Friends and Kindness

A thoughtful friend is one of the most wonderful things. I'm feeling a bit under the weather today, a bit stressed about a dance performance tonight, and I received this picture.

The guy in this photo is my favorite singer-songwriter, Brendan James. He is playing Off the Record Fest this weekend in South Carolina, and much as I wanted to be there, I couldn't make it happen. But my dear friend Sarah is there, and she got Brendan to agree to this photo. They both made my day. 

Now to a lot of people, this may not seem like a major deal, but to me, this is amazing. And I think that's what being kind to others is like. It may not seem like that much, but just a bit of kindness could mean the world to someone. So be kind; it costs so little, yet gives so much. 

Thick-framed self-discovery

A few months back, I inadvertently started a social media firestorm by posting pictures of myself trying on various glasses.  I had gotten an at-home trial for some frames, and was seeking my friends' opinions on which ones suited me best.  The entire thing got hijacked by people with their own agendas that had nothing to do with my actual question: did any of the frames look nice on me.  As a result, I became hellbent on purchasing frames from this company (one of  the surest ways to get me to do something is to tell me I can't).  After several rounds of try-ons, I have determined that none of them actually work for me.  I really like the company, and want to support them, but I feel like I'm wearing someone else's glasses everytime I try on their frames.

I realised why this is the case: I was trying to fit myself into something that I'm not.  I have a pretty varied style, but there are just certain things are really me.  I've never liked wearing glasses, I always feel like the girl at the beginning of all the teen movies.  You know the one, quiet, geeky, unattractive, always wearing glasses.  And then she gets some magical makeover and contacts, and everyone treats her like a person.  I hardly ever wear my glasses, but there are times when I must.  These frames that I've been trying are unlike any other pair I've had, and now I know why.  I was listening to other people who said try something different, round would be good for you, bigger frames are all the rage.

Don't get me wrong, I'm really grateful to these folks.  They challenge me not to get stuck in a rut, to be open to new ideas, to try things I would never have considered before.  But in this case, I learned that I still have to be myself, even as I stretch and grow.  I cannot be someone else, I can only be me.  I can be better versions of me, but I must still retain my sense of self.  And even if my new glasses look exactly like the last 3 pairs I've had, there's some comfort in knowing (and liking) who I am.

Burnout

While chatting with my sister-in-law about work, we hit upon an interesting topic:  burnout.  So many of us experience it, and yet, we are so under-prepared for how to combat it.  In some fields, preventing burnout is built in, but for most, we are told to just "suck it up" and "work through it".  Of course these tidbits of advice do not work at all, b/c what we really need is a genuine break, a vacation, some time away from our jobs, or our kids, or our spouses, or sometimes all three.  Why is it that we are not taught to recognize early signs of burnout?  Why are we ashamed of not "cutting it" and admitting we need to take a few mental health days?

Our society of superheroes, of pushing ourselves to standards of perfection that are just unattainable, is killing us.  We are not super, we're just us, but damnit, we are magnificent anyway.  Perhaps some would use the excuse of burnout for laziness, but for the most part, combating burnout would improve efficiency, effectiveness, and productivity.  We could be better, so much better, if we just had the tools to take better care of ourselves, if we didn't push ourselves beyond our limits, if we maintained healthy boundaries, if we protected  ourselves.  

I have no ideas of how to actually fix this problem, but there are plenty of people smarter than me, who must already be thinking about it.  In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy my vacation, take some time to do a few minutes of yoga, listen to some music, and just be.  I hope you make some time to do what you need to make yourself better.  

Family Dinners, Judgment, and Acceptance

Posted this in a conversation with some Facebook friends today about motherhood, adoption, and relationships:

It's definitely not for everyone. And a woman who chooses not to have children is no less a woman than one who has birthed a legion. Your self-awareness should be applauded, not scorned. Unfortunately, as women, we all feel marginalized for not having children or for having them, for working or not, for getting married or being single. As a result, we all can be a tad bit defensive if we feel our life choices are being called into question.

