to go until the second trimester, I think, I hope. I also hope it will suck less.

Yeah, pregnancy sucks. But I am one grateful bitch.

When Enough is Enough is Enough

So I was rifling through the closet today -- looking for my lost glove, of all things -- when...what's this thing? A...toddler? Oh RIGHT! My other kid. I completely forgot.

Noah's doing just fine, thank you for vaguely maybe thinking of asking. The hellacious tantrums of a few weeks back turned out to be, like many of you said, the precursor to a lovely developmental spurt. He went to bed one night saying, "Bye Dada" and woke up the next morning saying, "Bye-bye Dada go work ALL GONE!" Complete with a little hand-wringing and the perfect touch of woe during the "ALL GONE!" part, like "Yes, Dada is all gone. We are fresh out of Dadas and do not expect our next shipment for at least six to eight weeks and it just breaks my heart to have to tell you this, ma'am."

Don't get me wrong -- he can still be a willful little shit if he wants to, but 99.9999999% of the time I just adore the hell out of him.

In a couple weeks we begin "transitional testing" -- basically we start the assessment process all over again to see what (if any) services Noah will qualify for after he turns three. It can range from "nothing, there is the door and I said GOOD DAY SIR" to continued therapy to free daily preschool, courtesy of our tax dollars.

I believe I've mentioned that I already enrolled Noah in a preschool for this fall -- the assessment process is fairly maddening, as we won't find out what we qualify for until Noah actually turns three. We may have an idea, but we won't know for sure until well after the deadlines for preschool enrollment and well after all the four-digit deposits are due. (Early Intervention at least seems to know the system sucks, and promised to write a letter begging for our deposits back if it turns out that if Noah DOES qualify for the preschool program. Am hoping this would be enough, considering our chosen preschool already has a waitlist 50 families deep, so it's doubtful they will be incredibly crushed over missing the chance to educate our special little snowflake.)

I honestly don't know where we'll end up. I once felt very sure that Noah's third birthday would mark the end of our EI journey, but now? Eh?  Verbally, Noah is clearly near the top of the pack in his class-slash-therapy group, but...that's not really the best comparison for basing a decision to go mainstream on. The group isn't exactly chock-full of "typical" talkers.

Behavior-wise, again, I don't know. He's had a few really good weeks. He's definitely more comfortable with circle time and the singing and transitioning from one activity to the next, provided he gets a little extra warning time. He plays beautifully with other children. But then try to slip on a plastic-y vinyl art smock or get glue on his fingers and hoo boy. Just...hooooo. Fucking. Boy.

Today I eavesdropped on another mother discussing the results of her son's testing. He qualified for four days a week of district-sponsored preschool. I was shocked, honestly -- her son's verbal abilities seemed pretty good. She was a little shocked as well, but said the decision was made more for his sensory and behavioral problems. What behavioral problems? Well, resistance to transitions and trouble staying with group activities. Huh.

For some reason I assumed the school district's bar for free services would be set much higher. And I also assumed that my kid was going to be some kind of valedictorian of Early Intervention, because come on. Look at THAT kid. And THAT one.

But then we hang out with non-EI kids and I can't deny that Noah isn't there yet, speech-wise. Socially, he's fantastic -- he shares pretty well, he's never aggressive, he's almost painfully aware of other children's moods and feelings. But the holes and gaps are definitely there. I just don't know how important they are anymore, at least in the school district's eyes.

While Noah attended his class today, EI had the mothers meet with a parent educator/child behavioral specialist/I'm not really sure of her title. Basically a support group where everybody can talk about different challenges and problems related to speech delays and sensory problems and typical toddler drama bullshit. (I know, right? It's like, start a damn blog already, people. That's what the Internet's there for.)

She spoke to us about the transition testing process, and warned us that it will most likely be even more draining and difficult than our initial intake assessment -- simply because of the bubble Early Intervention unwittingly puts you in. During the initial assessment -- you're scared. You've just started to come to grips with the idea that there's something "wrong" with your child (or "different!" as the parent educator would cheerfully correct me). You want help. You need help. These people are here to help. They give you a plan and goals and a promise that they can help. Okay. It's going to be okay.

After months and months in the program, you see progress! Glorious progress! You see how bad it could have been and you see how far you've come. Noah had six words in August, now listen to him! Bye-bye Dada go work all gone! Look at him walk! No tippy-toes! He loves slides! He'll play in the dirt! PRAISE JEBUS, HE'S CURED!

And then people swoop back into your home with clipboards and checklists and measure that progress and tell you that hey, yeah, that's great. It's still not enough. There's still a delay, a problem, a difference. He's still not ready.

And that might not happen. And if it does, well...jeez, I can certainly think of other things I would LOVE to spend that preschool tuition on this fall. And if it doesn't, well...I'll send him to preschool with a cotton art smock and hope that it's enough. That it was all enough.

The Neenee of the Heart

When you have a speech-delayed kid, you will be constantly warned not to imitate their pronunciation, no matter how adorable it may be. When they butcher a word, you are supposed to model the correct pronunciation. You will be told this is very, very important. I have a very, very hard time remembering this.

"Buddy, do you want some muck?" I ask while pouring the milk.

"MMMMMMUCK!" he shrieks and nods his head.

"If you are a good boy, I bet you'll get a baboonay," I tell him at Trader Joe's.

"Yaaaay baboonaaaay!" he shrieks and eyes the balloons at the register.

When I tuck him at night, he asks for his neenee.

"Of course Mama will turn on your neenee," I say just before pulling the string on his favorite music box. That one is probably my favorite, since he calls ALL music -- instrumental, vocal, Snoop Dogg -- neenee.

Jason (who gets nagged with more child language development bullshiteese than anybody in the world -- "Stop! You're playing the Director Role! That's not the Tuned-In Parent! You're not O.W.L.ing it! Observe! Wait! Listen!") hears me do this and raises a silent, judging eyebrow.

"But it's so cuuuute!" I whine. "And his friend Max talks in paragraphs but still calls squirrels zaaaas because Julie thought it was funny and never told him that they aren't really called zaaaas and it's also so cuuuute!"

"One word," Jason says. "GUCKY."

Touché, dammit.

When I was a very little girl, probably a toddler, I called poop "gucky." Like...yucky. But...gooey. I don't know. My parents and siblings thought it was so cuuuuute and started using it all the time. Nobody went poop, we all went gucky.

The problem was, NOBODY TOLD ME I MADE THE DAMN WORD UP. Nobody, that is, until I used it in front of other kids. IN THE FIRST GRADE.

Not cute. Try mortifying.

Yesterday I was out shopping with Julie and Max (who cheerfully informed me that "Mas went Grandpa's house a couple days, um Amy? After baby brother come we go to California for good yaaay!" and it suddenly took all my strength to not collapse in a sobbing puddle in the men's department at Nordstrom because baby brother is due in two weeks and I have not yet been able to permanently affix myself to Julie's ankle while wailing DON'T LEAVE MEEEEE, but I'm working on it. I just got this new kind of glue off an infomercial.).

Noah heard the piano playing as we passed the escalator. "Uusic?" he asked.

I sucked in my breath and put my hand over my heart -- no! not uusic! neenee! call it neenee! -- before answering by the book.

"Yes Noah, music. Pretty music. Let's stop and listen to the music."

"Uusic," he said again, happily.

