Crap

She's at it again.

I'm heaving the sigh of a leaden hearted mother. Again.

I thought we were FINALLY past the eating the hair stuff. But, after a year plus hiatus, she's back to chowing down on it.

How utterly revolting. We'd finally decided that she could grow out her hair 'long and pretty' the way she wanted to (just like a princess), and things had been going so swell, until tonight. Yup.

I'd caught her every so often with her hair in her mouth, but only for seconds at a time. In fact, when she thought I wasn't aware of her actions, many times I saw her hair fall toward her mouth and watched her impatiently brush it away; out of her mouth.

Not so anymore. Whether she's eating her own hair, or off of the floor again remains to be identified. What has been certified is that she had hair in her fecal matter.

Eeew, gross.

And, the saddest part of it all? As I flushed the toilet, perplexed at the revolting pica rearing its putrid head again, it dawned on me to save said offense, to submit to the laboratory and finally, finally get her the 1:1 aide at school she so desperately needs. And, that 1/1,000 of a second my synapses fired too slow, away went the evidence that would grant her access to what she needs on her IEP.

Crap.

Apparently, my life still revolves around it.

5 years old...

Dear Peanut,

I can hardly believe it, you're 5 years old today. Five, as of 2:53pm.

We've already had quite a few adventures. I've learned so much from you, about you, and even more about me. I had no idea all those years ago just how drastically my life would change. The cliche is that once you have a baby 'normal' ceases to be. It is also said that it takes about a year to 'recover' from having a baby. Well, baby, I'm still recovering, and I know that my life will certainly never be the same.

On that glorious April day so long ago, you were forced into this big old world earlier than any of us imagined, nearly a month premature. The doctors watched my pregnancy with you as carefully as any other mommy-to-be's. Everything went just about as you would expect. I felt sick and miserable the first few months after you made your presence known. Then, life started to 'normalize' again, and I felt better. In fact, we were cruising along at quite a good clip. I got a new job, and your daddy and I moved to a strange new city, all alone, and looking forward to the adventure that was to be you.

Then, about 7 months into my pregnancy, the doctors spotted some abnormalities: you weren't growing. You were so tiny. I had to go on bed rest, and the doctor considered putting me into the hospital to rest, in order to keep you safe. It turned out you had a condition called 'intra-uterine growth restriction (retardation)'. It meant that for reasons unknown you just stopped growing the way you should. Because of this, the doctors decided that you could 'cook' inside of me no more: it was time for your eviction. Should you stay inside of me any longer, the chances of you surviving got smaller and smaller, and we'd hoped and prayed for you and wanted you so badly, that just couldn't be. So, your introduction to the world was scheduled: you would be born on April 28, 2003.

And so you were.

I labored to give birth to you for exactly 5 hours and 23 minutes. I pushed for a total of 10 minutes, and two pushes until you came out. You see, the doctor was worried about your little heart and all the stress that being born would put on you, so she told me that we were going to have to have you via cesarean delivery. I would have done anything to protect you, and the doctor knew it. I think she saw the silent tears slide down my cheeks, she saw I was so worried and scared for you, that she said to me, "you're going to have this baby right now. Now push!" And so I did, and so you were born.

You were such a tiny little thing! Only 5 pounds 12 ounces, but so long--19.5". You breathed right away and I heard your tiny little mewling cries, and I knew we'd be OK.

Your first days in this world were tough: You wouldn't eat, and you had jaundice so badly you were as yellow as a squash. You had to sleep under bilirubin lights (like a tanning bed!) to help your little body break down the excess iron in your system, and we had to measure what you ate in cc's (that was to be the way of it for the next few months, you so disliked eating!).

Your daddy and I drove you home, all by ourselves, and walked into our tiny little home thinking to ourselves, "oh my. What do we do now?" Life was pretty hard. We were all alone in a new city with nobody to help us and nobody to call to ask advice. Our introduction to being your new parents was a real trial by fire. It is by the grace of God alone that we made it.

Both your daddy and I were out of work by the time you were 2 months old, and so your daddy went to school to learn to drive commercial trucks. Soon, he was done with school, and headed out on his new career. It was hard for us, because your daddy was gone for as much as a month at a time, and it was just you and I; no family and few friends. It is a wonder to me, as I look back, how we ever made it at all. I suppose it was due to how stubborn you and your mommy are.

Time has gone at such an erratic pace over these years. We struggled with you every day. Your little body was so weak, and you were so tired all the time, you didn't make your 'milestones' when you should. I took you to a big city, an hour's drive away, to the physical therapist's office, to help you learn to roll over, sit, crawl, and eventually at 17 months of age, to walk. It was a long and emotional journey.

As a baby, you hardly made a sound, and you didn't much care to be held. I always thought it was because I did something wrong, or that you were rejecting me on some level. It left me with many 'hard' feelings. But, we learned why you acted this way much later on.

You didn't talk when you were 'supposed' to talk, so we took you to doctors and specialists to try and help you out. You didn't talk until you were about 3.5 years old! And, when you did talk it was only your mommy who could understand you.

It turned out the reason why you didn't talk, and why you didn't like to snuggle was because of a disorder you have. It is called PDD, and it is on the Autism Spectrum. Your doctors said because of this, you learned from the world in a different way, and you would interact in a different way. It doesn't mean your way is wrong or better than my way, it is what it is: just different. We work each and every day to make your world more understandable to you, and to understand you better, ourselves. It is a journey of a thousand steps, and we're only 5 steps into it.

