Dear Baby Big Star,
You might only still be wearing 18-24 month shorts (2T if it's a bad laundry week), but you are every second of your 3 years old today. Today was your first day of preschool. That "in Seb-teb-er" day finally arrived. We've talked about it so much and teased you with a year's worth of Little Bug school pick ups that I don't really think you believed this day would come until I pulled out the Elmo backpack and strapped it on you. You dutifully stood there while I took pictures, but I could tell you were still wondering if this was all pretend.
I snuck some looks at you in your seat as you and I drove alone to school this morning. You had this tiny grin glued on your face as you watched the familiar route with rapt attention. This.was.happening.
OMG, this was happening. My baby was going to school. I'm sorry, but wasn't it just like last month that I cuddled you in my arms and played "ko ko ko epp" while you drank one of your five daily bottles? I've been totally okay with you going to preschool up until this morning when I had a mini panic attack thinking through the fact that I was going to take you to school where you would function independent of us. Like, what kind of madness is that? You are my baby.
But you stood in front of your new preschool like a kid before a Christmas tree as I snapped a few more shots. Every shot you inched farther out of frame as your entire body was literally buzzing from suppressed excitement.
And then, with no preamble from either of us, I let you go.
You actually ran into that school shouting "Big Star's preschool! Big Star's preschool!" All that was missing was the fist pump or the flag you planned to stake down. There was no hesitation, no fear. You hung your backpack in your room, gave your teacher (Little Bug's beloved old teacher) a good morning hug, and ran off to get your hands on the freaking dump truck you have been eying for the better part of 6 months. By the time I realized what had happened, you were across the room hunched down playing with two other friends, and I didn't have the heart to drag you back for a goodbye or hug.
For the record, I didn't cry, although thinking about not getting a hug makes me want to now.
No surprise, you were a big star today. Your teachers were busted up over the stories you told them about Idaho and grandma and tractors. They marveled at your fabulous eating habits (salad...seriously kid, you even ate salad for them?), sharing nature (umm, what?), and great listening skills (thank goodness). And I am so freaking proud of you for diving right into "real life" and thriving. It's not a surprise, but it's still a joy to see.
You were so happy today to tell us all about your day. You had the time of your life and knowing that I am going to see that twice a week for the next year is fun to think about.
It was time to let you go a bit, my baby Big Star. You and I both needed to let you grow up a bit, since you certainly can handle it. I'm proud of you for rocking preschool like a champion. Just one tiny step toward what will undoubtedly be the life of a star.
I love you, Big Star. Happy first day of (BIG STAR'S!) preschool.
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label growing up. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Friday, August 24, 2012
First Day Blues
Seriously, Oy.
Yesterday Little Bug said goodbye to the school he's been at for the last 3 years. They have played a huge part in his life and therapy and helped built him up into a pretty confident boy. I tried to write about it last night, but sobbed my brains out, so the letter I wrote them will have to suffice for his memory book. That and the book the teachers wrote him, each page filled with a letter from someone special in his life. They shared memories of his first step, his leg braces, his first slide, his first bike ride, his first sentences, etc. The messages were filled with pride, love, and hope. They were beautiful and heartfelt and I've sobbed every time I have gone through it.
Moving on as tears threaten...again.
Yesterday was also emotional because it was the open house for Little Bug's new school. This school is specifically for children with significant special needs and it is full time. (He'll be going half day to this school and half day to a developmental preschool elsewhere in our district.) Appa and I fought against this school for the last 2 years, but we finally agreed to this half day program when it became clear that Little Bug needs this one-on-one ratio to really focus on his education goals. Our eye is on Little Bug being in GenEd Kindergarden at least part time next year, and that just won't happen without this school.
So recap...this school is a good thing for him.
But it's very different than anything he's done before. The classroom is pretty bare and drab since some of the students can't handle too much stimulation. Most of his classmates can't talk and about half can't move without the aid of a wheelchair. There isn't a lot of fluff...it's down and dirty life skills and learning. I actually look at these things as good things. He'll be making friends with kids who are different than the other kids he knows, and that is always a bonus to me. But it's different and a bit intense right now.
Yesterday as we walked into the school, Little Bug told me that his tummy hurt and he was feeling like throwing up. Classic signs of his anxiety. Seeing him experience and identify nervousness made my heart sad. Scared is one thing, but nervousness just seems like such a grown up emotion that I wanted to shield my baby from, especially when it comes to school, which he normally loves.
The open house was intimidating, even though all the teachers and students seem awesome, and Little Bug latched onto me and refused to interact with anyone and was asking to leave...very NOT Little Bug behavior. After about an hour he started crying and begging to leave. He clutched my hand the whole way back to the car and kept saying "No go back to Ms. Dxxxxx school tomorrow."
I cried for the millionth time after dropping him back off at his beloved traditional preschool.
And this morning he woke up sad because he knew he was going back to that school. He acted out all morning and begged to go back to his traditional preschool. I packed him a favorite lunch and decked him out in his favorite Thomas shirt and firetruck shoes. I clapped and cheered and acted like school was going to be the coolest thing ever...because it will be soon.
And he stood stock still for 40+ "first day of school" photos with various shades of concerned and worried looks on his face.
The bus came and he bravely gave me kisses and waved goodbye. Because THAT is the kid Little Bug is. He's brave and strong and will do what he needs to do, even when he is nervous or sad. And Little Bug is also the kid who falls in love hard and fast and would much rather smile than frown, and I have sincere hope that those qualities will help him find his groove at this new school soon.
This is a good thing, but man, it is hard to watch your baby battle through their fears.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Sassy and Special
Scene: Little Bug's bedroom as I was trying to get him into jammies while he was trying to apply stickers to his face.
Him: "Moooooooom, stooooooooP."
It was articulated perfectly with a pop of teenage chagrin and annoyance. In that moment there was no trace of anything but a boy telling his mama to back off. So brilliantly 4 going on 14 that it took my breath away.
Life is changing.
