The 3 of us are playing in Bear's room when Thumper spits up, as Thumper often does, then proceeds to finger paint with the white puddle. I move him a couple of feet away before heading to the dresser for a diaper to wipe it up with. As I turn back around, I notice that the small chunk of avocado from his lunch, which previously graced the center of the urp, is now missing. Bear makes a face, then shudders.
"Bear, did you just put that in your mouth?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"Bear, that is disgusting. Your brother threw that up! You don't put that in your mouth!"
"Sorry, mommy."
9.28.2007
My boy is brilliant
We were having an afternoon snack today when the mailman walked up to the porch, announcing himself as usual with a loud cell phone conversation in a language I can't identify. "Mail's here Mom!" yelled Bear. He followed me to the door with the expectation that every mail delivery will contain one of his favorite Birthday Express or Oriental Trading Company catologs. The best I could offer him today is the latest Smithsonian, which luckily features "Denizens of the Deep" (or, weird sea creatures.) I sat down with him on the couch to to find the correct pages. "This is an anglerfish" I point out, turning the pages. "And here is a jelly fish." "That is a gumpothus kind of octopus" Bear said, pointing to a blue blob. I glance at the caption. Did he really just say that? No, that can't be. "What did you say, Bear?" "That's a gumpothus octopus." I read the caption again:
Grimpoteuthis, a type of Dumbo octopus, lives in every ocean.
I have no idea where he got that.
9.05.2007
The Not so Common Loon
Last Halloween, when I was still convinced that Bear was going to start speaking in full sentences and join his typically-developing peers in willfulness any day, I took him with me on an expedition to Old Navy to purchase a halloween costume. I had already been online and previewed the selection, and was pretty confident that I would be able to manipulate my oblivious toddler into bending to my will. Although he had experienced Halloween twice before, it was clear that he did not remember it and would not understand what the costume was for until Halloween itself had arrived. Luckily, Bear and I were on the same page, and as we entered the children's area of the store, he made a beeline for the brown felt monkey with a banana in its pocket. I was triumphant. And I knew that this would most likely be the last time that I would have a say in what costume he would wear. My only hope was that the next one would not be Spider Man.
Nearly a year later, with Halloween again approaching and Bear still retaining a more or less easy-going attitude, I began to fantasize that I might have my way again just one more year. So yesterday, I went online to troll the Old Navy website for ideas, and there it was: a pirate. Not a swab-the-deck, striped shirt and bandana pirate costume, but a swashbuckling pirate captain with a stand-up pirate hat, double-breasted coat and ruffled sleeves. Sort of Captain Hook, without the hook. Immediately my mind was off, and within an hour I had planned Thumper's corresponding parrot costume. A pair of red blanket pajamas adorned with multi-colored felt feathers should do it. Now I just had to work out the details of a red hood with a felt beak and eyes, to be velcroed under the chin.
When Bear returned home from school, as we sat talking about his day (or as far as "I ride the bus with John"), I decided to broach the subject. "So, Bear, what do you want to be for Halloween?" I asked. "I want to be a loon." Dammit. His father had already gotten to him after the last issue of Your Big Backyard, featuring the "Not so Common Loon," and a fun loon costume that can be crafted from a paper plates and black paint. Aside from the questionable wisdom of taking a child out after dark dressed entirely in black, the lax structural integrity of a paper plate costume, and the fact that it is creepy looking, the loon costume is not an entirely bad idea. But I had already fallen in love with the idea of a pirate and his parrot. "Well, Thumper and I were talking about it this morning, and we were thinking that maybe you would want to be a pirate. Would you like that?" "No, I want to be a loon."
About this time, the mail man came, bringing with him the latest children's catalog filled with pictures of halloween costumes. I scanned the pages for a pirate that I could use for visual support. Bear took the catalog out of my hands and lay down on the floor. "Bear, come here" I said, leading him to the computer. "Look at this pirate costume" "Yeah!" "Do you like that?" "Yeah!" Would you like to be a pirate?" "No, I want to be a tiger." Oh. The catalog had successfully steered him away from the idea of being a loon, and he was now attached to what I had to admit was a very attractive tiger costume. "And maybe Thumper can be like a owl." I hadn't counted on this. I knew the day would come when Bear would be choosing his own costume, but I thought at least I would have a few more years with Thumper. Now Bear was choosing for the both of them.
Hmm... an owl isn't too different from a parrot. Brown blanket pajamas, perhaps. Brown felt feathers. I can do this.
Nearly a year later, with Halloween again approaching and Bear still retaining a more or less easy-going attitude, I began to fantasize that I might have my way again just one more year. So yesterday, I went online to troll the Old Navy website for ideas, and there it was: a pirate. Not a swab-the-deck, striped shirt and bandana pirate costume, but a swashbuckling pirate captain with a stand-up pirate hat, double-breasted coat and ruffled sleeves. Sort of Captain Hook, without the hook. Immediately my mind was off, and within an hour I had planned Thumper's corresponding parrot costume. A pair of red blanket pajamas adorned with multi-colored felt feathers should do it. Now I just had to work out the details of a red hood with a felt beak and eyes, to be velcroed under the chin.
