Tag Archives: Little Ones

Six Pack

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Hi! My name is Alice and I’m (supposedly) five months old. I’m a rescue dog but I’m (mostly) house broken and only puke once a day. I can’t tell you why I puke every day, but man is it fun to see my owner, Kate freak out over it. Apparently this puke thing is gross. But I have no barometer for gross since I chew on pig ears (yes ACTUAL dried pig ears that are sold at Target in the pet section – isn’t that AWESOME?) I don’t chew shoes, but I strongly suggest that you hide your Hungry Hungry Hippos marbles when I’m around. When I’m not attacking my leash, I enjoy long walks in the woods, stalking the neighbors’ cat and whining at the door for no apparent reason.

So yeah – we have a dog. And up until a few months ago, I would never have expected that this would happen. Our house is not very big, we have three small children, my oldest son has numerous therapy appointments each week and I feel like I spend half my life in the car… But here we are. And it’s okay. Alice is actually a VERY good dog.

I took the twins to a wedding in NYC over the weekend and came home to this new family member. I received the following pictures on my drive home along with the announcement that we are now dog owners.

Chris and Oliver had plans to “look” at dogs, but immediate adoption was not something we discussed. In fact, we were talking about doing this in July when everyone was out of school and the noisiest day of the year (July 4th) was over. But Chris said that he knew Alice was the perfect dog for us. And I guess we couldn’t just put her on a two month hold.

Like everything else in my life, things didn’t happen exactly as I had planned. And as usual, it’s fine – maybe even better this way.

I haven’t owned a dog since the ’80s; and even then, we were terrible pet owners with inconsistent rules and training (hey – sounds a lot like my parenting!) So I’ve been relying heavily on Chris to tell me what I’m supposed to be doing with this animal. And I’m not that bad at it. I can make her sit and stay (most of the time), and when Chris isn’t around, she definitely knows I’m the boss in our house.

With Chris at work and Oliver at school most of the week, the twins and I have been with Alice the most. And they are just as clueless as I am. This is all new to them and I’ve discovered that they think ANYTHING is possible with dogs.

The other day in the car, I said “Alice is the PERFECT dog for our family.” And George agreed, “yes! We should buy her AGAIN!” I’m still not sure how he thinks that would work…

Then later in the day, when I was talking about the various treats that Chris has been putting in her food bowl, I told them “Alice ate an egg last night.” And Eleanor gasped, “Alice LAID AN EGG last night?!”

So they’re pretty much ready for anything.

I am too. And I’m taking it day by day. But mainly I’m happy. I love seeing Oliver playing with Alice. He’s the only one of kids brave enough to let her tackle him and gnaw on him with her giant puppy teeth. And Chris has never seemed so relaxed and content. Whether he’s wrestling with Alice or lying on the floor next to her – I swear, she just drains the stress and intensity right out of him.

Also, my house looks great since my mild OCD tendencies make it impossible for me to abide BOTH a dog and a dirty floor. And of course, I’m constantly scrubbing tables and counters to discourage Alice from jumping up to lick them. So that alone helps with my own stress and anxiety.

While the kids already more or less destroyed any sense of perfectionism that I may have harbored in the past, Alice is systematically locating all remaining shreds and grinding them into dust. Even those long walks on the wooded trails behind our house that should be fun for EVERYONE have included numerous bouts of complaining, crying and whining (OH the whining) – with Eleanor in the lead for most annoying participant (which is saying a lot since Alice starts tug of war battles for leash dominance every time I stop for more than two seconds).

Things truly peaked on Wednesday when Eleanor cried and refused to walk any further because her legs hurt. After several minutes of good parenting discussions about behavior and consequences, I gave in and told her to climb on my back. The minute her muddy shoes started staining my khaki pants, Alice lost her mind and lunged at us in an attempt to climb on top of me as well. As we turned the corner in a staggering whirlwind of wailing, yelling, barking, lunging and muddy shoes and paws, we narrowly missed tripping over a turtle that was almost as big as Alice. Perhaps you heard my scream? It was loud. It also stopped the madness and everyone WALKED home without further incident.

And what about Alice? How does she feel about her new home and family?

She seems happy. But I do wonder what she thinks about us – particularly from her own pack animal perspective. Here is my best guess:

Chris: Alpha who likes to play.

Kate: Alpha alternate who likes to take away all smells with spray bottles.

Oliver: Beta #1 who likes to play.

Eleanor: Beta #2 who DOES NOT like to play [Eleanor prefers Alice when she’s calm and not so “bitey”].

