Tag Archives: Oliver

Lucky

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I tend to think of myself as a very lucky person.

I didn’t see things that way for a long time, but at almost 40 years old, it’s become very clear to me that I lead a rather charmed life.

Things always work out. No matter how bad something may seem at the time, it always offers that promised silver lining. And I’m always handed the opportunity for hope.

Every bad day (or let’s be honest, every bad week or even month…um, year – life can be hard sometimes) is followed by one that takes my breath away with its beauty and potential. Like someone’s saying, “see – I told you to stick around…and now don’t you appreciate it even more?“

So yeah – I get it now. If we don’t have any bad days, we won’t truly appreciate the good ones. While it doesn’t make that awful feeling of despair or depression feel any better, I always have that window out. I know something better is coming my way, and I just have to have faith in that. To focus on hope.

I spend a lot of time hoping. I think all parents do.

I remember being younger and hearing people say things like, “the most important thing is that you have your health.” It’s only as I get older that I’m finally starting to understand this. To not see it as a trite string of words that miss the point (duh – that’s obvious – doesn’t make me feel any better). But really – it is the bottom line.

This is why I’m so lucky. Because everyone I love is healthy. Or at least getting through whatever health issue they face. And I think that counts.

My mother has had three different kinds of cancer over the past fourteen years. She was in remission for nine and then had to do it all over again – twice – in the past three years. That’s a lot of fighting – and many would have given up. But she didn’t. And she works, and has friends and looks for the good in every day. She enjoys her life and is thankful for it. For her health. And I am so lucky for all of that.

My oldest son is one of the healthiest people I know – despite his refusal to eat anything but variations of cheese on bread. He also has developmental delays. And as he gets older and continues to have them, I get scared. I worry about the future. I do everything I can to try to help. I throw all the money that I have (and don’t have) at therapies that aren’t covered by insurance or offered through our school system. I spend almost every day actively refusing to do anything but hope. And the fact that I am even offered that luxury makes me very lucky.

I have numerous other people in my life who are going through all kinds of physical and emotional challenges. They range from minor to severe – life threatening to soul crushing. And I see them all fighting. Getting through it. Finding their own silver linings. They inspire me to keep hoping. They remind me of how lucky I am to know them. My lucky pennies.

Last week I noticed a strange lump on the back of Eleanor’s knee. It’s huge and it scared the hell out of me. I took her to the doctor and was given an order for an ultrasound and an x-ray. When I found I couldn’t get an appointment until the following week, I was assured by the doctor that it wouldn’t matter. A week wouldn’t make a difference.

I asked questions about whether I should be worried. And was told that it was probably just a benign tumor. But of course no one can tell me what it is with absolute certainty. Instead of focusing on the scary possibilities, I chose to assume it’s fine. To make plans for how we’ll prepare her for the idea of surgery (because benign or not, it will have to come out).

The past week has flown by. I’ve kept myself distracted and only allowed the “it’s nothing” thoughts any air time. And I really do believe that this will be okay. I have hope. I may be scared, but not enough to get in the way of hope. And I know how lucky I am to be able to say that.

When people tell me that I have my hands full (usually when they see me stuffing all three of my wild children into a shopping cart and handing them doughnuts to prevent any escape attempts) I often make the joke that I have a special needs child, an “explosive” child and a girl. This is true. They are a handful. They are not easy and they drive me absolutely crazy sometimes. But god, am I lucky to have them.

Right now – this very minute – I can say that I have three healthy children. I believe in my heart that they will be okay. I can have all the hope I want.

I’m so lucky…

UPDATE: It looks like Eleanor just has a bakers cyst. I’m not sure if it will have to be removed or if it will eventually go away on its own – but I’m SO relieved…

I Didn’t Know

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I have three children and my oldest, Oliver is six. He is a big boy—tall and strong—and all boy. He climbs trees and hurtles into swimming pools. He loves nothing better than a good patch of dirt. We jokingly call him Pig Pen since he will often return from such a spot, haloed in dust, his clothes emitting puffs of dirt with each step. Ice cream cones are a full body experience. Napkins are a joke. This degree of messiness requires a washcloth at minimum. His requests to “come look at this,” often involve a worm.

These are some of the qualities and quirks that come to mind when I think of Oliver. They are so defining. And they are almost all related to sensory integration disorder. Which includes auditory processing disorder…which translates into significant language and communication delays. It also affects his motor planning. My amazing son who can walk a balance beam like a gymnast, who taught himself to swim, who can carry a full basket of folded laundry up the stairs…can’t hit a tennis ball. He can’t follow simple directions to touch his left hand to his right ear and his right hand to his left ear. He can’t process that kind of information—hear it, understand it, do it. It gets scrambled. For all of his strength, coordination and love of physical activities, he can’t play sports. Or even tag.

