In no particular order, right now I'm so thankful for:
1. Pizza, particularly giant New York style, super thin slices with big puffy crusts,
2. Louie C.K.'s TV show,
3. Grapes,
4. "Baby Babble", a speech therapy DVD Henry is obsessed with,
5. Nighttime diapers,
6. A cool breeze on a blisteringly hot day,
7. Tripp's begun a ritual of making me some killer smoothies before bedtime (not a sexual euphemism),
8. Sam has the biggest, cutest, most awesomely sweet smile and he breaks into one often,
9. Henry and Sam both have incredibly hearty laughs,
10. Henry's bouncy blond hair,
11. Pretty much any type of frappucinno, as they are basically all that keeps me awake/sane anymore,
12. I've got some freaking badass friends and family,
13. Michelle, Henry's speech therapist,
14. Yoga. Ugh, that makes me cringe. Ah, so what, who cares, I'm gonna say it: I LOVE YOGA!
Monday, July 18, 2011
"A" is for Autism?
Oh, where to begin?
If you read this blog (and you know you do) you're no doubt familiar with my darling Henry and his spitfire personality. You're also familiar with the highs and lows of that personality--the raucous laughter and the epic meltdowns. Complicating Henry's personality is his lack of speech. Henry is WAY behind in talking. It's like he got to around 9 months and sort of plateaued for a year or so. He's been in speech therapy since November, and he's definitely progressed but not at the rate we hoped.
A few months ago, Henry's new-ish pediatrician (we changed docs because the first one seemed unfazed by pretty much everything going on with Henry) recommended we visit the local developmental pediatrician, mentioning something about "the spectrum", as in the Autistic spectrum. My heart sank, as Autism has always been one of my big fears about having kids. I know a zillion things can go wrong with living organisms (it's incredible to me so many of us are mostly okay), but Autism has always been high on my list of fears. For anyone who doesn't know much about Autism, here's a general definition: A pervasive developmental disorder characterized by severe deficits in social interaction and communication, by an extremely limited range of activities and interests, and often by the presence of repetitive, stereotyped behaviors.
My experiences with Autistic kids and adults is very small. I've seen a few of each professionally, and found each of them very difficult to relate to. (I know, I know, everyone is different and we're all unique snowflakes, but I'm generalizing here.) Each of these particular clients seemed aloof, oblivious and out of touch to me. Basically, I just didn't like them. (Fortunately (most definitely for them), none of them remained my clients for long.) I'm also pretty sure an ex-boyfriend was an undiagnosed Aspergers case, and that dude was a huge pain in the ass.
(I'm sure you can see where this is going. Sorry, I'm going to write the whole damn story, since this has become my therapy.)
Well, since the new pediatrician made this recommendation, Henry has come a long way. . .sort of. He knows a bunch of words and uses them (for the most part) correctly. He knows all his ABC's and can count to 10 (although he says "W" for 7). He waves/says "bye bye" and "hi", often shows interest in other children, plays with others (even strangers) if they're willing to chase and tickle him, points out objects of interest ("car!" "tree!"), and can take turns. Then again, he often doesn't respond when we call his name, doesn't seem particularly interested in sharing experiences with us, and often doesn't connect with other children.
Whatever. We thought we were in good shape. We went to the appointment with the developmental pediatrician a few weeks ago, even though the speech therapist hinted that this particular agency had a tendency to overdiagnose Autism. That gave me pause, but the pediatrician insisted we go. I was sure that the doctor would say something like, "There are some symptoms here that concern me, but he's made so much progress over the past few months that I'd like to see where he is after he starts preschool."
So, we go to the appointment, everything seems to go well, Henry plays well for about 90 minutes with a speech therapist he never met, the doctor leaves for a few minutes, comes back in and says, "Yep, he's Autistic." Well, she doesn't actually say it like that, but that's what it felt like to me. There was no discussion of MAYBE. There was no mention of him doing well in the past few months or doing exceptionally well (in my opinion) during the doctor's hour and a half observation of Henry. It felt very much like she was saying, "Yeah, you know all that stuff about Henry improving and how he played nicely in this tiny room with a stranger? Doesn't matter. He's still Autistic." The doctor was pleasant and attempted to be empathic, but she also seemed confused and bewildered by my weeping, as she continued to say, "I'm sure this isn't a surprise to you?"
She wasn't able to tell us WHERE he is on the autistic spectrum, no mention of high functioning or low functioning. Basically it was like, "Your kid has this lifelong, incurable, potentially devastating condition. He could be the next Bill Gates or he could be dependent on you for the rest of your lives. Here's a brochure about a $30,000/year Autistic school and an application for a handicap parking decal. Have a great day!" I'm sure there was more to it than that, but that's what it felt like. I walked out of the appointment crushed, stunned, tearful, and lost; and I stayed that way for about 24 hours. Tripp, bless him, barely had time to respond himself and just tried to keep me from spiraling into despair. He is disappointed and scared, but seemed much more emotionally prepared to get this news than me.
