Calling 911 is not the way you want to start a morning.
At 4:45 this morning, I was woken up by a loud crash and shattering glass which set off our home alarm. Appa is away, so it was just me and Little Bug. Within seconds, I was out of bed and calling 911.
Extreme, perhaps. But I knew if someone was in our home breaking stuff and I confronted them, chances are they wouldn't allow me to take a moment to head back to my room, lock the door, and call 911.
Turns out, not confronting a possible intruder is something the 911 dispatch agreed with, especially since I was alone with a child. So I waited in my room with the door locked as the cops sped toward my house.
In what I thought was a rational moment, but was probably not that smart considering I was going against the dispatcher's orders, I eventually tiptoed out of my room and peeked around our hallway to our main floor, ready to scream "I'VE CALLED THE COPS, A-HOLE."
The reality.......
.....a mouse had knocked over a bunch of glass jars of pasta sauces and canned goods from our pantry, spilling them all over our tile floor. The loud crash triggered our alarm (rightly so).
I was super embarrassed and tried to beg off the cops coming, but it turns out they have to come check things like this out, just in case someone was holding a gun to my head as I made up a story about a rouge mouse with a penchant for tomato basil sauce.
Fair enough, I guess.
So the cops came and checked our whole house for any sign of intruders. There were none. I went back to sleep sheepishly.
And that's hopefully the last time I have to call 911.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Bye Bye, Anne
A little over two years ago Anne came into our lives. I'll never forget the day I welcomed her into our home, just a couple days before I was set to go back to work after a 6 week maternity leave.
My precious 11 month old was sitting in his highchair, strapped in by a 4-point harness because his back couldn't support his weight enough to sit. His hands lay limp under the tray littered with Cheerios broken in half that I occasionally put on his tongue because he couldn't pick them up to put them in his mouth, nor could he handle an entire cheerio without choking.
Unlike the rest of the parade of therapists that had come through our home in the past weeks, Anne was immediately different. Polite and brash all at once, she got straight to business and within that first hour had determined my son's hypotonia extended to all the muscles in his mouth, including his tongue. I thought a speech therapist was supposed to teach your kid some words and signs, instead she opened up a world that interconnected speaking and eating and drooling and moving. She didn't just teach him; she taught me.
For the last 2 years she has seen my son every week. She's seen him since before he could creep on his tummy through everything up to his wobbly running. She's heard the "ommmmmma" and she's heard him say sentences with verbs. She is on his short list of people he talks about when I ask him about his day.
She's sat on the phone with me as I've cried tears of frustration and joy. She advocated for us when we had problems with our occupational therapists, even picking up the slack and incorporating more OT into her own sessions to make sure Little Bug's needs were being met.
Last Friday I sat in a room during an IEP meeting with seven women who professionally but clinically broke down every nuance of my child, using the word "significantly delayed" over and over. Although the tears were close to coming most of the time, the only time I truly let a tear fall was during Anne's comments, who had completely rearranged her schedule to come at our special request as an advocate for our family.
Because as this therapist spoke about my son and his amazing progress, her eyes welled with tears of pride.
If you love my child, I will love you.
Today was Anne's last day. Her position was as an early intervention resource, and Little Bug ages out of that program next Monday. Even though Little Bug will continue to get the services he needs with his new program, my heart is broken at having to say good bye to Anne.
Anne taught my son how to talk, how to sign, and how to dare to communicate, but Anne taught me how to advocate for my son so he can continue to do those things.
And she will be truly missed and not forgotten.
My precious 11 month old was sitting in his highchair, strapped in by a 4-point harness because his back couldn't support his weight enough to sit. His hands lay limp under the tray littered with Cheerios broken in half that I occasionally put on his tongue because he couldn't pick them up to put them in his mouth, nor could he handle an entire cheerio without choking.
Unlike the rest of the parade of therapists that had come through our home in the past weeks, Anne was immediately different. Polite and brash all at once, she got straight to business and within that first hour had determined my son's hypotonia extended to all the muscles in his mouth, including his tongue. I thought a speech therapist was supposed to teach your kid some words and signs, instead she opened up a world that interconnected speaking and eating and drooling and moving. She didn't just teach him; she taught me.