(He's also calling choo choos "trains" now all of a sudden. Will probably cost the island of Sodor millions in rebranding costs.)

Lunch Bunch Dropout

So I quit Lunch Bunch yesterday. And the one-on-one occupational therapy.

(The eyeballs of several trolls just rolled completely out of their heads and out into traffic. Quick! Run after them!)

I pretty much knew it was time to quit after last week, and then Noah's success in his Thursday Non-Lunch-Bunch class confirmed what I already suspected: Noah did not like his occupational therapist, and she didn't quite seem to like him very much either, and no, the marriage could not be saved and was probably doomed from the day she walked into our house and then tried to rub his face with the duckie washcloth 15 seconds after saying hi.

We moved OT from our house to the early intervention center. We added group therapy and a special ed teacher and yet, no progress.

I should have listened to my gut and just called and requested a new therapist. But lo, I am pussy, hear me puss out. I kept giving it one more week, another try, another chance for Noah to snap out it because dude, she hasn't touched your face in months! Chill out. Eat some pudding.

Then last week she called him a brat.

She. Called. Him. A Brat.

I cannot even tell you what it felt like to hear that -- especially after weeks of frayed nerves and nonstop worry; especially hearing it in the one place where special needs children are supposed to be understood and accepted. But because Noah was not getting any better, she decided that it was not her, it was him. Since she'd been unable to help him, his panic and screaming and refusal to do anything she asked were not sensory at all, but were "just him being a B-R-A-T."

I guess I should give her points for spelling it, since Noah was within earshot. But my heart clenched and my hair stood up on the back of my neck and Dear Internet Confessional, I have never, ever come so close to whipping my earrings out and lunging at someone's hair.

But instead, I just. Sat there. Dumbfounded. Because...mother h. fucker, Noah is one of the least bratty children in the world, swear to God, and I would really tell you if I believed otherwise. He is strong-willed, he is sensitive, he is difficult in his own difficult-to-define way. He is also calm and meticulous, empathetic beyond his years, loving and affectionate and just an all-around sweetheart. (I know, I know, he is also the most beautiful child who ever walked the earth and the smartest and his poop smells like flowers blah blah mama-delusion-cakes.)

I'm so disappointed that I just sat there. I think I maybe stammered that...uh...actually I don't think so, I think there might be some TRUST ISSUES at play here (what with her insistence that if we just forcibly hold him on top of the exercise ball, eventually he'll stop being scared of the exercise ball, GAH GAH GAH DID YOU LEARN EVERYTHING YOU KNOW ABOUT SENSORY INTEGRATION DISORDER FROM THE BACK OF A CEREAL BOX?).

I should have said something else, or marched down to the office and demanded a new therapist right then and there, but I didn't. I sat there, in a little crumpled pile of defeat.

And then, Thursday.

That occupational therapist told me that Noah did need support to stay with the group, but she gave him that support and he stayed with the group. And he needed a lot of extra time to process transitions. While they gave the rest of the class a one-minute warning between activities, Noah got one at five minutes, and four, three, two and one. He needed time alone when he got overwhelmed -- they let him hide under a slide for a few minutes whenever they sensed the noise of the room was starting to get to him. Every teacher in the room was willing and able to help him, and he clearly adored them by the end of the hour. One hour, and total preschool-ready victory was achieved.

And then, yesterday. Lunch Bunch. With her. Once again, an exhausting, tantrummy mess. Noah did sit for awhile (only after some help from a random therapist who was there to observe) and fed some plastic fruit to a puppet. But it was obvious that he was not being all he could be. She suggested that perhaps we should drop all this and let Noah focus on his Thursday class. She told me I could think about it.

I thought about it. Five minutes later I signed the paperwork agreeing to end OT services. It felt good. It was the right thing to do.

The right thing for NOW, anyway. Let me say, while the therapy itself was usually kind of tortuous, there's no denying that Noah is a totally different kid now. Her bedside manner may have left something to be desired (she actually always sort of reminded me of my very first lactation consultant, a woman who can still make me cry just by passing by me in the pediatrician's office hallway), but she gave us tons of stuff to try and activities to do and ways to incorporate therapy into everyday play. And it all worked. I mean, SLIDES. HE GOES DOWN SLIDES. He jumps! He walks up the stairs sometimes! He no longer toe-walks and rarely falls. He eats...well, he eats a few more things, but no longer seems completely repulsed by certain textures or the feel of a fork. We will continue with the class on Thursday, and if I think he needs more OT services, I will request them from the therapist from there. Noah gave her a hug last week. I think he likes her. I like her. But I think we've cleared that particular hurdle.

While his speech started improving almost immediately after we started Early Intervention, we only really got the big language explosion AFTER we saw the OT-related improvements.   Maybe I should have switched therapists, maybe it could have been easier, maybe it all would have corrected itself on its own.  In the end, though, I can't argue with success, however we found it.

I officially enrolled Noah in a preschool this morning. And I think the little brat is going to do just fine.

Run-on happy

I'm afraid if I try and do that thing where I put on my little serious writer's cap and try to write something eloquent and/or witty I will actually ruin this moment because I just can't wait to get the words out and tell everyone that Noah didn't cry at class today at all and I was in the next room the whole time supposedly getting taught how to teach my kid to talk but I really spent the whole time listening for his screams and when I didn't hear them I asked one of the veteran moms if the rooms were soundproof and she said no and I didn't believe her but when we went to join our babies for the goodbye song Noah was running around with a big smile on his face and then he ran to the teacher and sat on her lap while we all sang goodbye to him off-key and horribly and then he SAT ON A CHAIR NEXT TO HER and clapped along to the song and waved bye-bye to his friends and said "Again?" after each kid's turn and when we sang goodbye to a child named Kay Noah said "Kay!" and made the sign for the letter k and I was on the other side of the circle and burst into tears and the occupational therapist thought I was upset about something and rushed over to tell me how wonderful Noah was and how they worked extra-hard with him through the transitions and how he sat at circle time and snack time and talked so much and oh, what a smart smart smart little boy he is and I just stood there sobbing like a loon while Noah put his hands on my cheeks and said "Hi Mama" over and over and then he wouldn't let us leave until he gave all the teachers a hug and I haven't even learned their names yet but thank you thank you thank you.

My heart, it is soaring.

The Easy vs. The Good

(Fair warning here: this post is one big emo crybaby jag away from being my own LEAVE BRITNEY ALONNNNNE! video, even though it is not about Britney at all)

(But for real, people. LEAVE BRITNEY ALONNNNNNE!)

So there's this song on one of Noah's Signing Time DVDs -- it's over the end credits and has made me emit a Free-Hugs-Campaign-Like-Snorfle on more than one occasion. Rachel (Signing Time host/creator/Noah's favorite thing this side of creepy animatronic choo-choos) wrote it for her husband, presumably sometime after their first daughter was born deaf and their second daughter was born with spina bifida and cerebral palsy:

It was you and me and the whole world right before us
I couldn’t wait to start
I saw you and dreams just like everyone before us
We thought we knew what we got

And then one day I thought it slipped away
And I looked to my hands to hold on
And then one day all my fear slipped away
And my hands did so much more

So maybe we won’t find easy
But, baby, we’ve found the good
No, maybe we won’t find easy
But, baby, we’ve found the good.

And this is where I'd dissolve into a puddle of mush, because SO BRAVE! So inspirational! So RISING TO THE OCCASION!

(Bear with me, folks, it's been a hormonal day year decade.)