Him: "Moooooooom, stooooooooP."
It was articulated perfectly with a pop of teenage chagrin and annoyance. In that moment there was no trace of anything but a boy telling his mama to back off. So brilliantly 4 going on 14 that it took my breath away.
Life is changing.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Summer Lovin'
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That's what Appa and I have been feeling the last couple days. Pure joy and relief and hope. Our precious son has finally been able to shake the very disturbing emotional side effects from his latest dosage tweak, and in place of all that turmoil has come happiness.
Little Bug's smile, literally one of my favorite things in the entire world, is back and wider than ever. He is becoming more verbal, more creative, more confident, and more peaceful. He is seeking out activities on his own and testing his comfort level away from me. He is trying harder at challenges, instead of giving up and melting down (or not trying at all). He is making up stories and pretending to be a cat and dog and chef and monster. He is counting into his teens and singing songs from memory.
A couple days ago he hopped on the couch while I was in another room, turned on his iPad, and played independently for over 15 minutes. NOTHING about that last sentence is anything short of extraordinary for our status quo.
Last night he played, mainly alone, in our sandbox for over an hour. ONE HOUR. Never, other than sleeping, has he attended to a stationary activity for anywhere close to that amount of time. And we had to bribe him out with food. Which Appa and I were both loathe to do as we would have much rather continued to sit with stupid grins on our faces and watch him make "pumpkins" and laugh big belly laughs.
Is this all because of a pill? Honestly, I think much of it is.
The pill isn't causing these changes in him, but it is giving his brain a little breathing room to really explore its potential and share that with us. This child has been a super hero fighter from infancy, and my heart gets fluttery just thinking about how much more he is going to be able to accomplish in the coming months, and how proud and happy that will make him.
This dose we are currently crushing on probably isn't the right dose for him academically, but it's summer and he's only got one more week of hardcore summer school before we head off for a vacation filled with Grandmas and a summer of mainstream "fun" preschool. Although Appa and I know he needs a higher dose, we've decided to let him enjoy his newfound happiness for the summer.
Little Bug deserves to have a summer filled with endless hours of sandboxes and bikes and laughter. And I am so grateful that he's going to get the chance to have it.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
"I Don't Know"
The "clinical therapies" waiting room where I spend an hour each week waiting during Little Bug's physical therapy is a melting pot for children and families with some sort of need. I see families and children who navigate wheel chairs and feeding tubes. I see families and children who are trying to navigate therapy waters in a language they don't speak (or sign). I see families and children who have behavioral challenges and needs.
And I feel very at home here. Because in this waiting room, although we all have very different reasons for being here, we all want the same thing for our kids. To be accepted. To not be judged when our children start twitching and shrieking at the crayon table or run up to you and throw a book at your head. To have our children smiled at instead of stared at, even in the moments when you can't help but stare. To have a stranger strike up a conversation and keep it going even when our children cannot or will not. To have other children see a friend instead of a wheelchair, leg brace, inability to socially interact, or physical deformity.
In an odd way, I love this hour of my week. Even though I rarely talk to anyone else, it makes me feel less alone as a mom and gives me hope for a community for my son that I sincerely hope he will always feel comfortable in as he grows up and his needs evolve.
But yesterday I also saw the bleak truth of growing up in this waiting room. And I pretended to be reading something very sad on my phone as tears silently streamed down my face.
It was an uncharacteristically quiet day in the waiting room. A family who spoke ASL sat in one corner, and Little Bro was engrossed in the iPad. From out of the practice rooms a boy about 7 or 8 years old came shuffling out, tears in his eyes and his face contorted in fear and sadness. A man who later called himself "Pops" came behind him, allowing the young boy to navigate them to some chairs across from me. There they sat in silence for a few minutes before Pops tried to sooth the boy.
The blow-by-blow isn't important (but will forever be etched in my mind), but basically this little boy had just been told that he needed to take medication for his attention needs. I have no doubt this information was delivered age-appropriately and compassionately, but all this little boy heard was that "something was wrong" with him.
And it hurt. Not anger. Hurt.
Pops, bless him, gave me some good lessons on how to talk to a pre-teen boy in pain. When the boy chose to sit across the couch from him inching away with each word Pops uttered, Pops told him that was okay if it made it easier to talk. When the boy didn't seem to want to say anything, Pops calmly and encouragingly told him how smart and kind and fun he was, using loving examples. He just needed a little help talking tests, that's all. The little boy's eyes filled with tears and buried his face in his hands.
"Does this feel like a big deal to you?" Pops asked softly.
"I don't know," the little boy admitted before dissolving into tears.
That's when I lost it, for the record.
As Little Bug starts maturing and getting ready for big time school, I have started preparing for how to support him emotionally, not just clinically. The emotions he might feel as he gets older and more aware of his challenges (guilt, anger, fear, embarrassment, rejection) literally keep me up at night with pains in my chest. To hear my deepest fears whispered by this confused little boy broke me. How can little ones be expected to understand just how unfair life can be or just how different and wonderful they are? How can I protect my Little Bug from the moments when he is told by strangers that he is different and needs help? How can I help him hear anything other than "something is wrong" with me in his head?
I don't actually have the answers. I don't know. And that sucks.
And I feel very at home here. Because in this waiting room, although we all have very different reasons for being here, we all want the same thing for our kids. To be accepted. To not be judged when our children start twitching and shrieking at the crayon table or run up to you and throw a book at your head. To have our children smiled at instead of stared at, even in the moments when you can't help but stare. To have a stranger strike up a conversation and keep it going even when our children cannot or will not. To have other children see a friend instead of a wheelchair, leg brace, inability to socially interact, or physical deformity.
In an odd way, I love this hour of my week. Even though I rarely talk to anyone else, it makes me feel less alone as a mom and gives me hope for a community for my son that I sincerely hope he will always feel comfortable in as he grows up and his needs evolve.
But yesterday I also saw the bleak truth of growing up in this waiting room. And I pretended to be reading something very sad on my phone as tears silently streamed down my face.
