the consult

My dear, sweet boy. He is a child who wraps his engaging , dimpled grin around your heart and digs it into your soul, deep and true. He captivates you and enchants you with a magic spell all his own. The day he was born he melted me into a puddle of tears and I knew I had my calling. Motherhood.

That calling has been insanely difficult of recent days. His smile was no longer reaching his eyes and his defiance was getting stronger. Moodiness and anger defined his afternoons, frustration seeped from his sighs and he struggled with cooperating at school, which later carried over into our afternoons at home. Something was off kilter, but we could not put our finger on it. We were increasingly concerned.

In desperation, my husband and I scheduled a consult with our beloved pediatrician. I believe God gave us exactly the right doctor five years ago when we went on a hunt for who we could trust with our children’s care. We wanted someone we could ask our questions to and feel confident of their answers. This lady and the other two doctors in her practice, are personal, caring, warm, and open; they even fully support and encourage our interest in natural remedies and using a chiropractor. As with our daughter’s care a year ago, we once more felt the assurance of her wisdom and love for children.

Monday afternoon, as we began to essentially read from a list of “issues” our son was having that went beyond the behavioral aspect, she made notes and asked a few clarifying questions, and stopped us when we were two thirds through. We had listed such things as freaking out when glue got on his hands, not changing activities well, being oddly sensitive to various noises, and continuing with the moods and so on. “I know what’s wrong.”

He has Sensory Processing Disorder. She told us to get an occupational therapy evaluation (scheduled for this coming Wednesday) and see what they say. Her opinion is that we will find it “enlightening”. Already, the few websites I have glanced at told me she is right, and explained little things I’ve known about my son for years, but would never have connected with anything: he hates having his nails clipped, his legs hang down when you hold him (compared to a child who wraps them snugly around you for support), and his baths are lukewarm. Little things I would have called idiosyncrasies. They now hold an entirely new meaning in our world.

Each child with SPD has their own degree of it, their own sensitivities, their own issues. It runs deep and wide and each child has various aspects to deal with, such as speech delay, motor skills needing fine tuned and being bothered by tags in their clothing. (In recent weeks, I have noticed him stretching out the necks of his shirts, which had me confounded. Until now.)

The following paragraph gave me a bit of unsettling perspective on how my son might be feeling (found here):

Try this: Turn on the radio, but don't tune it. Leave it on static and fuzz. Turn it up. Ask someone to turn the lights on and off, at will. Strap yourself into a broken chair that is missing a leg and use a table that is off balance - you know the ones in restaurants that makes us all so mad. Now, put on some scratchy lace in place of a comfy T-shirt, put your pants on backwards and wear shoes one size too small. Pour a bowl of grated parmesan cheese, open a can of sardines and bring the cat box to the table. Now, snack on your least favorite food; the one you NEVER eat because it comes with a gag reflex. With all this in place, pick up a new book and learn something new! How can anyone claim that SI problems don't interfere with education??

As for the anger and some behavioral things—they go hand in hand with the Sensory Processing Disorder, and will improve when therapy begins to help his problems. If the above paragraph described even a fraction of what I thought was “normal”, I would be a regular funk, too. In fact, just understanding that there is more going on than what appeared to be undue defiance has made a huge difference to us and therefore in our son. For one, the sparkle is back in his eyes. That alone will make me forever grateful.

...it's a small world after all...

So there I am, shooting the breeze with my long-time mail lady. She’s had this route for 10 years, and we’ve lived here 7 ½, so I feel familiar with her, and we’ve chatted off and on over the years. This time last year, my mother was giving her news of Miss C's birth, and this week I was telling her about our pending move. Chat chat chat.

She starts talking about a neighboring town, same county, which I went to high school in, and I mentioned the school. “So did my kids—what year did you graduate?”

“1994.”

“You’re kidding!”

Her daughter was one of my classmates. I wasn’t super close to her, but we got along fine. I really liked her, in fact. And, we’re talking about a large county with lots of public schools in a metropolitan area. Yet, how small is this world?