I've been singing that last chorus a lot this past week (in my head, of course, I have no desire to inflict that sort of suffering on my family), mostly every time I come to Typepad and stare at a blank entry page.

I'm so tired of this. Of writing the same, whiny entry about how hard therapy is and how badly Noah behaves at his little classes and trying to think of a new and "funny" way to describe a temper tantrum. And really, what's the point? This little blip in Noah's development has been documented enough. I've gotten valuable advice and support and my goodness, it's been a huge help. (Transitional objects from home! Photo album of the classroom!) But at this point, I don't really need any more reassurance that we're doing the right thing, because I know we're doing the right thing. I know it will get better, but in the meantime how many times can I write that hey, we aren't there yet?

There are plenty of blogs out there where you can read about how tough motherhood is and how much it can suck and how impossible kids are. I never wanted to be of those, particularly since this blog was always intended to be read by its very precious main subject someday.

Lately I've struggled with a lot of stuff I never wanted to be. Back in the pre-Noah days, when I bargained with God and the universe for a baby, back when I pledged a Holy Mother Christ-like level of care and love for whatever hypothetical baby I ended up with. Oh, I was going to do everything right and lovelovelove shinyrainbowunicornbutts. I was never going to yell or lose my temper or be that mom storming out of the grocery store dragging a limp-noodle screaming toddler behind her by the arm with that grim look of oh my god I will KILL the first person who even DARES look at me cross-eyed and judge my parenting.

I guess some days the best you can hope for is never again. Or maybe just that it'll happen when you're shopping at an off time, thus reducing the number of witnesses.

(Here's where the bad stand-up comedian in me wants to slide in a rimshot like, "Motherhood Would Be So Much Easier Without All These Damn Kids!" Ha! Lemme cross-stitch that onto a sweatshirt for ya.)

It's certainly not in my nature to sugarcoat anything -- more so these days than ever -- but by writing about and focusing on the Hard, I feel like I'm missing out on the Good.

On Wednesday Noah sat in my lap and ate some Cheerios and after a few minutes I slid him into a chair next to his classmates. He stayed there. He poked a piece of pineapple when asked, he shared his cup with the girl next to him, he obediently put his plate and fork in the clean-up bucket. He went to the bookshelf like the teacher told him to before resuming his temporarily paused freak-out.

On Thursday he played well with the other children during free time. He watched a boy send a car down a slide and started to go for the car before pausing to see if the other boy was really done playing with it. He used sign language to ask for a turn. The other little boy signed no, and Noah calmly went to find another car. Free time ended. Stuff happened. It was hard. But then he sat and ate a snack and drank from a juice box for the very first time.

Last night he took a pasta noodle and pressed it across his face like a mustache. He declared himself to be "a PopPop!"

It's all so very, very good.

Maybe It's Because I Forgot to Teach Him the Secret Lunch Bunch Gang Sign

So I'm turning 30 next week -- blah blah yes yes whatever not the point of this entry FOCUS people -- and when Jason asked me what I wanted, I did not even hesitate. All I wanted in the world was to not ever go back to the ruddy stinking Lunch Bunch nonsense.

He got me a MacBook instead.

Oh, I'm kidding. (Sort of. MmmmmmacBook. Shiny!) He took Noah to the class today, alone. I wish my reasons were more admirable -- to expand Jason's involvement in Noah's various therapies, to give him first-hand experience with what we're dealing with, or to maybe see if Noah behaved better without my neurotic self there. All perfectly good reasons, all perfect steaming loads of bullshit. I just didn't want to go. Don't make me. I can throw quite a tantrum myself, actually.

So Jason went and I stayed home and obsessed over Jamie Lynn Spears, clearly the current poster child for responsible, involved parenting.

It did not go well, again. Noah continued his full-scale freak-out over anything vaguely structured and bawled and clung and thrashed and screamed. Last week Jason listened to my report and wondered if maybe, JUST MAYBE, our kid was not SID or SPD , but was just an under-socialized brat who is allowed to run wild all day, which made ME freak out because I had been wailing that THIS IS ALL MY FAULT WAIT SHUT UP YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO ARGUE AND SAY THIS NOT ALL MY FAULT.

This week, Jason was a little baffled by what he witnessed. Noah was not just annoyed by being asked to sit on a chair. It wasn't like sitting on a chair at that particular moment was keeping him from the activity that he REALLY wanted to do. Noah was scared -- absolutely terrified -- of sitting in that chair. Or washing his hands. Or doing this or that or anything the teacher asked him to do.

And I think I get that. Back when I used to have anxiety attacks, I would have anxiety ABOUT my anxiety. I'd freak out before leaving the house because what would happen if I freaked out after I left the house? I was panicking about panicking.

Noah doesn't process things the way he should. I don't understand it, and obviously he doesn't understand it.  I don't know how he'll react to certain situations, and neither does he. Thus: someone asks him to sit in a chair, he doesn't understand why, he doesn't know what that person is going to do to him once he's sitting on that chair, they might sing or touch his face or hold his hand or do any number of things that set him off. Therefore: I am not going to give you that chance, motherfucker, and I am not sitting in that chair.

I don't know. Maybe?

Someone commented on the entry about last week's class and said, basically, what's the point? Don't go if it stresses you out, you're making a bigger deal of this than you should, he'll outgrow it, etc.

I would love to not go. I loved not going today! I love that there's no class next week and I won't have to think about it until January. But. I'm going back in January. We'll actually be there two days a week then, because Noah's also enrolled in a Hanen program that starts up soon. (Big perk for that one? NO MAMA IN THE ROOM. MAMA HIDES IN ROOM DOWN THE HALL. MAMA'S IPOD GOES UP REAL GOOD AND LOUD.)

For us -- personally, and our situation is not your situation and I would never, ever presume that there is only one "right" way to do things and Lo, We Are Doing It -- the therapy is kind of a no-brainer. We either deal with this behavior now, or we deal with it in September, when we get a call from Noah's preschool about Noah causing disruptions in class, when Noah is three and no longer qualifies for help from Early Intervention and we're dealing with a whole other class of services. Taking a wait-and-see-if-he-outgrows-it approach seems unnecessarily risky. Sure, he might! He might not. Then what?

And I know. He's two. Two-year-olds push and test and can be serious, serious assholes. It's hard to really explain the many nuances of Noah's issues in a blog entry -- how yes, he's only two but...still. Something's...off.

Jason saw it today. Something...different. Something wrong, something whatever. I guess I have to ask you to take our word for it, or at least not to call us neurotic to our faces.

There's a small window, I think, before "issues" that interfere with behavior kind of meld into "behavior" that interferes with living life. There's a lot of sitting in preschool. In chairs! People sing! Badly!

I'm proud of our boy and the job we've done -- I know he feels safe and confident at home. He loves me. He strokes my face and hair and says "Oh Mama," before covering me in kisses. When he came home today from class he wanted me to hold him and cuddle him and tell him everything was just fine. I wish that were enough, but I know my job doesn't end with preparing him for the wilds of the basement playroom. There's a big scary world outside of our little house, and I can't stay home on Wednesdays and pretend that Noah's ready for it.

In the Meantime We Got it Hard

Noah's occupational therapy has been...not going well. To put it mildly. We've made so little progress -- OT arrives at door, Noah bolts, spends entire session wailing from under the dining room table because he. Does. NOT. Want. To. Ride. On. A. Towel. Christ. Almighty. -- so his therapist suggested moving his sessions to the EI center and enrolling him in a couple structured class-type things.