It was an uncharacteristically quiet day in the waiting room. A family who spoke ASL sat in one corner, and Little Bro was engrossed in the iPad. From out of the practice rooms a boy about 7 or 8 years old came shuffling out, tears in his eyes and his face contorted in fear and sadness. A man who later called himself "Pops" came behind him, allowing the young boy to navigate them to some chairs across from me. There they sat in silence for a few minutes before Pops tried to sooth the boy.
The blow-by-blow isn't important (but will forever be etched in my mind), but basically this little boy had just been told that he needed to take medication for his attention needs. I have no doubt this information was delivered age-appropriately and compassionately, but all this little boy heard was that "something was wrong" with him.
And it hurt. Not anger. Hurt.
Pops, bless him, gave me some good lessons on how to talk to a pre-teen boy in pain. When the boy chose to sit across the couch from him inching away with each word Pops uttered, Pops told him that was okay if it made it easier to talk. When the boy didn't seem to want to say anything, Pops calmly and encouragingly told him how smart and kind and fun he was, using loving examples. He just needed a little help talking tests, that's all. The little boy's eyes filled with tears and buried his face in his hands.
"Does this feel like a big deal to you?" Pops asked softly.
"I don't know," the little boy admitted before dissolving into tears.
That's when I lost it, for the record.
As Little Bug starts maturing and getting ready for big time school, I have started preparing for how to support him emotionally, not just clinically. The emotions he might feel as he gets older and more aware of his challenges (guilt, anger, fear, embarrassment, rejection) literally keep me up at night with pains in my chest. To hear my deepest fears whispered by this confused little boy broke me. How can little ones be expected to understand just how unfair life can be or just how different and wonderful they are? How can I protect my Little Bug from the moments when he is told by strangers that he is different and needs help? How can I help him hear anything other than "something is wrong" with me in his head?
I don't actually have the answers. I don't know. And that sucks.
Friday, February 3, 2012
11
Dear Little Bro,
Yesterday as you and I laid quietly in your warm bed as you were waking up from nap, we started counting. You can count to 10 in a million different ways (fast, slow, monster voice, scream, whisper, etc.), but 10 was your cap.
So I told you the next number after 10 was 11.
You rolled the number around on your tongue, tried it out in sing-song and loud variations, and then let it loose with a super fast 12345678910......11!
And just like that, you learned something new. Something you will never, ever forget. I find that fascinating. One thing I have learned over the past few years is to never take the miracle of learning for granted. So to watch it happen, something so memorable as a number, was neat for me. It's one of my favorite parts of being a mom, and your zest for learning is so exciting to experience.
Just wait until I let you in on the mind-blowing news about a certain number 12!
Yesterday as you and I laid quietly in your warm bed as you were waking up from nap, we started counting. You can count to 10 in a million different ways (fast, slow, monster voice, scream, whisper, etc.), but 10 was your cap.
So I told you the next number after 10 was 11.
You rolled the number around on your tongue, tried it out in sing-song and loud variations, and then let it loose with a super fast 12345678910......11!
And just like that, you learned something new. Something you will never, ever forget. I find that fascinating. One thing I have learned over the past few years is to never take the miracle of learning for granted. So to watch it happen, something so memorable as a number, was neat for me. It's one of my favorite parts of being a mom, and your zest for learning is so exciting to experience.
Just wait until I let you in on the mind-blowing news about a certain number 12!
Thursday, January 19, 2012
He's Got This
But I realized today that one of the factors I hadn't considered was definitely at play; a developmental growth spurt.
Little Bug is a plateau-er in his development. He takes a long time to build up to a new stage in development, and then sits there for a long time until he just leaps up to the next level. I can imagine that would take a lot of of a little mind and body.
But last week my son could only get the end letters of the ABCs down, could count to 3 and then again from 7-10, and had only a couple songs that he could sing all the way through on his own. He could focus long enough to match five colored circles to the five colored squares only with significant help/prodding/forcing. These feats took him a very long time to achieve, and I was so proud of him.
Tonight he can count to 10 confidently without skipping a number, he can sing the entire ABC song by himself without any help (although he hums through some of the hard-to-pronounce letters, but I know it's in his head), he sang not one, not two, but our entire five song bedtime routine on his own without help (including a song in Korean), and his new favorite game is a color matching folder with 12 colored squares that he rocks the lamination off.
Proud? Appa and I are practically drunk on it. I'd have him bow, but he is slumbering peacefully and will be for the next 10 hours because he does that again now, too.
The funny thing about parenting a child with developmental special needs is that although I know I am a part of his development, I can't explain why one day he didn't have it and the next day he does. There is rarely an "ahhh!" moment when it all just clicks for him. For nearly a year I have spent a portion of nearly every day working on color matching with him, and it usually ends with me privately freaking out that my 4 year old is never going to be able to match colors. And then one day, poof, he does it no big deal. Then again, I suppose that is how most kids develop; his longer times between skills just make it seem like he is developing different than other children, when really he isn't.
He's just marching to the drum beat that works best for his mind. Which, if it was a red drum on a small laminated square, he would now totally match to the large red square.
No big. He's got this. Just like he will get the next skill and the next skill and the next.
I'm lucky, so very lucky, to get to witness this sort of development. The lows are low when parenting a child with special needs, but holy heck, the highs are high, high, high.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Comedy
"Wear my socks in the bathtub."
[Cue laugh track]
Three nights ago Little Bug made what I have deemed to be his first official joke. Sure, he's teased before, but he has never intentionally verbalized something he knew to be nonsensical with the expectation of getting a big reaction.
But 3 nights ago, as he was sitting on the toilet, naked but for his beloved electric green reindeer socks, he looked me in the eye, got this sneaky twisted smirk on his face, and told me he was going to wear his socks in the bathtub.
Of course, I acted MORTIFIED and then laughed and laughed.
And thus began Little Bug's new life as a comedian.
