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November 06, 2009

Sick Day

I appear to have, as Sundry put it, a touch of the Hamthrax. Or some kind of flu. I went to bed with the beginnings of what I assumed was a cold and woke up in the grips of some horrible, lung-hacking, breath-sucking, stomach-purging, body-aching, I'm-hot-no-I'm-cold-so-cold-oh-my-God-get-these-covers-OFF-ME type of illness.

It's awesome, let me tell you. I managed to drag my diseased ass out of bed and onto the landing where I begged Jason not to go to work and leeeeeeeave me with The Children, Oh God, Not The Children. Then I went back to bed and moaned piteously for awhile. I'm still doing that, actually. Here:

meeeeehhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuggggghhhhhhhh

I know! I write just like I whine. It's a gift!

ANYWAY, so I had Other Plans for today's post -- another chapter of the When You Marry book, some discussion on what educational toys can be manipulated into saying profanity, maybe microwaving some Halloween candy just for the hell of it -- but alas. It's going to be another redirect day.

  • I kind of wish I'd chosen a more interesting topic at the Advice Smackdown today, like somebody's sex life problems or major parenting dramz, but no. At some point this week I decided to devote an entire column to laundry detergent. Hmm.
  • You could, alternately, read about all the really, really stupid stuff you do when you're newly postpartum and sleep-deprived over at Bounce Back. Unfortunately, I still haven't figured out a way to blame that time I got off the train at Newark instead of New York on my lousy children. I will keep trying, though.
  • My second entry for the Slideshare MS Office Parenting Toolbox I Don't Remember The Official Name So I'm Including Them All is also up.
  • Over at Mamapop, you know we're doing a little video roundtable thing? Where we all ramble about some pop culturery topic into our webcams and everybody else is so much funnier than me and I swear, I don't really wear as much eye makeup as it appears in these things. Past editions are here. I think the next one goes up on Monday. I hate my voice.
  • Also, a Project Runway recap that I wrote (last night, so it's only half-infected with swine flu, though you might not want to touch the photos, which I added this morning) will go up at 2 pm ET. I would link to the specific entry here, but I cannot. Because you cannot link to the future. Yet. Oh, man. That's a good idea. I should totally write that down in my dream journal under Brilliant Ideas I Had Under The Influence Of Theraflu. 
  • mmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuaaaaaaauuuuuuggggg, etc.

Posted at 10:54 AM in internet, tantrums | Permalink | Comments (32)

July 27, 2009

Blogher, Part One

(Wow. So I originally planned to write about the entire conference in one post. HOURS AGO, I planned that. HOURS, I have been writing this and it really gets away from me at the end and I think I use the word "community" in a totally unironic sense and basically I'm going to publish this and write more tomorrow, because now I have to go punch myself in the neck.)

DAY ONE, THURSDAY

Part One: Not Off To A Real Brain-Trust-Like Start

I woke up at...oh, 4 A.M. in a dread pirate panic over things I had forgotten to pack. I should point out that I was still at home. And had many, many hours left before my flight to pack these things. No matter, I clearly needed to get out of bed and pack them RIGHT THAT SECOND, or ALL WOULD BE LOST. If a blogger goes to Blogher without her business cards, is she really at there? Does she cease to exist? These are the deep thoughts I had at 4:30 A.M. when I found out that not one, but BOTH of my babysitting leads had fallen through, and that I didn't have a confirmed sitter for the Mamapop party after all.

Some people might think: I know! I shall contact a reputable sitting service in the Chicago area! I shall use my SitterCity account! I shall ask the hotel concierge for recommendations!

I thought of none of those things. I contacted Twitter instead.

I...yeah. I know. I KNOW. Very very bad and irresponsible and boneheaded parenting, finding babysitters on Twitter. Except when you find a babysitter like Annabelle. Who was just SO lovely and sweet and Ezra and I both adored her. (I did like, you know, meet with her ahead of time to get a read on the whole "are you going to steal my baby and/or all the hotel room furniture" thing. She passed! I have terrific instincts.)

Anyway, my Twitter babysitter was totally better than your babysitter. I also remembered to pack my business cards.

Part Two: I'm Sick Of These Motherfucking Babies On This Motherfucking Plane

After reading all of your comments and suggestions for airplane-related entertainment for Ezra, I packed a small treasure trove of crappy cheap toys (and toy-like substances) that he'd never seen before. He ended up playing with 1) the laminated emergency procedures pamphlet, 2) plastic cups from the beverage cart, and 3) Jodi.