For the last 2 years she has seen my son every week. She's seen him since before he could creep on his tummy through everything up to his wobbly running. She's heard the "ommmmmma" and she's heard him say sentences with verbs. She is on his short list of people he talks about when I ask him about his day.
She's sat on the phone with me as I've cried tears of frustration and joy. She advocated for us when we had problems with our occupational therapists, even picking up the slack and incorporating more OT into her own sessions to make sure Little Bug's needs were being met.
Last Friday I sat in a room during an IEP meeting with seven women who professionally but clinically broke down every nuance of my child, using the word "significantly delayed" over and over. Although the tears were close to coming most of the time, the only time I truly let a tear fall was during Anne's comments, who had completely rearranged her schedule to come at our special request as an advocate for our family.
Because as this therapist spoke about my son and his amazing progress, her eyes welled with tears of pride.
If you love my child, I will love you.
Today was Anne's last day. Her position was as an early intervention resource, and Little Bug ages out of that program next Monday. Even though Little Bug will continue to get the services he needs with his new program, my heart is broken at having to say good bye to Anne.
Anne taught my son how to talk, how to sign, and how to dare to communicate, but Anne taught me how to advocate for my son so he can continue to do those things.
And she will be truly missed and not forgotten.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Taking my Hand
Tonight as Little Bug and I drove home from an uneventful diaper buying outing and fancy macaroni and cheese dinner, my little boy started to sing a common 3-word refrain from a song we were listening to.
The Midwest winter is rapidly approaching and the car was pitch black, so I reached my hand back to touch his knee in a sign of praise. Usually when I reach my hand back while driving he ignores it or bats it away.
Tonight he took his little hand and wrapped it tightly around my finger and held on. I caressed his hand with my other fingers and together we sang over and over. Every time I moved my hand he called "mama, mama" until I returned it to the proper place and he could grab hold again.
Although I couldn't see his face in the dark, I could see my reflection in the rear view mirror and saw the tears pooling in my eyes.
It's hard to explain how special this was. Little Bug isn't a hand holder....especially when sitting or otherwise engaged. Part of it probably has to do with his hypotonia and weakness in his hands that had created a habit of not gripping something tightly for long periods of time. Part of it is probably just his personality.
For him to want to hold my hand tonight the whole way home, to seek out my touch for no reason other than simply that it was my touch, leaves me feeling like another one of the motherhood pieces is falling into place.
The Midwest winter is rapidly approaching and the car was pitch black, so I reached my hand back to touch his knee in a sign of praise. Usually when I reach my hand back while driving he ignores it or bats it away.
Tonight he took his little hand and wrapped it tightly around my finger and held on. I caressed his hand with my other fingers and together we sang over and over. Every time I moved my hand he called "mama, mama" until I returned it to the proper place and he could grab hold again.
Although I couldn't see his face in the dark, I could see my reflection in the rear view mirror and saw the tears pooling in my eyes.
It's hard to explain how special this was. Little Bug isn't a hand holder....especially when sitting or otherwise engaged. Part of it probably has to do with his hypotonia and weakness in his hands that had created a habit of not gripping something tightly for long periods of time. Part of it is probably just his personality.
For him to want to hold my hand tonight the whole way home, to seek out my touch for no reason other than simply that it was my touch, leaves me feeling like another one of the motherhood pieces is falling into place.
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.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Unplugged
A major source of contention in my marriage is my "pluggedness." I use the internet to keep me company when my husband travels, connect and nourish friendships with people, write, and research things that are important to me.Appa would prefer I did less of all that during our limited time together. Usually he has a point, and although he might not think so, I have been trying to be less plugged in when he is home.
This vacation I decided to try to unplug. Besides the occasional e-mail checking (I'm actually still waiting for an formal update on Little Bro--how greedy am I?), and one blog post that I had to get off my chest, I've been almost completely unplugged for 5 days.
And it was great....magical, even.
Appa and I fell asleep when our son did most nights. We watched fireworks from our hotel room and sports news. We chatted. We didn't read or get on the computer or do anything other than just stare at each other and laugh at our crazy child.