Nearly every hour of every day he gets that same smirk on his face and busts a line. Because he is a 4-year-old boy, his favorite jokes all have to do with poop and pee pee. Naturally.
"I pee pee in the bathtub"
"I pee pee in Little Bro's bed."
"I poo poo in Daddy's car."
"I poo poo in my underwear."
Why bother with new material when your routine works?
Every time he looks for it, the big reaction from us. And we laugh and laugh and laugh, and it is clear that he feels like the smartest, most clever kid around.
I'm not a stand up comedy sort of gal, but I'll buy tickets to this show anytime.
[Cue laugh track]
Three nights ago Little Bug made what I have deemed to be his first official joke. Sure, he's teased before, but he has never intentionally verbalized something he knew to be nonsensical with the expectation of getting a big reaction.
But 3 nights ago, as he was sitting on the toilet, naked but for his beloved electric green reindeer socks, he looked me in the eye, got this sneaky twisted smirk on his face, and told me he was going to wear his socks in the bathtub.
Of course, I acted MORTIFIED and then laughed and laughed.
And thus began Little Bug's new life as a comedian.
Nearly every hour of every day he gets that same smirk on his face and busts a line. Because he is a 4-year-old boy, his favorite jokes all have to do with poop and pee pee. Naturally.
"I pee pee in the bathtub"
"I pee pee in Little Bro's bed."
"I poo poo in Daddy's car."
"I poo poo in my underwear."
Why bother with new material when your routine works?
Every time he looks for it, the big reaction from us. And we laugh and laugh and laugh, and it is clear that he feels like the smartest, most clever kid around.
I'm not a stand up comedy sort of gal, but I'll buy tickets to this show anytime.
Friday, September 2, 2011
An Apology to My Little Bug
It's been a lonely couple of weeks for me.
Sometimes being a mom of a kid with special needs, especially behavioral special needs, just plain sucks. It's stressful, emotionally draining, depressing, and scary, which leads some (me) into periods of isolation as I try to swing our family pendulum back into sync with some serious sleep and diet modifications and a super low-key environment. Even as I took the boys on a 5-day vacation last week, I felt so off, a mirror to Little Bug's off mood (that was likely a bit of a cycle between the two of us by the end).
And that isolation extended to my writing, which I deliberately avoided, simply because the things I wanted to say were not things I actually wanted to say.
In fact, I just had about seven additional paragraphs to this post detailing my last couple weeks that I just deleted. Because it wasn't what I wanted to say.
Instead, I want to write about how amazing my Little Bug is and how humbled I am tonight to be his mother.
Little Bug came to us as a sweet, beautiful 10-month-old infant. He's always been so far behind in development that Appa and I just grew accustomed to parenting him at his delayed age. He was our first child, and our parenting experience has been entirely built upon ignoring all conventional parenting methods and milestones. What we have given as compassion, acceptance, and avocation have in some instances been nothing more than enabling or selfishness.
That has now been put into blessed clarity for us.
Little Bug is a couple months away from turning 4. Yet, he has never been formally sleep trained and has been cosleeping in a most unhealthy way since his first birthday. Why have we never bitten the bullet and kicked this habit? Oh, that would be because he couldn't be walk, then he couldn't stay in his big boy bed, then he couldn't fall asleep without us, then he needed his sleep and it was easier to put him to sleep in our bed, then we would be going on vacation, then he was getting a new room, then he got a new brother, then then then then then.
All excuses, every one of them. The real reasons were that Appa and I loved having him cuddle in our bed with us and that we simply didn't have enough faith in him to be able to go to sleep on his own and cognitively follow the rules.
In the last four days, he's almost completely sleep trained. We still have tears, but they are short. And most importantly, he understands the expectations and accepts them. Appa and I are ashamed to think of the YEARS of sleep deprivation we have imposed on our tough son simply because we underestimated him.
And we started potty training him today, too. Again, I didn't think this would work, at all. If anything, I thought Little Bro would potty train and help eventually with Little Bug's training. After only 4 hours, my son who has never peed on the potty in any intentional way was telling us, over and over during dinnertime, no less, that he needed to go potty. He kept his big boy pants dry for hours as he motored back and forth to put his business where it needed to be. (And he started taking the stairs without holding any railings.....another first for this super kid.)
In 3 days, I actually think he'll be potty trained. Officially. And it shocks me, to be honest. Both Appa and I are pretty incredulous.
And we're both a bit humbled and ashamed to have underestimated our son in such huge ways. In every challenge we've thrown his way, he's breezed through it. Not even really struggled, but just breezed through it. He's shown us time and time again that he's up for the challenge.
We just haven't been challenging him like we thought we were.
So although there are still a lot of challenges facing Little Bug that can't be fixed with a modified sleep training program or a 3-day miracle potty training program, there are a lot of little life lessons that Little Bug IS probably ready for. And that is going to force us to change how we parent him a bit, which includes me cutting out some of our isolation therapy. Which is probably going to make us all happier.
I know every mother thinks this of their child, but I just really feel deeply that there is something special about Little Bug and what his future holds. Of course I think Little Bro is very special, too, but I feel strongly that Little Bug was given his gifts of a fighting spirit, charming disposition, and joy of life to turn his challenges into something really amazing. He's going to inspire people in some way, some day; I know it. I know it. And someday, when he reads this note from his mother in the midst of all my random musings, I hope he knows that I, more than anyone else in this world, have been blessed beyond measure by him simply being who he is.
Sometimes being a mom of a kid with special needs, especially behavioral special needs, just plain sucks. It's stressful, emotionally draining, depressing, and scary, which leads some (me) into periods of isolation as I try to swing our family pendulum back into sync with some serious sleep and diet modifications and a super low-key environment. Even as I took the boys on a 5-day vacation last week, I felt so off, a mirror to Little Bug's off mood (that was likely a bit of a cycle between the two of us by the end).
And that isolation extended to my writing, which I deliberately avoided, simply because the things I wanted to say were not things I actually wanted to say.