And it got me thinking.  At this time of year, our thoughts and lives turn to family, the ones we are born into and the ones we create.  Many of us dread spending time with our extended family now, b/c we know we will invariably be judged.  These people, some of whom we see only once a year, ask about our lives of which they otherwise have no or very little part.  And they make broad sweeping statements about ways our lives would be better.  They also remind us why we choose to see them so infrequently.

Maybe this year could be different.  Maybe your cousin doesn't have a girlfriend, because he's working really hard on other aspects of his life.  Be proud of his accomplishments, instead of belittling his lack of dates.  Or maybe your sister has decided not to have children or get married.  Don't try to change her mind; she's given this way more thought than you have.  Be supportive.  She is choosing to find life fulfillment in other, nontraditional arenas.  Your uncle has finally come out of the closet.  Remind him that you still think he's cool, maybe even cooler now.  At the end of the day, it's NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.  Just b/c you share blood ties with them, it doesn't give you the right to pass judgment on the decisions they have made for themselves.

We are all just searching for happiness.  And the happiness that works for you won't work for anyone else.  Telling another person how to be happy is about as effective as telling the cats not to play with the decorations.  You yell and bluster, and they get scared, defensive, angry, and run away for awhile.  And then when your back is turned, they go back to what they were already doing.

Think about how you want to be treated at these holiday get-togethers.  Not like a defendant in a dock, but like a real person, with valid feelings and opinions.  And then remember that's what everyone deserves.

Concussion Conclusions

Nearly 3 weeks ago, I was in a car accident. In addition to whiplash and other muscle strains that were to be expected, I realized that I also had a concussion. Lack of focus, dizziness, headaches, and forgetfulness have become common occurrences for me. It's frustrating and disorienting, and I am having difficulty coping.

I no longer want to go to playgroups with the baby. I dread getting in the car and try to create excuses to keep me from having to do so. Shopping is virtually impossible; bright lights and colors everywhere cause vision distortion. I cannot keep track of appointments or my possessions, and struggle to keep up with my children.  I am embarrassed while trying to converse with people as I cannot remember what either of us is saying. Instead of calm and patience, my family is greeted by irrational anger and frustration.

I am working with my doctors and my therapist, but for concussions there is very little to be done but to ease the healing process by resting and avoiding additional stress to the injury.  It is easier for me to just drop out of life for a little while.  I will be back when I am able.

Farewell to an Unparalleled Woman

An amazing woman died this morning.  Dr Maya Angelou overcame tremendous adversity to become one of the most highly regarded poets and authors of our time.  She used her words to fight injustice and was active leader of the Civil Rights Movement, acquainted with both Dr King and Malcolm X.

But her works continue to ring true today.  They are still a rallying cry for anyone fighting grave social evils, whether it is the GLBT community, or women straining to be heard over the din of male entitlement.  If you have been at all active on social media platforms within the past month, you will undoubtedly have seen the hashtags #grabbed and #yesallwomen.  And if you read them, you would have been shocked by the stories of daily abuse that women, modern American women, still face.  Even more appalling was the response by men, who shouted down the stories as "attention-seeking" or "whiny", and then turned around to proclaim their own tales of woe and rejection at the hands of women, further proving that chauvinism is alive and well in this country.

Maya Angelou did not allow naysayers to defeat her.  Her voice was not dimmed by those who disagreed with her.  She triumphed over bigots and misogynists by never bowing to their demands, by refusing to sit quietly.  As women, we must follow her strong example.  We will never effect change by merely stating what has happened to us.  We have to use our stories to educate others, and to enact real change.  We are not crying for sympathy -- we are calling for the men of the world to look at what is happening to their wives, sisters, mothers, daughters, friends, and do something to help.  They don't have to be monumental actions, but simple, personal things, like treating women in their lives with respect, as people, not as sexual objects to be owned, used, and discarded.

Women also are not above reproach.  We too have a responsibility to be respectful of each other, to end slut-shaming.  We cannot expect men to treat us with respect when we do not even afford each other or ourselves the same.  We also cannot ask for men to listen to us if we are unwilling to open a dialogue with them.  We have to be willing to respectfully listen to their views as well, no matter how much we disagree.  Despite seeming convenience, we must avoid using sex as a weapon and any other manipulative tactics.  These will only weaken our position, and make us no better than men who do the same.