We've come so far, together, you and I. Despite all your challenges, from birth-on, you've come through far better than anyone could have predicted. You laugh, and smile. You sing and dance. You love to go to gymnastics and swing on the bars, and bounce around in the 'cheese pit'. You're learning how to swim! (and to think, you used to scream and cry if any water so much as touched your head) Just last week, I watched you do 40 'dunks' under water, with nary a tear! You have your bad days (and boy are they bad) but, the older you get, the more your days seem to be good, really, really, good.

You are an amazing little girl, and you amaze me each and every day. Just when I feel like your challenges are insurmountable, you do some sort of little, ordinary, every-day miracle, and in that instant the sun begins to shine, and all the little challenges and struggles we face, melt away for that glorious little instant.

Happy birthday, my precious little miracle. You are my bestest girl; always.

Love,

Mama

Friday, bloody, Friday (or the day from Hell)

Where do I even begin? Well, for starters, if you've got a squeamish stomach, skip this one; if you're not into listening to drama, skip this one; if you're just not willing to listen to me whine and rant and rave, just skip this one and check back another day, like on one of the days where I post goofy pictures (like the peeps) or photos of slumbering, fuzzy kittens in the sun.

Warning: Today was a bad day.

Things were going 'swimmingly' up until about 11am. That's when my dear friend, who was watching the kidlets, calls me at work to let me know there's been an 'incident' with Peanut, but that she was ok. Whenever someone says there's been _______ "but such-and-such is OK" you know it is bad. What they're really hoping is that they can be responsible and let you know what happened, all the while silently praying 'Oh dear God, please don't let them freak out. Please don't let them freak out'. You know that prayer. The one you say when you're certain all of it (and then some) is going to 'hit the fan.' Yup. That one.

Well, after the phone call, it is pointless to say, I immediately left work, and headed out to get the Peanut and do damage control. En route I phoned the pediatrician's office, silently thanking God for the invention of cell phones and the affluence of my family to be able to afford one. The receptionist clicks onto the line: "Dr. K's office. Can you hold for a moment?" Uh, lemme think about this for a nanosecond: 'No, not really." And then I explained my situation. Thank goodness the receptionist was having a good day or had taken her happy pills or taken a huge hit of meth or whatever--she was so pleasant, and was willing and able to put up with my mild hysteria.

By the time I finished talking with the pediatrician's office I arrive at my friend's house: there's peanut, sitting on the couch with my friend's sweet husband, ice pack on her little head. She doesn't look any worse for the wear, but the truth is: My little monkey had been jumping on the bed (no, really) and she fell off and hit her head (we think it was on the foot board of the bed), mama (me) had already called the doctor and the doctor said: "tell me just exactly what she did to her head!". Poor little peanut had managed to get quite a gash on the back of the crown of her head, about one inch in length and I'm guessing 1/2 a centimeter (???) in depth--deep at any rate. It had mostly stopped bleeding by the time I got there, and amazingly enough she wasn't in any pain and wasn't complaining.

Whew!

My poor dear friend, on the other hand, was a wreck. She was so upset, and worried over Peanut getting hurt, and worried about how I'd react (normal reaction, I'd be the same way). I felt so bad for her because she was so upset she was in tears, and even though I wasn't (and still am not) mad at her, nor do I find she did anything wrong, I couldn't reassure her that I understood, and that it was just a freak kid accident--it could have just as easily happened at my home as at hers, or with any other kid. I do hope that she feels better tomorrow.

At any rate, I decided yes, Peanut did need stitches, so off my friend, my Peanut, and I went to: The Emergency Room. (duh, duh, duh). There we sat. And sat. And we sat some more. We sat, with a bleeding four-year-old child in the waiting room for the upwards of almost 2 hours before they took us back.

I guess the old saying is true: you could, technically, bleed to death while waiting to be called back into the emergency room. Huh. Who knew?

After a short visit with the E.R. doctor and a nurse, they decided we needed to suture up her head, as my friend and I figured, and that they were going to use staples.

What?

We went to the E.R. for the purpose of letting my girl be sedated a bit for her stitches because we didn't think she'd be able to handle it 'the old fashioned way' (given that on the 7th of this month it took 3 adults to restrain her for a single blood draw--that is a story unto itself). Well, the sage doctor decided we'd try the staples first, and if that didn't' work, then we'd do sedation. At this point in time I was like "whatever will work. Let's just get this over and done with." All the while, Peanut has been an excellent patient--no whining, crying, or acting up (that was her mother who was doing that!!).

So, there we were, in the E.R., Peanut on my lap, my legs wrapped about her waist, holding her in a 'bear hug' while the gentleman nurse (a fantastic human being, I might add) held her head steady and the doctor stapled her scalp shut.

Ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk, and one final ca-chunk.

And it was done. Nearly 3 1/2 hours after we arrived, and $100 lighter in the wallet later, the girl was sutured up and we were on our way.

And to think, we could have had the same results, at the Pediatrician's office, and been in and out in less than 30 minutes. GARG!

Then, back home again. Peanut was feeling frisky and fine (the child was doing somersaults on the couch (getting blood everywhere-eew!) and had to be told to calm down and relax, so her sutures wouldn't be disturbed), and mommy's blood pressure was through the roof. Not the way I'd wanted to spend the afternoon.

At least my little girl was 'good as new' and feeling fine. That was the most important thing.

After both children were fed, and the boy put to bed, I headed out to run the last of the birthday errands I had left. Originally, I'd planned to do all of the errands and 'to-dos' this afternoon, but the trip to the E.R. disrupted that train of thinking, so it had to wait until after dinner.