When Bear returned home from school, as we sat talking about his day (or as far as "I ride the bus with John"), I decided to broach the subject. "So, Bear, what do you want to be for Halloween?" I asked. "I want to be a loon." Dammit. His father had already gotten to him after the last issue of Your Big Backyard, featuring the "Not so Common Loon," and a fun loon costume that can be crafted from a paper plates and black paint. Aside from the questionable wisdom of taking a child out after dark dressed entirely in black, the lax structural integrity of a paper plate costume, and the fact that it is creepy looking, the loon costume is not an entirely bad idea. But I had already fallen in love with the idea of a pirate and his parrot. "Well, Thumper and I were talking about it this morning, and we were thinking that maybe you would want to be a pirate. Would you like that?" "No, I want to be a loon."
About this time, the mail man came, bringing with him the latest children's catalog filled with pictures of halloween costumes. I scanned the pages for a pirate that I could use for visual support. Bear took the catalog out of my hands and lay down on the floor. "Bear, come here" I said, leading him to the computer. "Look at this pirate costume" "Yeah!" "Do you like that?" "Yeah!" Would you like to be a pirate?" "No, I want to be a tiger." Oh. The catalog had successfully steered him away from the idea of being a loon, and he was now attached to what I had to admit was a very attractive tiger costume. "And maybe Thumper can be like a owl." I hadn't counted on this. I knew the day would come when Bear would be choosing his own costume, but I thought at least I would have a few more years with Thumper. Now Bear was choosing for the both of them.
Hmm... an owl isn't too different from a parrot. Brown blanket pajamas, perhaps. Brown felt feathers. I can do this.
8.28.2007
School Days
After 5 weeks of counting down the days, and 1 week of regretting all of the things I failed to do with Bear during his time off, school is back in session.
When I enrolled him in school last March, Bear was a fragile 3-year old who spoke 3 to 4 word spontaneous sentences at best, but during our second site visit, to the classroom that he finally was placed in, he mostly just screamed "No!" as Randy the program specialist and I each grabbed a hand and drug him across the small campus. Thumper, then just 2 months old, was snuggled contently against me in his Bjorn as I was throwing his older brother, my precious first born, to the lions. The only thing Bear was remotely interested in was the long line of little yellow school buses in front of the school.
I stood in the office as the school secretary gathered together a stack of forms for his registration. "Here is the number of the bus company" she said, jotting it down on a post-it note. "Oh, no, we live close by." I said "I'll drive him." I thought of the poor, scared, delicate little soul now in tears and trying to pull me out the front door. I thought of the admittedly short drive from our house to the school, with the one curve in the road that everyone takes too fast, and the accidents I come across there at least once a month. I tried to imagine Bear staying put without a carseat, and trying to explain to him that he would be riding by himself, without me. He wouldn't even ride the merry-go round at the zoo by himself. There is no way I could let him ride the bus to school. A couple of days later, the bus company called my house to set up service. "Oh, no, we won't be needing bus service" I reiterated.
The first day of school last year got off to a shaky start, but it was harder on me than on him and by the time I left he was fine. The second day went even better, and by the third he scarcely glanced back over his shoulder at me before running off to join his new friends. When I picked him up that day, his teacher asked if he would be riding the bus. "One of the bus drivers was asking me because they have him on her schedule." Damn, these people are tenacious.
By the end of the school year, Bear was a completely different kid. He talks more, listens more, is more mature, and less attached to me. Over the summer, I began to agonize over whether or not I should let Bear ride the bus home in the afternoons. I knew on the one hand that Thumper's nap schedule would at some point coincide with Bear's 1:30 pick-up time. And I knew Bear was dying to ride the bus. But I felt guilty about asking the school district to provide busing for my own convenience and my son's amusement. I had overheard one bus driver yelling at one of her charges as I dropped Bear off at school one morning, and another telling his teacher about the wrong child being placed on her bus the afternoon before - a situation which was surely traumatic for all involved. And there is still that treacherous curve in the road.
Today is the second day of school, and this morning I was, for once, organized. I got Bear up, dressed, and set down for breakfast in record time. He wolfed down three pancakes, drank his milk, and asked for an apple as I packed his backpack. As we sat at the table looking out the front window, a small yellow bus came down the street. I wondered if another child on the street was riding the little bus to school. Then it stopped. It backed up. It stopped again. It was coming for Bear. He had noticed it too. "School bus" he said. The horn honked. I looked at him. He was dressed and fed, his backpack was packed, his hair was relatively smoothed down. Technically, he was ready to go. "Do you want to ride the bus to school?" I asked. "YES!" he answered. I hesitated. "I won't be able to ride with you, you have to ride by yourself." "OK." Suddenly, after all of the months of over-thinking and worrying, the decision had been made for me. I got up and scrambled for his shoes and socks. The horn honked again. I ushered Bear out onto the front porch to keep her from honking again, shoved the socks and shoes onto his feet, licked my thumb and wiped at the pancake smudge on his face. To my relief, the bus had seat belts and I buckled him in. "Now, stay in your seat, and when you get to school your teacher will come get you off the bus." I said. "OK!" There was no apprehension in his voice. He was literally quivering with excitement.