The next week was a weepy blur. I constantly watched Henry for "signs." He just responded to me calling his name, of course he's not Autistic! He misused a word he's known for months; he's not progressing in his language like I thought--definitely a sign of Autism. At any moment, I could be 100% convinced he either was or wasn't Autistic. I felt high on life when I thought he wasn't and crushed when I thought he was.
The WORD "Autism", the label "Autistic" feels very final and scary to me. It feels like a restriction on what we can expect from Henry. Of course, all parents have hopes and aspirations for their kids. I think I want what every parents wants--first and foremost, kids who are healthy and happy. But I also hoped Henry would be friendly, and loving, and empathic, and gentle, and smart, and funny and a good friend and someone who will hire the best nurse's aide money can buy to change my diapers when I'm old but also someone who stands up for himself and doesn't take shit from anyone. The label "Autism" seems to stop short the possibility of all that. My kid won't be able to relate to others. He'll be the weird kid, won't look at us, will be stuck in his own world. Worse, he could be throwing crazy tantrums and not speaking when he's 10, 12, 15. . .
Friends and family have been very supportive and have lots of advice. Basically there are two camps: 1. Don't worry about it/ Get another opinion. Some have said there's NO WAY he's Autistic, doctors overdiagnose this disorder all the time and you were warned that this doctor in particular overdiagnoses. 2. Good, you got the diagnosis, now you can get the help Henry needs.
Meanwhile, we're home with the "After the Diagnosis" packet (and about a billion Autism websites), most of which say you've got to intervene EARLYEARLYEARLY and WITH INTENSITY. Age three is too late! If you wait till they're four, you're done for! They've got to have 20-25 hours of 1:1 treatment per week, especially when they're two to three years old!
HOLYFUCKINGSHIT!
Basically, it's just been a whirlwind. And my sweet, sassy, spitfire Henry is completely oblivious to it all. He plays with kids when he feels like it, he cuddles when he feels like it, he completely ignores us when he feels like it, he laughs and cries with intensity, he has meltdowns, and yet sometimes he shocks me with how easily he shakes off disappointment. Good days and not so good days. Actually, more like good moments and not so good moments.
And here's where I am with it: My aunt said something that just hit me the right way: "Henry's not Autistic, he's Henry." And that's the truth. He's Henry, and he'll always be my Henry, my son. No diagnosis or problem, however big or small, will change that. Whatever he faces, I will be right there by his side. I love him so much, and I want nothing but the best for him. But if he's got this, I'll be there with him. And even if he doesn't have this, he surely will have something else to battle.
So, Henry is Henry. And no matter what, I got your back, buddy.
If you read this blog (and you know you do) you're no doubt familiar with my darling Henry and his spitfire personality. You're also familiar with the highs and lows of that personality--the raucous laughter and the epic meltdowns. Complicating Henry's personality is his lack of speech. Henry is WAY behind in talking. It's like he got to around 9 months and sort of plateaued for a year or so. He's been in speech therapy since November, and he's definitely progressed but not at the rate we hoped.
A few months ago, Henry's new-ish pediatrician (we changed docs because the first one seemed unfazed by pretty much everything going on with Henry) recommended we visit the local developmental pediatrician, mentioning something about "the spectrum", as in the Autistic spectrum. My heart sank, as Autism has always been one of my big fears about having kids. I know a zillion things can go wrong with living organisms (it's incredible to me so many of us are mostly okay), but Autism has always been high on my list of fears. For anyone who doesn't know much about Autism, here's a general definition: A pervasive developmental disorder characterized by severe deficits in social interaction and communication, by an extremely limited range of activities and interests, and often by the presence of repetitive, stereotyped behaviors.
My experiences with Autistic kids and adults is very small. I've seen a few of each professionally, and found each of them very difficult to relate to. (I know, I know, everyone is different and we're all unique snowflakes, but I'm generalizing here.) Each of these particular clients seemed aloof, oblivious and out of touch to me. Basically, I just didn't like them. (Fortunately (most definitely for them), none of them remained my clients for long.) I'm also pretty sure an ex-boyfriend was an undiagnosed Aspergers case, and that dude was a huge pain in the ass.
(I'm sure you can see where this is going. Sorry, I'm going to write the whole damn story, since this has become my therapy.)
Well, since the new pediatrician made this recommendation, Henry has come a long way. . .sort of. He knows a bunch of words and uses them (for the most part) correctly. He knows all his ABC's and can count to 10 (although he says "W" for 7). He waves/says "bye bye" and "hi", often shows interest in other children, plays with others (even strangers) if they're willing to chase and tickle him, points out objects of interest ("car!" "tree!"), and can take turns. Then again, he often doesn't respond when we call his name, doesn't seem particularly interested in sharing experiences with us, and often doesn't connect with other children.
Whatever. We thought we were in good shape. We went to the appointment with the developmental pediatrician a few weeks ago, even though the speech therapist hinted that this particular agency had a tendency to overdiagnose Autism. That gave me pause, but the pediatrician insisted we go. I was sure that the doctor would say something like, "There are some symptoms here that concern me, but he's made so much progress over the past few months that I'd like to see where he is after he starts preschool."