I wound up taking care of all of my errands, with a little insult added at the gas pumps ($20 for 5.45gal. of gasoline! ***#$@@@$*$*$* insert expletive), only to walk back into the house, ready to frost the cupcakes for Peanut's party tomorrow, to discover my darling husband had only bought one can of chocolate frosting--to decorate 54 cupcakes in 'rainbow' colors. So much for being prepared the day before the party.

Needless to say, my evening ended on a truly aggravating note. But, the silver lining to this cloud is that the Peanut is OK, she's feeling good, she's going to be five, and has five staples in her head, someday this is going to make a great story to retell; and, hopefully my little monkey has learned her lesson: 'no more monkey jumping on the bed!'

Patsy Cline said it best: "Crazy"

Here I am, 2:31pm, home and already had my second cup 'o java for the afternoon (I had 2 this morning before leaving for work, and I cheated and had a small (6oz.) cup of BLACK coffee at work...). Apparently I'm working my addiction up to a full pot of coffee a day. And, to think, I'd been doing so well at only having one measly little cup (black!) in the morning before going to work. I've tried to quit coffee, go it the 'tea' way...but let's call a spade a spade: living among roosters as I do, working, having the PEANUT (note: the caps is on purpose)...facing the day without waking up to the smell of syrupy thick espresso strength coffee, to be guzzled by the 12 oz. mug, is like asking me if I'd like a visit from Jack Kevorkian (life without coffee? yes, pencil him in at 3...). So much for the reduction of caffeine. On to bigger things:

I love my Peanut. Peanutzilla; the Chubber calls her "peanut-butter", B.J. often calls her a pain in the _________ (fill in the blank: neck, butt, etc...). I do. I love her so much, I often go into the 'red' caring for her and all of her various needs. I do without, so does B.J. and the Chubb, though the latter doesn't yet realize it. Ask me how long it has been since I had a whole-hog, pull-out-the-stops-vacation. I'll tell you: I don't rightly remember. Far. Too. Long. Ago. After all, I'm the girl who buys (bought) airline tickets to Europe or Hawaii on a spur-of-the-moment 'this price is too good not to buy it' whim. Sigh. Those days are looonnng gone. I'd like to be able to go to the salon every 6 weeks and get my highlights done without my mental abacus going into guilt and worry about bills overdrive, and so I don't look like the bus driver from South Park; I'd like to be able to go shopping once in a while without feeling like I'm going over the precipice and landing us into debt. I'd like to stay in the black, but it just seems like it isn't gonna happen.

Already, this month alone, we're up to about $200 in medical co-pays for Peanut, and it isn't even the end of the month yet. Not to mention, the $2,000 invoice from OHSU that we received the other day that we may be 100% responsible for (maybe the insurance will pay it, maybe it won't. I think that BCBS uses a 'magic 8-ball' to decide on what it pays out on.).

Back to the Peanut, and, more specifically our current situation: Her psychiatrist has recommended we take her to a psychologist (main difference: the former is an M.D., the latter is a Ph.D.) for 'neuropsychological evaluation....[to] rule out other neuropsych dysfunction; to include IQ/LD'. Blah, bluh, bla? Yes. I know, it is partly Greek to me, as well. Basically, we want to find out a baseline for Peanut's cognitive performance. The psychiatrist doesn't do that kind of testing, the psychologist does. So, off I go with referral in hand.

Cha-ching.

The referral we've got in our hot little hands is for an out of network provider. Translation: mucho dinero. I, of course, don't have to have this testing done, but being the compulsive problem-solving mama that I am, I am going to. Because, after all, if this sheds more light on Peanut and how to deal with her 'quirks' I'm all for it. But! It all comes at a price.

The evaluation Peanut needs will run the gamut of $1,200-$2,000, quote that the psychologist gave me over the phone.

Choke-to-death. [insert gagging and vomiting noises here]

The insurance will pay up to 70% of what they deem 'usual and customary fees' (after I've paid my $300 deductible). In normal human being speech that means they will decide what a doctor should charge, and based on what the insurance deems to be the 'appropriate' charge, they will pay up to 70%. So, if they say this type of testing should cost, for simplicity, $10, then 70% of 'usual and customary' would mean they pay $7, leaving me to pay 30% of the balance, or $3. Sounds relatively simple, but when you're dealing with multiple zeroes after the numbers it gets a bit more...hmm...how shall I say it...distressing. Furthermore, if Peanut's psychologist doesn't charge $10 for the testing, but charges $17 for the testing, the insurance still only ponies-up $7, and I'm left with the balance of $10. So, basically I'm a bit on the screwed side.

What is a parent to do? What I always do: try to do the best I can by my peanut. I continue to mumble and grumble over medical costs--but I'm lucky: I at least have insurance. Some folks aren't so lucky, and once upon a time in the recent past I was one of those folks who didn't have insurance...and by God, did I pray I didn't get sick.

I continue to be more and more political; I follow the insurance legislation for my state. I send letters to my representatives and legislators. I've been scheduled to testify in front of the legislature before (though the meeting was cancelled). All in the name of providing my daughter with the necessary medical care she needs to live the fullest and most productive life she can live. So that my husband and I can have some semblance of normalcy in our family: we know and remember all to well what life was like before Peanut had the appropriate therapies and help; life with an untreated child like my girl is sheer hell.

So, the song that plays in my mind's Mp3 player, today, would have to be Patsy Cline's "Crazy," because I'm crazy in love with my girl.

Guilt

I haven't posted in a long time. This, I realize. While things have been humming along in my life, as always, I haven't felt particularly inspired to 'put pen to paper'.