Jodi warned me that she was a nervous flyer, so our agreement was that in exchange for the baby-wrangling help, I'd do my best to distract her from the fact that we were in a rickety tin can 37,000,000 miles off the ground.

IMG_0392

Problem solved!

Part Three: I Went To Blogher & All I Got Was Your Elbow In My Face

After getting to Chicago and to the hotel and into my hotel room and meeting my lovely roommate and eating a burger topped with cheddar cheese AND bacon cheddar cheese sauce and watching my baby sneeze hamburger meat directly into my lovely roommate's face, I was already Hearing Things About Swag. My Twitter stream was full of swag bag descriptions and people were whispering stories about other people getting gross and ugly and grabby and ditching parties as soon they got a bag and pwning wristband systems in order to steal more swag. I mentioned that last year I brought home 1) a tire pressure gauge, 2) a bottle opener keychain and 3) a magic 8 ball. I was informed that this year was PROBABLY going to be a little different.

I stuck Ezra in a sling and decided to check out the People's Party. It was loud. And crowded. Insanely crowded. By the time I filed into the room and realized OH MY GOD, the room was easily three times too small for the number of people crushing through the door, I was kind of stuck. I spent a few bewildered moments shouting at people I knew before I realized what a huge mistake it was, bringing Ezra in there, and that I absolutely had to leave. This realization was cemented when someone abruptly pushed past me towards the swag bags, I saw Ezra's head kind of...jerk to the side, and when I looked down at him his eyes were wide with surprise...and fear...AND PAIN. He dissolved into a wail.

People, someone goddamn elbowed my baby in the face. While rushing for SWAG. At a party sponsored by freaking PBS Sprout.

At the time, I 100% totally and completely blamed myself. I was horrified that I'd unwittingly brought my baby to a party where he wasn't SAFE. I mean, Twitter babysitters aside (which...you know I'm taking a little creative license with that, as I absolutely would never leave him with someone who I didn't believe was responsible and trustworthy), I take my care of my little people very seriously. I felt stupid for even thinking that this was a good idea. And I left, taking my own swag bag only after Jenny insisted I take one. ("But I'm not staying! Is that okay?") I Twittered about being stuck alone in the hotel room feeling sorry for myself, too embarassed to admit that my baby got hurt because I wanted to wear a pretty dress and get a drink ticket.

Part Four: We Used To Blog Uphill In The Snow, Both Ways, Hand-Coding CSS Until Our Fingers Bled, And We Liked It

I still blame myself, in part. The room was crowded and hard to navigate and while Ezra wasn't the only child there, I was asking too much of him, after a long day of travel and super-short naps and a heapload of sensory overload. And really, he's FINE. He's not bruised, he didn't get a black eye, maybe the mystery elbower had to pee, or something. Once we got back to the hotel room he was all smiles.

But as the weekend progressed and the swag thing turned into a Swag Thing (to the point that I commented how nice it was, since I didn't miss Noah as much I thought I would, what with being surrounded by toddlers), the Elbow Incident became oddly emblematic of the whole attitude. People completely disregarding other people's personal space and hard work (seriously, planning those parties takes EFFORT, you guys) and just goddamn common decency. Would let your kid show up at a birthday party, grab a handful of cake and a goodie bag and leave? Would you let him cheat at the games at Chuck E. Cheese, just so he could get more crappy prize tickets? Would you sit by and let her bitch on Christmas about not getting the gift she REALLY wanted, or whine that the gifts she got didn't cost enough?

God. I feel old and finger-waggy, but get a fucking grip, people.

And yet.

I've gone on some nice trips, I've gotten some really nice gifts from companies, I've gotten laughably bad product pitches that I would never in a million years want or use or "review." I've alternated between being delighted by the attention and annoyed by the way it's changed our community, I've struggled to keep that balance between wanting my blog to be "successful" and wanting my blog to be...you know, MY STUPID LITTLE BLOG.

And yet, even I need the occasional dose of perspective.

When I started writing online, signing up for a brand-new service called "Typepad," nobody really liked the word "blog." The people I read wrote journals or diaries. There was a still a wide gap between the two groups, a definite sense of old guard vs. new upstarts. Moveable Type was taking over the old hand-coded clunky sites, your free blogging platforms were Diaryland or livejournal or Blogger and when Diary-X went down, people lost everything because the entire service existed on one dude's hard drive that he'd forgotten to back up. Oh, man. There were A-listers and people who wanted to be the A-listers and people who spent most of their time complaining about the A-listers. People fretted over whether the new generation of "bloggers" were ruining the community, now that it was so easy to start a site. If you had your own site the hosting could cost you a fortune, since there was no Flickr or Vimeo, but there was still endless debate over whether an Amazon Wish List or PayPal Donate button made you a tacky sellout. Are bloggers even writers? Are all web writers bloggers? No! Yes! Sometimes!