So, we go to the appointment, everything seems to go well, Henry plays well for about 90 minutes with a speech therapist he never met, the doctor leaves for a few minutes, comes back in and says, "Yep, he's Autistic." Well, she doesn't actually say it like that, but that's what it felt like to me. There was no discussion of MAYBE. There was no mention of him doing well in the past few months or doing exceptionally well (in my opinion) during the doctor's hour and a half observation of Henry. It felt very much like she was saying, "Yeah, you know all that stuff about Henry improving and how he played nicely in this tiny room with a stranger? Doesn't matter. He's still Autistic." The doctor was pleasant and attempted to be empathic, but she also seemed confused and bewildered by my weeping, as she continued to say, "I'm sure this isn't a surprise to you?"
She wasn't able to tell us WHERE he is on the autistic spectrum, no mention of high functioning or low functioning. Basically it was like, "Your kid has this lifelong, incurable, potentially devastating condition. He could be the next Bill Gates or he could be dependent on you for the rest of your lives. Here's a brochure about a $30,000/year Autistic school and an application for a handicap parking decal. Have a great day!" I'm sure there was more to it than that, but that's what it felt like. I walked out of the appointment crushed, stunned, tearful, and lost; and I stayed that way for about 24 hours. Tripp, bless him, barely had time to respond himself and just tried to keep me from spiraling into despair. He is disappointed and scared, but seemed much more emotionally prepared to get this news than me.
The next week was a weepy blur. I constantly watched Henry for "signs." He just responded to me calling his name, of course he's not Autistic! He misused a word he's known for months; he's not progressing in his language like I thought--definitely a sign of Autism. At any moment, I could be 100% convinced he either was or wasn't Autistic. I felt high on life when I thought he wasn't and crushed when I thought he was.
The WORD "Autism", the label "Autistic" feels very final and scary to me. It feels like a restriction on what we can expect from Henry. Of course, all parents have hopes and aspirations for their kids. I think I want what every parents wants--first and foremost, kids who are healthy and happy. But I also hoped Henry would be friendly, and loving, and empathic, and gentle, and smart, and funny and a good friend and someone who will hire the best nurse's aide money can buy to change my diapers when I'm old but also someone who stands up for himself and doesn't take shit from anyone. The label "Autism" seems to stop short the possibility of all that. My kid won't be able to relate to others. He'll be the weird kid, won't look at us, will be stuck in his own world. Worse, he could be throwing crazy tantrums and not speaking when he's 10, 12, 15. . .
Friends and family have been very supportive and have lots of advice. Basically there are two camps: 1. Don't worry about it/ Get another opinion. Some have said there's NO WAY he's Autistic, doctors overdiagnose this disorder all the time and you were warned that this doctor in particular overdiagnoses. 2. Good, you got the diagnosis, now you can get the help Henry needs.
Meanwhile, we're home with the "After the Diagnosis" packet (and about a billion Autism websites), most of which say you've got to intervene EARLYEARLYEARLY and WITH INTENSITY. Age three is too late! If you wait till they're four, you're done for! They've got to have 20-25 hours of 1:1 treatment per week, especially when they're two to three years old!
HOLYFUCKINGSHIT!
Basically, it's just been a whirlwind. And my sweet, sassy, spitfire Henry is completely oblivious to it all. He plays with kids when he feels like it, he cuddles when he feels like it, he completely ignores us when he feels like it, he laughs and cries with intensity, he has meltdowns, and yet sometimes he shocks me with how easily he shakes off disappointment. Good days and not so good days. Actually, more like good moments and not so good moments.
And here's where I am with it: My aunt said something that just hit me the right way: "Henry's not Autistic, he's Henry." And that's the truth. He's Henry, and he'll always be my Henry, my son. No diagnosis or problem, however big or small, will change that. Whatever he faces, I will be right there by his side. I love him so much, and I want nothing but the best for him. But if he's got this, I'll be there with him. And even if he doesn't have this, he surely will have something else to battle.
So, Henry is Henry. And no matter what, I got your back, buddy.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Dadders
Gee WHIZ a lot has happened since my last post. The three people who read this already know all this, but what the hell--might as well put it here for posterity.
FIRST (and, realistically, the only thing I'll write about today): My dad had a heart attack. That was a crazy time, people. I recognize there is a lot I don't know about a lot of things; but I was completely CLUELESS about heart attacks. It seemed to me that everyone knows someone who knows someone who has had a heart attack, survived and is pretty much fine, right? (Okay, I might have been the only one who felt this way.) I had no idea that it takes about 4 minutes for the brain to start dying (medical professionals, please correct all my bullshit science), and it was very, VERY likely that if my dad survived the heart attack he would have severe brain damage that would result in him spending the rest of his days in a nursing home. WHAT?! If you'd asked me 3 months ago about possible long-term effects of a heart attack, that wouldn't have crossed my mind. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Before I knew my dad had a heart attack, I watched him collapse in the last 100 yards of a half marathon we were completing together. He was a couple hundred feet ahead of me, and I could barely see because of the monsoon-like conditions (seriously, streets flooded and officials shut down the race before some people could finish). I saw someone ahead of me collapse, and my thought process went like this: Oh no, someone fell. I bet they were dehydrated. . .Huh, they're not getting up. . .Um, I guess it COULD be Dad. . .Holyfuckingshit, is it Dad?!