George: Beta #3 who likes to think he is Alpha.

So that’s our pack now. A family of five plus one. A pack of six. And as I sit here writing in my blog for the first time in weeks, with Oliver at school, Chris as work, the twins playing quietly and Alice snoozing next to my feet, I think that’s pretty perfect.

But feel free to get my opinion on this later when I’m picking up her poop in a plastic bag.

The Big Show

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It’s been a while since I’ve written anything here. And I have a good excuse: I’ve been writing DAILY at the Listen to Your Mother DC blog. Sometimes twice a day. And to be honest, I’m exhausted.

But the show is now over. I know – my Facebook friends never thought this day would come. Yes Virginia, there IS an end to the shameless self promotion.

But seriously, I can’t thank you all enough for your support. If you didn’t get to come to the show, the readings were videotaped and will be added to a YouTube channel in a month or so. And I’ll have a recap post up on our LTYM DC site tomorrow.

In the meantime though, I thought I’d tell you about another BIG SHOW that took place at my house recently. A FASHION show.

A relative who drove down for Listen to Your Mother, brought some presents for my children, and Eleanor really got the best one. It’s a paper doll fashion show set – complete with a runway and chairs. She was thrilled and spent hours carefully coloring all of the outfits and giving the dolls matching blond bobs.

Once the dolls were finished, she did two things. First, she assigned homes to each of them. One lives on the dining room table…one lives on the kitchen counter…etc. Then she started heavily marketing the fashion show. This was strictly word of mouth from doll to doll, but within minutes, they were all abuzz about the big fashion show taking place in HERNDON!

Now, you don’t have to be from the DC area to guess that suburban Herndon is not exactly a fashion capital. So this had me laughing for hours.

At one point I overheard a conversation in which one of the dolls said, “Oh, it’s in Herndon? That’s really far for me. I’ll have to drive.” Intrigued, I interrupted to ask Eleanor, “really? Herndon is far for her?” My daughter just gave me a quizzical look and said, “Well, yes. I mean, she lives all the way at the refrigerator.

I know it’s far… But I highly suggest a drive over to our house for the Herndon fashion show. They happen every 20 minutes or so.

Sound Byte: Street Smarts

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My conversation with my five yaer old twins in the car earlier today:

Eleanor:  Mommy, is there a Huckleberry Street?

Me: We know a Huckelberry. Our friend Stephanie’s baby is named Huckleberry.

Eleanor: Yes – but do you know any STREETS named Huckleberry?

Me: Well it certainly sounds like a street name. I’m sure there are some streets named Huckleberry – but I don’t actually KNOW a street named Huckleberry.

George: I know a street named Survival.

Me: [incredulous guffaw] WHAT?!

George: SURVIVAL. The street named Survival.

Me: Sounds like the title of a song. George – do you really think there is a street named SURVIVAL?

George: Yes. It’s real. But it’s very hard to find.

Honestly? Half the time, I have no idea what he’s talking about. But I don’t even care. And if I had any song writing talent at all, I would definitely work on one about this “street named Survival.” And George.

Sound Byte: For Real

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As expected – I’ve been spending all of my brief moments for writing on Listen to Your Mother planning… So this week, I’ll have to keep it simple with a quote.

This is by far my favorite thing I’ve heard anyone say in a long time.

Overheard bit of conversation (no idea what it was about):

Eleanor: You’re lying…

George: I am NOT lying! I am very true… And real.

Stay gold Ponyboy.

Have a great weekend!

Stupid

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It’s a loaded word.

And we use it all the time in so many different ways…

“How could I be so stupid?…then the stupid coffee maker broke…don’t say stupid honey, it’s not nice…don’t be stupid, of course I’ll help with…that stupid dog was barking all night…please don’t say stupid sweetie, it hurts feelings…”

I’ve tried explaining that it’s okay to call a thing stupid, but not people…but that’s not entirely true either. “Your picture is STUPID – it doesn’t even look like a…” Sometimes calling things stupid hurts feelings too.

So we go back to the black-and-white-right-and-wrong-never-always world that makes sense to children.

And we NEVER say stupid.

Until we do. And get corrected or copied. And then remind ourselves that we’re doing the best we can. No one is perfect. And we try again.

A few months ago, Eleanor called Oliver stupid.

And what siblings don’t do that? Hurl that easy meanness back and forth without a thought beyond momentary anger? Feelings are hurt. Tears are dried. Sorries are said. And everyone understands that it’s not really true. “Of course you’re not stupid, she didn’t mean that.”