And then he was gone. The moment was past. A milestone, life-changing moment. Another step towards self-sufficiency. I had had no chance to prepare for it and now it was over, and I hadn't even recorded it in a 12-photo series as my sister-in-law had with my niece's first day of kindergarten. The house was silent and I had no idea what to do with myself. I felt as if I had just sent him off to college.
Twenty minutes later his teacher called to let me know he had made it to school, and that he was very excited about his bus ride. "I had been meaning to talk to you about this, I think he is ready for it." "Yes, he is ready." I agreed. I knew he was.
But I wasn't.
When I enrolled him in school last March, Bear was a fragile 3-year old who spoke 3 to 4 word spontaneous sentences at best, but during our second site visit, to the classroom that he finally was placed in, he mostly just screamed "No!" as Randy the program specialist and I each grabbed a hand and drug him across the small campus. Thumper, then just 2 months old, was snuggled contently against me in his Bjorn as I was throwing his older brother, my precious first born, to the lions. The only thing Bear was remotely interested in was the long line of little yellow school buses in front of the school.
I stood in the office as the school secretary gathered together a stack of forms for his registration. "Here is the number of the bus company" she said, jotting it down on a post-it note. "Oh, no, we live close by." I said "I'll drive him." I thought of the poor, scared, delicate little soul now in tears and trying to pull me out the front door. I thought of the admittedly short drive from our house to the school, with the one curve in the road that everyone takes too fast, and the accidents I come across there at least once a month. I tried to imagine Bear staying put without a carseat, and trying to explain to him that he would be riding by himself, without me. He wouldn't even ride the merry-go round at the zoo by himself. There is no way I could let him ride the bus to school. A couple of days later, the bus company called my house to set up service. "Oh, no, we won't be needing bus service" I reiterated.
The first day of school last year got off to a shaky start, but it was harder on me than on him and by the time I left he was fine. The second day went even better, and by the third he scarcely glanced back over his shoulder at me before running off to join his new friends. When I picked him up that day, his teacher asked if he would be riding the bus. "One of the bus drivers was asking me because they have him on her schedule." Damn, these people are tenacious.
By the end of the school year, Bear was a completely different kid. He talks more, listens more, is more mature, and less attached to me. Over the summer, I began to agonize over whether or not I should let Bear ride the bus home in the afternoons. I knew on the one hand that Thumper's nap schedule would at some point coincide with Bear's 1:30 pick-up time. And I knew Bear was dying to ride the bus. But I felt guilty about asking the school district to provide busing for my own convenience and my son's amusement. I had overheard one bus driver yelling at one of her charges as I dropped Bear off at school one morning, and another telling his teacher about the wrong child being placed on her bus the afternoon before - a situation which was surely traumatic for all involved. And there is still that treacherous curve in the road.
Today is the second day of school, and this morning I was, for once, organized. I got Bear up, dressed, and set down for breakfast in record time. He wolfed down three pancakes, drank his milk, and asked for an apple as I packed his backpack. As we sat at the table looking out the front window, a small yellow bus came down the street. I wondered if another child on the street was riding the little bus to school. Then it stopped. It backed up. It stopped again. It was coming for Bear. He had noticed it too. "School bus" he said. The horn honked. I looked at him. He was dressed and fed, his backpack was packed, his hair was relatively smoothed down. Technically, he was ready to go. "Do you want to ride the bus to school?" I asked. "YES!" he answered. I hesitated. "I won't be able to ride with you, you have to ride by yourself." "OK." Suddenly, after all of the months of over-thinking and worrying, the decision had been made for me. I got up and scrambled for his shoes and socks. The horn honked again. I ushered Bear out onto the front porch to keep her from honking again, shoved the socks and shoes onto his feet, licked my thumb and wiped at the pancake smudge on his face. To my relief, the bus had seat belts and I buckled him in. "Now, stay in your seat, and when you get to school your teacher will come get you off the bus." I said. "OK!" There was no apprehension in his voice. He was literally quivering with excitement.
And then he was gone. The moment was past. A milestone, life-changing moment. Another step towards self-sufficiency. I had had no chance to prepare for it and now it was over, and I hadn't even recorded it in a 12-photo series as my sister-in-law had with my niece's first day of kindergarten. The house was silent and I had no idea what to do with myself. I felt as if I had just sent him off to college.
Twenty minutes later his teacher called to let me know he had made it to school, and that he was very excited about his bus ride. "I had been meaning to talk to you about this, I think he is ready for it." "Yes, he is ready." I agreed. I knew he was.