By that point I had reached him, and the first thing I saw were his shorts and jacket. Somehow that was what shocked me most--more than seeing his ashen face and his lifeless body. How could this possibly be my Dad? My Dad who had trained so hard and who is so freakishly, annoyingly diligent about what he eats! He was seizing and his face was gray. Such a bizarre and surreal experience. People say to me, "You must have been so scared!" and I was. But really it was one of those experiences I've heard people in the therapy biz refer to as "schizing" or "splitting". It was like my mind split into several compartments. The first was very matter-of-fact: Very calmly I thought, "Dad is dying. I'm watching him die. I'm going to have to call Mom and tell her Dad is dead." I cried quietly as I watched the paramedics, but in an unexplainable way I felt very calm. Another part of my brain (which for some reason wasn't openly displaying itself) was incredibly sad, helpless and panicked.
Thank God (or the universe, or serendipity, or whatever it was) we were at a place in the race in which people were around us. Unbelievably, my dad was getting amazing care right there in the middle of the street. I later learned that a spectator (who happened to be a nurse practitioner) was just a feet from my dad when he fell and was the first to begin CPR. An ambulance was a dozen feet away. The EMT crew had an ER physician on board that day who was training them to begin hypothermia treatment during transport to the hospital.
Our luck (or, again, whatever it was) is simply unbelievable to me. It gives me chills. Literally five minutes earlier we were jogging in a neighborhood, and no one was around. We actually considered the possibility that we had gotten turned around and were no longer on course. But, no, the ridiculously awful weather kept potential participants and spectators indoors. We didn't have our cell phones (they would have weighed us down, people!), so I couldn't have called anyone. If his heart had stopped ten minutes later, we would have been driving home; and as you can tell by this post's first paragraph, I certainly wouldn't have known what to do.
A few excruciating days followed as we waited to see if my Dad would come out okay from his treatment-induced coma. Our family and friends were absolutely amazing during this time--right there by our sides (and on the phone, and over the Internet), helping out with everything. And then early the morning of April 18th, we got a call from his nurse that he was awake. We zoomed to the hospital and there he was--groggy and weak, but talking, and smiling and recognizing us. This was absolutely one of the happiest days of my life.
It's been just over two months, and my Dad is back home, working full time, just started jogging again as part of his cardiac rehab. Simply amazing. We are so, SO lucky.
But this blog is about bitching, people, not gratitude. So here comes the complaining. During this whole experience I developed a fantasy of how my dad would turn out: He would make a full physical and mental recovery (of course), but he would also awaken with a new philosophy on life. Dad would decide that since life is so unpredictable and precious he now wanted to spend as much time as possible with his friends and family, so he would retire and he and my mom would move closer to me. He would let go of all grudges and judgments and just love and accept everyone for who they are and what they can offer. He would be peaceful, and content, and happy, and joyous, and wise, but not dogmatic. Sort of like a living, breathing "Life is Good" shirt.
But that didn't happen. Instead my Dad is. . .well, my Dad. He's exactly the way he was 1 minute before his heart attack. Judgmental, rigid, stubborn, a touch homophobic and a bit self-centered. (He's also funny, kind, generous and hilariously absent-minded). But I'm starting to realize (slowly, begrudgingly and thanks entirely to Tripp) that this is okay. Not only IS it okay, but it needs to be okay because I don't have a choice in the matter. Such a cliche, but I can't control anyone else--a lesson I apparently need to learn over and over. My Dad is my Dad, and I am eternally, immeasurably, overwhelmingly thankful to everyone and everything that contributed to his recovery and to the fact that I can call him on the phone today and tell him what a turd he's being. And as for all that guru, mountain top, peace and love shit? Well, I guess that will have to be what I aspire to. I love you, Dad.
FIRST (and, realistically, the only thing I'll write about today): My dad had a heart attack. That was a crazy time, people. I recognize there is a lot I don't know about a lot of things; but I was completely CLUELESS about heart attacks. It seemed to me that everyone knows someone who knows someone who has had a heart attack, survived and is pretty much fine, right? (Okay, I might have been the only one who felt this way.) I had no idea that it takes about 4 minutes for the brain to start dying (medical professionals, please correct all my bullshit science), and it was very, VERY likely that if my dad survived the heart attack he would have severe brain damage that would result in him spending the rest of his days in a nursing home. WHAT?! If you'd asked me 3 months ago about possible long-term effects of a heart attack, that wouldn't have crossed my mind. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Before I knew my dad had a heart attack, I watched him collapse in the last 100 yards of a half marathon we were completing together. He was a couple hundred feet ahead of me, and I could barely see because of the monsoon-like conditions (seriously, streets flooded and officials shut down the race before some people could finish). I saw someone ahead of me collapse, and my thought process went like this: Oh no, someone fell. I bet they were dehydrated. . .Huh, they're not getting up. . .Um, I guess it COULD be Dad. . .Holyfuckingshit, is it Dad?!