But when your daughter calls her older, special needs brother stupid, there is far more at stake than hurt feelings. Because at age six, Oliver can see that he’s different – that some things come more easily to his classmates. To his little sister. And he understands what stupid means.

Poor little sister…you’re just being a kid. Your cruel words have no agenda. And you don’t really mean it. Even when you do.

In this scenario, Oliver was throwing a blanket over her. Over and over. No matter how many times she asked him to stop. Because sometimes he doesn’t know when to stop. Sometimes he can’t…impulse control issues, you know. But regardless of the reasons, her anger was justified. And she retaliated with angry words.

“Oliver is stupid! ”

And a few minutes later, I heard the yelling and that word, “No YOU’RE stupid! No YOU are because YOU don’t listen. STUPID!” Stupidstupidstupidstupid….

So I sat them down, listened to sides, dried tears, defined words, explained cruelty, demanded reciprocal apologies…and ignored the ice that pierced my heart with that awful, everyday word that I misuse all the time.

We NEVER say stupid. It’s not nice. It hurts feelings.

Minutes later another squabble erupted, and this time it was Oliver calling his sister stupid. It was the first time I ever heard my sweet boy say that word, let alone say it about someone.

There were more tears and unreasonable behavior. Then arbitration. Then defiance.

Then Chris came in, saw all of the ugliness and disrespect for parental authority and sent everyone to their rooms.

This wasn’t a wrong thing to do, of course…but in this particular situation, with these particular children, it wasn’t the right thing either. So we gave each other the “okay, what do we do now?” look, and began damage control.

Since Chris administered the time out, I asked him to go talk to Oliver. Time outs don’t work with our oldest – and if I went to talk to him, then I would just be cast as the one who saved him from that mean asshole, Dad. They needed to work it out on their own. So I went to Eleanor.

She cried and explained. And I listened and agreed. But then I explained (and tried not to cry). And she listened. And finally understood. Why we never say stupid. Because it hurts feelings.

Later Chris told me that Oliver actually asked him, “Daddy, am I stupid?”

How do you continue to breathe when your special needs child asks you such a loaded question? How do you answer?

For the first, it takes a lot of effort. For the second, it’s as natural as breathing.  You say no. “No, you are not stupid. Never think that. Never worry about that. You are a very smart boy.”

And Oliver isn’t stupid. So that’s not an ambiguous response. It’s the truth.

But the rest of the truth is, he is different. He doesn’t learn the same way other kids do. Simple Kindergarten crafts are often difficult for him. He has a hard time sustaining the appropriate level attention. He falls behind easily. And he’s starting to see all of this.

During parent teacher conferences last November, I (again) brought up the issue of holding Oliver back a year. He’s currently in first grade and I was astounded that they didn’t think he should repeat Kindergarten. In fact, I would have objected if he wasn’t in a K-1 class. Knowing that he’d be in the same classroom and would spend close to 30 hours doing one-on-one work with a special ed teacher each week, made me feel comfortable with the decision. The only difference would be a label: “first grade.”

But now it’s February. And he’s so obviously not ready to move on to second grade, no matter how many hours he may spend in a resource room. He’s barely working on a first grade level, let alone second grade.

Don’t you have to master a skill set before moving on to the next level – the next grade?

Apparently not.

When I broached this topic, and questioned whether children simply “age out” of their classroom, I got the shocking answer that, yes – in fact, they do. And I suddenly understood what I’ve been hearing for so long. Why people have been talking about kids being pushed through the school system. OF COURSE no one was suggesting that my son repeat a year. All of this time, I’ve been missing the point.

The school’s goal is to advance students through each grade, giving them the support they require to reach their highest potential. And there is nothing wrong with that.

The only problem is that I may have different expectations for my own child’s potential.

Listen – I know that teachers care. I’ve seen this first hand. There isn’t one teacher, classroom aide or therapist working with Oliver whom I don’t implicitly trust to have his best interests at heart. In fact, I would go so far as to say that they love my son.

But he’s my son. No one will ever love him like I do. No one will ever have his best interests at heart like I do. No one will ever see as much potential in him as I do.

So it’s up to me.

There is only so much that his teachers can do. They can’t suggest that he repeat a year when the school system has created a means of him advancing through each grade with help. And now that I understand this, I know what I have to do to help them. Help them help him.

I don’t want Oliver to feel stupid. I don’t want him to think he’s stupid. And while I can’t control how he’s going to feel or think, I can help create an environment that will guide him to better self esteem. And the first step is giving him a little more time to catch up.