But I wasn't.
8.22.2007
Sick Day
Bear is sick. Whatever it is that he has befell him within a span of about 20 minutes yesterday afternoon. One minute he was carrying 2 ceramic turtles around my grandmothers house, setting them up in a variety of poses to examine first close up, then from across the room. Then suddenly, there he was draped across a chair staring into space. After trying unsuccessfully to coax him into eating dinner, I finally felt his forehead. It was hot. He climbed up into my lap for a hug and his whole body was hot. I rushed him home wondering where he could have picked up a virus, since we have barely been out in public the past week. He was playing in the dirt in the backyard - was there cat poop out there? Can you suddenly come down with a fever from handling cat poop?
So when he woke up this morning in much the same condition he was in last night, I had to decide: Do I give him something for it? On the one hand, the Tylenol worked wonders before bed last night, bringing down the fever and making him comfortable enough to sleep. On the other hand, fever fights infection. Is it better to let him tough it out in the interest of fighting off the virus? And is it in my best interest to be at home with a whiny 3 year old who is too tired to do anything but lay on the couch, or one who is too sick to go outside but feeling just well enough to be bored and restless?
I went with option #1, hoping more sick now would mean less sick later. And because he was feeling too poorly to play on his own, and I have Thumper to take care of, he was permitted to watch Curious George on TV. That segued directly into Teleubbies, which I also allowed, knowing all along that I would live to rue the day.
Unlike most children who are happy to watch whatever you set them in front of, Bear craves sameness and predictability. And what is more predictable that watching the same episode of the same show over and over and over? All of the lines are the same, delivered the same way with the same corresponding images. Lately, he has even been fixated on one particular 8 minute segment of a Thomas the Tank engine video, opting to watch it over and over as many times as he can get away with, rather than watching the entire video. The Teletubbies, for the uninitiated, are spectacularly annoying on the first pass, but wait -- there's more! They actually replay the same vignettes THREE TIMES IN A ROW WITHIN THE SAME EPISODE! Like chocolate covered marshmallows are for his mother, the Teletubbies are the perfect junk food for Bear.
Midway through the episode, Bear fell asleep on the couch, and I quietly turned the TV off and went to the back of the house to play with Thumper. A half hour later, I heard crying from the living room and went to check on my boy. "What's wrong, sweetie?" I asked.
"I...want...more...tebetubbie!"
I'm doomed.
So when he woke up this morning in much the same condition he was in last night, I had to decide: Do I give him something for it? On the one hand, the Tylenol worked wonders before bed last night, bringing down the fever and making him comfortable enough to sleep. On the other hand, fever fights infection. Is it better to let him tough it out in the interest of fighting off the virus? And is it in my best interest to be at home with a whiny 3 year old who is too tired to do anything but lay on the couch, or one who is too sick to go outside but feeling just well enough to be bored and restless?
I went with option #1, hoping more sick now would mean less sick later. And because he was feeling too poorly to play on his own, and I have Thumper to take care of, he was permitted to watch Curious George on TV. That segued directly into Teleubbies, which I also allowed, knowing all along that I would live to rue the day.
Unlike most children who are happy to watch whatever you set them in front of, Bear craves sameness and predictability. And what is more predictable that watching the same episode of the same show over and over and over? All of the lines are the same, delivered the same way with the same corresponding images. Lately, he has even been fixated on one particular 8 minute segment of a Thomas the Tank engine video, opting to watch it over and over as many times as he can get away with, rather than watching the entire video. The Teletubbies, for the uninitiated, are spectacularly annoying on the first pass, but wait -- there's more! They actually replay the same vignettes THREE TIMES IN A ROW WITHIN THE SAME EPISODE! Like chocolate covered marshmallows are for his mother, the Teletubbies are the perfect junk food for Bear.
Midway through the episode, Bear fell asleep on the couch, and I quietly turned the TV off and went to the back of the house to play with Thumper. A half hour later, I heard crying from the living room and went to check on my boy. "What's wrong, sweetie?" I asked.
"I...want...more...tebetubbie!"
I'm doomed.
8.21.2007
Social Stories
My sister, who coincidentally teaches children with autism, loaned me a book of social stories for Bear. Social stories are short stories along the lines of Dick and Jane, but more succinct and without the rhyming. They are meant to teach people on the spectrum the social skills that they may have missed while they were otherwise engaged, say, (at least in Bear's case) examining objects out of the corners of their eyes, humming, spinning in circles, etc. Here is an example:
Smiling
Smiling lets other people know when I am happy. People like it when I smile. If I do not smile, people may think that I am sad or angry. I will try to remember to smile.
I have tried reading a few of these to Bear. He seemed unimpressed, especially with Washing Your Hands. I am not really sure if he was supposed to find it entertaining, or if I am supposed to just keep reading it to him until he surrenders and starts washing his hands.