When Google text ads started showing up on PERSONAL WEBSITES, the wank level went through the roof.

In summary: six short years on the Web and I'm a freaking dinosaur, apparently, but I guess my point is that there has always been something threatening the community. We have been on the brink of sellout-y destruction for as long as I've been doing this, and I'm pretty sure me and my weirdly-named blog and TWOP-aping writing style were once considered harbingers of literary doom and made fun of on some old-skool message board. Now we all just get to overreact on Twitter.

In other words, it's all going to be okay, as long as we at least stop elbowing each other in the face.

IMG_0407

(I promise this entry is the only one where I'll get preachy and philosophical about Blogher. I had a fantastic time and did a shitload of stupid things that did not involve people beating up babies for free pens.)

Posted at 06:15 PM in Ezra, internet, tantrums, wine | Permalink | Comments (94)

July 08, 2009

Testing, Testing

Why, hello! Sooooo very glad to be back in the land of working Internet access. Ours was shut off yesterday. Not "down," shut off. Along with our cable. Because we rule at life and money. RULE I SAY.

Our credit/debit card numbers were apparently "compromised" after a break-in at our bank, so we were issued new ones a few months ago. And while we THOUGHT we'd gone and updated all the various auto-billing and auto-pay thingies, I guess we never got around to the Internet and cable. And the bills kept arriving in the mail, past due balances and late fees adding up month after month, but we did not realize this, because, well. We never opened the envelopes. Because of the auto-pay! RUN MY LIFE, CREDIT-BOTS.

At some point, Jason realized Verizon was trying to bill a no-longer-valid card and updated it. And then Verizon tried to charge the new card for...like...many hundreds of dollars in past-due charges. And the new card was rejected, because we only had...like...zero hundreds of dollars in the account. And boom! Shut off and shut down.

I don't want to bore y'all to death with the run-down of What It Took to get everything turned back on yesterday, but let me summarize thusly: GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, VERIZON FIOS. I may be broke, but I still have my pride and a general understanding of the "transfer" function on most business phones. Stop telling me I need to call another number after I've spent 45 minutes on the number the "denial of service" roadblock page on my computer told me to call, alternately arguing with an automated-voice-bot thing or on hold with someone who 1) cannot find my account, and/or 2) cannot take my payment ANYWAY, and/or 3) cannot transfer me to someone who can, because I need to call another number.

But hey! Don't forget to remind me for the three dozenth time that I can pay my bill online. Which is a FANTASTIC idea. Quick, turn my Internet access back on so I can get online to pay my bill to get my Internet access turned back on and OH SHIT I'VE FALLEN INTO A LOGIC WORMHOLE AAAAHHHHHHHHHH

(I eventually paid using my phone. Which hoooo, boy, THAT was a good time, trying to correctly enter a 20-digit account number and credit card information without fat-fingering anything, and also I had to GUESS at my account balance because the login you use to pay your bill is not the same login you use to view your bill, I mean, of course it isn't, and I didn't have that other login, because every time I tried to register for it Verizon told me they couldn't find my account, please call Customer Service, eat shit and die.)

(Wait. Did I say something about NOT boring you with that story? Huh. I am quite a liar!)

Anyway. Here. Look at some photos of some kids I know.

IMG_2802

IMG_2808

IMG_2809

IMG_2813

(Here's Noah back in the day, in the same outfit, though slightly younger and a LOT balder.)

Posted at 10:59 AM in Ezra, Noah, tantrums | Permalink | Comments (67)

June 18, 2009

I'd Say Something About REALLY Needing This Vacation...

...if only I didn't have to take my beloved rotten children with me.

(Alternate Title: My Own Unintentional Personal Testimony to Bad Mothering)

SCENE, YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, ABOUT 24 HOURS AFTER I WARNED JASON ABOUT THE IMPORTANCE OF NOT PUTTING THE BABY TO BED IN JUST A DIAPER, AS HE'S BEEN GETTING A LITTLE GRABBY WITH THE VELCRO TABS ON HIS SUPER-FANCY CLOTH DIAPERS, AND ABOUT TWO HOURS AFTER I PUT HIM DOWN FOR A NAP WEARING ONLY A TOO-SMALL DISPOSABLE DIAPER BECAUSE I DIDN'T FEEL LIKE RETRIEVING A SUPER-FANCY CLOTH DIAPER FROM THE DRYER ALL THE WAY DOWNSTAAAAAIRS WAAAAHHHH I'M TIRED

I heard Ezra stirring in his crib and I went immediately to collect him waited until he sounded good and mad before getting up off the couch.