When he started Kindergarten, he could barely speak in full sentences. He would wander around the classroom, unable to sit still for more than minutes at a time. He hardly ever asked questions. He played next to other children, not with them.

All of that has changed. In only 16 months, he has accomplished more than I would have ever guessed possible.

His potential is vast.

I can’t predict what will happen next for Oliver, but I can do everything in my power to ensure that he’s given a chance. To see his own potential. To believe in himself. To never accept the label “stupid.”

It’s inevitable that my children will call each other names. And “stupid” is the least of it… But the implications of that one silly word that is misused and overused to the point of desensitization are far too harmful to be ignored by my family.

We never say stupid.

So I wonder where Eleanor picked that up anyway… School? Friends? Me?

Chris claimed it was a cartoon. He said that they were watching Tom & Jerry, and a female cat character – the object of Tom’s affections – said it. Jerry set Tom’s tail on fire during the cats’ date at a restaurant. And when the bewildered Tom wondered what was burning his girlfriend said, “it’s you stupid.”

I was skeptical. Such a common word…so easy to blame it on a cartoon. Far more likely for it to be something she heard at school. From a friend. From me.

But very soon after that, Eleanor was telling me about a funny cartoon she saw. Tom and Jerry…Tom was on fire…”it’s you, stupid.”

Huh.

Stupid cartoon.

We still let them watch Tom and Jerry. It’s not my favorite – but it’s the least of my worries. I can’t shield them from the word stupid. And cutting them off from television isn’t the answer.

Better to educate them. Help them understand why that word can be so hurtful. When it’s okay to say it…when it’s not… Let them know that it’s okay if they make mistakes – hurt feelings. We all do the best we can. No one is perfect. All we can do is try again…

Right now my job is to give Oliver a chance to catch up. Help him see his own potential. Keep fighting for him.

And I am so grateful for the teachers we have on our side. While their power has limits, I now know how I can help them.

In fact, I just met with them this week. I asked questions and they offered a meeting. There were a few things to discuss, and I brought up my opinion that he needs another year in his current classroom. That he’s not yet ready for second grade.

They said that it isn’t quite as simple a decision as it once was…that administration would have to be involved in the discussion…but that the situation and the student in question would be given consideration. And that there are a number of reasons why Oliver should be given this consideration.

I think that’s a good start.

They love my son. I know this. And it means more to me than I could ever express to them in words.

I hear it in the way they talk about him. Their pride in his progress. Delight in his unique personality. Admiration for his strength of character – his sense of self.

They like Oliver as much as they love him. And they tell me stories about him. Particularly ones that make them laugh. The most recent one came from his classroom teacher who has been with him since his first day of Kindergarten.

She asked me if he was eating enough for breakfast since he often tries to open his lunch bag when he arrives at school. She wasn’t sure if this was because he was hungry or if he just wanted to eat his snack. We all agreed that it was probably the latter. It was noted that he does like his salty snacks…

And apparently, he’s quite partial to the soft pretzels that they sell in the cafeteria. Not that he should even know about them since he doesn’t buy a school lunch… But someone obviously shared a pretzel with him at some point because he does know about them. And he really likes them.

In fact, according to this teacher, Oliver must have made a friend who works in the cafeteria who also knows this about him. Because regardless of the fact that I have always packed a lunch for him – have NEVER sent money for the school lunch – several times a week, she will look over at his table to find him enjoying his own soft pretzel. The ones that you can purchase in the cafeteria lunch line.

So several times a week, my son who has these delays and IEP goals to improve his ability to communicate and relate to other people charms someone into giving him a free salty snack.

Smart boy.

Horse Hell

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You know those girls who are obsessed with horses when they’re young? They pretend jump ropes are reigns and run around the playground neighing and whinnying with their other horse-crazed friends? They inhale books on horses and collect plastic replicas to display on shelves?

I was NEVER one of those girls. I never took a riding lesson. I thought barns were stinky. When I looked at a particularly majestic specimen of equine beauty, I mainly focused on the huge teeth that could take off a finger or two. And possibly the flies buzzing around its rear end.

National Velvet? Never saw it. Black Beauty? Never read it.

I just never understood the the girls and horses thing.

This doesn’t mean that I dislike horses, of course. I just don’t really think about them.

I grew up in the city. I’m not much of an animal person. And this is totally fine with me.

But now – NOW – I have a daughter. And she IS one of those girls who is obsessed with horses.

Woe to the librarian who asks if she can help us… How could she know that a whip cracking pre-reader will have her searching the stacks for the infuriatingly few picture books featuring a horse on the cover. At least she doesn’t have to come home with us and sit with Eleanor as she goes through her check out pile, discussing each page in minute detail.