In fact, I just had about seven additional paragraphs to this post detailing my last couple weeks that I just deleted. Because it wasn't what I wanted to say.
Instead, I want to write about how amazing my Little Bug is and how humbled I am tonight to be his mother.
Little Bug came to us as a sweet, beautiful 10-month-old infant. He's always been so far behind in development that Appa and I just grew accustomed to parenting him at his delayed age. He was our first child, and our parenting experience has been entirely built upon ignoring all conventional parenting methods and milestones. What we have given as compassion, acceptance, and avocation have in some instances been nothing more than enabling or selfishness.
That has now been put into blessed clarity for us.
Little Bug is a couple months away from turning 4. Yet, he has never been formally sleep trained and has been cosleeping in a most unhealthy way since his first birthday. Why have we never bitten the bullet and kicked this habit? Oh, that would be because he couldn't be walk, then he couldn't stay in his big boy bed, then he couldn't fall asleep without us, then he needed his sleep and it was easier to put him to sleep in our bed, then we would be going on vacation, then he was getting a new room, then he got a new brother, then then then then then.
All excuses, every one of them. The real reasons were that Appa and I loved having him cuddle in our bed with us and that we simply didn't have enough faith in him to be able to go to sleep on his own and cognitively follow the rules.
In the last four days, he's almost completely sleep trained. We still have tears, but they are short. And most importantly, he understands the expectations and accepts them. Appa and I are ashamed to think of the YEARS of sleep deprivation we have imposed on our tough son simply because we underestimated him.
And we started potty training him today, too. Again, I didn't think this would work, at all. If anything, I thought Little Bro would potty train and help eventually with Little Bug's training. After only 4 hours, my son who has never peed on the potty in any intentional way was telling us, over and over during dinnertime, no less, that he needed to go potty. He kept his big boy pants dry for hours as he motored back and forth to put his business where it needed to be. (And he started taking the stairs without holding any railings.....another first for this super kid.)
In 3 days, I actually think he'll be potty trained. Officially. And it shocks me, to be honest. Both Appa and I are pretty incredulous.
And we're both a bit humbled and ashamed to have underestimated our son in such huge ways. In every challenge we've thrown his way, he's breezed through it. Not even really struggled, but just breezed through it. He's shown us time and time again that he's up for the challenge.
We just haven't been challenging him like we thought we were.
So although there are still a lot of challenges facing Little Bug that can't be fixed with a modified sleep training program or a 3-day miracle potty training program, there are a lot of little life lessons that Little Bug IS probably ready for. And that is going to force us to change how we parent him a bit, which includes me cutting out some of our isolation therapy. Which is probably going to make us all happier.
I know every mother thinks this of their child, but I just really feel deeply that there is something special about Little Bug and what his future holds. Of course I think Little Bro is very special, too, but I feel strongly that Little Bug was given his gifts of a fighting spirit, charming disposition, and joy of life to turn his challenges into something really amazing. He's going to inspire people in some way, some day; I know it. I know it. And someday, when he reads this note from his mother in the midst of all my random musings, I hope he knows that I, more than anyone else in this world, have been blessed beyond measure by him simply being who he is.
Friday, August 12, 2011
45 Minute Glimpse
Today started badly. Bad sleep, two grumpy kids and one grumpy mom, and no daddy made for a unhappy morning. I also decided today would be a good day to force some potty training for both kids. That lasted about 30 minutes.
I was determined to rally and knew the day was going to go up or down based on how I reacted. A couple silly songs later, I managed to convince both kids to sit at their kiddie table and busted out the craft box.
Usually this activity can net me some decent interaction time with Little Bro, but has never lasted more than 10 minutes with Little Bug. In fact, sitting still and focusing on anything for longer than a minute or two is so challenging for Little Bug, it is written into his IEP as a goal. So craft or art time isn't really a go-to activity when Little Bug is home.
But today, with moderate cueing from me as I sat next to him, he participated in scissor work (or rather, scissor practice), markers, stickers, crayons, and playdoh (without even eating any). He and his brother happily sat and created and played and giggled and focused.
For 45 minutes.
To me, that is a huge accomplishment. Never have I seen Little Bug sit and focus for that long, and I certainly didn't feel like he was needing more cueing than he would receive with his aide at his developmental preschool.
Bottom line. It was a huge win for us.
And that has bolstered me all day, especially considering we had a disastrous nap, and he spent his entire $150-an-hour sensory therapy session refusing to get out of a tub of dried beans, and he had not one, but TWO of his new and very disconcerting "car rages."
Because that 45 minutes gave me a glimpse of what I know will one day be able to be our new normals, and that makes fighting through the rest of today a whole lot easier.
I was determined to rally and knew the day was going to go up or down based on how I reacted. A couple silly songs later, I managed to convince both kids to sit at their kiddie table and busted out the craft box.
Usually this activity can net me some decent interaction time with Little Bro, but has never lasted more than 10 minutes with Little Bug. In fact, sitting still and focusing on anything for longer than a minute or two is so challenging for Little Bug, it is written into his IEP as a goal. So craft or art time isn't really a go-to activity when Little Bug is home.
But today, with moderate cueing from me as I sat next to him, he participated in scissor work (or rather, scissor practice), markers, stickers, crayons, and playdoh (without even eating any). He and his brother happily sat and created and played and giggled and focused.
For 45 minutes.
To me, that is a huge accomplishment. Never have I seen Little Bug sit and focus for that long, and I certainly didn't feel like he was needing more cueing than he would receive with his aide at his developmental preschool.
Bottom line. It was a huge win for us.
And that has bolstered me all day, especially considering we had a disastrous nap, and he spent his entire $150-an-hour sensory therapy session refusing to get out of a tub of dried beans, and he had not one, but TWO of his new and very disconcerting "car rages."
Because that 45 minutes gave me a glimpse of what I know will one day be able to be our new normals, and that makes fighting through the rest of today a whole lot easier.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Home
For me, although I love where I currently live, home is Idaho.