By that point I had reached him, and the first thing I saw were his shorts and jacket. Somehow that was what shocked me most--more than seeing his ashen face and his lifeless body. How could this possibly be my Dad? My Dad who had trained so hard and who is so freakishly, annoyingly diligent about what he eats! He was seizing and his face was gray. Such a bizarre and surreal experience. People say to me, "You must have been so scared!" and I was. But really it was one of those experiences I've heard people in the therapy biz refer to as "schizing" or "splitting". It was like my mind split into several compartments. The first was very matter-of-fact: Very calmly I thought, "Dad is dying. I'm watching him die. I'm going to have to call Mom and tell her Dad is dead." I cried quietly as I watched the paramedics, but in an unexplainable way I felt very calm. Another part of my brain (which for some reason wasn't openly displaying itself) was incredibly sad, helpless and panicked.
Thank God (or the universe, or serendipity, or whatever it was) we were at a place in the race in which people were around us. Unbelievably, my dad was getting amazing care right there in the middle of the street. I later learned that a spectator (who happened to be a nurse practitioner) was just a feet from my dad when he fell and was the first to begin CPR. An ambulance was a dozen feet away. The EMT crew had an ER physician on board that day who was training them to begin hypothermia treatment during transport to the hospital.
Our luck (or, again, whatever it was) is simply unbelievable to me. It gives me chills. Literally five minutes earlier we were jogging in a neighborhood, and no one was around. We actually considered the possibility that we had gotten turned around and were no longer on course. But, no, the ridiculously awful weather kept potential participants and spectators indoors. We didn't have our cell phones (they would have weighed us down, people!), so I couldn't have called anyone. If his heart had stopped ten minutes later, we would have been driving home; and as you can tell by this post's first paragraph, I certainly wouldn't have known what to do.
A few excruciating days followed as we waited to see if my Dad would come out okay from his treatment-induced coma. Our family and friends were absolutely amazing during this time--right there by our sides (and on the phone, and over the Internet), helping out with everything. And then early the morning of April 18th, we got a call from his nurse that he was awake. We zoomed to the hospital and there he was--groggy and weak, but talking, and smiling and recognizing us. This was absolutely one of the happiest days of my life.
It's been just over two months, and my Dad is back home, working full time, just started jogging again as part of his cardiac rehab. Simply amazing. We are so, SO lucky.
But this blog is about bitching, people, not gratitude. So here comes the complaining. During this whole experience I developed a fantasy of how my dad would turn out: He would make a full physical and mental recovery (of course), but he would also awaken with a new philosophy on life. Dad would decide that since life is so unpredictable and precious he now wanted to spend as much time as possible with his friends and family, so he would retire and he and my mom would move closer to me. He would let go of all grudges and judgments and just love and accept everyone for who they are and what they can offer. He would be peaceful, and content, and happy, and joyous, and wise, but not dogmatic. Sort of like a living, breathing "Life is Good" shirt.
But that didn't happen. Instead my Dad is. . .well, my Dad. He's exactly the way he was 1 minute before his heart attack. Judgmental, rigid, stubborn, a touch homophobic and a bit self-centered. (He's also funny, kind, generous and hilariously absent-minded). But I'm starting to realize (slowly, begrudgingly and thanks entirely to Tripp) that this is okay. Not only IS it okay, but it needs to be okay because I don't have a choice in the matter. Such a cliche, but I can't control anyone else--a lesson I apparently need to learn over and over. My Dad is my Dad, and I am eternally, immeasurably, overwhelmingly thankful to everyone and everything that contributed to his recovery and to the fact that I can call him on the phone today and tell him what a turd he's being. And as for all that guru, mountain top, peace and love shit? Well, I guess that will have to be what I aspire to. I love you, Dad.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Raindrops on Roses and Whiskers on Kittens
This site is mostly dedicated to kvetching; but it would be dishonest and depressing if it was completely filled with my (mostly pointless) rants and complaints. So, here is a list (in no particular order) of things I am soooo grateful for:
1. Sam thinks I'm hilarious and laughs at me all the time. He also loves to be kissed, tickled, hugged and all-around manhandled,
2. Today's weather is absolutely 100% perfect. Sixty-two degrees, sunny, no humidity. It's UNBELIEVABLY BEAUTIFUL,
3. Henry had an appointment with an ENT today, and they can do his ear surgery NEXT WEEK! (We were going to have to wait a month at the first place.) ALSO, Henry was an absolute angel at the appointment, despite the whole thing taking a lot longer than we had planned and a gazillion people putting all kinds of medical devices in his ears. I almost cried I was so proud of him,
4. Tripp. Just everything about him,
5. Grandma Margie. As is the case with most people, the things that drive me nuts about her are also the things I love most about her. Case in point, her obsession with my children: While that can have some annoying fallout, her interactions with Henry and Sam are some of the sweetest, cutest, loveliest, most beautiful treasures of my life,
6. It's spring and there are big, beautiful dogwoods in bloom all over the place,
7. All of our wonderful, amazing friends who offered so much support and love during my virtual freak-out last week,
8. Chocolate and good coffee,
9. My recumbent bike,
10. Everything else. We have a roof over our heads, access to good health care, food, clean water, and the people we love are healthy and happy most of the time.
I am truly, truly blessed.