I’m just about as interested in this now as I was in third grade when my horse crazy best friend would make me learn terminology for horse anatomy and paraphernalia, and THEN quiz me on it. Hey – don’t judge. I was the new girl and thrilled that someone was actually talking to me. Whinnying across the playground with a jump rope around my waist was a small price to pay.

Back to Eleanor though… As much as I don’t share her fervor for equestrian life, I do feel a little sad for her. Because we live in horse farm HEAVEN and it would be easy to find a place for her to take riding lessons. She would LOVE it. And it’s never going to happen.

Yes – I’m aware that it’s not just a fun activity – it’s also wonderful exercise. In fact, it would be fabulous for all of my children. Especially Oliver. I know this because my old friend who force marched me through Horses 101 lessons in third grade is now a pediatric physical therapist in Hippotherapy (a practice of integrated intervention for various disabilities, utilizing “equine movement” in physical, occupational, and speech-language therapies). There are so many reasons for us to get our kids in to riding: easy accessibility, health benefits, fairy godmother-like wish granting for our daughter…

But it’s too expensive. Maybe if we only had one child. We have three, though. And we already spend more money than we have on therapies for Oliver.

I’m not poor mouthing or saying anyone should feel sorry for me. Nothing more than stating facts. Riding lessons just aren’t in the budget.

Luckily – Eleanor is still young enough to think that a pony ride is actual horseback riding. So I don’t think she’ll lament her lot in life with the non-equestrian family too much… And she IS only five. Next year, she could be into theater. Or soccer. Or Wicca. Whatever – as long as we can afford the associated fees, we’ll do the best we can for her.

Unless it’s Wicca. Didn’t I mention that I’m a city girl? I’m not driving her out to the woods to collect lichen and mouse skulls.

It’s one of the less fun aspects of responsible parenting…knowing when you have to draw the line.

Holiday Weekend

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First – a PSA on behalf of all holiday novelty items that relatives may consider sending to our children: “Don’t. Please.”

I like to call this picture “The Island of Misfit Christmas Decor Characters”

Pictured: Hallmark Snowman (unmasked to reveal that he’s really a robot), Nutcracker ornament with
a broken head, one-armed Dancing Santa and nose-less Frosty the Snowman
Gone but not forgotten: singing Douglas Fir, Hallmark Moose with colorful string of lights and
Coca Cola Polar Bear playing the bass (I’d like to buy the world a Coke…)

Run Dancing Santa! Run as fast as those jolly little legs can go!

Don’t let them take your other arm.

But enough about the plight of the Hallmark holiday crap that my children have mauled over the past few years… Sunday was Christmas! Here is what ours looked like:

BEFORE

AFTERMATH

And here is bonus picture of Chris very carefully pouring the buttermilk I bought for making biscuits into the quiche pie crusts (he thought it was heavy cream).

Fun fact: buttermilk doesn’t ruin quiche – but it’s definitely a little different.

It was a good Christmas. Both sets of grandparents were here, as was my brother. A few friends dropped by to visit. And there were minimal displays of poor behavior on behalf of the children. Or at least, we thought they were fine and everyone else talked about us behind our backs. Both scenarios suit me well enough.

Yesterday the tree started smelling and I was all set to take it down. But the public outcry against dismantling the tree before New Year’s day convinced me to live with the smell of old cheese for the rest of the week. Then my mother came to the rescue with the suggestion of pouring some bleach in the water, and the day was saved! Of course there is nothing to do about the fact that needles sprinkle to the floor every time one of our neighbors walks up or down their stairs…so we’ll just have to live with threat of a fire hazard for the rest of the week.

All in the name of holiday cheer. As it should be.

Hoping that all of you who celebrate Christmas had a very merry one – and that everyone else enjoyed a fabulous “thank god it’s almost over” Sunday!

See you in the New Year…

Holiday Greetings!

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Hi! It’s been a little while…like a week. And I’m too far behind on my blog reading to even attempt a links post. It’s the holidays, you know.

The minute Thanksgiving arrives, all of my good intentions fly out the window and I run around in a metaphorical circle getting very little accomplished. Though the glitter I seem to collect on my clothes and face throughout the day makes for festive flailing.

Today, I actually celebrated a small victory in ordering a holiday card to mail out to friends and family. I sent one out last year, but it was the first time I was able to pull that off since Oliver was a baby. So this is kind of a big deal for me – the third holiday card mailing in the six years that I’ve been a mother.