Ironically, I started up this site as a means of purging my thoughts and maybe lessening the mommy-guilt load that all of us with offspring and who are of the X chromosomal variety experience, and in doing so, (tee hee) and not posting I have felt this cumbersome guilt hanging around my neck: I am not posting, hence my reader (singular) will become bored of my site, and fly far, far away. (I do have that bit of vanity, sorry to say)

A quick recap: Spring vacation--good, fast, over and done with; April: seductively waltzed into our lives like an innocent little lamb, only to sink its deadly lion-like fangs into our jugular and let us know that this spring will be a bumpy ride.

My Princess Peanut will soon be five years old. I'm majorly freaking out over this life milestone. She's in a preschool cum elementary school ecstasy "I'm going to be FIVE!" When did this happen? When did that yellow, squalling, doesn't want to eat and you can't make me, 5 lb. 12 oz. bundle of pain turn into a school age child?!? I'm utterly blown away.

We're planning her party for this Saturday at NWKC, so, I guess that means the games have begun. I know some people will think it a bit bourgeoisie for us to pay that much for her party, but let me tell you, the price is chump-change for the sanity! Last year we had her party at the carousel, and it was beautiful: the kids (the few who could make it) showed up, they rode the horses in circles enough times I wanted to puke, they ate cake, peanut ripped into the gifts, the mess stayed there, we went home to peace and quiet, voila! perfect.

For something new, and to (hopefully) take some of the focus off of the gluttony of gifts, we've decided to have a book exchange in lieu of gifts. I've requested each child who comes bring a gender-neutral, wrapped story book (not labeled to Peanut) and when we get to the 'open gifts' part each child will get a book to open--that way everybody gets to open a gift, and I get to get out of goody-bag duty! (I know its sneaky, its cheap, I love it!) I hope that this exchange works out well. Truthfully, Peanut doesn't need a single new toy, but I can't see her not getting to open something at her party, and I'm not so altruistic (yet! working on it...) that I can tell my daughter's guests to simply make a donation to a favored charity...so, maybe this plan works? I'll let you know. If you have any feelings, good or bad, please post a comment--I'd love to get some thoughts on the idea.

Well, it sounds as if my sweet little terrorists are waking/no longer content to play in their rooms, so I must sign-off. Having major daycare crisis right now--my poor dear babysitter has injured her back in some excruciating manner, and as of now: I have no back-up care, hence I am home from work today (B.J. was home yesterday) so among the many things I must do today, finding a backup daycare provider is pretty high up on the list. Sigh. It never ends.

Little Bathing Beauty

Last night I gave the Peanut and Chubber a bath. Yes, I know, what a surprise: a mom bathing her preschool children. Well, ya kind of have to, its in the job description, and--after about 4 days or so they really start to smell.

So, upon pulling peanut out of the tub she says:

"Mommy! (looking at her naked arm and little tummy) I have DUCK BUMPS!"

Translation: Goose bumps.

I just thought that was the cutest little thing.

Feeling lazy, feeling blue

I have really been lacking the desire to post lately. So, obviously, I haven't posted much. Duh. I know.

Good news: With my renewed efforts toward a healthier lifestyle I have almost made my first 10% weight loss goal. In my first week (which included quite a few flub-ups, and an unplanned trip to Izzy's to celebrate a birthday--yikes!) I managed to lose...drum roll please...a whopping 5.5 lbs.

Whoo-hoo!

I'm .5 lbs away from my first 10% goal: 6lbs.

I have a lot of weight to lose. If I look at the WHOLE-Bigger-than-life picture I'd just give up and sit down with a pint of Ben & Jerry's and mope while watching some sort of ultimately brain numbing chick-flick. So, to keep me from 'relapse' (as in succumbing to the FTW attitude, and fatalistic thinking that gets me stuck on the fast-track to increased fat cells and binging on whatever high-fructose, sodium laden, deep-fried concoction sure to make my serotonin levels even with those of a meth addict...) I'm looking at my first goal as losing a 'total' of 60 pounds.

Much more doable than the other number that I really am striving for.

5.5 lbs. isn't a whole lot. It wouldn't keep me above the yellow line on "BIGGEST LOSER" but it is a firm start. I'm also managing to maintain the attitude of 'get back on the horse' when I 'fall off' rather than subscribing to fallacious all-or-nothing thinking.

Chalk one up to me.

Now, on to the darker side of life.

Mentally, I'm struggling with Seasonal Affective Disorder. I've not received an official diagnosis of S.A.D., however, I suffer many of its symptoms. The peak of my 'blahs' coincides with the winter solstice--the shortest day of the year. I feel like a plant deprived of sunshine: I've withered (emotionally) into this lifeless, shapeless (figurative and literal--unless you count round for my shape. Ha!), blob who is lacking motivation most days to do anything. I want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. I don't want to do anything with anyone. I am just hoping to hit the 'fast forward' button a la Adam Sandler's movie CLICK. I go through this ever year. I have since I was a child...just my mother and I always chalked it up to missing Florida and the winter sunshine and flowers. Sigh. I can hardly wait for May sunshine and more daylight.

On the Autism spectrum: We've definitely been having our fair share (dare I say, more than fair share....as in the Lion's Share) of 'Autistic moments.'

Peanut has been irritable, defiant, tantruming, and tormenting her brother (and me) without end. I know it isn't her fault, and her psychiatrist concurs, the hoopla and lack of structure over the holidays put her over the edge. Heck, it puts typical kids (and most adults) over the edge. So, how could I expect anything different from someone with cognitive and sensory processing difficulties? Still, it doesn't make it any easier to deal with her. Even though I have a 'special needs child' it doesn't give me super-human strength, the ability to see through walls, or any more patience than having a typical child gives to any other parent. My patience still wears thin, and the decibel level of my voice soars ever heavenward. In truth, I've been ready to murder her. (only in thought---the same way we all say 'I'm going to kill you if you eat the last cookie, candy, chip, etc." ). One of the mentor moms at a MOPs meeting I once went to said something to the effect of:

"You're completely normal if you have the feeling that you'd like to
huck your child out the window. Every one of us feels like we would love to
just toss them out to escape the tantrums and difficult times. You're
normal. You're only abnormal if you never get frustrated with your child
or you actually do toss you kid out the window. Don't do that.
(all while smiling)."