This can change—but it will take time. And hard work. And money. And a label recognized by the public school system.

It’s both encouraging and daunting.

Having a special needs child is not something I ever thought about when I was pregnant with Oliver. Everyone knows that it’s possible, but I think we tend to see that possibility the same way we do car accidents and winning lottery tickets. We know it could happen, but we don’t expect it to happen to us.

And many of us don’t even know that it’s happened to us until our children are long past the early months of worry. The more serious worries over SIDS and their “ability to thrive,” and the less serious (but all consuming) concern about sleep schedules. Oliver was two when we discovered his delays.

He was absolutely perfect when he was born. Arriving one week late and HUGE, he was 9 pounds and the most beautiful baby I had ever seen (of course!). I’ll admit that my first impression was more along the lines of “red and squashy” but after a few hours, his looks made a dramatic improvement.

He was a stinky sleeper, but I got used to that. We had two years of healthy well checks at the pediatrician. He rolled over and smiled when he was supposed to. He was walking shortly after his first birthday and loved to be with people. He would walk into any party and make himself at home. He was the baby that you could hand off to anyone—no separation anxiety or shyness. In our innocence/ignorance, we actually said that it looked like we didn’t have to worry about autism.

How could I have known that in a couple of years, he would be diagnosed with PDD/NOS—the catch-all category of the autism spectrum. My friend Sarah defines this as “we don’t really know what is wrong with your child – but there is something wrong with him…”

I didn’t know that I would have an autistic son—or a son with sensory integration disorder or auditory processing disorder…. The labels don’t matter. They all equate to the same things: fear, worry, money, meetings, appointments, guilt, and heart-wrenching hope. I didn’t know that this would be the rhythm of my day—the back beat of my heartbeat.

But I also didn’t know that I would have a son who reads my emotions better than any other person in the world. He will come to me when I’m feeling low but looking as if I haven’t a care in the world, “Mommy, are you crying? Not crying?” He understands and can see “crying on the inside.” Most emotionally evolved grownups don’t see that.

I didn’t know that I would have a son who would teach me to be a much better person. To be more patient, tolerant and compassionate. He’s taught me not to judge until I have the full story. And to not even judge after that. I’ve learned that there is never just one right answer. And that sometimes there isn’t any answer at all. That we all do our best and sometimes that has to be good enough.

I didn’t know that I could admire one of my own children so much. And try to emulate him. Oliver’s first teacher once said to me, “life is very hard for Oliver.” And it was meant to be taken at face value—life really is hard for him. Things that come easily to others—asking for something, joining a game, understanding directions—are difficult for him.

Oliver navigates the world with an upside down map. He never speaks the local dialect. And in effect, he’s learned to work hard, be his own man and give others space to have their own differences. I think we could all try to be a little bit more like Oliver.

I would be lying if I said I never experienced moments of frustration or self-pity. Don’t we all? At the end of the day though, I consider myself to be very lucky to have three beautiful, happy, healthy children. They are all full of potential—yes, even Oliver. And as much as I hope, wish and pray for them, I don’t know what their futures hold. Motherhood doesn’t come with a crystal ball. We don’t even get a compass.

But there is something to be said for this lack of certainty. Not knowing allows us to dream. And that is what keeps us going when times are tough. For every bad day, there is the possibility of a miracle on the horizon…or at least some good days. And the best we can do is learn more about ourselves and each other in between them.

I once said that I didn’t think I could be a good mother to a special needs child. That it would be too hard for me.

I didn’t know.
That I was wrong.
Originally posted on Health News, HERE.

Hell Hath No Fury…

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…like a woman watching her special needs son have a nervous breakdown in his adapted aquatics swim lesson because the instructor was 18 minutes late.

For a half hour class.

On the first day of class.

But first let me give a little background about me and fury.

I rarely have any.

I am one of those people who just doesn’t get very mad. Or if I do get mad it’s short lived and quickly dismissed if there is a good explanation on hand. I hate feeling angry. I’d rather things be pleasant. It’s not that I’m this sunshiny type who thinks every day is a big ice cream sundae party or anything (and I have the prescription to prove it) – but anger and drama just exhaust me. Kind of like walking around Home Depot. It sounds good when I first walk in, but then I get overwhelmed and want to run back out the door.

I have a good friend who is married to a British man. She jokingly complains about how exasperating he can be with his emotionally detached way of avoiding or ignoring tension and conflict. And it makes me think that I’d be very good at being British… Or even just a WASP. I could totally do “let’s just pretend it never happened darling – be a love get me another cocktail, will you?“

Alas – neither has been my lot, and instead I am married to a very emotionally evolved and passionate sometimes-hothead and have three children who operate on levels ranging from unpredictable to full on CRAY-CRAY. So as you can imagine, I spend much of my time looking like a deer caught in headlights.