Our first card was cute… Oliver was old enough to sit on Santa’s lap and not cry or look like a dressed up potato, so I used one of those pictures:

A little dark – but it did the trick. And I was even able to come up with a cute caption for the inside – something along the lines of “...and I want a remote control, and some paper clips, and a calculator, and a cell phone…OOOH and a few pennies…”

I assumed that I would do this every year.

Then I had the twins.

They were born a couple of months before the following Christmas, and to say that I didn’t quite have my act together would be like saying that the Titanic was short one or two lifeboats.

This is the closest thing I have to a festive group shot that holiday season:

Aside from the bizarre tree (Chris wasn’t at the top of his game either when he went out to buy it), and the fact that my oldest child wasn’t in the picture, you couldn’t have paid me to publicize that image of my exhaustion and general dishevelment. Now of course, I have no such compunctions since I’ve looked like that for the past five years and don’t care anymore.

The following year when Oliver was two and the twins were one, I TRIED to pull something off with the help of some toys and cookies (and a table to trap them against their chairs):

But no dice. That was the best of the bunch.

In 2008, I thought I had a great plan in grabbing them right before we left for a holiday party. I promised Tic Tacs (ah – the days when they thought Tic Tacs were candy…) for each pose:

Sadly, the Tic Tacs were a distraction and caused too much jumping up and down and arm waving. Not to mention the Tic Tacs visible in their mouths in some of the livelier shots. Above, is the most normal looking one of all the pictures I took. FAIL.

In 2009, I did manage to get a group picture in front of our tree on New Years Eve. It was too late to do a card, but I think this one would have been “good enough.”

I mean – with the exception of the Irish cross ornament growing out of Eleanor’s head.

But last year was the year! I swore that I would get a decent group picture on a card and put it in the mail, even if it was an image of them in their underwear in front of a trash can. I figured a Photoshop-adept friend could help me paint in a tree and some pants. But that wasn’t necessary and I was able to mail this:



In spite of Oliver’s awful haircut, I was thrilled. I even got some last minute return cards from friends who must have previously deleted me and my non-holiday card sending ways from their lists.

And I’m officially back in the game with this one:

Okay – so I still have to receive the cards, address envelopes and mail them before anything is “official”… But I’m feeling pretty confident.

So while I may be a little scattered and disorganized this month, you know that I’m wishing you the best and probably now covered in ink as well as glitter as I hand address all of my envelopes.

A happy holiday season to you and yours!

Hostess with the Mostess

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On Saturday, I had some neighborhood friends over for a chocolate party. My pre-blogging friend Gwen (who actually does have a blog) started a little Dove Discoveries side-business. So of course I offered to host a party for her. I mean – who DOESN’T want to have a chocolate party?

I got rid of Chris and the boys, but let Eleanor stay since she’s a big fan of all things “girls only.” And she ended up being quite the little helper.

She visited with each guest as they sipped their chocolate martinis, asking them questions about how their day had been and whether or not they liked horses. She offered to take people on a tour of the house, so they could see a bathroom cabinet I inexpertly installed a few days prior. And of course, everyone was welcome to go downstairs to…well, I have no idea why she was telling one guest that she could visit our basement, but “hey, mi casa, su casa,” was the general theme.

When it came time for Gwen’s presentation, Eleanor was eager to help. So I told her that she could  pass around the various samples.

The first item that we tasted was a sea-salted caramel. Eleanor solemnly offered one to me, and then took one herself before making sure each of our guests had a turn with the candy box.

When she returned, she leaned in to whisper “Mommy – I didn’t like that one.” I told her that was fine, and we settled back in our chairs to listen to Gwen describe the next treat we would be sampling.

This time it was a chocolate chipotle nut cluster. Again – Eleanor offered one to me, took one for herself and then made the circuit around the room. And again – she whispered to me, “Mommy – I reeeeaaally didn’t like that one.” This wasn’t surprising since it was a little spicy. Also? I could have eaten a whole box (and I don’t even like nuts in my chocolate).

This pattern repeated through the following rounds of chocolate samples intended for more sophisticated palettes. And by the last one, I was pretty sure that Eleanor, would finally give up and decline to participate. In fact, I myself passed on the “cinnamon apples à la mode” since I don’t care for fruit, and was a little shocked when my daughter popped one of the bits of dried fruit into her mouth.

After delivering a piece to each of the guests, Eleanor came to me with imploring eyes and puckered lips, the piece of fruit still un-swallowed. She whispered, “Mommy – can I please spit this out?” I then quietly led her around the corner to the kitchen sink.