I walked into his room. His diaper was off. There was...oh my God. Everything. Both. Everywhere. The sheets were soaked in three distinct places. And the...yeah. All over the sheets, the crib, THE BABY. The baby who lifted his head and beamed ear-to-ear when he saw his loving fucking horrified mother and that's when I saw the poop all over his FACE and immediately rushed over to rescue the poor thing from the filth turned and left the room to go back downstairs, sat back down on the couch and felt sorry for myself. And then I told Twitter about it.

When I returned, I was better prepared to properly deal with the situation. Because this time I had my phone. I took a picture and promptly emailed it to Jason with the subject line: YOU NEED TO COME HOME RIGHT THIS MINUTE. I QUIT.

EPILOGUE

Two baths...TWO baths were required. (Helpful Hint: Don't forget to check behind the ears!) The good news is that I finally had a good reason to finally get around to finally removing those terribly dangerous crib bumpers that I wasn't supposed to ever have on in the first place, I KNOW, but I've just been so terribly BUSY. Rest assured that the bumpers are off and firmly in the category of Things We Shall Never Speak Of Again. because even though cloth diapering has given me a stronger stomach for this sort of thing, there are just some indignities from which fabric and padding cannot ever recover. Sorry, Wendy. You had a good run.

Luckily, the baby is even cuter than an old hand-me-down bedding set, so he can stay.





Posted at 10:58 AM in Ezra, tantrums, wine | Permalink | Comments (112)

April 20, 2009

So You've Gone & Left Your iPhone in a Bathroom Stall at Nationals Stadium

Some handy steps and pointers:

1) STOP TAKING YOUR PHONE INTO BATHROOMS ALREADY, ASSHOLE.

2) Call phone, repeatedly. Curse out the automatic voicemail messaging service lady.

3) Head to Guest Services and the Lost & Found. Blank when they ask you to describe the phone. "Uh. It's a phone? 'Bout this big? Grayish/blackish/silverish? Supercute photo of this here baby *gesture to baby asleep in your cleavage* as the wallpaper when you turn it on?"

    3a) Blank even blanker when they ask you for a phone number in case the phone does turn up. Run outside to find husband and ask what the hell his cell phone number is. Get impatient while husband blanks and pulls out his phone to search for his own damn number.

4) Hike back to bathroom to check for phone one last time, completely missing the childish look of wonder on your son's face during the post-game fireworks, for which you waited through extra innings of complete boredom for and are now the assholes who have babies and preschoolers out in the city at 11 pm at night and ARE ALSO PHONELESS, THIS IS ALL THE FIREWORKS' FAULT SOMEHOW.

5) Inventory the contents of your phone. Naked MySpacian Photos: Negative. Preshus Baby Photos: Check, Of Course, Naturally. Place Where Preshus Baby Photos Are Properly Backed Up: On the laptop with a busted hard drive, check. Tangram App High Scores: Shit, motherfucker.

6) Call phone service provider and disable the phone, lest bill get racked up sky-high by some jerk using it for naked MySpacian photos and hijacking your Twitter and Facebook (I'M IN UR SOCIAL MEDIA NETWORKS, SUPERPOKIN UR FOLLOWERS).

7) Get recognized by readers an unprecendented THREE TIMES in a single weekend, bitch and moan to two of them about iPhone, give third reader a look of soldiering on in the face of unspeakable tragedy like a brave little toaster, leaving her probably wondering what the hell is so awful about buying goddamn lettuce at the farmer's market.

8) Notice an unfamiliar number calling Jason's cell phone. Think about answering it for him. Decide not to, because ewwwww phones!

9) Log onto Facebook. Find message from a total stranger who found your phone and has been trying to reach you all weekend, a task made infinitely more difficult since you went and disabled all text/phone/internet capabilities and kept ignoring those "unknown caller" numbers, but they refused to give up and tracked you down and would like to make sure you get it back, especially since it's full of adorable baby pictures, OMG.

10) Give humanity a big slobbery kiss, because seriously. I REALLY LOVE THAT PHONE.