My Mother in Law is coming to visit this week, so for the occasion I have written a social story for myself:
Visitors
Sometimes visitors will come to stay at my house. Sometimes the visits will be long. Sometimes the visits will be short. I will try to remember that the visit will be over soon and my life will return to normal.
Sometimes my visitors will give unhelpful, unsolicited advice or opinions. They may seem to think that I am a moron. They may be trying to be helpful, or they may be trying to make conversation. I will try not to be defensive and peevish.
Sometimes a visitor may want to clean my house. I will try not to think of this as a criticism of my housekeeping abilities. I will try to be remember to be gracious.
I will try to remember to smile.
Smiling
Smiling lets other people know when I am happy. People like it when I smile. If I do not smile, people may think that I am sad or angry. I will try to remember to smile.
I have tried reading a few of these to Bear. He seemed unimpressed, especially with Washing Your Hands. I am not really sure if he was supposed to find it entertaining, or if I am supposed to just keep reading it to him until he surrenders and starts washing his hands.
My Mother in Law is coming to visit this week, so for the occasion I have written a social story for myself:
Visitors
Sometimes visitors will come to stay at my house. Sometimes the visits will be long. Sometimes the visits will be short. I will try to remember that the visit will be over soon and my life will return to normal.
Sometimes my visitors will give unhelpful, unsolicited advice or opinions. They may seem to think that I am a moron. They may be trying to be helpful, or they may be trying to make conversation. I will try not to be defensive and peevish.
Sometimes a visitor may want to clean my house. I will try not to think of this as a criticism of my housekeeping abilities. I will try to be remember to be gracious.
I will try to remember to smile.
8.09.2007
It's Not About Me
Bear has been on summer break for 4 weeks, and he is bored. My plans to enroll him in Swim 'n Gym and toddler soccer classes never panned out. The handful of playdates and outings that I have managed to squeeze in between Thumper's nap times have provided nowhere near the 25 hours a week of structure and stimulation that Bear gets when he is in school. He spends all day following me from room to room, alternately whining, teasing me, and misbehaving. He swings on doors and climbs the furniture. Lately I have seen him eyeing the ceiling fan with a glint in his eye. He doesn't so much play with his toys as spread them out across the house in a manner reminiscent of Hurricane Katrina. He is driving me crazy. So I am ashamed to admit that when we received an invitation for the birthday party of a young school mate of his, I hesitated.
Young friend's parents are kosher vegetarian environmentalists. They keep an astoundingly tidy house despite having a preschooler, where shoes are not allowed. There is nothing wrong with any of this. In fact, all of these traits are noble and admirable. And they are not obnoxious, pretentious, or self-righteous. They are just nice people who offered support and advice to me, a complete stranger, when Bear was first diagnosed. (They even asked that in lieu of gifts, we donate a toy to a child in need. See what I mean?) I just happen to be an undermotivated, unorganized and curmudgeonly slob with a natural aversion to rules and constraints of any kind. I find all of this discipline to be a little, well, daunting. (Which begs the question "how did I wind up married to a health-conscious neat freak?", but I digress...)
After a few days of vacillating, I finally put Bear's needs ahead of my own and rsvp'd to the party. Yesterday, when I told him about it, his whole face lit up as he began to chatter about all of the school friends that he has been missing. We are going to the party. And we are going to have fun, dammit.
Young friend's parents are kosher vegetarian environmentalists. They keep an astoundingly tidy house despite having a preschooler, where shoes are not allowed. There is nothing wrong with any of this. In fact, all of these traits are noble and admirable. And they are not obnoxious, pretentious, or self-righteous. They are just nice people who offered support and advice to me, a complete stranger, when Bear was first diagnosed. (They even asked that in lieu of gifts, we donate a toy to a child in need. See what I mean?) I just happen to be an undermotivated, unorganized and curmudgeonly slob with a natural aversion to rules and constraints of any kind. I find all of this discipline to be a little, well, daunting. (Which begs the question "how did I wind up married to a health-conscious neat freak?", but I digress...)
After a few days of vacillating, I finally put Bear's needs ahead of my own and rsvp'd to the party. Yesterday, when I told him about it, his whole face lit up as he began to chatter about all of the school friends that he has been missing. We are going to the party. And we are going to have fun, dammit.
8.07.2007
"My mom hadn't had a hot meal for herself in 15 years"
Somehow, when Bear was a baby, I had enough storage in my memory banks to keep constant track of how many times he had nursed in a day, at what times, for how long and on which breast. I also could tell you at any given moment how often he had pooped, at what time, and the color and consistency of the poop. I kept this up until he was well into solids, and can remember laughing with my mom's group about how we all did it. I had given up the practice with Thumper until a recent confluence of events put me on poop patrol once again.