Today was the first of those structured class-type things. The Lunch Bunch, they call it. For kids with oral motor problems and sensory food issues. On paper, it sounds lovely -- a little circle time, feeding plastic food to a puppet, then setting the table and eating some lunch, cleaning up and a story. Every other week the kids make the lunch; other weeks you bring it from home. One food they like and another they don't, which they will then be encouraged to lick or kiss or even just to TOUCH it while putting it in the clean-up bucket.

So it's a lot of kids who eat crackers and shriek at the sight of lunch meat, basically. Our kind of people.

But...oh God. I don't even know where to begin. There are no words for how badly this class went.

Noah screamed. And screamed. And. Screamed. He screamed when asked to sit on a little chair. He screamed when people sang. He screamed at the puppet and he screamed at the plastic fruit and he screamed at the sink and the plastic plates and his apple slices.

He wept and clung to me and then smashed his head into my face. The little girl next to us was obligingly kissing her ham and the little boy next to her was using a spoon to eat some yogurt and before I could help it, I was sobbing too. Big fat tears that I couldn't stop or hide because hello! I am the biggest failure in this room and I don't know how to make him stop screaming and sit in the chair and my face hurts now and while I am really, really heartbroken over how hard this is for him, JESUS CHRIST, it's a fucking CHAIR that you SIT ON, WHAT THE FUCK.

I wanted to bundle him up and go back to the car, to hug him and tell him he never has to go back.

I also wanted to leave him there and go back to the car and drive far, far away from him and stay there for days.

Instead, we stayed. I pulled myself together and wiped up my mascara smudges while everybody kindly looked the other way.  Noah threw himself down on a mat and screamed some more. We managed to get him to toss his uneaten apple slices in the clean-up bucket, even though the reward for cleaning up (you get to go read a book! and sit on more chairs!) resulted in more screaming.

45 minutes and several burst eardrums later, it was over. Noah was red, sweaty and tear-stained and I was filling out a form that asked me to comment on the day's activities, which ended up being a lot of Not Applicables and HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAAAAs.

We had a one-on-one OT session right after, during which Noah was an angel. Of course. He jumped on a trampoline and rode on a little car and rolled around in a pile of pillows. I sat there and couldn't stop the awkward, shaken crying as I struggled to tell his therapist that really, I swear to God, I'm a good mother. I discipline, he listens to me, we get compliments on his behavior from strangers, he's loved and happy, we just don't have a lot of structure to our days and I've been feeling kind of blue lately and my best mom friend is moving to California in two months and I just found out yesterday and I think I should go back to work but we want another baby but I can't get pregnant but God, I have no business having another baby, 20 minutes ago I was ready to slap the shit out of the one I already have.

(OK, I don't think I quite said all of that out loud. At least I hope I didn't.)

She told me it will get easier. That some kids are just like this, that we'll figure it out and get him used to structure and stimuli and other children breathing his air and daring to sing in his presence. That yes, clearly his sensory problems are affecting his ability to deal with life and chairs, but everyone here understands. They know he's struggling because their kids struggle too. They've all been that mother -- the one with the out-of-control wigged-out Jekyll-and-Hyde child, terrified that everyone is judging you and your bratty kid and why doesn't she DO something to MAKE him stop crying -- and anyway, her point was that it will get easier.  Some day, at some point.

But probably not before next Wednesday at 11:30 am in room C7. See you there. Bring earplugs.

71*

Last night Jason and I were snacking on some cheese -- the stinky, ooky, weirdo cheeses that scare everybody else but oh God, I could eat an entire wheel, hell, I could build a car out of them and then eat all four wheels -- and Noah came over and asked for some. He signed cheese, over and over, and would not accept our explanation that this was probably not the kind of cheese he'd like. He insisted, so Jason gave him a bite.

He gingerly touched it to his tongue, and then promptly handed it back to Jason.

"Yuck," he said, clear as day.

I wonder when we'll stop celebrating every word. When we'll just nod and shrug and go on with our meal instead of pumping our fists in the air and laughing, like holy crap, did you just hear that? I wonder when I'll move him out of the "speech-delayed, present tense" and into the "speech-delayed, past tense, can you believe this kid used to ever not talk?", and when I'll stop flinching when strangers ask him questions he can't answer (What's your name? How old are you? You must be talkin' up a storm these days, huh?) and when family members ask me what sign he's making for the millionth time.

He's catching up, bit by bit and word by word. I feel like he's the least speech-delayed kid in early intervention -- like we already have no business being there anymore, OT issues aside -- but I still can't quite shake the worry that he's still not quite where he "should" be. Even though I honestly don't even know where, exactly, that is.

Four months ago, before the "diagnosis" and signing and speech therapy, he had five words, maybe six. Today, as of right now, including "hurt" which he just said for the first time five minutes ago, he has 71. I know that because I've written each and every one down. I wonder when I'll stop doing that too, like I did with the list of signs when I realized that he basically knew every sign on every DVD.

I'm ready to let go of the labels and the worry. I'm even ready to let go of the lists.

But I'm not ready to stop the celebrating.

I kind of hope I never will.

Air of Mystery

While there are very few topics I consider off-limits for this blog, I made the random decision ages ago that I would not publicly document the potty-training process.

Thus, please accept my baffled, sort-of impressed and mostly stony silence today. I don't know what I am doing, but that boy will do anything -- GODDAMN ANYTHING -- in exchange for dessert.

***
I spent most of the weekend planting bulbs in the garden. Me. Planting bulbs. In the dirt, where there are worms and it was cold and I forgot to change my pants so I was the asshole planting bulbs in low-rise skinny jeans who every once in awhile would remember to yank down on her sweatshirt, but wouldn't take her gardening gloves off so her entire back and half of her ass were covered in dirt by the end, and honestly, what are the odds ANY of those bulbs are going to bloom in the spring? Bad. Slim to none. And I am quite bitter about it already, and I spent the morning sending real estate links to Jason, subtly suggesting that we move back into a condo, because eff. This. Dirt. Shit.

***
Speaking of Jason, he replaced the light bulb, but not the fixture.

"I wouldn't want to deprive you of blog material," he said.

Oh, and a friend came over for lunch and wanted to know how I got all that magic marker off the lamp, at which point I realized. DEFACEMENT. YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG.

***
Words Noah has busted out with in the past week or two: arm, hand, ear, hair, teeth, sock, green, cold, again, another, book, bath, bike, bee, cow, moo, clue, Steve, sit, chair, think, sad, wet, hi, yes, mine, me, my, heart, you, love.

Read the last four again, and just imagine all the fumbly, wonderful ways a two-year-old can use those in a sentence.

Checking in

We're good. We're super good.

I had a nice snotty ol' weepfest this morning, reading your comments, and I may have possibly had an imaginary conversation with you (ME: Buh-buh-but I don't FEEL brave! YOU: Go Amy, Go No-ah, Go, Go, Go No-ah!) and then I wandered off to look at lolcats, or something.

Anyway, I needed that. Thank you, everybody, for being so kind. You guys are such a help, you don't even know. You make me a better mother, honestly, by allowing me to sometimes skip the funny and just sort of...BLAH! EEK! GAH! all over the place, and then by helping me through it with all your stories and support.