Once back in our places, our guests unaware of our covert candy spitting, we saw that Gwen was winding up the presentation. She indicated that some Dove Discoveries brownies and fondue were on the buffet and that she was available to answer any questions about the products.

Eleanor, seeing that the show was coming to a close chose to stand next to Gwen and soak in those last few moments of the spotlight.

In closing, Gwen said, “if you would like to have another taste of any of the samples we tried today, I’ll leave them out. So feel free to have another.”

Expanding on this generous offer, Eleanor gestured toward our kitchen, graciously adding, “and if there is anything that you don’t like? You can just spit it out in our sink.”

I think that it was around this point that Oliver walked in the door and took off his pants. We’re all about making you feel at home here at Casa Hood. Kick off your shoes, put up your feet…and don’t forget to check out our basement mold before you leave!

Disclaimer: This was not a sponsored post. I just really love chocolate. And Gwen. And Dove. So if you live in the DC area, I highly suggest a tasting party. Though I can’t guarantee that Eleanor will be available.

Living the Dream

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While I was pregnant with my first child—my special needs child, Oliver—I had this little thing I would do every night before going to sleep. It wasn’t exactly a prayer, or even some intentional form of magical thinking…but I would reflect on everything that I wanted for my baby. It was more of a list than a litany, but it still had that rote quality of repetition.

I would add to my list now and again, but for the most part, it didn’t change. I hoped that he’d be kind and generous, funny and handsome. I also wanted him to be earnest, self confident, intelligent, creative. And happy. I dreamed all of this for him and more. Because that is what we do as we sit in the waiting room outside our future as parents. We dream.

And when he was finally born, I couldn’t imagine a more perfect baby. At nine pounds, he was chubby and healthy. And I was terribly offended by the nurses’ exclamations of “Oh, he’s a BIG boy.” There is nothing big about nine pounds. He was tiny and precious, and it was my job to shield him from the dangerous world.

During those early months of taking quiet walks outside and letting him sleep in my arms, this level of protection seemed entirely possible. It’s a brief moment in parenthood that we often forget to treasure as we learn how to function on next to no sleep. It’s the first and last time that we will ever truly be able to stand between our child and…everything. It’s a simple “just you and me” time when the rest of the world disappears. A sweet symbiosis.

Oliver was a very typical baby.

Of course, he had his challenges. Like not sleeping though the night until…EVER. O.K., that’s not true. He got better after the first year, but let me tell you—I can name most of my wrinkles: “Oliver, April 5, 2005,” “Oliver, April 6, 2005,” “Oliver, April 7, 2005….” And he did go through that annoying Daddy’s Boy phase when he preferred my husband to me. Such betrayal. But all in all, he gave me every reason to be a very smug mommy. A few minor details aside, he was everything I dreamed about.

So when did we notice that something was “different?” It’s hard to say since it was all so wrapped up in the craziness of a surprise pregnancy that ended up being twins born 18 months after I had Oliver. Like any “normal” 18-month old, he wasn’t thrilled about two tiny creatures intruding on our perfectly lovely little family of three.

I use the word “creatures” because I got the impression that this is how Oliver viewed them. Even my healthy 5.5-pound twins were pretty scrawny looking. They certainly didn’t resemble any baby Oliver had ever seen before. In fact, I think I can pinpoint the moment when he realized exactly what was going on with these new “pets” of ours. I was changing a six-day-old George’s diaper when I caught Oliver staring intensely at this activity that he must have observed at least ten times a day at daycare. And it was like I knew what he was thinking: “Is that a BABY?!”

I couldn’t blame him, really. I, myself told people that taking care of the twins sometimes felt like playing with Barbies. And that with their little C-section legs curled up all “knee to chin,” it was “like changing kittens.” A very different experience from my chubby first born.

Then time passed. We all survived. Adapted. Became a family. And in the midst of all of that, we discovered that Oliver was not going to be the average, everyday big brother.

Some of my family members were shocked by how our friendly and engaging little guy had suddenly become so closed off and threatened by new people, places and experiences. And as he approached age two, it was obvious that he was not speaking nearly as much as other toddlers his age. People started talking to me about having Oliver tested.

The truth is, all of that really could have been chalked up to the major upheaval in his previously peaceful little life (did I mention that we moved to a new house three weeks before the twins were born?) And I have never been one to obsess over timelines.

I didn’t want to be that competitive mom, pushing her kids to be the best at everything. So his speech wasn’t progressing as quickly as other toddlers I knew…my brother didn’t talk until he was two!