It's Fiesta Ole and Walkers off Broadway and the Greenbelt and 17th Street and Skyline and Pancheri Road and the Grand Tetons and the Snake River and the Rocky Mountains and my family and my friends.
It's not where I was born, but it's where I grew up and became me. Living there has shaped who I am, how I see things, and how I react to things. It's shaped my hobbies, talents, and likes and dislikes (expect country music...no thank you).
Tomorrow I am going home with my two babies and my husband (who also calls it home). I am starting to feel this delicious curl of anticipation at my first glimpse of the mountains; my first breath of solid, clean mountain air; and my flood of memories waiting at each street corner. I know this place somewhere deep inside me, no matter the 12 years I've not called it "home."
It makes me wonder where my sons' home will be. Sentimentally, I would love for it to be Seoul, but the reality is there will be no memories lurking on the street corners for them when we return again, no senses reawakened. I suspect home will live in their hearts here, in our large Midwest city. And that's okay. Seoul can be their history, or maybe one day even their physical home. They can make new memories and it can grow in their hearts as it has grown in mine.
But just like home to me is eating a $0.99 soft bean burrito with no enchilada sauce with a side of ranch dressing from Fiesta Ole while staring up into the snow capped mountains instead of munching on a crisp apple while watching hydro-boats skim the tops of the Columbia River from my birthplace in Washington state, home to my boys might be a stuffed pizza and a poorly-played baseball game rather than kimchi and urban hiking. No matter where it is, going home is always a really special feeling.
Fiesta Ole.....yummmmmmm.
It's Fiesta Ole and Walkers off Broadway and the Greenbelt and 17th Street and Skyline and Pancheri Road and the Grand Tetons and the Snake River and the Rocky Mountains and my family and my friends.
It's not where I was born, but it's where I grew up and became me. Living there has shaped who I am, how I see things, and how I react to things. It's shaped my hobbies, talents, and likes and dislikes (expect country music...no thank you).
Tomorrow I am going home with my two babies and my husband (who also calls it home). I am starting to feel this delicious curl of anticipation at my first glimpse of the mountains; my first breath of solid, clean mountain air; and my flood of memories waiting at each street corner. I know this place somewhere deep inside me, no matter the 12 years I've not called it "home."
It makes me wonder where my sons' home will be. Sentimentally, I would love for it to be Seoul, but the reality is there will be no memories lurking on the street corners for them when we return again, no senses reawakened. I suspect home will live in their hearts here, in our large Midwest city. And that's okay. Seoul can be their history, or maybe one day even their physical home. They can make new memories and it can grow in their hearts as it has grown in mine.
But just like home to me is eating a $0.99 soft bean burrito with no enchilada sauce with a side of ranch dressing from Fiesta Ole while staring up into the snow capped mountains instead of munching on a crisp apple while watching hydro-boats skim the tops of the Columbia River from my birthplace in Washington state, home to my boys might be a stuffed pizza and a poorly-played baseball game rather than kimchi and urban hiking. No matter where it is, going home is always a really special feeling.
Fiesta Ole.....yummmmmmm.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
The '85 Bears Would be Proud
Tonight Little Bro danced a dance I have been waiting 3 months to see.
The day we took custody of our Big Star, his foster mother sent us home with a final CD filled with pictures they took on his last night in their home. I cherish these pictures, but one video of Little Bro dancing this awesome high-kick, tap-dance, Super Bowl Shuffle type dance while grinning stuck out, initially because it was so cute. Then it stuck out because while Little Bro likes to get his groove on, never once since he has come home has he busted out that particular dance.
And believe me, I've tried all sorts of things to get it out of him, right down to doing the dance myself.
I know it's not truly important and probably means nothing, but I still mourn the loss of the child we saw in pictures and videos from Korea, because my child laughs a little different, looks a little longer before jumping, and seems a bit more jaded. It's understandable based on what he has gone through, but he's also just getting older and more mature (for a 2 year old, of course). I thought that maybe the dance was this little lost moment I'd never get to see for myself.
But tonight, after 2 days of some serious attachment loving Mamma/Big Star while Appa and Little Bug learn to hula in Hawaii without us (I don't want to talk about it), as I was singing a ridiculous song about bath time, I saw it.
The shuffle/high kick/tap dance while grinning routine. Over and over again while I continued to belt out "Let's go take a bath, let's go take a bathhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." And it was just as cute as it was in the video, cuter even, since it was finally in a moment we were sharing together.
The day we took custody of our Big Star, his foster mother sent us home with a final CD filled with pictures they took on his last night in their home. I cherish these pictures, but one video of Little Bro dancing this awesome high-kick, tap-dance, Super Bowl Shuffle type dance while grinning stuck out, initially because it was so cute. Then it stuck out because while Little Bro likes to get his groove on, never once since he has come home has he busted out that particular dance.
And believe me, I've tried all sorts of things to get it out of him, right down to doing the dance myself.
I know it's not truly important and probably means nothing, but I still mourn the loss of the child we saw in pictures and videos from Korea, because my child laughs a little different, looks a little longer before jumping, and seems a bit more jaded. It's understandable based on what he has gone through, but he's also just getting older and more mature (for a 2 year old, of course). I thought that maybe the dance was this little lost moment I'd never get to see for myself.
But tonight, after 2 days of some serious attachment loving Mamma/Big Star while Appa and Little Bug learn to hula in Hawaii without us (I don't want to talk about it), as I was singing a ridiculous song about bath time, I saw it.
The shuffle/high kick/tap dance while grinning routine. Over and over again while I continued to belt out "Let's go take a bath, let's go take a bathhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." And it was just as cute as it was in the video, cuter even, since it was finally in a moment we were sharing together.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Butt head
Within the last week, someone taught Little Bug the word butt. As in, the slang word for your rear, bottom, posterior, rump, buttock, etc. And while they were at it, they taught him the context, too.