This simple statement has saved me much guilt and shame. I'm normal. Lord, I'm so utterly normal, I'm the poster-child for normal. Ugh.

Chublet has been two. He acts two. He IS two. I don't really need to say much more. I remind myself, often, 'this too shall pass.'

Some introspection:

Going back to the lifestyle change, I have realized I am completely and totally obsessed with food. I figure I think about food approximately the same number of times a day as a red-blooded teenage-boy thinks about sex. Really. I think I am obsessing. Maybe that's one of the reasons why my weight has soared so high. I wonder what Freud would say (I'm glad he's dead...Dr.Phil is bad, I can only imagine how wonderful Freud would be...).

Things I'm looking forward to:

The return of normalcy to our daily schedule, and with it the return of a more sane and less psychotic little girl.

Continuing to renew my commitment (daily, hourly, minute-by-minute if need be) to my new healthier lifestyle.

Chublet eventually aging three-years-old (and my survival through his 'terrible two's').

Spring is coming. It is a long way out, but eventually the crocus will pop their periwinkle and opalescent heads though the snow and frost and herald the coming of new life and the return of sunshine.

1,000 words and more...

...And I want a computer for Christmas, Santa.


...the award for grumpy face goes to...


And, if all else fails, cuddle your mommy

Tear Drops in the Pool

I'm sitting here practicing my 'deep breathing' and trying not to absolutely fall apart.

One deep breath in through the nose, and slowly out of the mouth. And, again.

I am having this complete flood of negative emotions right now: sadness, anger, grief, frustration, annoyance, all gently folded in with some helplessness for good measure.

B.J. is sick with 'sinus' issues (whatever those happen to be), Chubber has a snotty nose that is perpetually dripping greenish goop, and he insists of flailing wildly while shaking his head back and forth yelling 'NO!' every time I attempt to wipe it. That combination, two 'sick' males in one household, is a powerful 1-2 punch that knocks me on my butt every time. Males, in my experience, don't do well with being 'sick.'

At any rate, tonight, B.J. had to go to the doctor, and he 'generously' took the Chub with him-- since mommy & me swim lessons were out of the question and Peanut still had her lesson to go to tonight (no way I could possibly take a 2 year old to the pool without expecting a MAJOR melt-down when he found out sister could swim but he couldn't...). That left the Peanut and myself to go to the pool for her swim lesson.

Normally, swim lessons are pretty even-keel and Peanut looks as normal as any other little girl. She splashes, slides along the edge of the pool, and obligingly kicks her legs in the water to play the splashing games that they do in her class. She looks, in a single word, typical. I cherish the moments in time where she is, for all intents and purposes, normal. Normal isn't, well, normal here. We have our share of Autistic moments, but that is 'normal' when your child is on The Spectrum. So, when swimming lessons come around, it is, for me, a joy to see my girl because I am able to catch a single little glimpse of who she really is on the inside: a beautiful, energetic, four-year-old girl. I see her as the daughter I always dreamed she would be. But, tonight wasn't to be one of those sparkling, glorious glimpses into 'typical.'

Tonight, in a nutshell was awful. Peanut was sullen, grumpy, and uncooperative. She was showing, in all its glaring, astrobright loudness her place on the Autism Spectrum. At first she wouldn't even get into the pool. After a time, and some talking, she agreed to sit on the steps and her teacher attempted to entice her further into the pool with a beautiful purple ball. It worked--temporarily. From there, the Peanut proceeded to rock back-and-forth in the water, while sitting on the steps. She receded into her own little universe further than I've seen her disappear into it in a long time (perhaps even a year or more). She shrieked and barked, dementedly in the horrible ear-drum piercingly high tone she so favors. She climbed out of the pool, and crawled around on the deck.

I tried to talk with her and tell her she could go home if she wanted to. She wouldn't have any of it. She was lost in her own oblivion. She refused to join her class, but also refused to leave. All I could do was humor her and hope that she would journey back toward earth. She eventually got into the water and started to participate in class. It was short lived. Soon after, she was back on the swim deck and began the howl and bark again while rocking back and forth, flapping her arms against her head. I have not seen her stim (self-stimulate) this badly--ever.

As I watched my daughter in horror, unable to help her to 'come down' or to come back-- I realized I could only support her in the way she needed, and that was sit patiently by as she danced through her own universe in a ballet that I did not recognize. As she was doing this I felt the mortar in the wall of bricks around my heart slowly begin to disintegrate and the walls of self-denial, or protection, or whatever you want to call them--my self-protection mechanism--came crashing down, one painful brick at a time.





It was all I could do to 'hold it together' while I watched my girl. I wanted to weep, and rage, and disappear all at once. I felt so terrible for her. She was disturbed in some way that she could not communicate to me, and I was utterly helpless.

I wanted to cry for her, but more than that I wanted to cry for me. I feel and felt so alone. I'm back to being adrift on that desolate ice floe in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by the void that I cannot cross. I think I manage to deny my disappointment (at not having a typical child) for a long period of time, so long that I can almost forget it exists. Then, there's an event like tonight. My girl stumbles backward, and continues stumbling, until she's undeniably NOT normal. Then all the bricks around my heart, my self defense, crumble, and the vulnerable, bleeding, soft pink parts of my soul become exposed, again, and I am reduced to tears.