It was easy to get caught up in the family moments. Work and Facebook and blogs and e-mail (I had exactly 200 this morning when I checked) just didn't seem to hold a candle to spending time with my boys.
As happy as I am to be connected again, there is a part of me that wishes I could stay back behind those colorful gates that seem to keep the "real world" at bay while simultaneously reminding you what is truly, truly real in your life.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Poop: The Interlude
Scene: Very fancy and expensive restaurant at Downtown Disney.
Shortly after we ordered at our one super fancy meal of our trip, I noticed that Little Bug was smelling a bit off. A casual look revealed that HOLY CRAP, he was the the midst of a blow out.
Never fear; I am a prepared and capable mother. I calmly asked Appa to hand me a diaper and some wipes, figuring I could salvage things enough to finish dinner, but as the words left my mouth, I realized a horrible truth.
I had left the diaper bag back at the hotel.
Sh*t. In every sense of the word.
After staring at each other for about 30 seconds of serious horror, I got up andran walked briskly out of the restaurant and toward the first place that I saw that sold kid's clothing.
The upside is at Downtown Disney, those places are every few feet. The downside is that the selection of boy's toddler wear is pretty limited and overpriced.
But my son was currently sitting in a fancy restaurant erupting unspeakable things from his pants, so I grabbed a pair of gray sweat pants with a red racing stripe on the side and Mickey Mouse embroidered, paid about seven times what I would ever pay for sweat pants (more than that if you factor in my hatred for sweat pants), and then turned to the more pressing matter.
A diaper.
I took out all the cash I had ($3) and spotted the first kindly looking family with kids and begged them for a diaper. Offered them my $3 for a diaper. In the middle of a giant Disney store in front of a life-sized version of Sleeping Beauty. They gave me the diaper, let me keep my $3, and wished me luck as I sprinted out of the store and back to the restaurant.
You'd think the story would get boring from here.
When I got back to our table Appa told me that things had gotten worse, almost to the point of having to leave (I don't know where we would go though). Without a word I whisked Little Bug up and into the women's restroom...probably the only one in a 50 mile radius without a kid's changing area.
In a tiny stall, with my son's salvaged shirt over his head and his hands being held like handcuffs, I used my free hand to strip him, methodically clean him off using paper towels and my antibacterial wipes, and then clean up the mess we made. His naked body was on the bathroom floor, not to mention me sitting cross legged facing the toilet.
It was so gross; I seriously felt a bit traumatized.
So the story should end here....
As we were working, I could hear people commenting on the smell. I understood; something was seriously foul in my son's diaper. As I figured the restaurant would not want me to carry a super pungent diaper next to all the diners, I wrapped it up and shoved it in the bottom of a garbage can in the bathroom.
However, we were seating directly next to the bathroom and for the next 2 minutes I could see people coming out with their noses still pinched. Talking about the smell. Looking ill.
Oh my God; we were ruining people's meals.
So I had to find the manager and tell him what had happened and suggest they use some room spray and remove the garbage. He was very gracious, but I saw two people complain to him right after that, so I assume he wasn't super stoked.
Nor were the two female employees who we had to watch go in and out as they were "taking care of it."
We finished our fancy meal; me a bit quiet due to disgust and mortification, and left to find me a caramel apple to make up for the night. I'm trying to stay unplugged for this trip, but I had to get this one out, in the hopes it will seem funnier and less horrible.
The biggest irony: Little Bug is having a hard time falling asleep tonight, and I needed to do some research in preparation for tomorrow, so I had to bring the computer into another room. So this entry is being typed from our hotel room bathroom, as I sit cross legged on the floor with the computer propped up on the toilet.
It's how we roll.
Shortly after we ordered at our one super fancy meal of our trip, I noticed that Little Bug was smelling a bit off. A casual look revealed that HOLY CRAP, he was the the midst of a blow out.
Never fear; I am a prepared and capable mother. I calmly asked Appa to hand me a diaper and some wipes, figuring I could salvage things enough to finish dinner, but as the words left my mouth, I realized a horrible truth.
I had left the diaper bag back at the hotel.
Sh*t. In every sense of the word.
After staring at each other for about 30 seconds of serious horror, I got up and
The upside is at Downtown Disney, those places are every few feet. The downside is that the selection of boy's toddler wear is pretty limited and overpriced.