He's big into saying things "hurt" lately (milk on his chin = hurts; touches something slightly above room temperature = hurts; someone else cries because they hurt = hurts; blinks his eye = hurts). But yesterday he started telling me his "butt" hurt. I scrolled through my Little Bugese mental dictionary to try to figure out what he was saying, because surely my 3-year-old doesn't know the word butt.
But when he pointed to his toosh and said "Poop, butt hurt," that pretty much said it all.
Except for the word butt, which he LOVES to say now, always in the correct context, which makes it somehow worse. I'm no prude, and I say words a million times word than butt on a regular basis, but it's such a grown-up, slang word to come out of my precious baby's little mouth. Shouldn't he be calling it a "bum bum" or some other made up, slightly adorable word?
To the butt head who taught my kid this new word, thanks a ton.
He's big into saying things "hurt" lately (milk on his chin = hurts; touches something slightly above room temperature = hurts; someone else cries because they hurt = hurts; blinks his eye = hurts). But yesterday he started telling me his "butt" hurt. I scrolled through my Little Bugese mental dictionary to try to figure out what he was saying, because surely my 3-year-old doesn't know the word butt.
But when he pointed to his toosh and said "Poop, butt hurt," that pretty much said it all.
Except for the word butt, which he LOVES to say now, always in the correct context, which makes it somehow worse. I'm no prude, and I say words a million times word than butt on a regular basis, but it's such a grown-up, slang word to come out of my precious baby's little mouth. Shouldn't he be calling it a "bum bum" or some other made up, slightly adorable word?
To the butt head who taught my kid this new word, thanks a ton.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Dear Little Bug
This morning, right before you stubbed your toe and wanted me to kiss it better, you took my breath away with how grown up you have become. Each time you would open the bathroom door and yell "HI" or "BYE" or "BOOOOO!" I marveled at how your face has thinned out and your eyes seem so much more mature as you raise one eyebrow....waiting for my response. In that moment you seemed every bit the 3-year-old you are and so far away from the little baby I used to cuddle in my arms for hours at a time. It was exciting and sad, all at once.
Then you stubbed your toe. I don't want to say "I told you so," but there is a reason your mama doesn't want you slamming doors....and it's not just because of the pictures hanging on the wall.
Although your toe was fine, your face screwed up into sadness and injustice and you insisted on sitting on my lap. There we were, sitting on the closed toilet while you moaned and cuddled into me and I kissed your tiny big toe over and over.
And I realized that no matter how angular your face gets or how high those expressive eyes go, somewhere in there will always be my cuddle bug baby.
And I love you so much I can't stand not to write about it sometimes.
Love, Mama
Then you stubbed your toe. I don't want to say "I told you so," but there is a reason your mama doesn't want you slamming doors....and it's not just because of the pictures hanging on the wall.
Although your toe was fine, your face screwed up into sadness and injustice and you insisted on sitting on my lap. There we were, sitting on the closed toilet while you moaned and cuddled into me and I kissed your tiny big toe over and over.
And I realized that no matter how angular your face gets or how high those expressive eyes go, somewhere in there will always be my cuddle bug baby.
And I love you so much I can't stand not to write about it sometimes.
Love, Mama
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas Eve
Christmas Eve is one of those days where the past, the present, and the future all seem to blend together. (Dickens seriously knew his stuff.) Every year I find myself reminiscing with such clarity of Christmas Eve's in my past.The first year I got up the guts to peek out of my room before my parents gave the okay and saw the exciting outline of what was a Strawberry Shortcake Dream House (23 years ago tonight). The year "Santa" announced we were having another baby by leaving a fifth stocking out and my sister's furious reaction (16 years ago tonight). The night my dad booby trapped the stairs with a bucket of buttons that fell on my head, only to have me scream bloody murder and wake the whole house up (include above mentioned new baby) because I was convinced it was a bucket of nails (18 years ago tonight). The 20+ nights my sister and I called a truce on our hatred and came together for a "sleep over" and night spent sitting next to the Christmas tree. Christmas Eve has produced many of my favorite memories, and tonight, as I sit here alone by my Christmas tree, those memories decades old seem so close.
Of course, the Christmas Present is pretty amazing, too. I spent the evening surrounded by family in my home, with my decorations, and my traditions. I cheered my son on as he unwrapped a gift all by himself for the first time ever. As I laid next to him tonight while he feel asleep, I silently prayed a Christmas prayer of thanks for allowing my the privilege of having such a beautiful family.
And Christmas Future: As close as past memories feel to me tonight, the looming present feels equally as real. In just 365 days I'll be right here again, in this room, with these decorations adorning a tree. This moment will be one of those Christmas Past moments I look back on with fondness. Instead of one little boy slumbering away upstairs, there will be two. Seriously, how lucky am I? And the year after that and the year after that and the year after that. Train tables will give way to bikes and video games that will give way to iPods and computers. The one thing that won't change will be this moment, after they go to sleep, when it's just me and the tree and my grateful heart.
So, although I should be in bed preparing for a long day, I'm instead tucked away with my thoughts on my favorite night of the year.
Monday, December 6, 2010
First Day of School
This morning I snapped the first of many "first day of school" pictures of my Little Bug. Decked out in a Rocky-profile tshirt and a sweet Elmo backpack, he was ready to face the unknown (because he knew it contained buses and bubbles) of his new half-day developmental preschool.
Little Bug goes to school all day already, so this isn't some life-altering thing for us, but it is the first time he has gone somewhere new. His current school (where he will still go early in the morning and in the afternoon) was hand picked by me. I know his teachers and the administration. I see the teachers and students and classroom each day. I have my finger on the pulse. I can see and feel how much they love my boy and how happy he is there.
His new school is probably pretty awesome, too, and one where he will receive many of the therapies he continues to need. We took great pains to move into a district where we would be happy with the education system, and that gamble is most likely going to pay off even earlier than we had anticipated. I'm not anticipating Little Bug have much trouble (no more than is normal) transitioning into this new routine. He'll still have his normal school in the afternoon to keep his routine familiar.