I'm about to make myself vomit, so I'll be back to bitching soon.
1. Sam thinks I'm hilarious and laughs at me all the time. He also loves to be kissed, tickled, hugged and all-around manhandled,
2. Today's weather is absolutely 100% perfect. Sixty-two degrees, sunny, no humidity. It's UNBELIEVABLY BEAUTIFUL,
3. Henry had an appointment with an ENT today, and they can do his ear surgery NEXT WEEK! (We were going to have to wait a month at the first place.) ALSO, Henry was an absolute angel at the appointment, despite the whole thing taking a lot longer than we had planned and a gazillion people putting all kinds of medical devices in his ears. I almost cried I was so proud of him,
4. Tripp. Just everything about him,
5. Grandma Margie. As is the case with most people, the things that drive me nuts about her are also the things I love most about her. Case in point, her obsession with my children: While that can have some annoying fallout, her interactions with Henry and Sam are some of the sweetest, cutest, loveliest, most beautiful treasures of my life,
6. It's spring and there are big, beautiful dogwoods in bloom all over the place,
7. All of our wonderful, amazing friends who offered so much support and love during my virtual freak-out last week,
8. Chocolate and good coffee,
9. My recumbent bike,
10. Everything else. We have a roof over our heads, access to good health care, food, clean water, and the people we love are healthy and happy most of the time.
I am truly, truly blessed.
I'm about to make myself vomit, so I'll be back to bitching soon.
Monday, April 11, 2011
The Will of a 2 Year-Old vs. The Determination of a Mommy
Is it just me or are 2 year-olds unbelievably strong-willed? I know, I know, everyone says, oh yeah, that's a 2 year-old blahblahblah; but I can't believe their little brains are capable of the maniacal power games that Henry seems to play.
Picture it, nap time today: Henry spent two hours (this is not an exaggeration) jumping out of bed, running down the hall, and then standing in front of me jumping up and down, shrieking, grabbing toilet paper, flushing toilets, and doing anything else he could in what I can only assume were attempts to rile me up. In true "Supernanny" form (I'm a devotee), I did not engage. I ignored for a while (which usually, eventually, works--in that Henry gets tired/bored and eventually just goes to sleep). In the past week, my next step has been to lock him in his room--something I was initially against (what do I do when he can break out? And isn't the point to get him to learn the rules?). But several friends told me this worked for them, so I tried it. However, my little devil learned how to break the baby lock in less than a week. I locked him in today, hoping that he wouldn't bother fiddling with it; and by the time I was down the hall he was running after me, lock in hand. Finally, I began to silently escort him back to his bed. Again, I did not engage: After I put him back in bed the first time, I said "It's time for rest, honey." The next 247 times, I kept silent and made no eye contact. I even tried to make the walk back to his room as boring as possible--walking slowly and quietly so Henry couldn't run. But this went on for two hours, people. TWO HOURS. Henry never got upset, pitched a fit, or cried. He was completely content the entire time.
I find this kind of thing so difficult. As a parent, you start questioning yourself--at least I do. Am I doing the right thing? Is this ever going to work? Even if it works today, am I going to have to start all over with this tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day? It's especially hard when you're alone or (most difficult) when you're with someone who does not support you. My mother, God bless her, is thoroughly, completely, head over heels infatuated with my children; and as a result refuses to enforce anything resembling a rule. She also questions me (that's putting it mildly; it's really more like an active criticism at best and a complete tantrum at worst) when I'm attempting to set limits with Henry. So, when I'm with Grandma Margie, it usually goes something like this:
Me: Henry, it's time for bed.
Henry: Wah!
Grandma Margie (to me): Are you sure he has to go to bed now? He didn't eat enough dinner. He's been sick! This is a new environment! He's excited to see his grandma! Can I go in there and talk to him? The fan is running in his room, and it's keeping him awake! The room is too warm! The room is too cold! Do you think I should go in there and sing to him? He doesn't like the color of the room! Don't you think I should go sit with him? I'm going to go sit with him.
This continues until I either give in or tell her (usually loudly) to STOP, in which case the whole thing starts again within a minute if Henry is continuing to complain. The point is, when you're a new parent (again, at least for me) and you've never done this before, and you're trying to raise your kids right, it really sucks when other adults aren't supporting you.
Anyway, I'm proud of myself today because I stayed calm (deep breathing helps), did not engage, and kept repeating to myself, "I WILL out will this two-year old!" Eventually, Henry got tired and instead of popping up and running down the hall after I put him in bed, he got up at a regular human rate and walked down the hall. Silently celebrating a chink in his armor, I carried him back to bed; and he immediately started to get back up. I put my hand on his belly and quietly said, "We don't have to do this, honey. You can relax. It's okay. It's time to rest now, but we'll play later." He went to sleep.
I'm fucking exhausted but proud of myself.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Pity Party, Interrupted
Just put Henry to bed. He snuggled up to me, put my hands on his cheeks and fell asleep while I quietly sobbed. Like I said to my friend who recently revealed she has a bun in the oven, motherhood is messy and complicated. But ultimately, you just love these damn kids so much it hurts.