Then I just “keep calm and carry on,” good Brit that I am.

But back to my fury. It does happen sometimes. And it almost always has something to do with one of my children. This time it was Oliver, my six year old.

Two Saturdays ago, he had one of the worst first time swim lessons I could have possibly imagined.

Here is why it shouldn’t have happened:

1. Oliver LOVES the water. He is a natural swimmer and taught himself to dog paddle and swim under water last summer. He leaps in without any floatation devices and would be thrilled if you threw him in (he’d be happy to push you in as well – for future reference). He has no fear when it comes to the pool.

2. I took Oliver and the twins to the rec center where his lessons would take place several days in advance. Since he wasn’t used to that pool, I thought it might be a good idea to make sure it was familiar and had good memories of fun times with his family. I probably didn’t even need to do this as he was practically IN the pool by the time I had stripped down to my bathing suit.

3. I spoke with someone at the aquatics center to learn more about how the lessons were handled. And I was assured that unless parents felt they needed to be present, it was always best to just hustle the young students in and then quickly disappear. Since Oliver does best with authority if I’m not around to confuse matters, this sounded perfect to me. And I could go upstairs to watch from an observation room.

4. We arrived at the lesson five minutes early so I could chat with the instructor – give her a little background on Oliver’s communication delays and his current level of ability in the pool. Since she wasn’t there when I arrived, I gave my speech to the assistant manager (a.k.a. one of the people with clip boards) and then to the volunteer, who showed up right around the start time of 11 a.m.

5. Oliver was lying by the side of the pool and literally rolled in when we told him it was finally time to start the lesson. He barely glanced in my direction as I gave him a brief wave and said I’d be “up there” watching.

6. For a full ten minutes I watched my water baby splash happily around with kick boards and other teaching aids. He was having a great time. He didn’t miss me or feel the least bit threatened by the notion of a lesson or wary of the new people and other little girl sharing his class time.

This should have been a fabulous start to his swim lessons this summer.

It wasn’t.

Here is why:

1. The actual instructor was late, so the volunteer had to try to keep the two students busy in their one small area until the class could start.

2. Ten minutes is a long time for a special needs child to stay content in a small space with no structured activity. My son is not sedentary. And he likes to do his own thing. So if he’s in a teaching environment, it is absolutely imperative that there is an authority figure with a plan running the show. Fifteen minutes is far too long to wait for that.

3. The above describes pretty much ANY special needs child.

4. The above describes pretty much ANY CHILD.

5. When Oliver did try to swim out of the official lesson area, he was pulled back and essentially told that he needed to stay put. This would make no sense to him and would inevitably be perceived as aggression.

6. ….aaaaannnd that’s when he would start looking for me. The last person who was obviously in charge. And I wasn’t there.

I was in the observation room. Watching Oliver being dragged back into the water again and again by the kind volunteer. And as he became more and more agitated, his confusion transitioned into defiance and then frustrated tears, AND THEN body shaking sobs like I’ve never seen before (he hardly EVER cries). And I slowly transformed from proud mommy to concerned parent to horrified onlooker to absolutely furious mother who wanted to charge downstairs, pull my wailing son from the pool and demand to know what the fuck kind of special needs class this was?!

But I stayed put. Unlike Oliver, I understood that I had to stay in my small designated area.

He is young and still learning the rules, but I am old and I know them all too well. While he needed to wait for the instructor in the area of the pool assigned to his class, I needed to stay out of the way. To let the professionals do their job. And if they had a rocky start, I still had to let them try to pull it together. They had to win his trust without any interference from me. The minute I appeared, Oliver would learn that if he cried and made a scene, mommy would come and save him. And they would lose all credibility.

So I watched.

I watched the instructor arrive and try to engage with my hysterical son. After a few minutes, it was obvious that he wanted nothing to do with her and she moved on to work with the other (easier and more compliant) student.

I wanted to hug the volunteer – she stayed with him the whole time and I could see the concern and sympathy on her face from my perch one floor above.

Fifteen minutes later at the end of the half hour lesson, I walked stiffly into the pool area to collect Oliver. I could barely talk to the clipboard people, but somehow managed an incredulous, “what happened?” I don’t think I even heard the apologies or excuses about being understaffed and assurances that this particular instructor is NEVER late.

You know what? I get it. Mistakes happen. People have personal emergencies and get stuck in traffic behind ten car pile ups. Volunteers are left alone with two students and do their best to keep them entertained as long as they possibly can. Management calls cell phones and leaves messages on voice mail and starts to put on their own bathing suits to fill in for the missing instructors.