I've started about five or six DEEPLY META entries about this and the Internetosphere and modern motherhood, but I've deleted them all because they all stink of post-divorce celebrity press releases and belly button lint. (So...sort of like Paris Hilton's perfumes, then.)

Instead, please accept this awkward hug and/or affectionate punch in the arm.

Hug.

Punch.

Anybody else watching Pushing Daisies? Ahem.

Anyway, like I said, we're good.

We're having one of those lazy days here -- it's dark and raining, so we all overslept. Breakfast lasted until almost 10 am and I didn't shower until 2 pm and we ate lunch on the kitchen floor, sharing a bowl of macaroni and cheese while singing along to Raffi. Noah said "more" for the first time ever.

Yep. We're really, really good.

(I'm not sure what I'm more impressed by...the letter sorting or how he very almost has KTHXBYE spelled out.)

Untitled, for Lack of a Title

Once again, I am blown away by the response to Monday's post. (I would link to it but my head feels like it is about to split open and I'm trying not to spend much time looking at a computer screen. Or read. Which means I am typing this entry while staring at the ceiling. I am n0t kiddign.) And once again, it sounds so trite to simply say, "Thank you for all your comments and emails." But...thank you for all your comments and emails.

I'm still a bundle of emotions and opinions about That Thing From Monday. Let's recap!

DENIAL!

I think they may be full of shit. Like a lot of you mentioned, when you go looking for problems, you're going to find them. Especially when it comes to sensory processing disorder. If I said, no, Noah doesn't usually sit still and read books, he likes to tear around the house like a linebacker who just won big at the dogfight, they'd tell me that oh my goodness, your child is not processing sensory movement properly and is seeking extra sensory input with a constant need for motion.

Since Noah does sit still and read books, well oh my goodness, he's seeking to lessen his sensory input because he isn't able to control his body in space.

I just made all that shit up, by the way. Please don't use this blog as a diagnostic tool for SPD. The only real guidance I can offer is that one about the weevils.

But seriously. They asked if Noah was "clumsy." If he "tripped a lot" or "fell more than other children his age." HE IS A TODDLER. ONE WHO TODDLES. I couldn't quite figure out what yardstick they were comparing him against. Yeah...he...falls. Don't...toddlers...fall? Sometimes? What is sometimes? What is a lot? What day is it, and is it noon yet, because dear God, I would like some wine.

ANGER! GAR SMASH!

Seriously, WHY? Why is this happening? Why me, why my baby, why why why whyyyyyyy. I have really tried to avoid the sad little pity party over here, since my God, get a grip, it could all be so much worse.

And a lot of mothers have emailed me with Worse. I've read all about Worse. I'm exceedingly grateful that  y'all are so understanding that Worse doesn't matter when it's your child. You're entitled to a little myopic thinking every now and again, at least at first.  Or maybe at first, and then again whenever the next layer of the special-needs onion (parfait? onion parfait?) gets peeled away.

SAD! VERY SAD! BOO HOO WITH SIGN LANGUAGE TEARS!

I spent a few hours with my friend on Monday. Her son is two months younger than Noah. And oh, man -- all spectacular progress aside -- he's left Noah in the dust. He talks in sentences and paragraphs. He can tell you what he did that day and what he did the day before. He'll ask to sit on the potty and tell you which animals live at the zoo and which animals live on a farm. He'll ask me where my dog Sahba is, whether Jason is at work, whether Noah would like some juice.

Every once in awhile Noah would wander over and join the conversation.

"ABALL!" he'd announce, holding...yep, that's a ball, baby. Good job.

Sigh.

ACCEPTANCE! BELEAGUERED, TIRED ACCEPTANCE!

Fine. Weekly speech therapy, weekly occupational therapy. Can't hurt, might help.

Fine. Maybe Noah does wobble a little more than most kids. Maybe he is a little old to be tripping over his feet as much as he does. Maybe 25 months is a little old to finally be celebrating baby's first zerbert.

But I like my kid the way he is. You can call it a disorder, but I know.

I know perfect when I see it.

Faster faster more more more

Sorry, sorry. Forgive the pun, but I needed a few hours to process everything. I was extremely cheerful for about 10 minutes after the therapists left this morning, but after describing the evaluation to a couple friends I realized that oh my God, I really just want to go to bed for days.

(And Girl Scout cookies. I really, really want some Girl Scout cookies.)

The evaluation went well, in that Noah easily qualified for weekly occupational therapy sessions for oral and gross motor skills and a host of sensory-processing issues.

It didn't go well, in that Noah like, easily qualified. For a lot more than I was expecting, honestly.

Every question, every answer, every knowing "mmm-hmmm" rattled me more and more, since I would describe what I thought was something fairly innocent -- something that makes Noah so unique and special -- and they would mark another symptom off the SPD checklist.  He's cautious and thoughtful and would rather sit and read books than dive-bomb off the couch.  Well, that's probably because Noah is not processing his responses to physical movement properly.

Wait. What?

He toe-walked the entire time...something we thought he'd more or less outgrown...and at one point he wobbled and fell over while standing completely still. His speech therapist said she's seen him do that before. I bit my lip and tried not to cry, because my God, I never noticed.

I've preached and clucked that sometimes, the single best thing you can do for your child is admit that something is wrong. Today I had to put their checklist where my mouth is, and I didn't like it.

I'd been thinking about this comment by zdoodlebub all weekend:

Nothing in the future will ever come as close to all the emotions and fears you had the first time someone confirmed that, yes, there may in fact be something wrong with your perfect child. You are doing the work and thankfully you are blessed with professionals who are on task and proactive. Emotionally, however - it's all downhill from here. That mommy-vulnerability blister is now a callus. It may act up when you have to wear new shoes, but not for long.

So true. Ridiculously true.

The first time around, with the speech delay, was terrifying. It was huge. It was a wig-out of spectacular proportions.

This time I'm just sort of...cranky. Skeptical. Done. Worried about how I'll get all my writing deadlines done with two weekly therapy sessions.

Worried that there's something else I'm missing. Something that's just waiting to march into my house, clipboard in hand, and ask me where the hell I've been, what with my kid walking into walls and climbing down stairs with a two-handed, white-knuckled death-grip on the railing.

***

There's no doubt in mind that if I ever needed to throw myself into oncoming traffic in order to save Noah, I would. Without hesitation.

In fact, the only part of that imaginary scenario that makes me anxious is the fear that I wouldn't be able to get my body in front of that car fast enough.

Over it, Under it

Noah's getting his oral motor skills evaluated by an occupational therapist on Monday.

He's made incredible progress over the past month and a half -- it's been hard to know what necessitates an update or not. Sit? Dessert? Hop, tick-tock? Clue? Big truck? The way he imitates Cesar Millan's patented TSSST! sound when Ceiba barks?

But. One problem. I'm the only one who can understand him.

(Car + Truck = Cahck = Noah joyfully shrieking BIG COCK! at every possible occasion)

His speech therapist doesn't think he's like most children she treats, since he's clearly ready and willing to communicate at a much higher level than he is. (Based on the way he plays and the signs he uses.) But something is stopping him. Something is causing him to make an M sound with his front teeth sticking out over his lip, and to go out of his way to avoid sounds that create vibrations in his mouth. Something is definitely up with his pronunciation.

He won't pucker his lips or make a fish face or eat with a spoon. Food must be extremely crunchy (cracker-like) or practically mush. He won't let us touch his mouth and brushing his teeth takes two people holding him down and ends with at least two people crying. He still won't blow on the damn bubble wand.