Too Exhausted to Think of a Title
It's been a shitty week. Four trips to the pediatrician's office, a visit to the ER, a hospital admission (complete with a blood draw that took a four-point restraint), three misdiagnoses, a horrendous rash, a five day fever, and all sorts of antibiotics and antihistamines later, Henry is finally back to baseline. He was supposed to have tubes put in his ears this week, but that was canceled because of all the other medical insanity happening with him. We're so bummed about the tubes because it could be the answer to all of Henry's problems (constant sickness, lack of language skills, incredibly low frustration tolerance-even for a two year old); and it took weeks to schedule the surgery the first time. Now, we're back to square one. On top of it all, at his post-hospitalization check up yesterday his pediatrician brought up in the gentlest way possible that she'd like to refer him to their developmental specialist because "even if he's on the spectrum. . ." Oh, Jesus. My mind went into overload and switched off. One of my biggest fears is that Henry will be "on the spectrum", as in the Autistic spectrum, as in he will have a life-long, incurable condition that will (among other things) cause him to have difficulty connecting with people. I've worked professionally with people on the spectrum, and I realize it's completely my hang-up, but I have had so much trouble with the people I've met who have had these diagnoses. Connecting with people, finding common ground, empathizing (and being empathized WITH) is so meaningful for me. It's meaningful for everyone, I realize; but this is my blog so I'm talking about me. From the time he was in utero I've been scared shitless that my kid will be autistic.
Anyway, for the past two days, I've been trying to over-compensate for the horrible week Henry has had by doing fun things with him. Yesterday, I took him to an indoor playground; today took him to get cupcakes with a mommy and me group. At both these child-friendly events, Henry had complete meltdowns. Yesterday, after the initial freak-out he sort of kept it in check and just sat on the floor moaning while we waited in line to pay. However, this did not keep a busybody old lady from making a snide comment about my parenting. This has happened probably a dozen times-strangers (almost always old ladies) forcing completely unsolicited parenting advice on me, expressing outrage, or making sarcastic, nasty comments about how I'm dealing with my kid. I hate old ladies and I hope they all die in fires. No, I don't; but it felt good to write that.
Today, mid-walk to the cupcake party Henry collapsed in the street and literally began kicking and screaming. As I was holding Sam (and Henry is 40 pounds) it was physically impossible for me to carry Henry, so I essentially dragged him to the curb like a giant bag filled with wiggling, screeching kittens. A mom from the group saw me and smiled breezily as she gently shepherded her children into the yard where everyone was meeting. "Do you need help?" she asked and didn't wait for my response, just happily slid on her sunglasses and followed her children. I continued to drag Henry closer to the yard, watching a half dozen other moms contentedly chat while their children happily played together, all of them completely oblivious to me and the human tornado at my feet. I got down to Henry's level (a Supernanny suggestion) and firmly said, "Henry, you need to calm down and walk with mommy to our friends, or we're going home." This appeared to make a 0% difference in his attitude, so I said, "Okay, we're going." Frustrated and determined, I struggled to pick him up (still holding Sam, mind you), and fortunately my dear friend Liz showed up and helped me carry a still kicking and screaming Henry to the car.
Basically what I'm saying is, I'm spent. I don't even know what this post is supposed to be about. It was going to be about how old, bitchy ladies who think they know what's best for me and my kids had better step off. But I'm too tired to even get into that. I'm just worn down. And I long for the support of people who understand me, and empathize with me, and get what I'm going through, and can/will say, "I've been there." As in, "I've been in plenty of social situations where I was the only mom with a lunatic toddler, and I've felt embarrassed, and sad, and exhausted, and worried, and fed the hell up."
Honestly, I'm probably going to have to find a support group for parents whose kids are " on the spectrum."
Anyway, for the past two days, I've been trying to over-compensate for the horrible week Henry has had by doing fun things with him. Yesterday, I took him to an indoor playground; today took him to get cupcakes with a mommy and me group. At both these child-friendly events, Henry had complete meltdowns. Yesterday, after the initial freak-out he sort of kept it in check and just sat on the floor moaning while we waited in line to pay. However, this did not keep a busybody old lady from making a snide comment about my parenting. This has happened probably a dozen times-strangers (almost always old ladies) forcing completely unsolicited parenting advice on me, expressing outrage, or making sarcastic, nasty comments about how I'm dealing with my kid. I hate old ladies and I hope they all die in fires. No, I don't; but it felt good to write that.
Today, mid-walk to the cupcake party Henry collapsed in the street and literally began kicking and screaming. As I was holding Sam (and Henry is 40 pounds) it was physically impossible for me to carry Henry, so I essentially dragged him to the curb like a giant bag filled with wiggling, screeching kittens. A mom from the group saw me and smiled breezily as she gently shepherded her children into the yard where everyone was meeting. "Do you need help?" she asked and didn't wait for my response, just happily slid on her sunglasses and followed her children. I continued to drag Henry closer to the yard, watching a half dozen other moms contentedly chat while their children happily played together, all of them completely oblivious to me and the human tornado at my feet. I got down to Henry's level (a Supernanny suggestion) and firmly said, "Henry, you need to calm down and walk with mommy to our friends, or we're going home." This appeared to make a 0% difference in his attitude, so I said, "Okay, we're going." Frustrated and determined, I struggled to pick him up (still holding Sam, mind you), and fortunately my dear friend Liz showed up and helped me carry a still kicking and screaming Henry to the car.