I am proposing a revolution, but not a violent one; rather, a revolution based on respect and tolerance.  Dr Angelou proposed the same.  It was not easy, nor was it quick, and it continues to evolve today.  However it will be effective and long-lasting, as long as there are people willing to work for it.

Thank you, Dr Angelou, for teaching us to overcome adversity, bigotry, and misogyny to find peace.  Your voice, your words, will live on, as we fight injustice the world over.  May you rest in peace.

A Plan for Fighting Writer's Block

I've been avoiding my blog for awhile for a very lame reason.  I can't figure out what I want to say, much less how to say it.  I feel like I should write more often, but every time I make time to try, my screen and I strike up a blank staring contest instead.  (It wins.)  Occasionally, I'll have a flash of inspiration --a funny anecdote, an important topic-- but then nothing gets transmitted from my brain to my fingers.

Perhaps I mentally set the bar too high for myself.  Let's not kid around, I'm a mommy-blogger, not a Pulitzer-worthy journalist.  But I prefer to actually want to read what I write.  How can I ask other people to read something I consider dense, dull, and directionless?

A friend advised me to try writing through my writer's block, saving it, and editing out what I don't like.  Problem is, even after filling a page, I'd read it a few days later and then delete everything I'd written while simultaneously bashing my head against the monitor.  So my new approach is to write about my writing struggles.

This bit has flowed surprisingly well, primarily because I felt no pressure to write this.  I just wanted to test an idea and had nothing to lose...except my writer's block.

"I Am the Face of PPD"

The following is part of a project spearheaded by Grey Rose Studio and Sacred Roots Holistic Community for Women to raise awareness of post-partum depression.

Sitting in a hospital room, alone, I looked out the window and wondered how it had all happened.  I had been here before, well, not here exactly, but a place very similar.  At that time, I was 21, had miscarried 4 months previously, and was so depressed I had convinced myself that  somehow the miscarriage was my fault.  I was suicidal and terrified.  Following the advice of my doctor, I willingly admitted myself to the hospital to get help.  An amazing team of nurses, therapists, and doctors diagnosed and treated me for post-partum depression.

I didn't understand; how could I have post-partum depression?  I hadn't given birth. I lost my baby in the first trimester.  This wasn't possible, or was it?  I was assured that it was.

Several years later, my husband and I were expecting our first baby together.  I told my midwife about my previous pregnancy and resulting hospitlization for post-partum depression.  She recommended putting me on an antidepressant for the last 6 weeks of pregnancy.  Our son was born without any serious complications, and I tried to settle into life as a new mommy.

But then the flashbacks of an assault from 2 years prior started.  I would have entire conversations and not remember them happening at all.  My parents offered to take care of the baby so I could get help again.  One Saturday afternoon, which I don't remember, I had an "episode" and tried to kill myself.  My husband found me, and called 911.  They rushed me to the hospital and admitted me for treatment.  And it was there that I thought over everything that had happened: the miscarriage, my inital diagnosis with PPD, the birth of my son, and then the resurfacing of traumatic memories.

This time the doctors diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder, in addition to post-partum depression.  I was released from the hospital in 2 days, and entered an intensive outpatient program for 2 weeks.  My parents kept my son for me for several months until I was finally able to take care of myself again.

My husband was incredibly supportive.  He stayed with me as much as he could, and even got a transfer with his company so he could work from home.  He helped me readjust to being a person first, and then a mom.  He knew that I would never be able to take care of our son, if I didn't take care of myself.  At the time I struggled hard against that line of thinking.  I felt like I had to put the care of my child above everything else.  It has only been after years of therapy and practical experience that I finally understand that he is right.  I can only be the best mom to my children if I am first caring for myself.

It has not been easy, and there are plenty of days that I still struggle, but I now have two happy, healthy boys.  I fight to make time for myself at least once every week.  I am so grateful for the support of my husband and my family, and the kindness of my therapist, who kept me on track the many times when I wanted to give up.  I know my story isn't that uncommon, but while I was going through everything, I felt terribly alone.  I hope that this can help other women, who are experiencing similar struggles, to know that they are not alone, that there is hope, and that they can feel okay again.

