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!
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.
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.