Part one
The first part of this story began yesterday, during my usual Monday morning trip to Trader Joe's. Thumper was seated in the cart for the first time, and I was pushing it with one hand protectively at his side, while trying to keep Bear from running between the legs of the other shoppers in his quest to find every picture of a parrot or toucan in the store (there are a lot.) When I turned back to Thumper, he was busily gnawing on my shopping list, which now sported a hole in it the approximate size of Thumper's mouth. "Some of this list is missing" I said. "Where is it?" Thumper looked at me and grinned. I pried his mouth open and stuck my finger inside just enough to feel the paper right before he swallowed it. Immediately I began to imagine the resulting bowel obstruction, the disapproving looks of his doctors, the accusations of Munchausen's syndrome by proxy (he has had a very eventful first 6 months), and the eventual CPS investigation...
So this morning the boys both woke up at 7:30. I got Bear settled in with his requested "Chocolate" cereal (it's granola in a dark brown box, but if it makes him happy to call it chocolate cereal, whatever) and went to retrieve Thumper from his crib to change his diaper. A cursory scan of the contents didn't reveal any paper, but the mere presence of a poop was enough to allay my fears of an impending abdominal surgery. Upon closer inspection, however, I did uncover uncover the letters m-i-l in my handwriting, and all was right with the world again. Luckily, I did also manage to remember to pick up the milk, even without that part of the list.
Part 2
On to part 2. I returned to the kitchen where Bear was finishing up his cereal, and decided to finish up the last of a 3-day-old loaf of ciabatta by making french toast. Bear, always interested in the cracking and mixing of eggs, began sliding a kitchen chair toward me, so since he is never that interested in french toast I helped him make scrambled eggs. By the time that was done and I was ready to get back to making french toast, Thumper was fussing. It seems mommy forgot to feed him. After nursing the baby and sitting him in his highchair out of harm's (namely Bear's) way, I finally finished making the french toast, cut up some fruit and was about to sit down when...Thumper was fussing again. A glance at the clock told me it was nap time already. I went to put him down for a nap and returned sometime later to the kitchen where Bear stopped me to ask for a hug. I bent down to hug him and as I stood up I noticed something black on the sleeve of my shirt. "Sh*t."
Literally.
Let's back up a few months. Right after we got Bear's diagnosis, while I was in panic mode and reading everything I could find on autism, I learned a couple of things - 1) Autistics are possibly the hardest group of people to potty train, which has proven to be true in our household, and 2) A large percentage of people with autism have leaky gut syndrome and/or food allergies, something that set off alarm bells in my head because Bear's poops have never, shall we say, solidified.
So yesterday we ran out of regular diapers and Bear was back in his pull-ups. Yesterday he also ate about half a pint of blueberries for breakfast. The combination of his normally runny poop with the large quantity of berries led to a massive, black, oozing poop, breaching the levy of the flimsy pull-up.
After stripping us both down, washing up the poop, getting redressed, throwing the bathroom rug onto the back porch, and washing my hands with antibacterial soap 37 times, I was finally able to eat my breakfast and clean up the kitchen in peace.
It was 10:30. As I flipped through the Ikea catalog and pondered if it was worth trying to save a $15 rug, even one that matches the color of the bathroom walls exactly, and which I happen to know is no longer available in that shade of cookie monster blue, I heard a thumping noise in the back of the house. I went to investigate and found a giant Thomas balloon getting the crap beat out of it by the ceiling fan, Sir Topham Hatt still dangling helplessly from the string, Bear nowhere to be found. Suddenly, squealing from Thumper's bedroom.
Round 2 begins.
Part one
The first part of this story began yesterday, during my usual Monday morning trip to Trader Joe's. Thumper was seated in the cart for the first time, and I was pushing it with one hand protectively at his side, while trying to keep Bear from running between the legs of the other shoppers in his quest to find every picture of a parrot or toucan in the store (there are a lot.) When I turned back to Thumper, he was busily gnawing on my shopping list, which now sported a hole in it the approximate size of Thumper's mouth. "Some of this list is missing" I said. "Where is it?" Thumper looked at me and grinned. I pried his mouth open and stuck my finger inside just enough to feel the paper right before he swallowed it. Immediately I began to imagine the resulting bowel obstruction, the disapproving looks of his doctors, the accusations of Munchausen's syndrome by proxy (he has had a very eventful first 6 months), and the eventual CPS investigation...
So this morning the boys both woke up at 7:30. I got Bear settled in with his requested "Chocolate" cereal (it's granola in a dark brown box, but if it makes him happy to call it chocolate cereal, whatever) and went to retrieve Thumper from his crib to change his diaper. A cursory scan of the contents didn't reveal any paper, but the mere presence of a poop was enough to allay my fears of an impending abdominal surgery. Upon closer inspection, however, I did uncover uncover the letters m-i-l in my handwriting, and all was right with the world again. Luckily, I did also manage to remember to pick up the milk, even without that part of the list.