New Book, New Year, New Ideas, Right?

I keep doing this thing, where I think out paragraphs of conversation in my head and don't say any of it.  But I think maybe I should say them out loud, b/c it's important to get out what's going on in my mind.  Otherwise I just occasionally say things that seem to everyone else to be completely random and/or crazy, when in actuality if I said everything I had been thinking up to that point, it wouldn't seem so totally out of line.  I might make sense.
I'm considering picking up my blog again, the one about being a soccer mom, but I'm not entirely sure that's practical.  Lately, it seems I'm increasingly concerned with the practical.  How much does this cost?  Is it really worth that?  Can I really spend time doing that without feeling like it's a waste?  I don't know why the sudden obsession with practicality.  It's like I have to justify everything I do or, in many cases, don't do, now that I have another child.
My husband thinks I'm starved for human contact, and perhaps this is true.  I'm a stay-at-home mom.  I don't have a job any more, at least not a paying one that takes me out of the house.  I have 2 little boys, a 4 year old and a 3 month old.  They are my job.  And I love being home with them.
But I would be lying if I said I didn't miss my old job.  And I also miss contributing financially.  My husband's income keeps us from being hungry and part of his job keeps a roof over our heads.  Some days I stress about feeding us for 4 days with only $45, keeping in mind that a big chunk of that money has to go towards buying gas.  I'm not saying this b/c I want charity or pity.  I want to be able to work.  But I can't work outside the house right now, not with the way things are with the boys.  Maybe in a few years...in other words, an eternity.
I've been offered an opportunity for on-the-job training.  A company will teach me a skill, while paying me a stipend, as long as I agree to work for them for 2 years.  Only a few problems with this:  2 hour commute (each way), and I have no interest in the subject matter.  If they were going to teach me to appraise art, or offer me photojournalism assignments, I'd be thrilled and say yes without any hesitation.  On the other hand, it would be steady pay and get me out of the house.  But I fear I would be bored out of my mind.  Not that there'd be any difference from my current state of mind.  Everything sounds inane and uninteresting.  I don't want to do this or that or anything I can think of, but I also don't want to do nothing at all.
So I'm thinking of starting an intensive workout regimen.  Something that requires no real equipment and costs no money.  I had considered P90X but don't have $200 to buy the DVDs.  Also everyone in my life thought it was crazy.  And that forced me to reexamine my motivations.  Well, #1 is body image, which has completely evaporated thanks to pregnancy and a C-section and breast feeding.  Also my husband finds my best friend very attractive and she is built NOTHING like me physically.  So even though he tells me he thinks I'm beautiful and sexy and I know he has no intention of cheating on me, I can't help but think if I was built like her, maybe what he says would be true.
This isn't to say that my husband is a bad man.  In fact, I believe he is a wonderful man, a great father, a hard worker, and I know he loves me and our boys more than anyone else in the world.  Which is why what I said in the previous paragraph is so incongruous to me.  I struggle with this on a daily basis and try to reconcile it with the man I know.  Mostly I just can't do it, so I start to take myself apart, piece by piece.  And I realise just how terribly insecure I am.  I want to be super mom...correction, supermodel mom.  Perfect hair, perfect makeup, flawless style, chic yet functional, incredibly organized, health-conscious, thrifty, crafty, environmentally aware, spotless house, well-behaved kids who are socially conscious and compassionate, and yet thoroughly well-adjusted, playful, inquisitive boys.  If I ever achieve all that, I believe I should be eligible for a Nobel Prize of some sort or at the very least a book deal.

Not the best day

The monster that I birthed is sick with a nasty cold, so he can't go to school.  But of course he's feeling well enough to wreak havoc on me and the house.  I can't go to work b/c he's home sick, so I attempted to make things go well today, but they did not.  Perhaps I should have tried harder.  Maybe setting up a painting table and drawing with markers wasn't enough.  I probably should have broken out the clay and potter's wheel too.  (Okay, that's not fair.  We don't have either of those things.)  But I do feel like I made an effort today, and it didn't matter.  It seems like no matter how hard I try to keep things neat, to entertain him, to run the house, it's never quite enough.  And as far as he's concerned, I cannot entertain him, but he and I still expect me to do so.