But in the fifteen (by my watch, eighteen) minutes that all of those good intentions transpired and/or were thwarted, my son – my beautiful, incandescent son with his all consuming love of swimming – suffered.

And that made my blood boil.

I asked the volunteer what happened and then told her exactly why it shouldn’t have. I also thanked her for doing the best she could – but that didn’t diminish my all consuming anger. My fury.

Then I held my son for a while and comforted him. I calmed him down. I promised him a visit to Dairy Queen. I suggested that we might try again next week. I told him that I was proud of how well he did. That I watched him when he was swimming and I was so proud. I agreed that he could get changed and that we would leave.

I silently cursed the whole comedy of errors and its seemingly inept cast for ruining swim lessons for my son in less than 30 minutes.

While waiting for use of the family changing room I talked to the assistant manager, got more information about what happened (little more than I already knew – that this particular instructor had never been late before) and pointed out that this was the worst time to be late – on the first day of swim lessons for special needs children.

As Oliver calmed down and became more interested in the ice cream I promised and less concerned with the drama that just unfolded, I also found myself relaxing. I was still mad, but I didn’t feel like actually throttling anyone.

I wasn’t furious anymore. I was weary. I wanted to turn back time and go get my bathing suit – even though I didn’t think of it until the last minute and we had to leave immediately in order to be there a few minutes early to talk to the instructor. I wanted to be able to get in the water with Oliver while we were waiting – to help the volunteer keep him busy until the instructor arrived. I wanted him to have a fun lesson. I wanted him to leave the pool smiling – not sobbing.

I wanted to pretend that it didn’t happen. To just carry on and make things pleasant.

I just didn’t want to deal with it anymore.

And at that point, there wasn’t anything more I could do. I got mad, said everything there was to say and saved my child from misery. What else was there?

Only one more thing. I walked Oliver back to the pool to thank the volunteer and say goodbye. I thought they both needed that.

Later while watching Oliver finish his ice cream cone, I realized that I wasn’t furious anymore. I still thought it was a complete disaster and wasn’t at all happy about it…but I was already thinking along the lines of damage control.

I knew that we had to go back to that pool as soon as possible. To make it fun – a place where he would want to go. And I would have to get in the pool with him for the next lesson. To make it feel safe. I would have to interact with the instructor who had filled me with rage less than an hour earlier. I would have to make it work. For Oliver’s sake.

And I did.

We did visit the pool as a family the following day. And we made it fun. Then I brought Oliver back for his lesson last Saturday. And I wore my bathing suit.

When we saw the volunteer, he looked at her and (miracle!) said, “do you want to swim with me?” Then we all got into the pool together. I chatted with the instructor and told her about Oliver. I didn’t mention the previous week.

I watched Oliver have a wonderful time and then moved away to the whirlpool – where I could still see him, but have less of an obvious presence.

And it was fine. After 20 minutes, Oliver said he was tired and wanted to leave, and we all decided to call it a win and not enforce the full 30 minutes. Next time we could firm. This time it was better to just end on a good note. Which we did.

Frankly, I was amazed by how well it went – that Oliver was so easy going about everything and needed very little coaxing from me to get in the pool with the volunteer and the instructor.

But that’s kind of the way he is. His drama is brief. He recovers quickly. And he moves on without lingering remorse or grudge holding.

Maybe he’s like me. Maybe he just wants to keep everything pleasant.

If that’s true, he’ll be a better person for it. He faces so many challenges now, and there will be plenty of others later. He doesn’t have an easy path to follow, and an even temper may serve him well.

He may also find life somewhat wearying because of it…I know I do often enough. But he’ll innately know how to put the best face on things, keep moving forward and not sweat the small stuff.

He’ll be a survivor.

At best? He’ll be happier than most. At worst? I’ll just move to England with him and we can be emotionally detached expats with the rest of the Brits. Hopefully we can find a place with a pool.

I Forgot That Summer Could be Scary…

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With the Fourth of July approaching, fireworks stands are everywhere. And no one gets more excited about fireworks than my husband. He can’t restrain himself – it’s inevitable that he will purchase some long before the actual holiday.

This year, all three kids have real memories of fireworks displays past and they were thrilled to have their own private show in front of our house on Saturday. That is – until it actually took place.

Eleanor, who still talks about the smiley face fireworks she saw in the sky the night of her uncle’s Fourth of July wedding, didn’t realize that the explosions would be closer to earth this time. And she was not pleased. At all.

I was taking pictures of the kids to catch their reactions and she gave me one hell of a reaction…

The pictures end there as I had to take her inside. But I do have some earlier shots of smiling faces during the less threatening sparklers and colorful smoke bombs.