Part 2
On to part 2. I returned to the kitchen where Bear was finishing up his cereal, and decided to finish up the last of a 3-day-old loaf of ciabatta by making french toast. Bear, always interested in the cracking and mixing of eggs, began sliding a kitchen chair toward me, so since he is never that interested in french toast I helped him make scrambled eggs. By the time that was done and I was ready to get back to making french toast, Thumper was fussing. It seems mommy forgot to feed him. After nursing the baby and sitting him in his highchair out of harm's (namely Bear's) way, I finally finished making the french toast, cut up some fruit and was about to sit down when...Thumper was fussing again. A glance at the clock told me it was nap time already. I went to put him down for a nap and returned sometime later to the kitchen where Bear stopped me to ask for a hug. I bent down to hug him and as I stood up I noticed something black on the sleeve of my shirt. "Sh*t."
Literally.
Let's back up a few months. Right after we got Bear's diagnosis, while I was in panic mode and reading everything I could find on autism, I learned a couple of things - 1) Autistics are possibly the hardest group of people to potty train, which has proven to be true in our household, and 2) A large percentage of people with autism have leaky gut syndrome and/or food allergies, something that set off alarm bells in my head because Bear's poops have never, shall we say, solidified.
So yesterday we ran out of regular diapers and Bear was back in his pull-ups. Yesterday he also ate about half a pint of blueberries for breakfast. The combination of his normally runny poop with the large quantity of berries led to a massive, black, oozing poop, breaching the levy of the flimsy pull-up.
After stripping us both down, washing up the poop, getting redressed, throwing the bathroom rug onto the back porch, and washing my hands with antibacterial soap 37 times, I was finally able to eat my breakfast and clean up the kitchen in peace.
It was 10:30. As I flipped through the Ikea catalog and pondered if it was worth trying to save a $15 rug, even one that matches the color of the bathroom walls exactly, and which I happen to know is no longer available in that shade of cookie monster blue, I heard a thumping noise in the back of the house. I went to investigate and found a giant Thomas balloon getting the crap beat out of it by the ceiling fan, Sir Topham Hatt still dangling helplessly from the string, Bear nowhere to be found. Suddenly, squealing from Thumper's bedroom.
Round 2 begins.
8.06.2007
Good times, good times.
Yesterday we took the boys to "A Day Out with Thomas," an event that we first started planning to attend 9 months ago, back when Bear was in the height of his Thomas phase. (That was, of course, followed by a brief but fervent Blue's Clues phase and the current Zoboomafoo phase, but recently his passion for the railway has been re-ignited.) DOWT is essentially Lollapalooza for the 3 year-old boy set, with the main attraction being a ride on Thomas the Train. Other features included an opportunity to be terrorized by an enormous Sir Topham Hatt, a rambling motorized train set to admire, some bounce houses, and the requisite Hall of Capitalism, where one could by anything Thomas at only mildly jacked up prices.
Being the lame Mommy that I am, I failed to make the actual reservations until a week before the event. Luckily, tickets were still available, however the departure times and seating were limited - the earliest train we could get being 2:00, and our car was #8 - way in the back and a far cry from the infinitely preferable car #1, which was obviously closest to Thomas. We started out at 11:30 on Sunday - only an hour and a half later than we had planned - and after the hour and a half drive to Felton, parking, hiking to "Sodor," and waiting in line at will call (because I purchased the tickets at the last minute), we had just enough time to get on the train.
Now, our first mistake may have been stopping to eat at the Cheesecake Factory Saturday night, giving Bear ice cream, and not getting home until 9:00, so that he was bouncing off the walls until 11 PM. Just before we got to Felton, Bear fell asleep. Not a good sign. Also, cutting it that close meant that we had skipped lunch, so now he was tired and hungry. But he was excited to see Thomas and loved every minute of the 25 minute train ride. Then we had to get off. This is where the real trouble began. Mistake #2 may have been taking him on the steam train at Tilden park twice the weekend prior, and twice on the zoo train the week before that, thus setting an expectation for 2 rides on every train we encounter from now until eternity. We did what we could to salvage the rest of the day and considering his tired, hungry, and now disappointed condition, Bear did very well. As in we only had to pick his tearful, crumpled body up off the ground once or twice. We waited in line a half hour for Sir Topham Hatt, only to discover that the looming, 8-foot figure was too frightening to come within 20 feet of. We paid too much for hot dogs and corn-on-the-cob, Bear's favorite foods. He jumped in the bounce house. He got pushed around by a 3 year-old bully. Then, just before leaving, Not-so-surly-dad bought him a Thomas balloon. A giant, 3-foot-long mylar Thomas balloon.
We loaded everyone into the car, Thumper now three hours overdue for his afternoon nap and Bear suddenly remembering that he started the day obsessing over going to the zoo to see a peacock, and now resuming that tangent. The Thomas balloon occupied every square inch between the 2 boys, and kept making its way back over into Bear's face, causing a great bit of consternation. NSSD of course had to stop for coffee (more confusion and delay), which is about the time Thumper finally decided he had had enough and began to scream. Back on the road, we continued on like this for about 10 minutes before NSSD decided that maybe it would be better if Thomas rode in the trunk. "Why did you even offer that to him?" I muttered. "He wanted it" replied NSSD gently.