Working with Oliver

My son was diagnosed with autism about a year ago.  At the time he was already part of a state-sponsored program, receiving in-home therapy from a speech pathologist, an occupational therapist, and a special educator.  His diagnosis didn't change much in the way of his treatment, aside from adding another educator and increasing the frequency of the home visits. After over a year in the program, Oliver has made tremendous progress.  His speech is still delayed, but is becoming more clear, appropriate, and frequent.  He initiates social interaction, tries to make jokes, and is more flexible when faced with unexpected changes.  I'm increadibly proud of him and his accomplishments.

That is why I get so aggravated by the casual manner in which people react to his changes.  Things like, "I knew he'd talk when he was ready," or "He's just lazy" or "You are too easy on him" are so dismissive of all the months of hard work put in by Oliver, his therapists, and Zak and me.  We have been proactive in seeking treatment and doing everything we could to make it as effective as possible.  We don't just work with him on his letters or his numbers, we've taught him how to sign, to communicate with pictures, and now to finally speak.  We work with him on his manners, being considerate of others and their feelings, and appropriate social interactions.  For parents with a typically developing child, these tasks may be part of their routine too, but I don't really know.  I only know what it's like to be Oliver's mom.

We had to learn how to teach him, how to communicate with him.  He's working on processing the world the way typical people do, but it's still a challenge.  He's not unintelligent by any means.  His problem solving skills are downright uncanny.  He thinks outside the box and finds ways to acheive goals in a manner different from the accepted norm.  But he still struggles with some sensory issues and inappropriate reactions.  It's taken me some time to realise that his tantrums are now normal.  He gets upset when he is told no, but his recovery time is much faster.  He no longer hits or reacts violently when extremely upset.  He just cries and crumples to the floor, very similarly to the other toddler meltdowns I've witnessed in the grocery store or the library.

I don't know if Oliver's initial diagnosis was wrong.  At the time, it seemed to fit the way he reacted to the world.  And I don't know if early intervention will have the same results for every child with autism.  But I do know that thanks to his teachers, therapists, and the strategies they have given us,  we have formed a fantastic team to facilitate Oliver's growth and development. 

He doesn not act like the same child from a year ago.  He used to be unable to sit and play for longer than 30 seconds.  He ate crayons instead of drawing with them.  He had no concept of pretend play, was intolerant of changes in routine and attempts to redirect him.  He could say "hi" and "bye" occasionally but not when prompted.  Now he plays with his trains for hours on end.  He sits at a table and draws or colors, scribbles on a chalkboard, and is learning to write his name.  He can put together a puzzle with multiple pieces, match colors and objects, and respond correctly to questions.  He can speak in five word sentences and engage in a conversation.  What he says is not always clear, but he is more patient and tries to find other appropriate ways of getting his point accross.  He follows directions and can be redirected to a different task when necessary. 

All of this did not happen overnight.  It took a lot of patience and understanding on our part, a willingness to learn how his mind processed the world around him.  It took a lot of patience (a virtue uncommon in most 2 year olds) and perserverance on his part as well.  He stuck with the work, became more tolerant, and thrived in his environment.  He continues to work hard, losing patience soem days, but for the most part, he keeps at it.  His language is developing and becoming clearer.  We have started working on goals for typically developing preschoolers like counting, identifying letters, colors, and objects, and potty-training.  We hope to start him in preschool in January.

If you see Oliver one day, please remember that he is the way he is because we all worked hard to get there.  He didn't just wake up one day and decide to talk, or suddenly become a 3 year old with an insane work ethic.  It was a gradual process that has changed our lives forever.

(Mis)Adventures in Gnocchi

After weeks of drooling over a recipe, I finally settled in to make gnocchi for the first time.  Of course I decided to make it for company, and the recipe only yielded servings for 2-3 people as a main course.  So I made 3 batches of it, albeit unintentionally.  I had intended only to make 2 batches, but ran into some problems when it came time to pick potatoes.