Still experimenting with my new camera… Really do need to read the manual. The smokey shots make my children look like ghosts.

Eleanor is the only fraidy cat – but I remember how that felt. I can imagine standing at adult knee level torn between clinging to a parent’s leg and holding my hands over my ears. That booming noise seemed to shake the earth. It was terrifying.

Another big summer threat back then was killer bees. Okay – so I didn’t grow up around killer bees – but that is the way we perceived them. So much time was spent “being a flower” or “a statue” in hopes that they would buzz away without stinging us. I remember the stories about that boy who accidentally swallowed a bee that crawled into his soda can and stung his throat until it swelled up and he almost died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital… Urban legends about bees were a summer tradition. As were war stories about the stings we survived or narrowly missed.

How funny to be the grownup flicking away bees and telling our kids that if we don’t bother them, they won’t bother us.

We have several lovely butterfly bushes in our front yard, but this summer the butterflies have been scarce. Instead we have a colony of bumble bees coming to visit each day.

Aren’t they gorgeous? And not at all nefarious looking… In fact, we’ve had to keep reminding the kids that while they aren’t really all that dangerous, they still have stingers and we shouldn’t touch them.

And of course – my sensory integration disorder son who can’t NOT touch something to save his life has been petting them. I thought that yesterday when George got stung by a wasp at the pool (flew up under his sun shirt – it was awful) we would all learn a good lesson about why petting bumble bees could be very unpleasant…

Not so much. Oliver was back petting the bees today. And of course he got stung. There were some tears and not just a little outrage. But he recovered quickly and didn’t refuse to walk out the front door later. This was encouraging since it means he probably won’t have a severe bee phobia (like his more recent fear of small dogs – not big dogs, mind you – just the small ones) sending him screaming into the street at the sight of yellow stripes… But it also means that he may not be phased by the experience and will go back to his bee keeper ways tomorrow.

My money is on the bee petting. Time to chat with the pharmacist about remedies…and buy Eleanor some ear plugs.

Just [Tae Kwon] Do It

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I’m skipping Monday Links this week since I really need to write something other than a list of great stuff other people posted.

I had a few of my own stories to tell last week and never got around to them. This has been happening far too often lately because I feel like I need more than 15 minutes to write (which is generally all I have – and yes, that includes the evening since my children don’t believe in bedtime anymore). So I may be going back to a summer “vacation” of short daily posts. What do you think?

Okay – on to the stuff from last week that I actually remember.

First there was this.

I never really pictured putting my children in a martial arts class before (Tae Kwon Do), but then I also never imagined myself relating to various characters in the 80s television show, Thirtysomething. So I guess these things happen.

Basically, I won a month of free lessons for George at the twins’ preschool silent auction. And then when I brought him in for a skill assessment and uniform fitting, the free month was also offered to my other two children. One of whom (Oliver) spent most of the half hour under a desk asking when we could go get ice cream. Obviously, I assumed that he would LOVE Tae Kwon Do!

Actually, it had been recommended for him by his audio processing therapist last summer, and I was thinking that it was time for him to have an activity outside of our usual two hours of free childcare in the kids’ gym at the YMCA and then a trip to Target summer program. Seriously though – I do take them to the pool and try to keep them busy outside…but we’ve never done anything very organized before. And the teachers in Oliver’s IEP meeting in May strongly suggested he be enrolled in activities with other kids over the vacation months.

We’re trying Tae Kwon Do.

And the first class was a smashing success!

For George and Eleanor.

Oliver wasn’t that into it and was very distracted by the mirrors. Why do studios always have to have mirrors anyway? From what I understand, it has something to do with being able to see yourself so you can correct your form… Whatever, narcissists.

Either way, it’s very inconvenient since Oliver has difficulty maintaining an appropriate level of attention for the instructor. Who was not only loud – but also had an accent that was hard to understand. Neither work well for kids with audio processing disorder. Or autism. Or lots of things that cause them to wander around a studio oblivious to everything around them except the awesome mirror which is PERFECT for practicing bizarre facial expressions and gestures that I’m pretty sure came directly out of a Pink Panther cartoon.

Thank god the dress I was wearing exempted me from participating in the “let’s get all of the new parents out on the mat for some kicks and leg lifts” segment of the class. I had visions of being required to spar with five year olds alongside Oliver to help him stay with the group. But before I blacked out from Blast Ball practice flash backs, I realized that I could just plead “too fancy” and escape back to the chairs.

