bravado!

Ladies. Gents. Lactating mamas. I am very happy to share with you that I have joined a powerhouse team of blogging mamas at The Breastfeeding Diaries. I’ll be sharing about my struggles and successes with breastfeeding, specifically breast-pumping at work and all the magic and mayhem involved. I haven’t shared much here because I’m saving all the good stuff for this awesome, awesome gig.

I hope you click on over to the Bravado site and read along with me as I chronicle my business, pleasure and pump.

At first it was really convenient to hand him the phone when we were in line at the grocery store or taking a long drive. Then it spiraled out of control when my phone was all he wanted. He would play with it until the battery drained and the screen went blank. Sometimes he would tell me it died. Other times I would come downstairs and realize my phone wasn’t in his hands and then Mike and I would have an argument because I asked for his help to lift up the couch and I needed more pivoting and less judging!

But it was a problem. I had enabled him and I needed to do something about it. Once I tried to curb his usage, the tantrums started. There would be sobbing red-faced wails for my phone. During daycare pick-ups, he would run toward me and pad me down like a cop searching a suspect for weapons or shrooms. I don’t pack any heat or hallucinogens because of factors like I would likely shoot my own foot if a gun were on my body and I would mistake magic mushrooms for shiitakes and suddenly my stirfry has really transported my family to the island of Sodor. Don’t do drugs, kids!

Mike and I told Nathan that the phone was at the store and needed to be fixed. I’ve heard variations of this parental fib. My friend Drew told me about this couple who removed their child’s toy because it was announced to have lead-based paint and told her that Dora had to go the hospital. Never Coming Back Home Medical Facility, apparently. For one Christmas, I asked for a sweet Playdoh diner set that would let me build inedible clay hamburgers and fries. My mom came home and said that none of the stores on Saipan had it and that it was only sold in the States. This was before I knew about inventory requests and that parents are lying liars who lie.

It was hard the first week. Nathan would ask where the phone was and the interrogate further, “Why did you break the phone, Mommy? Why did you do that?” I would only use my phone once I was in bed with the baby. When I heard Nathan stomp up the stairs I would push it under my pillow before he flung the door open and his half-naked body ran to me, announcing, “I NEED PANTS AND UNDERWEAR!”

Now Nathan enjoys car rides without asking me to complete a difficult level of Sonic the Hedgehog. He reads
the books beside his carseats and broadcasts to his other passengers that we’re on a bridge or entering a tunnel. I would rather have a backseat driver than a child too busy with a digital hedgehog to answer when I call his name.

My phone dropped out of my bag this weekend and instead of grabbing it like he was a tween at the midnight release of the last book in the Twilight series, he stood still and said, “Is it broken? You need to charge the batteries?”

I said yes. It’s still broken. And every day I try to fix it by streaming Netflix or playing Angry Birds while he fixates on trains and tracks and toys that let him be the little boy he is, no batteries or adults required.

This is one of my favorite ABBA songs. And yes, that means I have other favorites. But this song? It’s so true. I work all night and work all day to pay the bills I have to pay. There isn’t a single penny left for me because I’m spending it on a little boy’s obsession with Thomas the Train.

A $150 VISA Gift Card won’t make you a wealthy man, but it’ll make you $150 richer than I am right now. Head over to my review blog and leave a comment and if you’re the winner, you can line your pockets with gold or Junior Mints. I’m sure that’s what rich people do. If you win, you could let me know if that’s true!

cat on a hot tin couch

Mike’s very expensive Life Partner Leather Couch came in last week. He had purchased an bitter but non-toxic orange spray from the pet store, something that was supposed to keep the cats off of it and prevent them from getting any ideas that this was their new scratching post. So far, this spray hasn’t worked. As you can see, that is my cat Lilo, lounging on the furniture, a big Cee-Lo FU to her owners.

What’s worse is that the orange spray is really bitter and has only affected the humans living here. Nathan sprawled on the couch and then I kissed his face and it tasted like a robot had peed in my mouth. And believe me, I have had some crazy days in my past. I have done the robot. Can I get a witness, my fellow objectum sexual ladies?! Sometimes those bridges are just asking for it!

I’m a nervous person anyway and the tardiness that morning threw me off. In addition, Nathan turned four in May so we were five minutes plus FOUR MONTHS behind schedule. Something about having another baby and a mother who stays in your house for almost six months and makes you go to a different grocery store because the salmon necks are better kind of screws up your sense of time.

After Nathan had a simple eye test, we retreated into the room to wait. This is the part of the visit that I really hate. I never know how long I will be in there. If it’s a visit with TJ, then I’m usually rocking him or nursing him. And if it’s with Nathan, I’m spending all that time to keep him from opening drawers or from having a complete meltdown before the doctor walks in. I’m usually wearing something thick and layered so by the time the doctor knocks and opens the door, I’m mopping up the sweat on my brow with my sleeve. Not awkward at all!

Nathan’s pediatrician went through a battery of simple tests–hopping on one leg, touching his toes–then began asking us questions. “How is he sleeping?” He asked.

“Oh he sleeps whenever he crashes out!” Mike answered. “Sometimes 11 at night!”