Posted at 10:28 AM in breathtaking dumbness, DC, tantrums | Permalink | Comments (65)

March 31, 2009

I Assure You My Personal Tragedy Will Not Interfere With My Ability To Overdramatize My Personal Tragedy On the Internet

In the end, a busted hard drive turned out to be what pushed me completely over the edge.

On Sunday night my laptop stopped powering up with the battery, or charging the battery, or even acknowledging the battery's very existence. According to the nice man at the Mac Genius Bar, the battery was simply old and used up and long past its time to go live in the country with the iRabbits.The fact that the entire computer froze and clicked and crashed and died a mere five minutes after the battery went? A coincidence. A crazy, unheard of, unrelated coincidence.

(I really wish I'd spent those last five precious minutes frantically exporting photo files to our network drive instead of on fucking Facebook.)

"Is all your data on the machine backed up?" he asked me cheerfully, even though I bet he totally knew the answer. I mean, look at me. I'm standing here with my laptop's power cord wrapped around my arm and my wallet in my teeth while I try not to spill my coffee on anything because I forgot to put my computer in a goddamn BAG. Do I look like the sort of person who would accidentally leave two years of photos and movies, including absolutely every photo documenting the existence of her new baby, just sitting around in iPhoto with absolutely no backup of any kind?

Yes. YES I DO.

Blog rantings aside, I feel like I've done a decent job at taking everything in stride. I've saved my crying for stupid things, like YouTube videos with an inspirational swell of music at the exact right moment, or the Where the Wild Things Are trailer. My father is ailing and my mother is struggling and my son is a mysterious little question mark and my health insurance is a dick (seriously -- they just kicked our pediatrician AND my obstetrician out of network. Retroactively. Retroactively to 15 days before Ezra's birth.) and I'm working really hard to meet deadlines and provide a little extra income for us and I'm not sleeping super well but I am OKAY. I am FINE. I am BLESSED and things will get BETTER and things could be so much WORSE and in the meantime I have the most beautiful babies in the world and I'm not perfect but they sure are, but let me tell you: the sight of my computer booting up with a blinking icon of No Operating System found made me cry like a snot-nosed little toddler.

"My whole life is on that stupid box!" I wailed to Jason around 4 in the morning, once my tossing and turning finally woke him up enough to notice that I was a hot wreck of nerves.

"It'll be okay," he assured me, to which I inexplicably responded with a confession that Max was due for a vet appointment last month and I NEVER TOOK HIM TO THE VET. OUR BABY PHOTOS COULD BE LOST FOREVER AND OUR CAT COULD BE DYING AND IT'S ALL MY FAULT.

You what is nice, spouses? Knowing when to just not say anything back. That, and late-night backrubs.

Anyway, I have since calmed down. I'm on an old laptop that works, despite the space bar being kind of a bitch, and hey! I had Snood installed on this machine! God, I've missed Snood. The repair cost for my other laptop is charmingly reasonable, or at least SOUNDS reasonable after you hear the prices for data recovery. But hey, we're hoping maybe we'll get a bulk discount because Jason has an external hard drive that he dropped and broke -- at the hospital, five minutes after transferring all the beautiful maternity photos he took of me, after Ezra was born and there could officially be no more beautiful maternity photos. Can you put a price on such preshus memories? Yes. Apparently you can. And it comes with a goddamn comma.

Anyway. Um. Go backup your files, chickies, and take your pets to the vet. That is all.

Posted at 04:49 PM in tantrums | Permalink | Comments (108)

March 18, 2009

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.

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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.

Posted at 11:39 AM in Ezra, family, Noah, SPD, speech delays, tantrums | Permalink | Comments (51)

December 22, 2008

The Worst Thing Ever That Actually Really Wasn't

I have been writing posts nonstop in my head since Friday -- nothing I ever intended to commit to the keyboard and publish, just a endless series of disjointed paragraphs that bounced from topic to topic and argued with straw men and imaginary bureaucrats. On and on, my brain kept going and talking and spinning. It kept me awake and anxious at night and distracted and disconnected during the day -- all the signs of an obviously superior coping mechanism.

Those of you who follow my sporadic dispatches over at Twitter probably Know Of What I Speak.

Here, like a Band-Aid: On Friday, Noah's teacher unleashed a long litany of behavior complaints at me, many of which I was hearing for the first time, others which I thought were already being addressed, all of which together painted a very bleak picture of an overwhelmed, uncontrollable child with no attention span who simply could not function in the classroom. A child whose continued enrollment in the school was in serious jeopardy and was on a one-way track to being dismissed from the school.