The rest of the trip proceeded as follows: Thumper would scream for several minutes on end before finally settling down and falling asleep. Suddenly Bear would have an outburst, waking Thumper, and more screaming would ensue, accompanied by parental admonishing of Bear for waking his brother.
So last night I laid awake worrying about this: Bear is at the age now where he is forming memories that he will carry with him for life. And the memory is a funny thing. When I think back on my childhood, the memories I have are of random little moments that my parents probably never guessed I would remember, like eating cold fried chicken and pringles in my grandfather's borrowed motor home while broken down by the side of the road - I have no idea where we were going. When they ask me if I remember things that were important to them, a family reunion for instance, I never do. My boys are my life, and I would do anything to make them happy, including drive 3 hours round-trip to ride Thomas the Train for 25 minutes. But what if instead of remembering how much fun he had on the train, he only remembers the long lines, the crying, and being yelled at all the way home?
As soon as he woke up this morning, Bear asked for his Thomas balloon, and played merrily with it the entire day. He put it between his legs and "rode" it up and down the hall. He tied his wooden Sir Topham Hatt to the string and floated him around the house. He loves that balloon. If that is the only memory he takes away with him from the entire experience, I am OK with that.
Being the lame Mommy that I am, I failed to make the actual reservations until a week before the event. Luckily, tickets were still available, however the departure times and seating were limited - the earliest train we could get being 2:00, and our car was #8 - way in the back and a far cry from the infinitely preferable car #1, which was obviously closest to Thomas. We started out at 11:30 on Sunday - only an hour and a half later than we had planned - and after the hour and a half drive to Felton, parking, hiking to "Sodor," and waiting in line at will call (because I purchased the tickets at the last minute), we had just enough time to get on the train.
Now, our first mistake may have been stopping to eat at the Cheesecake Factory Saturday night, giving Bear ice cream, and not getting home until 9:00, so that he was bouncing off the walls until 11 PM. Just before we got to Felton, Bear fell asleep. Not a good sign. Also, cutting it that close meant that we had skipped lunch, so now he was tired and hungry. But he was excited to see Thomas and loved every minute of the 25 minute train ride. Then we had to get off. This is where the real trouble began. Mistake #2 may have been taking him on the steam train at Tilden park twice the weekend prior, and twice on the zoo train the week before that, thus setting an expectation for 2 rides on every train we encounter from now until eternity. We did what we could to salvage the rest of the day and considering his tired, hungry, and now disappointed condition, Bear did very well. As in we only had to pick his tearful, crumpled body up off the ground once or twice. We waited in line a half hour for Sir Topham Hatt, only to discover that the looming, 8-foot figure was too frightening to come within 20 feet of. We paid too much for hot dogs and corn-on-the-cob, Bear's favorite foods. He jumped in the bounce house. He got pushed around by a 3 year-old bully. Then, just before leaving, Not-so-surly-dad bought him a Thomas balloon. A giant, 3-foot-long mylar Thomas balloon.
We loaded everyone into the car, Thumper now three hours overdue for his afternoon nap and Bear suddenly remembering that he started the day obsessing over going to the zoo to see a peacock, and now resuming that tangent. The Thomas balloon occupied every square inch between the 2 boys, and kept making its way back over into Bear's face, causing a great bit of consternation. NSSD of course had to stop for coffee (more confusion and delay), which is about the time Thumper finally decided he had had enough and began to scream. Back on the road, we continued on like this for about 10 minutes before NSSD decided that maybe it would be better if Thomas rode in the trunk. "Why did you even offer that to him?" I muttered. "He wanted it" replied NSSD gently.
The rest of the trip proceeded as follows: Thumper would scream for several minutes on end before finally settling down and falling asleep. Suddenly Bear would have an outburst, waking Thumper, and more screaming would ensue, accompanied by parental admonishing of Bear for waking his brother.
So last night I laid awake worrying about this: Bear is at the age now where he is forming memories that he will carry with him for life. And the memory is a funny thing. When I think back on my childhood, the memories I have are of random little moments that my parents probably never guessed I would remember, like eating cold fried chicken and pringles in my grandfather's borrowed motor home while broken down by the side of the road - I have no idea where we were going. When they ask me if I remember things that were important to them, a family reunion for instance, I never do. My boys are my life, and I would do anything to make them happy, including drive 3 hours round-trip to ride Thomas the Train for 25 minutes. But what if instead of remembering how much fun he had on the train, he only remembers the long lines, the crying, and being yelled at all the way home?
As soon as he woke up this morning, Bear asked for his Thomas balloon, and played merrily with it the entire day. He put it between his legs and "rode" it up and down the hall. He tied his wooden Sir Topham Hatt to the string and floated him around the house. He loves that balloon. If that is the only memory he takes away with him from the entire experience, I am OK with that.
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