As another blogger put it "it isn't PC to feel this way [that you wish your child was normal], but I do." And, I do. Some days I just wish she were normal. I wish I didn't feel such shame and guilt that I don't celebrate and rejoice in having a 'special needs child', but I don't. If I could do something, anything, to make it so that she was typical I would. I imagine any parent, even those who love the fact that their child is 'special', would wave that magic wand if it appeared in front of them.

I love my little girl as much as I love life itself. I can't imagine my life without her--I wouldn't have the same life without her, nor would I want a life without her--I just wish in moments like these things could be easier. That the pink parts weren't always so raw when they get exposed. That I didn't have to find the mortar to glue everything back into place.

Cake Decorating & Other Forms of Torture

I'm becoming so domestic these days.

Times were, many moons ago, that I was a young independent woman who worked a simple little job and lived alone in her own house, and rarely touched a pot or pan. In fact, my friends from 'once upon a time' used to complain when they came over and tried to raid the 'fridge only to find no real food to speak of. I had been accused of having a 'bachelor's refrigerator' and I'd heard many refrains of: 'you have every condiment known to human kind in here but no food. That's messed-up!" (One of my co-workers, if she reads this, is going to throw up at that particular phrase--sorry! Just tellin' it like it is)

These days, I often cook. In fact, some months I cook nearly every night except "left-overs" night. Don't get confused, I still have those weeks where I still have every condiment known to human kind and no food, and well, we simply go out to eat. Yes. It is expensive, wasteful, and causes my waistline to creep further and further out latitudinally. However, for the most part, I cook. Healthy-ish meals, from scratch. I hate boxed 'convenience' food--it all tastes the same to me (bad) and let's face it, anything with a 3 year shelf-life shouldn't go into our bodies (note: I conveniently forget this piece of rhetoric as I order our dinner at the golden arches.)

So, along the lines of my newly donned domesticity, I have decided to take a cake decorating class with my friend, J. J. and I go out for walks on average of 2x a week. We're getting in shape--something other than round, preferably. And on one of our walks J. asked me if I'd be interested. Sure. Why not? Sounds fun. So I have officially signed up and attended my first Wilton Cake Decorating I class.

The tuition was $30.00. Not bad. Especially compared to some of my Grad School classes. On the syllabus it says that an additional $25-50 dollars in supplies may be needed. No biggie. Well, after the first class I purchased the 'essentials' and to date my total investment (not including gas for transportation) is around $90.00. Pretty spendy for a hobby. Or, I'm just a cheap-o.


The first class was great. Friendly people (around 15 of us in all), and a nice instructor. The instructor made everything look like, well, a piece of cake. At the end of the class she gave us our supply list, and our first assignment: bake a cake, frost it using the recipe for butter creme frosting Wilton requires, and bring in frosting for decoration in a differing color than what you use to frost the cake. Easy, right? Well, this is me we're talking about. Heh heh heh.

So, comes the day after class. I'm bored and decided to root around to find all the ingredients I need to make butter creme frosting. Turns out, I have it all on hand, and the Peanut and I whip up a batch of the icing. Super fast, really easy, everything is cleaned up and taken care of in 10 minutes. My kind of project. However, I tried to make blue (we're going to make a 'Rainbow cake' at our second class), since I liked how the blue looked in the demo. picture. I found out that if you use 'butter' flavored Crisco (hint: it is yellow-Hell-o!!) what would have been blue icing is actually...you're gonna love this...preschoolers know how to use the color wheel...GREEN!!! Hahahah. Moral of the story? Use white Crisco, that is unless, you like actually want to have off-colored icing. Anyway, I figured I'd still be able to work with my green-not-blue-icing. I'm resourceful, like that.

Now, today (Friday), I'm stressed because the nearly-two-year-old is being fussy and doesn't want to cooperate (will he ever want to cooperate, at any time during the rest of his life? Magic 8 Ball says: Signs point to no.) so I decided we all need a project to entertain us. We'll bake a cake! I thumbed through my 1940's era McCall's Cookbook (only the world's best cookbook, ever. It was my mom's, so I'm very sentimental about it) looking for a good cake recipe. There's a bunch of them, too bad I was feeling lazy. I stuck a post-it note in the cookbook, and proceeded to get out a red-velvet cake mix (the box kind, yes, I know I'm totally contradicting myself, here) and we slap that together, and bake it.

At class the teacher said that we could use a box cake-mix, but it would be harder to frost because of the crumbs. The teacher is right, box cakes make LOTS of crumbs. Frosting a cake using the decorating tools the right way is much harder than it looks. I did my best to frost my cake. That doesn't mean I'm gonna take home a blue ribbon at the county fair.

I'm glad I 'practiced' tonight. I'd hate to have brought my FUGLY green frosting red-carpet-cake with red crumbs in the frosting lopsided cake to class. How embarrassing! But, it was a good learning experience.

Peanut will wake up tomorrow and see a hideous crumbs-in-the-green-should-be-blue-icing and she will squeal with joy, because, this cake will be her 'birthday' cake that she's been asking for since Thursday, when we made the icing. So, even though it is ugly, and not at all professional looking, it is worth it because I know it will make a certain 4 year-old some one's day.

Once I finished admiring my abstract art and thinking of how much Peanut will like it I was really good. I cleaned up my mess right away, rather than wait until the morning and hope the magic husband fairy would come along and clean it up (never happens, but I can hope, right?). Holy cow! Butter creme frosting is a pain to clean; in fact, it is just plain icky. Let's just say, if you ever want to stop eating sweets, make a batch of butter creme icing, wash your utensils by hand, and look at the residue left in the sink. I now know exactly what the insides of my thighs look like--it ain't pretty. Yech!!! A good thing, though, 'cuz now I won't eat frosting.