Basically what I'm saying is, I'm spent. I don't even know what this post is supposed to be about. It was going to be about how old, bitchy ladies who think they know what's best for me and my kids had better step off. But I'm too tired to even get into that. I'm just worn down. And I long for the support of people who understand me, and empathize with me, and get what I'm going through, and can/will say, "I've been there." As in, "I've been in plenty of social situations where I was the only mom with a lunatic toddler, and I've felt embarrassed, and sad, and exhausted, and worried, and fed the hell up."
Honestly, I'm probably going to have to find a support group for parents whose kids are " on the spectrum."
Monday, February 21, 2011
Holy F-ing S!
I'm a parent of two kids. How was that allowed to happen? More later, but I think a description of my current appearance will suffice to describe how it's going: Currently in my underwear, with damp hair, teeth haven't been brushed in days, a fussy 12 pound baby strapped to my chest (his head precariously dangling over the edge of the inappropriately attached Maya wrap; so my left arm is constantly raised to hold said head), running around maniacally trying to find shoes, pack baby items, arouse 2 year old from nap, soothe 2 year old after waking from nap, put children in car relatively unscathed (me, not them--they fight it), and get out of the house so I can only arrive 15 minutes late to my doctor's appointment.
HELLO, motherhood!
HELLO, motherhood!
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Updates
Sheesh, I last wrote in September? What a slacker I've been. Here's the quick and dirty: We haven't sold our house yet. After a brief burst of inspiration to sell it myself (and being tantalized and tormented for months by a seemingly kind and benign but truly deceptive and maniacal retired couple who only wore track suits in our presence), I completely lost steam and became dejected/certain this place was never going to sell; and while we're on the subject (here is where I snowball into my angst-cycle) we can't afford to buy a bigger house, we can't afford to move, we don't know where we want to live, what if Tripp gets a new job and we have to relocate two days after we move, we're going to be poor, and what's the point?
After weeks of this, I finally got fed up driving myself crazy. Call it Taoism, the Secret, or a reference to the old Alcoholics Anonymous saying, "Let go and let God", I'm giving it up to the universe. So, we hired a Realtor, she's going to try to sell it, and if it sells, great. If it doesn't, fine. In the meantime, I've decided I'm going to do the things I love: Namely, hang out with my family and friends and enjoy my life. Sometimes I need to get over myself and remember I'm, literally, the gabillionth person in the world to have more than one kid; and most people in the world are lucky to have a roof over their heads. . .let alone a relatively new, well-functioning roof attached to a lovely little home in an assisted living community.
After weeks of this, I finally got fed up driving myself crazy. Call it Taoism, the Secret, or a reference to the old Alcoholics Anonymous saying, "Let go and let God", I'm giving it up to the universe. So, we hired a Realtor, she's going to try to sell it, and if it sells, great. If it doesn't, fine. In the meantime, I've decided I'm going to do the things I love: Namely, hang out with my family and friends and enjoy my life. Sometimes I need to get over myself and remember I'm, literally, the gabillionth person in the world to have more than one kid; and most people in the world are lucky to have a roof over their heads. . .let alone a relatively new, well-functioning roof attached to a lovely little home in an assisted living community.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Wait. . .Two Year Olds are Destructive?
As noted in earlier posts, our ultimate goal for this year is to sell our current house for the smallest loss possible and move into a larger house so we have room for Baby 2 (from here on, referred to as SS for "Sammy Sweetheart") and the grandparents who will God-willing stay and help us as we make the adjustment from a 3 to a 4-person household (adjustment is scheduled to be complete when Henry turns thirty-nine or I'm dead, whichever comes last). Anyway, as you might imagine, BEFORE we can do any of this, we must make our current home presentable; and there begins the first problem. I always heard about two year-olds being mischievous and temperamental; and now that I own one I want to empathize with everyone who has had one and let everyone else know: IT'S SO TRUE. Henry is a personified hurricane, moving through our house in a path of destruction. Before 9 am today, Henry had: emptied the kitchen pantry, emptied the full kitchen garbage can and spread its contents across the floor, upended two hampers of dirty clothes, torn an entire new roll of toilet paper to shreds (Tripp and I foolishly thought we were past this phase and began storing the toilet paper rolls close to the toilets--MISTAKE), and repeatedly pulled clothing hanging in closets from hangers. All of this while I was in the room with him or in the next room. It feels hopeless to try to keep the house clean, and I'm struggling not to go down the rabbit hole of despair: Is this completely pointless? We're never going to be able to keep our home clean enough to show to company, let alone potential buyers.
Think it's time to take a lesson from Sesame Street's Mrs. Sparklenose: Do fairies say never? SOMETIMES!
But this isn't going to be one of them.
Think it's time to take a lesson from Sesame Street's Mrs. Sparklenose: Do fairies say never? SOMETIMES!
But this isn't going to be one of them.
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