Here, like a bottle of alcohol emptied on the open wound underneath the Band-Aid: Expelled. From preschool. Merry fucking Christmas! Epic parenting FAIL1!!1

Of course, I did exactly what any capable parent would do in that situation: I burst into tears, and then came home and spent the next 60 hours of my life freaking the royal fuck out.

I called the school district and formerly requested a new evaluation. I called the private speech center that I'd contacted several weeks ago and got a little screechy about how long I've been waiting for a therapist to call me and schedule THAT evaluation. I called some smaller, more specialized preschools and nearly threw up when I heard the tuition rates. We talked about moving. I emailed everybody I ever talked to at Early Intervention to see if there was any way they could help speed up the process of getting back into our current county's system. We purged our house of extra cluttered toys and distractions and outlined a plan for improving his attention span and adding more structure at home. I called my mom and whimpered that I just wanted someone to tell me what I should do-o-o, I'm not smart enough for th-i-i-i-s, why can't I figure out how to fix my ba-a-a-by.

On Sunday, we attended a preschool classmate's birthday party at one of those kiddie gym places. Despite giving Noah a pre-party briefing that rivaled most military operations, it did not go well. He was indeed, as usual, overwhelmed by the group, terrified of the organized games and activities, melted down at every single transition or whenever something happened that he had not been prepared for. (I spent a lot of time talking about how he would be asked to leave the play area and eat birthday cake, since that caused a lot of woe at the LAST birthday party we attended, but forgot to mention the possibility that someone might dare put a slice of PIZZA in front of him BEFORE the birthday cake was served, and Oh. My. Fucking. God.)

Jason and I were exhausted and heartsick by the end of the party -- Jason mumbled something about taking equity out of our house to pay for one of those special preschools, and since I could no longer even attempt to keep up a happy social party face, I broke down and shared what the teacher had said to me with a couple other mothers. Who then shared a few anecdotes of their own and stories they'd learned from previous years' families that painted a picture of a teacher who maaaaaybe gets a little crazy by December and maaaaaaybe a little dramatic about things and maaaaaybe I should go talk to the principal myself before, you know, losing my shit too spectacularly.

So...long story short, I saw the school's principal today, whose jaw dropped to the floor when I repeated what had been said to me, because: no. Not even. Noah is most definitely not at all in danger of expulsion. Never has been. The whole thing was a case of a preschool teacher gone rogue, off the rails, whatever. The principal has observed Noah many times, and she's never seen anything remotely close to the kind of behavior his teacher was describing or at the level where they'd start considering dismissal. He wanders away from the group when he is bored. He prefers one-on-one direction to large group free-for-all projects. He is easily agitated by transitions and easily distracted by everything in the world. Also, you know, he is THREE. 

There IS a child in his class who is causing the teachers and the school a lot of problems (pushing, hitting, using not-so-very-nice words), and Noah and I may have simply gotten caught up in a teacher's Terrible Horrible Not So Good Very Bad Day, and maybe she just really needs her holiday break.  And then the principal and I had a long talk about Sensory Processing Disorder and brainstormed some additional strategies that could be used to keep Noah with the group and help him through transitions.

Of course...I'm not an idiot. The behavior at Sunday's birthday party alone is enough for us to realize that yes, Noah most definitely needs some help. The truth, as usual, lies somewhere in between Early Intervention assuring us that Everything Is Just Fine!! and his teacher telling us that Everything Is Just Terrible!! I am still anxious to get him re-evaluated. I am still exploring other preschool options, because GODDAMN.

But at least now I can go back to making up imaginary conversations between my deodorants in the middle of the night instead. So...back to normal! Hooray!

Posted at 05:09 PM in Noah, SPD, speech delays, tantrums | Permalink | Comments (109)

December 02, 2008

Diagnosis: Idiot

(Apologies in advance for the screediness of this post. I slipped in my socks and fell flat on my ass while attempting to kick a foam soccer ball into a miniature goal in my living room this morning, so perhaps it's my wounded pride [and backside] lashing out at its inner child, or some such.)

(For something more fluffy, feel free to visit the Luvs Momspeak site for my entry about Ghetto Fabulous Bargain Baby-Proofing.)

I currently find myself irrationally angry at Denis Leary.