Once again, we're back in Squishy Diagnosis Land, since I imagine 99.9% of you read that paragraph and went, "Uh, honey? He's TWO."

His speech therapist thinks, when you put the whole picture together, that Noah is not processing sensory input from his mouth correctly. Oral defensiveness. Eh. Fine.

I'm not worried about Monday's assessment -- his regular therapist will be there, she hand-picked the OT and I am confident in her ability to advocate for Noah. (She's pushing for weekly OT sessions.) It will be here at home, and mostly consists of me feeding Noah a snack while the OT watches. (Although I AM a bit concerned about serving the best snack -- what IS the proper menu for showing off poor oral motor skills? Cheerios? Granola bars? Duck l'orange served with herbed mashed potatoes and paired with 2007 Green Juice?)

The assessment will hopefully tell us more about the nature of Noah's delay and I'm sure I'll get more handouts on strategies and activities and checklists. Make Mealtime Less of a Wartime! Better Speech Through Stickers! 101 Things You Should Be Doing With Your Child Every Single Day If You Want Them To Not Flunk Kindergarten! Ready...Set...Bribe!

I'm encouraged and discouraged and neutral and anxious and tired and ready to fight some more. Again.

Updates On Things You Didn't Even Know You Cared About

(With more movie title format weirdness. I don't know why I'm having trouble letting it go. Possibly I think I am clever. Possibly tomorrow I will realize the  truth.)

Captain Corelli's Mandoline

Jason's thumb tip appears to be growing back. Or so he says, because I refuse to look at it. He keeps trying to make me look at it. I keep threatening to no longer help him with his shirt buttons.

By the way, this is what a mandoline looks like. This is also what a mandoline THAT IS BEING USED PROPERLY looks like. Take away the jolly little plastic vegetable hat and you'll see what went so very wrong for Jason. Laws of physics, people. Don't fuck with them.

Cujo and the Chocolate Factory

Our dinner party guests brought dessert on Saturday...a deliciously decadent chocolate cake. So decadent, in fact, that we accidentally left about half of it sitting on the kitchen counter overnight, after we all slumped off to bed in a food coma.

The next morning, after determining that it was indeed too stale to eat, even as a toaster-breakfast-cake thing, we threw it in the trash. Which somehow ended up sitting by the back door because SOMEBODY WHO POSSIBLY IS DEFICIENT IN THE THUMB DEPARTMENT didn't feel like taking the 15 steps or so to the garbage can in the back yard.

I walked into the kitchen a little later and saw the bag ripped open...and Ceiba literally up to her beady little eyeballs in chocolate cake.

"CEIBA!" I screamed. "NO! STOP! IT'LL GO RIGHT TO YOUR THIGHS!"

We called the vet in a panic and tried to figure out how to describe exactly how much cake she'd eaten ("Well, there were about three or four slices left -- small slices, you know, girl slices -- and she ate about half of them, plus all the icing, although a lot of it is still on her ears") and also what kind of chocolate she'd eaten since we didn't have the ingredient list. They basically told us to sit around and watch her for a few hours, and that even if she wasn't poisoned, she'd probably be puking and having diarrhea a fair amount.

We sat.

We watched.

We Googled the best way to check a dog's pulse.

We had Noah's plastic splash mat all ready in case we were too far away from the back door.

Damn dog is FINE. Not even a single runny poop. Cast-iron stomach, I swear.

This mean I can has chocolate chip waffles now?

Dork: The Movie

One really, really weird thing about parenthood that I was completely unprepared for is how your definition of "celebrity" changes. Anyone who makes your kid happy is totally your new rock star.

Suddenly you develop a little crush on your elderly pediatrician and you start trying to figure out which of the Wiggles is the cutest and honestly, I would drive two hours to take Noah to meet Joe from Blue's Clues because OMFG JOE FROM BLUE'S CLUES.

So with that said, I want you to just try to imagine the hysterical, Beatles-worthy scream that erupted from my mouth when I got the following attachment from an employee at Signing Time:

I cannot even explain the full effect this photo has on me. It makes me want to be a better person.

P.S. My next post is up over at the Fall Shopping Guide thingie. If you are thinking, "Hmm, perhaps this Amy girl is a little weird," please check it out to have all your worst fears confirmed.

P.P.S Contractually obligated to link to it. Sorry. But not, because = whore.

P.P.P.S Also sorry for the dearth of Noah photos this week...I am selfishly hoarding them all until I've finalized my choices for his little birthday video/photo montage thing.

P.P.P.P.S My music choice for this year's video is William Shatner. I am officially the biggest weirdo I know.

The Absolutely Everything I Have Learned About Speech Delays Entry

This one is going to be all boring gritty speech delay details, y'all, with assvice and requests for further assvice and probably a minimum of I-got-drunk-and-fell-down-ness, even though I DID fall down this weekend and still have gravel in my palm. I wasn't drunk, I was just running late for a showing of the latest Harry Potter movie (and of course by "latest" I mean "the one that came out months ago") and I tripped and fell off my so-last-season shoes.

(Request for Non-Speech-Delay Assvice: How do you get teeny little specks of gravel out of your palm, especially after the skin seems to have healed right over them? And if there is no way to get it out short of re-slicing your hand open, is there any harm in leaving it there, i.e. setting off metal detectors at the airport?)

ANYWAY. Most of you can probably skip this entry, and just let us speech-delay-type people talk amongst ourselves. (There is a really lame joke somewhere in that sentence, but I AM NOT HERE FOR JOKES TODAY PEOPLE. I AM NOT YOUR MONKEY.)

(I AM SO YOUR MONKEY.)

Part the First: Fish Oil? Le Fuck?

This is something we researched on our own and decided to try. (Translation: neither our pediatrician nor the Early Intervention folks mentioned it.) Not that it's some kind of crazy New Age moonshine quackery, or anything. It's good ole' cod liver oil.

The book The Late Talker (which is excellent, by the way, and echoes most of what our speech therapy has taught us) has a ton of info on the benefits for speech-delayed children. Fish oil is high in essential fatty acids -- omega-3s, DHA, all that jazz. If you formula-fed, you probably remember seeing DHA stamped all over the packaging. Breast milk has it too, although I doubt your boobs were similarly labeled. DHA is good for the nervous system, and thus, fish oil is suggested for children with neurological problems -- SPD, autism, apraxia, etc. Since we suspected Noah's speech delay was, in part, neurologically based, we opted to add more fatty acids to his diet. These are naturally found in oily fishy fish, but of course: 1) mercury is also found in oily fish, and 2) not many two-year-olds really dig sardines.

Luckily, thanks to Whole Foods and other vitamin/health-food-type places, you can easily find flavored versions that 1) are independently purity tested for mercury, and 2) taste like candy! Sort of. We've tried Spectrum's lemon-flavored Cod Liver Oil and Coromega's orange-flavored version. Both can be easily hidden in juice, although the thicker and tangier the juice, the better. Once again, Trader Joe's Green Plant Sludge Juice Product to the rescue. You can hide ANYTHING in that shit, people. For real. I've also mixed it into jars of tart-flavored baby food (mango, banana, etc.) and then added that to regular juices. (The oil tends to separate from watery juices unless you thicken them up.)