Craziness!

things

Life is moving forward, for sure.

We've decided we like the agent we spoke with last week and will be listing our house with her. We have also seen (the outside of) a house we really like. Hopefully, we'll be able to see the inside before too long! Realistically, however, we know we cannot begin to swing two payments if we should be unable to sell this house. So, we are hoping and praying that "Priced to Sell!" is truly effective and believable. I have spent a little time each day packing up a box or two of things we don't use too regularly. I secretly am getting a little thrill out of boxing stuff away, especially if it's stuff I'm not sure I should get rid of yet! ha.

Miss C is suffering the throes of antibiotics in her tiny system. Her lower GI tract is giving her trouble throughout the day and night. Even probiotics don't seem to be helping her right now. Otherwise, she is feeling apparently better. Of course, she's now got 6 teeth, going on 8, so perhaps that is playing into the diaper effect. Poor piece of sweetness. Right before her first birthday, no less!

intensity

Life has a way of becoming increasingly intense in specific ways, and this month has proven to be such a time in our lives.

Little B has been struggling. In ways I cannot understand, cannot fathom and cannot seem to help. I will not spend my words expounding, for he is truly a wonderful little boy, but as the month has progressed, he seems to have digressed, and for this our hearts have been hurting and suffering. The majority of it has stemmed from school. Why, I am unsure, but that this is the source, we have concluded with certainty. He has a decent to good weekend, but when he comes home, his outlook is turned, and we barely make it to the next weekend. Something is drastically off and in spite of regular contact with the teachers we have been unable to pinpoint a specific cause (though we have a few theories). We only see the effect.

With much deliberation and prayer, we have decided to withdraw him from his private Christian pre-k program. This decision has brought our first moment of peace and relief all month. I may never know why, but it is a glad moment for me. I want to bring back the joy into my little one’s eyes.

Along this line, we spoke with an agent today at length about listing our house and where we would like to move. Our goal is to be moved in time for Kindergarten (there are excellent city schools where we have chosen to go). However, I am, for the first time in my life, becoming open to the idea of home-schooling—IF and ONLY IF adequate social interaction is available. For the rest of this school year, we have decided to enroll him in some type of sports lessons, probably swimming or soccer.

30

Earlier this week I crossed the bridge to the next decade of my life.
The view from here is quite the same as before and I do not feel remarkably different than I did last week, yet I sense differences in small, subtle ways compared to, say, a year or two ago.

For example:
* When did stress (mild or not so mild) begin to feel like it’s raising my blood pressure?
* What day did I suddenly look in on myself and see me the way I used to see a slightly older generation?
* In what manner did I begin to be a deeper level of honest about myself to myself? And not be afraid of it.
* How did I reach the point of lowering my expectations of others, thereby no longer having such strong disappointments?
* Where did my care of everyone remembering my birthday go? Now, it’s completely fine if the vast majority forget when it is (my family is still the exception).
* When did my mom start calling me about what medicine she should take, rather than the other way around?
* And why did my knees start aching exactly this week? I mean really—I’m sure I just strained them doing some inane thing, but I feel AGED every time I kneel down to pick up a child or tie a shoe, etc. Just rub it in, why don’tcha?


I am sure this list can go on and on, but that’s a simplified insight to my inner thinking this week.

And, in spite of cruddy days (entirely unrelated to my age or birthday), I feel content and happy inside. I am deeply blessed.

buttercup & wesley

If you have not seen The Princess Bride, you are not qualified to read any further. Go watch the movie first!


The week before Christmas I was at the pet store with my mom. She needed dog food and I took the opportunity to gaze at some birds with my children (rodents, too, but mostly birds). I had finches in high school and loved them. By far, birds are the one pet I enjoy. Dogs are too demanding, my husband and son are allergic to cats, fish are too easily ignored (our grimy tank is nearby to prove my point), etc. Birds, however, I find cheerful and beautiful. They need interaction, but don’t need to be potty-trained. They need food, water, and a clean cage, but don’t need a bath or to be kept off my bed.