It was a 45 minute class – and it was hard to watch. But ultimately, I was really proud of Oliver for not storming off the mat or crying. I mean, that’s what I would have felt like doing. He, on the other hand was pretty zen about the whole thing. And the unintelligible instructor was actually really great with Oliver and 100% responsible for the few times he was somewhat engaged. He also entertained my kids a little after the class while I talked to the director and we all left with smiles and a promise to be back on Saturday.

Don’t get me wrong – my feelings of anxiety didn’t evaporate, but they did take on a faint glimmer of hope for Saturday. I even tried to make Tae Kwon Do seem EXTRA fun by walking everyone over the the pizza place and putting in a to-go order. AND THEN skipping over to the grocery store to pick up a few items (wine) while we waited.

Of course we ran into people we know… Because when I’m wheeling around Safeway with a cart full of children eating doughnuts it’s a given that I’ll run into someone I know. (Side note: I always run into someone I know).

But I was too harried to care about the chocolate stains on the uniforms or the sticky fingers or the fact that I parked a mile away on the other side of the parking lot and had to carry heavy grocery bags and two pizza boxes while trying to keep my demented children from running into traffic or diving into the lake.

Don’t be jealous. My life really isn’t always this glamorous.

So fast forward to Saturday’s class.

The twins had a fantastic time and I could hear their screams of HIYA! above all the others. And while he was still a weird little ninja (more mime than martial artist), Oliver actually semi-participated. He more or less stayed with the group and needed far less cajoling to step away from the mirror. He didn’t sit while everyone was standing – or even worse, lie down. If you had never seen the first class, you may have thought he was all over the place – but having been there for both, I was astounded at how much better the second one went.

This evening we had our third class and he did EVEN BETTER. Still very goofy – and very confused about which foot/fist he was supposed to be using. But if it was appropriate, I would have been jumping up and down and clapping. If I really let myself go, there might have been tears.

So as of today…

The twins LOVE TAE KWON DO!

And Oliver doesn’t hate it!

This makes me very, very happy. And also gives me confidence in my ability to be a good parent. At least in some areas – remember I’m the mother who stuffs a six year old and two four year olds in a shopping cart at the grocery store and shuts them up with doughnuts… But here is something I’ve learned about my own children – especially Oliver: you have to just MAKE them do things.

It’s obvious when they’re not ready for an activity (HELLO – Blast Ball) – but more often than not, they just need a firm push and an encouraging smile. When they say NOIDON’TWANTTO-IWANTTOSTATHOME I just kindly hustle them along with a no-nonsense, “okay – we’ll see – let’s just go and give it a try.”

As much as I would rather just bag the whole thing and take them to Dairy Queen, I know that I’m not doing them any favors in the long run. They need me to be kind, but they also need me to be firm. To teach them that sometimes you have to just suck it up and do something, regardless of whether or not you feel like it.

Sometimes you can say “this isn’t for me“…but first you have to give it a chance. You have to just DO IT.

It’s a hard lesson that I’ve had to learn later in life. I’m still not very good at it, and fall short far too often. For myself and for them. But I want to change that. And I am. One Tae Kwon Do class at a time.

Tune in on Wednesday for the second story from last week – in which my knee swells up and my doctor actually uses the word “gout.” I tell ya’ – it just doesn’t get any sexier than that…

Where Did the Week Go?! (Alternatively Titled: Oliver Turns SIX!)

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All I posted this week was a list of OTHER people’s posts that I liked? That’s just sad.

But I have to say, I’ve been pretty busy with setting up the new Style Key West website. And you, know – being a mom and all the usual stuff. I’ve actually just gone to bed at a normal hour a couple of nights this week instead of catching up on my blog reading. Selfish! I swear, I think those two days of lying around in bed after surgery spoiled me. It’s like I think I should have time to just relax and read books at night or something.

Whatever – everyone is busy, there aren’t enough hours in the day, and we all wonder exactly what we did during those years between leaving school and settling down. Why weren’t we traveling the world, writing a novel, learning to sew, founding Etsy or Google or something… Me? I spent a lot of time shopping. Wasted youth…

But back to the present… Yeah – I totally dropped the ball this past week. And it’s not like I didn’t have anything to write about either. I mean Oliver turned SIX! He’s losing teeth left and right and his speech is improving like gangbusters and he’s as cute as all…another cliche I can’t come up with. (Side note: does it bother you when people end sentences with prepositions? Because “with which I cannot come up” just doesn’t sound right.)

But back to Oliver… He’s SIX! I did post some footage of his new bike. But it was George riding (crashing) it. So maybe that doesn’t count. Here is a picture I was able to catch the other day.

Check out those training wheels! He went out with his Dad to pick out his bike a couple of weeks before his actual birthday, but that was the big present. The timing hasn’t been ideal for me since people recovering from abdominal surgery tend to shy away from chasing novice bike riders up and down the street all afternoon… But now that it’s been a few weeks, I don’t dread those few hours of daylight between school ending and dinner time.