“What time does he wake up?”

“Um, seven?” I replied sheepishly.

“Eleven to seven isn’t that much time.” His doctor said with a slight frown.

“Yeah,” I said. “But he sleeps a lot at the daycare!”

It wasn’t going very well because of MY HUSBAND. If there were a table, I would kick him underneath it. If there were a UFC cage, I WOULD DROPKICK HIM. I was more mad at myself for not telling Mike the game plan which is: DO NOT TELL THE TRUTH. I know the truth is necessary if there’s a real medical concern, like Nathan’s speech delay or his problems with fine motor skills, but do not tell THE MAN WHO HAS A DIRECT LINE TO CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES that we let him sleep whenever! Eat whatever! Don’t worry doctor, he gets read to at night! We leave the closed-captioning on the TV!

Then Nathan broke into the conversation and announced, “Um? Doctor? It’s my birthday! Did you bring me a present!” And all the sweating and fuming at my husband subsided because there was my son, the brilliant little boy who somehow knew that the one person in the room who could buy him the stupid Thomas Battery-Operated Track Rider Train Engine is the one who went to medical school. Nathan’s out of luck with his dad and especially out of luck with me since all I have is four years of college and two minutes filling out the “Which Disney Princess Are you?” quiz. Answer: Pokeahotass. Typo! Keeping it!

ahhhh

But you know what makes anyone feel better? Money! You can win a $150 Visa gift card on my review blog, just by leaving a comment.

I’m just looking out for you, friends.

.eat.

.pray.

.love.

This has been going on over a week now and there are few things more soul-crushing than a baby who doesn’t get the memo that sleep is important and mommy needs it so she doesn’t get into a cab and tell the driver not to stop until they’ve reached the Canadian border so she can start a new life as someone who sells scarves and homemade candles on the internet and perhaps will be able to sleep alone in a nice bed with no little human whimpering next to her.

Up next, I’ll read the manual we used to put together Nathan’s bike and the confusing instructions on connecting washers and screws and axles and levers will just knock him out.

Nathan was tested for his hearing and he checked out at normal levels. After that, Mike and I held back from seeking formal therapy, thinking and hoping that it would work itself out, that he would start talking, stop babbling. By his third birthday, he hadn’t made that much progress. We signed Nathan up for a private speech therapist, one he’s been seeing since. He started at a new daycare two months afterward and I believe these two changes have helped him tremendously. His days are filled with puzzles and playtime in a huge backyard lined with toys and swings and friends who yell, “It’s Nathan!” before we’ve even opened the door.

He still has a long way to go. He was officially tested by the Seattle Public School System last May to determine where he was in his delay and what services, if anything, he would qualify to receive. It was an intense four hours during which he was seen by a speech therapist, occupational therapist, nurse and audiologist. After they respectively tested his hearing, fine motor skills, and speech, they all met, compiled results and the case manager explained how Nathan fared. As I had expected, he did slightly better in social tests than in cognitive ones. He had poor fine motor skills, difficulty concentrating, trouble with enunciation, etc.

So next month he will begin at a developmental preschool which will address these issues. We will meet with his teacher to complete his Individualized Education Plan, an array of specific goals and how we will help him achieve them.

I watched this sweet and remarkable documentary called, To Be and To Have, a wonderful glimpse into a schoolhouse in the rural French countryside and their phenomenally patient teacher. I watched this almost in tears because the way the teacher dealt with the same comforting yet firm hand is exactly what I want, what I hope Nathan will have in his school. I know not everyone will love him or will be captivated by his jokes, his singing, his need to be acknowledged and encouraged.

I want so much for him.

I haven’t spoken much about this, partly because I want to protect him from any jerk kids later who might read this and use it as ammo, the way little jerks do. I also wanted to protect myself against the marginal parents–the other mothers who read this and cheep cheep in their hen circles how awful it must be to have a child like this, how grateful they are that this isn’t happen to their precious ones. It happens. People who have been fortunate enough to have children who speak articulately, possess normal fine motor skills, and connect with other children easily, might not understand the exhaustion of raising a child who does not function the same way. Some people offer up solutions, as if we had never thought to read to Nathan or post letters all over the walls.

I am saying this now because it has encompassed so much of our lives. There were few blogs I found from other Seattle parents going through the IEP process. I did things early, submit forms, make copies, play phone tag. It has taken an enormous amount of time and energy to assemble the right tribe for Nathan. We have a compassionate doctor, a dedicated private speech therapist, a daycare full of loving people, soon more teachers and classmates and people who will help make my boy better.

Nathan is talking more and more, making strides toward actual conversations. Every day he is engaged in ways he wasn’t the previous day, week, hour. This morning, I washed baby bottles and wasn’t paying attention to him so he repeated like a Fatal-Attraction-I-Won’t-Be-Ignored-Dan litany, “Mommy! Mommy! I’m talking to you! Talk to me! Talk to me!”

I want my son’s life to be without this struggle. I want him to find his voice. I want him to be so confident in his language that his words storm the world around him and everyone caught in that fierce air is lifted up, up, up.