My biggest problem is the oddness of this moment. The way that I drop him off somewhere I know and then some stranger comes and takes him on a bus, drives him to a school that I've only been inside once. He'll do this whole thing on his own, without Appa or I there to ease him into it. I'll pick him up at his normal school this afternoon, none the wiser to a huge part of his day.
It's so stinkin grown up and scary.
Obviously his new teacher and I plan to touch base and keep in contact and after an adjustment period I am welcome to come into the classroom (but not encouraged, which I get). It's not like my 3 year old is being left to wander the couple miles between schools alone and in the snow. Quite frankly, he is such an easy going child he won't be nervous at all so long as buses or bubbles are involved. I'm proud of how easy he adjusts to new things, and I know that is a strength of his that will serve him well.
And this is an exciting new part of his life. Real school! Real Bus! Real backpack!
Edited to add: As if the universe knew we all needed a little more of a gradual transition, the bus service was messed up and Appa, who happened to not be traveling today, was able to take Little Bug to school. He told me Little Bug was apprehensive to walk into the classroom, so I am so grateful Appa was there to hold his hand and show him that it is okay.
Little Bug goes to school all day already, so this isn't some life-altering thing for us, but it is the first time he has gone somewhere new. His current school (where he will still go early in the morning and in the afternoon) was hand picked by me. I know his teachers and the administration. I see the teachers and students and classroom each day. I have my finger on the pulse. I can see and feel how much they love my boy and how happy he is there.
His new school is probably pretty awesome, too, and one where he will receive many of the therapies he continues to need. We took great pains to move into a district where we would be happy with the education system, and that gamble is most likely going to pay off even earlier than we had anticipated. I'm not anticipating Little Bug have much trouble (no more than is normal) transitioning into this new routine. He'll still have his normal school in the afternoon to keep his routine familiar.
My biggest problem is the oddness of this moment. The way that I drop him off somewhere I know and then some stranger comes and takes him on a bus, drives him to a school that I've only been inside once. He'll do this whole thing on his own, without Appa or I there to ease him into it. I'll pick him up at his normal school this afternoon, none the wiser to a huge part of his day.
It's so stinkin grown up and scary.
Obviously his new teacher and I plan to touch base and keep in contact and after an adjustment period I am welcome to come into the classroom (but not encouraged, which I get). It's not like my 3 year old is being left to wander the couple miles between schools alone and in the snow. Quite frankly, he is such an easy going child he won't be nervous at all so long as buses or bubbles are involved. I'm proud of how easy he adjusts to new things, and I know that is a strength of his that will serve him well.
And this is an exciting new part of his life. Real school! Real Bus! Real backpack!
Edited to add: As if the universe knew we all needed a little more of a gradual transition, the bus service was messed up and Appa, who happened to not be traveling today, was able to take Little Bug to school. He told me Little Bug was apprehensive to walk into the classroom, so I am so grateful Appa was there to hold his hand and show him that it is okay.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
For Good
Little Bug has been having some issues with his behavior (mania) and regularity (enough said) during and ever since our trip, so this weekend we secluded ourselves in the hopes that it was just trip-related issues and not the beginning of a larger illness. The verdict is still out on his illness, but that isn't the point of my entry.
It always seems that the big steps we take in growing Little Bug up happen with very little fanfare. It was yesterday, in the midst of his mania and poop fest, that we decided now would be a good time to give up the crib/toddler bed game.
For good.
What does that have to do with mania and poop? Nothing. I suspect it was mainly a distraction from the weirdness. But the decision was made spur of the moment to just do it, and so we did. Little Bro would most likely never have transitioned well into a crib or toddler bed, and by the time he comes home, he will be close to transitioning into a normal bed, so we just decided to put full/queen beds in both boy's rooms and be done with the crib/toddler bed business all together.
So, within an hour, the little toddler bed with the sweet nursery printed sheets I had lovingly picked out as I yearned for a child was dismantled, the sheets and bedding packed away, and my son had a bed fit for two grown adults.
For good. He could be in this bed until he goes to college.
And Little Bro. My baby who will never be a baby to me. He's going to come home to a nursery and sleeping arrangement that will be more familiar to him, but so different than what I had envisioned.
But it's not about me, or what I think looks best in a nursery or how much I am attached to the little orange crib sheets. Whether I like it or not (and sometimes I do and sometimes I don't), both my sons are growing up. I think when I get overly sentimental I tend to latch on to things, so it was probably best for us to just up and make the change without too much preparation.
And the pride and enjoyment my manic, poop-filled son has with his new bed is way cuter than those orange sheets.
It always seems that the big steps we take in growing Little Bug up happen with very little fanfare. It was yesterday, in the midst of his mania and poop fest, that we decided now would be a good time to give up the crib/toddler bed game.
For good.
What does that have to do with mania and poop? Nothing. I suspect it was mainly a distraction from the weirdness. But the decision was made spur of the moment to just do it, and so we did. Little Bro would most likely never have transitioned well into a crib or toddler bed, and by the time he comes home, he will be close to transitioning into a normal bed, so we just decided to put full/queen beds in both boy's rooms and be done with the crib/toddler bed business all together.
So, within an hour, the little toddler bed with the sweet nursery printed sheets I had lovingly picked out as I yearned for a child was dismantled, the sheets and bedding packed away, and my son had a bed fit for two grown adults.
For good. He could be in this bed until he goes to college.
And Little Bro. My baby who will never be a baby to me. He's going to come home to a nursery and sleeping arrangement that will be more familiar to him, but so different than what I had envisioned.
But it's not about me, or what I think looks best in a nursery or how much I am attached to the little orange crib sheets. Whether I like it or not (and sometimes I do and sometimes I don't), both my sons are growing up. I think when I get overly sentimental I tend to latch on to things, so it was probably best for us to just up and make the change without too much preparation.
And the pride and enjoyment my manic, poop-filled son has with his new bed is way cuter than those orange sheets.
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