Seriously though – who buys their child a bike immediately after the primary care giver (and watcher of children playing outside) has surgery? Oh yeah – that would be my husband.

Here is the timeline:

Friday, 3/11: Kate has abdominal surgery

Saturday, 3/12: Kate can barely move around the house

Sunday, 3/13: Oliver spends some time riding another little boy’s bike, Chris gets really excited and says, “I think we need to buy Oliver a bike today,” and Kate pops two more Percocet before saying, “GREAT IDEA!“

Monday, 3/14: Chris goes back to work

The rest of the week: Kate spends every afternoon outside, teaching Oliver to ride his new bike.

Epilogue: Ouch.

What is wrong with this time line?

Ah well – lessons learned. I won’t have surgery a few days before buying the twins their first bikes.

Chris and I don’t always think things through as well as we should – but it all generally works out well enough. And we’re so proud of that little boy. I mean look at that face!

He’s six… How is that possible when just yesterday he looked like this?

And now I’m tearing up. Too many glasses of wine. One should never drink and blog (or comment…or something). That’s a well known PSA right? Well – it should be.

I think that’s quite enough for me tonight. Blogging or wine? I’ll decide in a minute – but I’m putting my money on blogging.

Hope you have a wonderful weekend and I’ll be back on Monday to let you know what brilliance other people are contributing to the blogosphere in Monday’s Links. And then maybe I’ll have something of my own to say a day or two after that. It could happen…

Okay – so maybe it’s kind of cute…

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On Tuesday, Oliver got off the bus missing – you guessed it – a front tooth.

He looks pretty adorable:

Of course we have no idea what happened to the tooth since he won’t actually pull them out himself. He lets them literally fall out of his mouth. It’s quite possible that he swallowed it during lunch. The only reason that we were able to retrieve the first tooth to fall out was that Chris was standing next to Oliver when it hit the floor. HE was the one to say, “hey Oliver – is that your tooth?!” No such luck at school. The tooth fairy got a note.

Even if he does look sweet with his new pumpkin face – it still hurts my heart a little…


I’m leaving today for Phoenix and won’t be back until Sunday night. I’m going to my sister in law’s baby shower ALONE. As in I-can-sleep-on-the flight-alone. Torn between grinning and pouting…While I love my alone time, I will miss those little boogers.

Anyway – no posting until Monday – so have a great weekend!

MRI Update and My Own Little Shylock

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Oliver had his MRI yesterday and for the most part it was pretty uneventful. He was a little concerned about where we were going and what we were doing, but was easily distracted in the waiting room (where we waited for a LONG time).

He generally does pretty well with medical professionals, as long as he doesn’t think he’s going to get a shot. So he willingly followed the admin person leading us through the hospital corridors. And if we hadn’t seen anyone on our way to the radiology waiting room, he would have continued to be unconcerned. But, unfortunately, we passed a gurney with a little girl waiting for her MRI. She was sitting up and smiling, but the sight of her in a hospital gown horrified Oliver. And he immediately started pleading, “don’t cover me” and “I don’t want to be baby Oliver.” No idea what the latter meant – but I’m sure the former was all about that hospital gown. Fear of medical procedures or fashion minded aversion to ass exposure? You be the judge.

Anyway, I spent the next ten minutes in the second waiting room, talking him off the ledge until the anesthesiologist came in to meet with us. You would think that a grownup in full scrubs would look far more menacing that a ten year old in a hospital gown – but no. Not for Oliver. Talking to her seemed to calm him down considerably and once we faced the big scary machine that was obviously meant to swallow him whole (or at least his head), he felt very much at ease and happily breathed into the gas mask.

What a little freak.

But I was very proud of him for being so brave when the chips were down.

Coming out of the anesthesia wasn’t pleasant for him. Or me. But it wasn’t anything unexpected and within an hour of being at home, he was back to his usual happy, Thomas Train playing, pantsless self.

We’ll hear from his neurologist after she looks over his films (scans? images? I’ll have to pay better attention next time I watch Grey’s Anatomy). But to be honest, I’m not really expecting any revelations. It would be nice to have some new information to add to the picture. But if not, I’ll just take the “no news is good news” perspective.

On a completely unrelated note, four-year-old Eleanor was working on her negotiation skills with me last night.

She had several pipe cleaner bracelets that I made for her and very generously offered one to me. She even allowed me to choose the color I wanted…

Me: I’ll take the silver one.

Eleanor: Okay – that will be twenty-five dollars.