But as Oliver’s second birthday approached and he had months of time to get used to his younger brother and sister, it seemed more possible to me that this might not just be a reaction to change.

Something was wrong. Or wasn’t right. Or wasn’t normal. Or wasn’t “typical”—the PC term that I would soon learn to use when discussing the differences between my child and others. So we had him tested.

It took years before we finally had a handle on what is going on with Oliver.

We got him into a full-time special needs preschool program through our county. We found him a neurologist. Then we consulted a pediatric psychologist who gave him an Autism Spectrum diagnosis (PDD-NOS or Pervasive Developmental Disorder – Not Otherwise Specified), something pivotal to getting him as many services and therapies as possible through the public school system. We sent him to occupational therapy (speech wasn’t covered by our insurance since it wasn’t “restorative”) and enrolled him in a social skills group. That last one ended up being a huge waste of time and money, but I did make a wonderful friend in one of the other mothers there. I like to say that I paid $2,000 for her.

We learned more and more about our son through trial and error. And the only thing I found perfectly clear was that Oliver wasn’t like other kids. My friend, the $2,000 one, has a PDD-NOS boy herself and jokes that it means, “There is something wrong with your child…but we don’t know what is wrong with him.” It’s very frustrating. And so much more common in special needs kids than one would expect. There isn’t a finite label or diagnosis for everything.

Like all other parents in this position, we tried a lot of things, and we learned to accept that there are no easy answers, no single set of directions to follow. We were muddling through like everyone else. Looking for anything that would help Oliver learn how to speak in more than three-word sentences, answering only “yes” or “no” while the other four-year olds were asking “Why?”

And during that time, we were raising a handsome, quirky, delayed boy who was still everything to me that he was as a newborn. Perfect. Mine to protect.

He deserved more than the necessary search for answers and helpful therapies. He had so much to offer us just the way he was. So much to teach. I doubt that there is ANY parent of a special needs child who doesn’t claim to be a kinder, more tolerant person now.

Oliver taught me to take my dismissal of hard and fast developmental timelines to a whole new level. I celebrated every milestone and triumph, and didn’t immediately move on to anticipate the next one. I started living more in the moment and appreciating each day as it came to me.

I watched him play with his younger siblings and enjoy their companionship. It was clear that he thought they were the best friends to be found. He never pushed them aside to follow the older kids in the neighborhood.

He was (and still is) so true to himself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him express concern over other children not approving of his preferred games and activities. At age six, he still loves Thomas Trains. If other six-year olds think trains are for babies? Fine, more trains for him. As much as he may want to be part of the group, he won’t sell out. But even more importantly, he doesn’t judge anyone else for their own preferred pastimes.

And when Oliver actually does say or do something intentionally funny? It’s like he knows. He looks at me and it’s so clear that he gets it. That he’s different and that it’s O.K. Even kind of great. And we have a moment of looking at the world through the same eyes. And laughing about…all of it. I love that.

These kids know so much more than we realize. By operating on a different frequency than others, they often catch things that the rest don’t. So many times, I’ve been smiling and laughing, and Oliver will look at me with obvious anxiety over the sadness or worry or anger that I’m feeling underneath it all. I’m a pretty good actress if I need to be. But he sees through me. He knows.

One of the greatest gifts I have ever been given is Oliver’s ability to talk to me; to have real conversations. Through a combination of auditory processing therapy and sensory integration therapy (two alternative approaches that we’ve discovered over the past couple of years), Oliver has started really talking. In full sentences. In conversations initiated by HIM.

This may not sound like much, but for us, it is monumental. To be able to talk to your child about their thoughts, feelings, wonder about the world…is basic to building a mature relationship with them. So to hear Oliver express why he’s angry or frustrated is like a miracle. It doesn’t matter if his “feelings” conversations aren’t exactly complex, because for the first time ever, they’re clear.

I love Oliver. He looks at the world in a way that no one else does. He marches to the beat of his own drummer.

It’s so easy to get mired down in the testing and therapies and worries of your special needs child. And to a certain extent you should. It’s your job. But there is also so much opportunity for pure, visceral enjoyment of them.

When I had my baby, I wanted everything for him. And now, six years later, I see that it is he who is giving everything to me. He is every single one of the dreams that I had for him.

He’s handsome and funny, kind and generous. He’s intelligent, self-confident and creative. And so earnest in how much he enjoys his life. He is happy.

I will always try to help him have the best life possible. I’ll dream more for him than could ever be possible. Because that’s what parents do. But I’ll never worry about whether he can realize all of my dreams for him. Because he already has.

Originally posted on Health News HERE.