...She did what?

From down the hallway I hear my loving husband, the father of my children call out:
"She crapped a banana."

"She did what?" I question, with a note of horror in my voice.

"You heard me. She crapped a big banana."

I go into the bathroom to see what the heck he is talking about. I peer into the white porcelain throne that my daughter is perched on; my little girl beams up at me with her dazzling white smile and says, "Look mama, I pooped a banana!" Indeed, there is a plantain shaped bolus of fecal matter floating just below the water's surface.

I am utterly mortified at this point, yet at the same time trying not to start laughing hysterically.

Yes. This is the actual conversation that took place this evening as B.J. and I got ready to put The Peanut to bed. And, no, this is not a totally out-of-the-ordinary getting-ready-for-bed conversation. I wish it weren't, but it is.

A brief history of poop:

The Peanut was born almost a full month early, tiny, angry, squalling, and completely against eating-anything. As a result, she was jaundiced, chronically dehydrated, and lost a lot of weight (which is saying something, as she was only 5lbs. 12oz. at birth). She hated eating, it was an hourly battle, we measured what she ate in CC's (until she was a few months old). It is a fact: When you don't eat, you don't poop. End of story.

Continue on to the recent past: She still hates eating. The child exists on air, I swear (why is it that I can't quit shoveling food into my face, and I can't get her to put anything in her mouth? God definitely has a good sense of humor, or irony, if nothing else).

As a result of her hatred of food, she eats a fairly limited diet--mainly white, starchy foods, cheese and dairy. Oh, yeah, and applesauce. All of these foods are highly binding, in a colon-plugged-up-like-the-hoover-damn kind of way. Needless to say, Peanut is chronically constipated. Always has been. This kid never crapped more than a few hard, dried out rabbit pellet sized turds at a time, and sometimes only once a week. It was horrible.

If it wasn't already obvious, our lives revolve around poop. (Now, I know you can die in peace, knowing that our household is so obsessed with bowel movements.) People who don't poop are extremely edgy, angry, and in a generally Genghis Khan type of mood all the time. I don't know about you, but we don't enjoy picnicking with Genghis Khan on PMS [Christian name: Peanut], so we strive toward getting Peanut to poop so she will be the lovely, adorable, girl I know she is (instead of the murderous rage-inducing mini-tyrant she likes to pretend she is).

For the longest time Peanut was on prescription laxatives. For a Loonnnng time. From the age of about 18-20 months (I forget, isn't that terrible?) until about age 4 she's been on the following high dosage (would make a brick have a b.m.) laxatives: Lactulose, Miralax, and various pre-G.I. surgery type laxatives.

Eew.

Anything and everything we tried to get our child to poop. Most folks could get their kids to eat some greens, or other high-fiber foods and get past the non-poopage issue. Not our little Peanut.

Now back to the present. We've been working with a special Chinese massage study called Quigong. It works to alleviate some Autistic symptoms in kids, and works to fix their bowels. In the case of Peanut, it was a total success in the B.M. department; our little pooper now drops the kiddos off at the pool daily--without any medication. This is like party time in our household. A la Kool and the Gang: Let's celebrate good times, come on! No more icky laxatives for our little girl. The only down-side to it is that Peanut still thinks pooping is going to be this horrendously traumatic event (--can you imagine not having a b.m. for a week or more, and then finally having one? The sheer diameter of the things that would exit her body make me shudder to think of them). I can't blame her for being anxious. So, we still have poop drama.

Most evenings go like this: Peanut gets her jammies on, goes pee, and then we have her sit and relax so that she can 'go.' This is usually followed by screaming, protesting, and the ever present "I DON'T HAVE TO GO POOP!!!!!!!!" We still have her 'try.' (she used to scream "I can't!" but I couldn't stand hearing a 4 year old tell me "I can't" so we've retrained her to say "I tried")

It is usually 3-10 minutes of her complaining, whining, and/or screaming. Then it comes: "Moooomm, I went POOP!!!". And we see she has indeed gone poop, and gone A LOT.

So, you've already read tonight's conversation. I'm sure that someday, in retrospect, we're all going to laugh and laugh about this little 'poop' issue. But right now, with the exception of tonight's ultra-descriptive b.m. most nights it is an uphill battle.

Nobody ever told me that becoming a parent would involve a degree in poop. The things I talk about with my (mom) girlfriends; the things I publish in cyberspace. If someone had told me, before becoming a parent, I'd write a blog entry on crap (no pun intended) without hesitation or embarrassment I would have told them they were full of it. Oh, how things change.

Bliss on a pink two-wheeler

I sparkled. Yes. I absolutely sparkled in my joy of watching the Peanut's accomplishments.

Yesterday afternoon, after we had our highly-nutritious dinner (fresh from Costco's deli) of chicken and penne Alfredo, I took Peanut outside to burn off some energy and enjoy the day. It was a perfectly beautiful day: clear blue sky, cool gentle breeze blowing, and lots of golden vitamin-D rich sunshine, all in a package 70 degree deal.

In a word: perfect.

After a long winter of steel gray days and endless drizzle (a.k.a. Northwest sunshine) that has enough humidity to chill you to the bone, a day like yesterday is a gift from Above. We must (or rather I have to...) cherish such days--we need squirrel away the acorns of memory to pull out and nibble on during our dreary, gray winters. Sometimes, it is all that sustains us when the weather report has been "cloudy, with ongoing showers, followed by more overcast days and a possible low front and more rain....".