Me: I didn’t realize I had to pay for it, but fine – here you go. [hands her imaginary money and collects bracelet]

Eleanor: Do you want another one?

Me: Sure – why not? I’ll take the blue one.

Eleanor: You can have that for fifteen dollars.

Me: [hands over the money and takes the blue bracelet]

Eleanor: Do you want more?

Me: Yeah – okay. How about the gold one?

Eleanor: Ten dollars.

[Lather-rinse-repeat through two more bracelets and fourteen more dollars. The prices kept decreasing and I was impressed with her innate understanding of frequency rates.]

Eleanor: Do you want the last one?

Me: I thought I bought all of them! Well – no thanks. I can’t afford anymore. You’ve bled me dry. I can’t spare one more penny.

Eleanor: Okay – just one more penny.

Yikes! I don’t even want to know what her loan rates are like. A pound of flesh indeed! But I do admire her ability to get the most out of a business transaction. I’m bringing her to the Diamond District this weekend. I’ll never pay retail again…

Past Perfect

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Okay – so it was cute when Oliver lost two bottom teeth…if only because you can’t really see the difference until he opens his mouth to show you. But I thought we had at least another year before he lost his TWO FRONT TEETH!

I recently noticed that it looked like they were starting to overlap a bit and on a hunch, asked him to wiggle one for me. Sure enough – it’s loose.

My five year old (FIVE!) is too young to have visible gaps. True – he will be six in a month, but I know seven year olds who are only just starting to lose teeth. Honestly – he’s taking this growing up fast thing too far.

He’s already HUGE for his age and now he’s growing adult teeth like it’s some kind of race or something. What’s next? SHAVING?

Seriously though – I’m feeling a little sad. I love Oliver’s smile. It’s sweet and perfect and there is nothing early or late about it. People look at him and say “BIG BOY.” Then they hear him and think, “huh – that’s not what I expected.” But no one, and I mean NO ONE could ever catch sight of that beautiful smile and not gush about what a good looking kid he is. And it’s not that he’s so handsome (although he is), it’s just that he lights up a room with that smile.

It’s hard on him sometimes – looking so much older and feeling so much younger. And this recent early bloomer development is not going to help. At one time his little guy face (with that smile) helped others understand that no, he’s not eight. Not seven. NO – he’s five. FIVE. And he has some delays. So stop asking him questions about his favorite chapter books already. Now he’s going to look even older.

But that’s not what makes me want to cry. I’m not worried about the expectations that people will continue to have of him. I’m mourning the loss of my baby. Regardless of his size, he’s always been my little boy, and I’ll miss that little boy smile of his. The one he’s been working on for five years.

I know that he’ll still have a joyous and contagious smile – but it won’t be the same. And we all know how much I embrace change…

Oliver will be six at the end of March. I’m so proud of him for growing up. For catching up. For confidently doing everything at the pace best suited to him.

But some of that growing up is happening just a little too fast for me. I’m the one who needs time to catch up. My own pace is reluctant and dragging. I’ve never been a natural runner.

I don’t like sprinting – chasing my children through their all too short babyhood. It leaves me winded and dizzy. And sad.

Every change is bittersweet. But in the end, pride wins. I never mourn for long. I’m too dazzled by who they’re becoming. Baby teeth or big teeth…little and cuddly or grownup and independent. They’ll always be perfect to me. Past, present and future.








I DID IT! – Oh Yeah, and Merry Christmas!

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It wasn’t easy – but I did it. I actually got all three of my children to look semi-normal in a picture in front of our Christmas tree. AND I put it on a card and mailed it.

Remember that review I did for Shutterfly? Here is the finished product:




I did have one other picture that I would have preferred to use, but the composition didn’t work with any of the border layouts I liked. By making this one black and white though, it came together quite nicely.

I do wish that Oliver had a better looking haircut (those bangs!). But it was the first time since he was a year old that he didn’t thrash and scream. So I was going to like whatever they did to him – even if it was a mohawk or “business in the front, party in the back.”

The inside cover picture of Eleanor isn’t a face shot since she just LOVES that dress and you can’t really see it on the front of the card. She would have had some words for me about the “snowflakes” not showing, and I just don’t’ have the energy for it…

As for George – he’s easy. He’s a bad, bad, bad little boy – but he’s very photogenic.

Finally – it would have been nice if the boys were wearing something a little less, um, “Memorial Day picnic” for the picture. But they don’t have anything in long sleeves with a collar. I figured that ubiquitous white polos would be fine.

So that’s it – my first ever holiday card of all three children. And it’s actually pretty good. Best Christmas present ever.

I’ll be taking the next week off to catch up on my blog reading (I think I’m a month behind…)

So Happy Holidays! And I’ll see you in the New Year!