We give Noah one teaspoon daily. You can also try flaxseed oil if your child is allergic to fish or rejects the flavored versions. Talk to your doctor. All warranties on Amalah-branded advice are void where prohibited, which is to say everywhere.

Part the Second: Sippy Cups With Straws? Le Fuckity Fuck?

A lot of smart smart commenters with experience in speech delays and Early Intervention mentioned this one to me early on: get rid of sippy cups with spouts and switch to straws. This was also the first piece of advice we got from the speech pathologist who evaluated Noah.

I've mentioned that Noah's pronunciation is odd, and his mouth positions are not quite right -- even when he says words he's "mastered." He says Mama very clearly, but it's nasal, and his top teeth jut over his bottom lip. This is not the proper (or easiest!) way to produce the M sound. (Say it yourself to see what I mean.) He doesn't want to put his lips together, which makes saying a whole lot of words a whole lot harder.

The idea behind the straws is to flex those mouth muscles and get his tongue out of the way. The speech pathologist even did a doodle for us about the position of the mouth and tongue when drinking from a spout sippy cup and how it's all wrong for speech. (Although let me interject that your choice of sippy cup is SO NOT A BIG DEAL if your child is not speech delayed. Don't freak out and panic because your 13-month-old can't use a straw yet. Don't go filing a class-action lawsuit against the Playtex Insulator. This is one of those "if you suspect a problem, give this a shot" sort of things.)

Other activities we do for Noah's mouth muscles include: blowing bubbles, whistles and kazoos, applying Chapstick and making an exaggerated mmmmmmmwa-lipsmack kind of sound, and the whole facial-expressions-in-the-mirror thing.

Part the Third: Have You Tried Talking To Your Kid, Dumbass?

Obviously, we've always talked to Noah. We read books, we sing songs, we use words and gestures and ask questions and all that good stuff. But it clearly wasn't working.

My friend Julie can literally teach her son Max new words in about five minutes. She repeats the word a few times and then asks him to say it. And without fail, he parrots it back and within a day or two is using it correctly and spontaneously on his own. And my heart would HURT, y'all, because I would try the same thing with Noah for hours and days on end with no results. I didn't understand what I was doing wrong, or even worse: I didn't understand what was wrong with Noah.

The short answer is that I was not approaching language in a way that worked for Noah, and duh, there was NOTHING wrong with Noah except that he is Noah and not Max. Noah needs repetition of sounds, not words. He is hesitant to try new sounds, and without mastering new sounds there is simply no way he can attempt new words. Max has a natural knack for mimicry, while Noah is fighting those underdeveloped mouth muscles, so we were frustrating him with our constant requests to "say plane! can you say plane?" He couldn't say plane because he couldn't make the P sound, and why should he work so hard on the P sound when he can just call a plane a "na" and get his point across?

So life in our home is now life with that guy from Police Academy who did all the sound effects. Everything makes a sound. Whoosh! Crash! Zip! Pop! Everything is BIG and EXAGGERATED. When we blow bubbles we jump on them and run after them and yell POP at the top of our lungs. Noah thinks this is HILARIOUS, and I swear to God, 15 minutes after his first therapy session I managed to get him to say POP along with me. We'd gone through probably 17 bottles of bubbles in his little life and yet it never occurred to me to focus on POP instead of BUBBLE.

(He says bubble now too. *headsmack*)

We also hold words back from him. Everything is a fill-in-the-blank quiz, and instead of rushing to give him the word (provided it's something we know he knows already), we stay silent and wait for him to say or sign it. If he can't, we wait for him to look at us before we say it. The best time to do this is when we're reading a familiar book or singing a familiar song.

For example: Noah knows Goodnight Moon by heart, but we used to hold him on our lap, facing away from us. We would say the word ("Goodnight...light") and he would point to the correct object on the page. Great for cognition, but it's a lousy approach for communication.

Now we read it facing each other. We say, "Goodnight...." and wait for him to volunteer the next word. If he doesn't, we wait until he's looking at our face. "Light." That way he's watching our lips form the word. Sure, there's something not so cozy about reading books standing up while Noah sits on the changing table, but hey, kids love thinking they know something you don't, so if pretending that I have no damn clue whether the little house or the young mouse comes next gets Noah to talk, so be it.

Part the Fourth: Sign Language & Me & My Mea Culpa

Yes, we probably all remember me and the Bilingual Sign Language Genius Child at Gymboree and how her pushy, over-achieving mother bugged me. Yes, we all know that I was very wrong and mean and yes, of course I have wondered if pursuing baby sign language early on might have saved us from a lot of stress and frustration. I feel terrible that I let my own prejudices against the type-A supermoms keep me from trying out something that Noah clearly connects with and benefits from.

It's another example of how having any type of parenting "belief" is often a one-way ticket to parenting folly. If you wholeheartedly subscribe to a particular approach -- be it co-sleeping, CIO, extended breastfeeding, spanking, whatever -- I can pretty much guaran-goddamn-tee that you will birth a child who will end up benefiting from the polar opposite of what you believe is the "right" way to do things.

But what's done is done. The important thing is that Noah is picking up more and more signs every day and all I have to do is ask him if it's signing time (move your index fingers in a circle, point at invisible watch) and he jumps up and down and runs to the TV and starts flapping his hands and fingers all over the place. It's like the ASL equivalent of jabberwocky.

Some assvice about Signing Time:

1) If your child is over 12 months, skip the Baby Signing Time DVDs and go directly to My First Signs. Noah was beyond underwhelmed by Baby Signs, which is very tinkly and quiet and features babies doing the signs, but was instantly hooked on the regular series, which has catchier music and bigger kids. Noah LOVES bigger kids. Bigger kids are worth imitating. (I'm giving the Baby Signs DVDs to a friend with a newborn, and I'm sorry to every woman who will ever have a baby within my social circle: You are getting Signing Time DVDs and a panty, wild-eyed sermon from me.)

2) Watch the DVDs with your kid, brainiac. Don't put a new DVD on and walk away, because your child will later start signing something that he learned from that DVD and you'll be all...uhhhh... Not that this...happened...to me...or anything.

3) It takes Noah about three viewings before I start seeing new signs. He'd certainly be happy just watching My First Signs over and over and over again, but since we have the whole set I feel obligated to switch it up. Plus I might shoot myself if I have to listen to the Silly Pizza song again. We watch one DVD a day, right after his nap. I always do the signs, and then I tap his chest to indicate "Noah's turn" and give him the chance to try. Like his speech, he generally doesn't try new signs until he feel he can do them perfectly (I've caught him practicing alone in his room, using his picture books) (*bites knuckle from the adorableness*). The signs he picks up the fastest are the ones I use the most, so be ready to use signs whenever possible and to nag your significant other about using them too, because COME ON, DON'T MAKE ME THE ONLY IDIOT OVER HERE.

Now I have a question for...hmmm...well, for the four people who have probably made it this far without falling asleep. Noah wants more signs. We haven't made it through the entire DVD collection since I don't want to overwhelm him, but in just day-to-day life he is constantly gesturing that he wants to know the sign for things that I label for him. Like, now that he knows the sign for milk, cheese, apple, banana and cracker, he wants the sign for pasta. And tomato. And rice. He knows the sign for car, but what about bike? That's a bike, Mama, not a car. We're definitely not at finger-spelling yet, and I am clueless. Is there a good book or online resource where I can look signs up that aren't on the DVDs? And quickly? And possibly on an iPhone?