My mother was watching me as I oohed and aahed over the parakeets and asked, “Do you need me to buy you a bird?” I so did not see that coming. I stuttered and stumbled and muttered about not talking me into it. She said she’d been wanting to get me something special. I hesitated and said I’d call my husband because he’d talk me out of it. Not. He thought a bird would be a good idea, in fact, get two. Uh. . .

Well, that sold me on it. My heart leapt with joy. I chose a very light blue male with a hint of yellow in his face and wings, gray on top. I chose a wide cage, picked up a few toys and other necessities like food, and was on my way. What a lovely gift. I was SO excited to go home and get him all set up. Never mind we had a family Christmas dinner that night and I was not close to ready to leave on time. I had a bird. A no-name bird, but a beautiful one none the less.

They did not have many females, and I was being picky on the colors. So, I waited. The following week, the shipment of parakeets did not come in as they’d promised, and I began calling around to see who had a deep blue female. In the meantime, we were discussing names. Little B offered his suggestions on a regular basis: “How about ‘Birdy’?” Well, thanks for the idea, but I’ll be making the final choice! He’s so cute.

My mind was uselessly coming up with limited famous couples. Really limited. Pathetic. I intended to blog for ideas, even, but never found the chance! My husband finally recommended “Buttercup and Wesley”. I loved it. But, I’d need a yellow female rather than the deep blue I’d wanted for contrast. And the search began again.

This past Saturday my mom called to say she’d found a solid yellow female parakeet at a store near her home. When we put her into the cage, the two birds connected like long time lovers. It was so sweet. They were preening one another, kissing, chatting and snuggling up immediately. It was sweet to watch!

And so, I have pets. They are MY pets, so I know I will do the caring for them. I won’t be annoyed when someone else doesn’t do it. My son and daughter each “share” one with me (per Little B, but this might be a nice pet-intro for the kids . . . sharing mom’s pet).

Buttercup, as I’ve mentioned is all yellow, gentle and sweet. Wesley is subdued in color, happier, and has facial markings that resemble a bit of a mustache. It cracks me up. They are so suited for their names.

Oh yes. This weekend, they will be getting married! Little B said he wants to officiate, and we’ve “practiced” a few times what he’ll say. This event needs guests (my parents) and will be video-worthy is all I can say. He even drew pictures of the birds for programs (good ones at that!). They definitely bring a bit of cheer with them.

booger soup

My son hates pasta. Except for “Chinese Noodles” (read: lo mien). The other day, he was sitting on the couch and randomly picked his nose (for the record, he is not a regular booger-boy, just occasional). I can usually convince him to wait for a tissue, but we do see the little-boy protein finger at work sometimes, and he ate it before I could convince him a tissue would be better. Ugh. I was mildly irritated and began telling him that if he could eat boogers, he could eat pasta. Oh no, he does NOT like pasta, no way was that going to fly—he was very serious and began to look glum over my announcement. So, I pulled him onto my lap and began asking about the taste of boogers:
Me: “Are they salty?”
Him: “No.”
Me: “What do they taste like?”
Him: “Boogers.” (Duh, what was I thinking??)
We were all cracking up, to say the least.

Yesterday evening, I found some alphabet pasta in my pantry. Little B is learning to read, so he found this interesting. He decided, quite on his own, that he wanted to try them—in soup. So, my chicken dinner immediately turned into chicken soup. As I walked away, I looked back and laughingly said, “They’re about the size of boogers, huh?” Now, to a four year old booger-eater, that is really, really funny. And he promptly decided we would be eating Booger Soup for dinner. He actually had a second helping of it!

So, if you’re invited to dinner and Booger Soup is on the menu, don’t fret too much. It should be quite chicken-y and full of corn, peas, and alphabet boogers.