Okay, let me back up. Denis Leary was on The Daily Show last week, where he attempted to clarify this passage from his book, from a chapter called "Autism Schmautism:"

There is a huge boom in autism right now because inattentive mothers and competitive dads want an explanation for why their dumb-ass kids can't compete academically, so they throw money into the happy laps of shrinks…to get back diagnoses that help explain away the deficiencies of their junior morons.

I don't give a fuck what these crackerjack whack jobs tell you—yer kid is NOT autistic. He's just stupid. Or lazy. Or both.

HA HA! Oh, funny fucking shit, that.

So in case you missed the 284304822343489 blog entries about this, uh...yeah. KIND OF NOT THE BEST THING TO SAY. The excerpt appeared in the New York Post, parents went nuts, people got angry, the Autism Society of America essentially told Leary to go fuck himself, and as of this morning, "DENIS LEARY AUTISM" is still the very first suggestion that the Google search bar offers you when you type in his name.

But! Dudes! You totally took that out of context.

So as part of the Denis Leary Big Fucking Apology Media Blitz (aka the book ain't selling so well), he appeared on The Daily Show, where he essentially repeated a canned statement he already released. A canned statement that SURELY was thought through and would make everything better.

*breathes*

*ctrl+zees*

...they missed the sections I thought made my feelings about autism very clear: that I not only support the current rational approaches to the diagnoses and treatment of real autism but have witnessed it firsthand while watching very dear old friends raise a functioning autistic child.

(Oh my God, he did NOT just pull the "but some of my best friends are autistic!" thing. He did NOT.)

The point of the chapter is not that autism doesn't exist—it obviously does—and I have nothing but admiration and respect for parents dealing with the issue, including the ones I know.

("BFFs! Really! I LOVE AUTISTIC PEOPLE AND THEIR BOOK-BUYING PARENTS!")

The bulk of the chapter deals with grown men who are either self-diagnosing themselves with low-level offshoots of the disease or wishing they could as a way to explain their failed careers and troublesome progeny.

On The Daily Show, however, Denis left out that "grown men" bit, and instead went on and on about parents. (Here's a link to the episode -- Denis appears in the last segment.) Parents are seeking low-level special needs diagnoses for their kids as some kind of get-out-of-jail-free card for their children's bad behavior. Bad behavior that is a direct result of bad parenting.

Question. What "low-level special needs diagnoses" are you NOW expertly calling bullshit on, Denis Leary? PDD-NOS? Aspergers? Sensory Integration Disorders? Because now you're shitting really close to my own lawn, dude, and I've got a really long and pointy-ass rake.

(He then reiterated AGAIN that he totally knows a family dealing with "real" autism and knows how TERRIBLE AWFUL DEATH-SENTENCE-Y this "real" autism thing is. Like seriously, worst disease EVER! A lifetime of drudgery with a non-verbal kid who bites you and hand-flaps in a corner all day. That's not really my fight to pick with him, except that I AM SO SICK of people using autism -- and a misinformed and narrow view of the spectrum at that -- as a catch-all boogeyman to strike fear in the hearts of parents everywhere. Vaccinate? AUTISM. Get an extra ultrasound? AUTISM. Use a microwave while pregnant? AUTISM.  Meanwhile, I know plenty of parents who actually LIKE and ENJOY and LOVE their autistic children just fine! And their children love them back! Like they're real people or something! Imagine that!)

So, first. I get that Denis Leary is a comedian. I read the excerpt ages ago and while I thought it was dumb and misinformed and just highly ridiculously DUMB, I didn't get worked up over it. He's a comedian. He went for incendiary and controversial and frankly, he nailed it. South Park, Team America, Tropic Thunder -- three movies I laughed a lung out over; three movies that all had moments where I went, "duuude, I think they may have just gone far enough to kind of offend me." And then I went, "touche, good sirs. Tou-fucking-che."

But if you're going to backtrack on that incendiary and controversial statement when it doesn't pan out the way you wanted, when it appears that you indeed went waaaay too far, when it's hurting your sales figures and you start making the rounds of an I-Was-Taken-Out-Of-Context Media Tour, THAT'S when I'm going to take the words you say seriously.

And, second. This totally isn't about Denis Leary. This is about the last few days and weeks around here, as we attempt to navigate through Speech Delays v.2.0.

The school district -- and we live in a "good" and well-funded school district -- may provide Noah with some speech services. Services that we have already witnessed first-hand and realize that they simply won't be enough to get Noah where we think he needs to be, and where he's capable of being. There's a lowest-common-denominator aspect to the programs that hurt kids with the more mild (SOME MIGHT SAY "LOW LEVEL") delays and disabilities. Noah was always near the top of the Early Intervention scale of need. Put him in a classroom with neuro-atypical kids and other more serious disorders and he looks pretty good. He can hook himself onto the bottom rung of the ladder of "normal," and that's about as high as the free services are obligated to lift him. Which is exactly what already happened and what led to EI ending his services.