Speechless

Noah's vocabulary, two months ago: aball, adada, ababy, sort-of star, sort-of banana, sort-of car.

Noah's vocabulary, today and right now: aball, adada, amama, ababy, star, banana, car, truck, choo choo, boo boo, bye bye, bubble, pop, singing, bib, eat, ruff ruff, TV, yum, cat, bike, box, bag, hot.

He knows the signs for eat, more, shoes, cracker, cold, ball, star, banana, bread, play, hurt and cry.

He hardly ever tantrums anymore and walks flat-footed most of the time. He invents games and makes jokes and follows directions. He uses his imagination and knows most of the alphabet. His favorite book is Olivia and he likes to pretend to eat her spaghetti and meatballs. He actually eats spaghetti and meatballs. He likes to holler BYE BYE PEE PEE at the toilet. He thinks farting is hilarious. He thinks Dada is a god but when he is hurt or sad he only wants Mama. He wants you to chase him, to catch him, to tickle him and make him dizzy and then when the game gets to be a little much he wants to cuddle and listen to your heartbeat for awhile. He would like some yums. He would like a banana, Mama. Banana. More.

We've only had three sessions of speech therapy so far. We've worked hard; we've changed our entire way of talking and playing; we put fish oil in his juice and I teach Jason signs after Noah goes to bed. People have rolled their eyes at us in public, probably because of our exaggerated repetition and bottomless supply of signs. I imagine they think we're being pushy.  I imagine they don't understand Noah's odd pronunciation like we do, and I'm sure they definitely don't understand why each new consonant sound or sign that Noah imitates makes me clap my hands over my mouth with joy, or why I am so proud of a two-year-old who may have just possibly buzzed like a bee for the very first time.

It's all happening faster than any of us expected -- his therapist can't even believe it.  His progress is amazing.

I find myself at a loss when I try to describe the changes we see. I just don't have the words.

Luckily, I think he'll have them soon.

Forget the children, won't somebody think of the expensive electronics?

Noah started his speech therapy this morning. I wish I had something to really say about it -- something inspiring or hopeful or at least a "this is the first day of the last of my eardrums" sort of thing.

But despite all my many preparations (I vacuumed the couch cushions! I wore mascara!), our first speech therapy session was fairly anticlimactic, and was more along the lines of "a nice lady showed up with a bag of toys just like the toys Noah already has and taught me how to actually play with Noah's toys, because I fail at Toddler Toy Sound Effects 101."

And while there's absolutely nothing wrong with that, I am a little too wigged out to go into more detail.  Because as soon as our speech therapist left,  I managed to drop my iPhone in the toilet. Because I also fail at LIFE.

Daaaaaad! She's trying to look all involved and capable for the camera again, make her quit it.

Multimedia

Okay, now that I think we've got everything working with the new design, and now that my designer is off to Ecuador, thus fleeing the country and my emails, let me see if I can completely blow it the fuck up by posting a video window that will probably be too wide for the margins. Come on, it'll be fun!

It seems like people are still questioning the proper pronunciation of "Amalah." AIM-a-la. Like how you pronounce Amy? AIM-ee? Oh, whatever, here's me having a conversation with my dog about it.

AIM-a-la from amalah and Vimeo.

I probably should have enunciated Ceiba's name a little better too, now that I think about it. Her name is SAY-bah. Again, whatever, I don't even correct our vet anymore.

Just be happy I didn't name my kid D'Artagnaienalyah or something. Because you know it was on our short list.

Speaking of Noah, hey! Remember that time we qualified for free speech therapy? Our first session is on Tuesday morning.

He's made some progress in the past few weeks, although nothing to suggest that a true language explosion is right around the corner -- he's still gaining language right in step with a five- or six-month delay, but progress is progress, and I'm extremely confident that he's going to respond really well to the therapy. Plus, it's like free babysitting. I plan to paint my toenails.

We scored a gigantic set of Signing Time DVDs this week. My expectations were...not very high, since I've been faithfully signing (More! Milk! Eat! All done! Cookie! Cracker! WTF!) with Noah for over a month now and he's shown the same level of interest as back when I tried the infant signing with him. Which to say, zero. Mom, you're so lame.

But we started watching them about two days ago, and Noah...well, he likes them, but he likes pretty much everything on the glowing teevee box, especially since we've drastically limited his intake of Dora and Blue.

Well, let's not get CRAZY here. We do need to be good playdate hosts, now.

He wanders in and out of the room, which is fine, since I prefer that to the enthralled, slack-jawed video stare (see, uh, above), but I doubted he was actually taking any of the signs in, especially since he continued to pointedly ignore my clumsy attempts to sign along.

This morning he finished his milk and cereal and then, without a moment's hesitation, he said "eat" for the very first time while making the sign for "more."

Uh. Holy crap.

Baby Einstein? You just got PWN3D.

That's Hott

I wrote this sign as a reminder for the window guys, who are here today to finally install our long-awaited new and non-crap windows, but I'm finding it extremely helpful for myself, as I keep walking into the bathroom, noticing the sign and making a panicked run up the stairs, cursing the terrible inconvenience of not being able to use the toilet closest to my body at all times, and finally remembering how I used to live with just one toilet that was on a different floor about 99% of the time, even while pregnant, and I wonder: where the fuck was my medal?

In other news, did I mention the new windows? The team descended on our house about an hour ago and I am surrounded by a literal symphony of destruction as they smash and destroy the old (chipped peeling drafty non-stay-upping) windows and there is no better sound in the world. I'm tempted to ask them to leave one behind for me to take a baseball bat to, Office-Space style, in the backyard.

Jason and I had a little anniversary thing last week -- nine damn years, he's been putting up with my nonsense -- so we celebrated this weekend by pawning Noah off on the in-laws and heading downtown to a hotel. I believe there was supposed to be some romantic connotation to that, but all I could focus on was I GET TO SLEEP IN! I GET TO SLEEP IN!

Jason had champagne waiting in our room to set the mood, while I blew past it and collected every extra decorative pillow in the room to block the half-inch of natural light that could potentially poke through the bottom of the curtains and wake us up in the morning. Jason awoke in tomb-like pitch-blackness around, oh, 11 am, while I woke up every hour on the hour from 3 am on because nobody tells you that you are physically unable to sleep through the night after giving birth because somewhere, out there, your child might need you to change his pants or get his foot unstuck from the crib slats or check to make sure he's still breathing.

After checkout we went over to visit some friends in the hospital who just had a baby, and I held that tiny squeaky little boy for as long as I could, nuzzling his delicious little head and assuring my friend that seriously, this is the best thing ever and you are going to have so much fun.

I didn't tell her about the sleep thing though. What's the point? She'll learn and then one day withhold that very information from another friend who is debating having children, and instead tell her that this is the best thing ever and she is going to have so much fun, and that's how the human race has existed all these years.

On Friday Noah started calling things HOT, complete with a jazz-hand-like STOP! gesture and a slobbery attempt at blowing. The sun poking through the (crappy crappy soon-to-be-gone) windows is HOT. His morning toaster waffle is HOT. My coffee cup is HOT. If I ask him to find something HOT in Goodnight Moon he immediately points at the fireplace.

One of his little friends has been saying HOT for months now, and I know I've read about other people's toddlers doing the same thing.

But I can't help it. Noah says HOT. Our first non-noun. Our first concept, our first adjective and our first word without the "a&quo