But my son was currently sitting in a fancy restaurant erupting unspeakable things from his pants, so I grabbed a pair of gray sweat pants with a red racing stripe on the side and Mickey Mouse embroidered, paid about seven times what I would ever pay for sweat pants (more than that if you factor in my hatred for sweat pants), and then turned to the more pressing matter.
A diaper.
I took out all the cash I had ($3) and spotted the first kindly looking family with kids and begged them for a diaper. Offered them my $3 for a diaper. In the middle of a giant Disney store in front of a life-sized version of Sleeping Beauty. They gave me the diaper, let me keep my $3, and wished me luck as I sprinted out of the store and back to the restaurant.
You'd think the story would get boring from here.
When I got back to our table Appa told me that things had gotten worse, almost to the point of having to leave (I don't know where we would go though). Without a word I whisked Little Bug up and into the women's restroom...probably the only one in a 50 mile radius without a kid's changing area.
In a tiny stall, with my son's salvaged shirt over his head and his hands being held like handcuffs, I used my free hand to strip him, methodically clean him off using paper towels and my antibacterial wipes, and then clean up the mess we made. His naked body was on the bathroom floor, not to mention me sitting cross legged facing the toilet.
It was so gross; I seriously felt a bit traumatized.
So the story should end here....
As we were working, I could hear people commenting on the smell. I understood; something was seriously foul in my son's diaper. As I figured the restaurant would not want me to carry a super pungent diaper next to all the diners, I wrapped it up and shoved it in the bottom of a garbage can in the bathroom.
However, we were seating directly next to the bathroom and for the next 2 minutes I could see people coming out with their noses still pinched. Talking about the smell. Looking ill.
Oh my God; we were ruining people's meals.
So I had to find the manager and tell him what had happened and suggest they use some room spray and remove the garbage. He was very gracious, but I saw two people complain to him right after that, so I assume he wasn't super stoked.
Nor were the two female employees who we had to watch go in and out as they were "taking care of it."
We finished our fancy meal; me a bit quiet due to disgust and mortification, and left to find me a caramel apple to make up for the night. I'm trying to stay unplugged for this trip, but I had to get this one out, in the hopes it will seem funnier and less horrible.
The biggest irony: Little Bug is having a hard time falling asleep tonight, and I needed to do some research in preparation for tomorrow, so I had to bring the computer into another room. So this entry is being typed from our hotel room bathroom, as I sit cross legged on the floor with the computer propped up on the toilet.
It's how we roll.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Dreams Come True
Tomorrow my little family is heading to the happiest place on earth. I'm ridiculously excited, not only because it's the type of place you are supposed to be excited about, but because this is the first time we are taking a trip just for us. No agenda, no people to visit, no event to attend.
Just sun and family and food and a bunch of strangers dressed as cartoons. Awesome.
Our life is pretty amazing, and I know that, but a slightly-less-than-perfect part of our life is the time we have to spent apart. To just be Appa, Mama, and Little Bug without phones or e-mail or therapists for almost a week makes me giddy.
Like, I might actually cry when we walk through the gates to that magical kingdom and I get to watch my husband and son experience it for the first time.
We have billed this trip as a gift to Little Bug, a congrats for all his hard work over the past 2 years in therapy, an early happy birthday, and a sorry we are getting you a baby brother trip. Every decision we have made has been with him as the main factor.
But as parents, I've found the best gifts you can give to yourself is watching a child delight in a gift.
Just sun and family and food and a bunch of strangers dressed as cartoons. Awesome.
Our life is pretty amazing, and I know that, but a slightly-less-than-perfect part of our life is the time we have to spent apart. To just be Appa, Mama, and Little Bug without phones or e-mail or therapists for almost a week makes me giddy.
Like, I might actually cry when we walk through the gates to that magical kingdom and I get to watch my husband and son experience it for the first time.
We have billed this trip as a gift to Little Bug, a congrats for all his hard work over the past 2 years in therapy, an early happy birthday, and a sorry we are getting you a baby brother trip. Every decision we have made has been with him as the main factor.
But as parents, I've found the best gifts you can give to yourself is watching a child delight in a gift.
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