But. Put him in a classroom with neuro-typical kids and kids with zero speech or sensory issues and suddenly it doesn't look so great. He loves school, but that doesn't mean it's a perfect fit. His first progress report (we got it yesterday) was heartbreakingly abysmal. He tries hard to communicate with his teachers and peers, but no one can understand him. He still melts down over every transition. He cannot tolerate operating in the group for more than a few minutes. He needs constant one-on-one attention that the teachers cannot give. He is not demonstrating skills that I know he knows -- I looked at row after row of capital Is (for "Introduced," basically the lowest mark he can get) with a huge lump in my throat. He knows how to do that! And that! He's smart, I swear. I really swear he's a smart, loving, wonderful kid.

But he's struggling. In preschool.

And you know what, Denis Leary? If I were a bad or lazy parent, I wouldn't fucking give a shit. I wouldn't spend hours researching doctors and specialists in search of answers or therapy or a way to help my child NOT struggle in school and social situations. I would sit back and shrug my shoulders and tell myself that it will all work itself out by kindergarten. But I'd like to get my son a bigger boost up that ladder, Denis Leary, because I think he's capable of it and I believe in him and I believe it's my fucking job as his mother to get him that boost.

And you know what else, Denis Leary? You know why parents want those low-level diagnoses? It's not to ease our guilt or abdicate our responsibility for our child's "bad" behavior. It's because that's the fucking way the fucking system works, jackass. Call up your health insurance (if you've got it! ha ha!) and find out what kind of coverage they offer for, say, speech therapy.

Now find out what kind of conditions they put on it, and find out what conditions and diagnoses they exclude. Dyslexia? Articulation problems? Abnormal speech development? "Speech problems that are educational in nature?"

Now once you've asked the nice insurance rep what the fuck that even means, and well, what kind of diagnosis DOES get you the speech therapy coverage, and recieved absolutely no answer or guidance, you may realize that hell, the next phone call better be to a developmental pediatrician (appointment wait time: six months!) so hell, you can get your kid fully evaluated beyond the vague oral-motor sensory problems and get a damn solid diagnosis, and hell hot damn in a blanket, you might actually sort-of maybe secretly hope that diagnosis is enough for your incredibly expensive insurance to pay for a few measly sessions of speech therapy. (And let's not even get into occupational therapy! Ho ho!)

Meanwhile, try to look at your child -- your smart, loving, wonderful but struggling child -- and not be whalloped with fear from both sides. Fear that your insurance will reject your claims...and fear that if the insurance DOESN't reject your claims, it will be because the diagnosis your child receives will indeed be something that scares you. Something that you don't quite feel capable of handling, or something that means other people -- other misinformed, ignorant people -- will forever look at your child differently, or hold him to lower expectations, or cast pitying glances at you and wonder what you did wrong, whether you vaccinated or had ultrasounds or used a microwave while you were pregant. The boogeyman. The new scarlet letter A.

You have any best friends dealing with that, Denis Leary? Because if you do, I'm wondering why they haven't gently pulled you aside and told you -- with love! -- to please fucking cram a sock in it already.

Posted at 11:20 AM in Noah, SPD, speech delays, tantrums | Permalink | Comments (147)

November 26, 2008

Preschool is the new KHAAAAAAANNNN!

Oh, goddammit. We're all sick again.

I'm not sure a six-week-old with a cold is any more or less pathetic than a three-week-old with a cold, but I do know that they are a hell of a lot more indignant about it.

Our Thanksgiving plans have been jettisoned, what with illness striking down every branch of our family tree. (My mother seems to think she needs to protect the baby from her own case of the flu -- it's kind of adorable that she doesn't realize that it's actually US who are the traveling band of pestilence, sent from the DC Metro area to spread disease and mucusosity up and down the East Coast, and she should really change their locks.) So we're staying home now and cooking dinner for ourselves.

Although I dunno. I'm pretty tired; couldn't I just skip the cooking part and just eat sticks of butter directly out of the package?

In other news, I started this website five years ago this week. I also remember saying something like, "If I'm still doing this dumb website in five years, you can go ahead and shoot me."

Posted at 09:55 AM in tantrums | Permalink | Comments (54)

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