Anyhow, I decided to take full advantage of our day and I made the executive decision that Peanut needed to practice riding her new pink bicycle.

Yikes.

The last two times we'd taken her out on her bicycle went like this: get to the end of the driveway, park the bike on the sidewalk, plop the Peanut on her seat and....she becomes belligerent, whiny, and cries and has a fit until we finally let her quit (after having put on a great show for the neighbors of cajoling, wheedling, pleading with her to "Just try it sweetie, it is so much fun. You'll love it!" to have her blood-curdling reply of "NOOO!!!!! I DON'T WANT TO!!!!!!!!!!" Very fun, you know, working toward that 'worst-parent-in-the-world award.).

Well, I had decided that we would muster all of our 'little-engine-that-could' energy and 'whip' the riding the bike thing. Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

Actually, much to my delight that is exactly what we did. Peanut climbed on her bicycle (by herself) and pedaled slowly down the sidewalk with me sauntering behind. As we got to the street corner I asked her "Do you want to go to the park?"

"Sure. I go fast!" she cheerfully informed me.

So off to the park (about 2 blocks from our house, on our same street) we go. Once we get there, as usual there's multiple little league games going on, surrounded by parents cheering on their little sluggers, and younger ( sometimes older) siblings playing on the grass, entertaining themselves.

And "BIG" kids riding bikes.

Peanut wants to be a "BIG" kid. And ride a bike like a "BIG" kid. This is good for us, because it spurs her on to emulate her peers.

As we get to the track the surrounds the fields, Peanut's confidence begins to build. It is the most magical thing to observe-- confidence building, that is. She begins to pedal a little faster, and gain a little more distance. She's now pedaling 5-10 feet ahead of me. This is fantastic. Especially, because the last time, once we got past the screaming-Mimi fit, she pedaled so slow that even at my slowest gait, she trailed me by about 15 feet. Let's put it this way: If I had sat down every 20 steps I could have enjoyed a tea by the time she caught up with me.

I'm beginning to have to walk a bit faster. Perhaps, you could even describe it as walking briskly. (A bonus: I get a little much needed exercise.)

Peanut is gaining even more speed and confidence as she goes along. I periodically call out to her "Don't crash into people! Say 'Excuse me'. Go around them..." all the while mentally panicking: What if she falls down? She'll never get back on her bike. She'll lose her confidence. Oh jeez, don't hit that little kid...Oh, please, dear Lord, don't let her fall down.

She's cruising along at a good beginner speed--at about 50 feet ahead of me! If I decided to hoof it at a jog, I doubt I could have kept pace with her. I am completely in awe at this point. Less than 24 hours earlier she pitched such a fit I thought for sure Child Protective Services would be called, and now, here she was, doing it. Actually doing it, and enjoying herself.

Then it happens: she falls down.

While trying to go around a couple with a baby in a stroller, she loses her balance, over compensates and crashes. (insert bomb exploding noise: here) I do run to her at this point--boobs swinging embarrassingly, like to give myself a black-eye--and scoop her into my arms. My poor baby is sobbing and has received a trophy of some 'road-rash' on her knee. Luckily, the fall didn't really even break the skin, just 'skinned' her knee a bit. I cuddle my girl on my shoulder and assure her she's o.k. Talking to her about how proud of her I am that she tried to go around the people and not crash into them. Talking to her about how she's a big girl. That she is four. And that because she is four, she's a big girl and will be all right.

That does the trick. She calms down, climbs back onto her bicycle and tentatively pedals forward. "Mommy, hold me." She commands.

"No, sweetie. I can't. I'm right her for you. You're safe." I reply. Again, it works. I don't want her to quit now, and forever associate falling down with her bicycle--if she does, she'll never get back on it. That is just the way the Peanut works. And, if I hold her as she rides, she'll never feel safe if I let go. What do I do? I swallow the lump of pain, grief, fear, and anxiety in my throat and say to her what I did. And, it worked. She pedaled slowly (very, very, slowly) and her confidence sprouted up again and began to grow. Then, she saw another little girl, about 7 years-old going 'fast' and off Peanut went. Lickety-split, she's going again. Pedaling quickly, sitting up straight and proud. And riding her pink bicycle.

Watching my beautiful little peanut ride her little pink two-wheeler was one of the most beautiful sights I've seen. I thought to myself: here is my beautiful little girl, 4 years old, riding a bicycle. And, this is the same beautiful little girl who I used to have to drive 45 minutes to a bigger metropolitan area to do physical therapy. The same little girl who did not roll over, sit up, push up, crawl, walk...without direct and intense pediatric physical therapy.

The same beautiful little girl.

It took my breath away and brought tears to my eyes. My beautiful little girl had just passed another huge childhood milestone: riding a bicycle.

We, who are naturally disposed to do things, often take for granted those things we do without effort. There are so many different neurological 'hurdles' that take place to do the most basic physical things. Most of us do them without trying; Peanut does them with great effort. I marvel when I think of the gross motor skills needed to pedal a bicycle, the synaptic relays that happen in a fraction of a second in order for all the muscles, bones, and nerves to 'fire' correctly and produce the desired result. It is truly amazing. The Great Engineer knew what he was doing.

Somewhere, someone said that the human body is the greatest engineering feat ever completed. After watching my Peanut ride her little pink two-wheeled bicycle I'm inclined to think whomever said it was right.

I am so proud of my little girl. Verbose as I am, words fail to capture the emotion I feel toward Peanut and her accomplishment. She's the most amazing little being and never ceases to surprise me with all that she CAN do.