You see the recipe called for 2lbs of potatoes.  I had purchased a 5lb bag, and figured I could just use most of the bag and leave 2 or 3 out.  However, the recipe really calls for 3 cups of potatoes, but you don't measure them til after you microwaved, baked, peeled (while hot), riced, and spread on a cookie sheet to cool.  If you have more than 3 cups, you're supposed to discard the remains. 

I emptied my bag of potatoes into the sink and discovered my first of many potato hurdles.  These suckers were enormous!  If I kept out 2 or 3, I'd probably only have 3lbs of potatoes, and for my purposes I needed 4 (or so I thought).  I considered using them all, but decided against that as I really didn't need the extra pound.  I'd finally settled on 7, when I realised that my microwave would only hold 4 potatoes at a time, and tossing in 3 potatoes could really screw up the cook times.  So I used all the potatoes save 1, which I scrubbed and set aside for a baked potato for my husband some time in the near future.

Having microwaved and baked said spuds, I got down to peeling them with a paring knife.  It was surprisingly easy, with the exception of the scalding steam each potato emitted as its peel fell off.  But the recipe said peel when hot to allow release of steam and prevent a build up of moisture within the potato.  So I peeled and scalded, peeled and scalded, until they were all done.  Of course this brought me to the ricing stage.

I knew before I started that I hadn't a ricer, but I did a little research and found I could use a sieve and get the same effect.  So I brought out my little metal mesh sieve and began pressing potato through it.  Contrary to what I thought (and every indication I'd gotten beforehand), passing a potato through a sieve is not a simple or easy task.  It's actually quite labor-intensive as is evident by my now broken (and possibly unfixable) sieve.  While the mesh was separating from the handle, I tried valiantly to continue as I had no back-up plan, and consequently gave myself several pricks and slices with thin metal thread.  Thankfully I will not be playing with lemons anytime soon.

With my ricer substitute now in ruins, I was at a loss.  I decided to step out of my kitchen for a break, and then discovered the disaster that my living room had become.  My 3 year old son had climbed up and gotten down my stationary organizer and strewn its contents all over the floor.  I really hadn't realised til I was picking up and reorganizing my stationary that I have quite a lot of it.  And the cards had to be rematched to their envelopes (and of course they aren't a standard size).  I finally cleaned up that mess, settled my son on the couch for a nap, and decided to tackle the potato problem with a grater.

Just for the record, grating cooked potatoes is a very messy experience and gets particularly sticky once the gluten forms its nice little molecular chains.  But I pressed on (pun absolutely intended!) and finally triumphed over the ricing fiasco.  By this point, the potatoes were mostly cool, very likely well past the 10 minute cooling allocated by the recipe, so I rushed right on to the measuring.  That's when I discovered that I had 9 cups of potatoes.  In case you don't remember, I really only needed 6.  How I ended up with what my recipe said would amount to 2 batches of gnocchi (by following its initial potato measuring system) I haven't the foggiest.  Nevertheless, there I was with enough to make 3 batches of gnocchi.

So I mixed the first batch and rolled out the dough as described.  The only hitch at this point was getting nice, even ridges in the gnocchi, which the recipe promised would help hold the sauce.  It said to roll the gnocchi onto a fork.  There was even a picture of how to do it.  But it didn't work!  My gnocchi ended up turning into noodles following the recipe's guidelines.  At this point, I figured I'd made enough adjustments independently, so I threw caution (what was left of it) to the wind and pressed instead of rolled.  And I must say, by the last 3 pieces of the final batch, I had it down to an art.

Thankfully, all my efforts were not for naught.  It was received to rave reviews by friends and family alike.  Needless to say, it will be some time (possibly years) before I attempt this recipe again.

Regression

When you have a child with autism, the little victories are hugely gratifying.  By the same token, the little outbursts seem humongous, and you begin to doubt that anything you are doing is making a difference.  Some days are wonderful, but those other days...well, they make you want to throw in the towel, especially when there are a bunch of them strung together.  And you catch yourself praying that this tantrum will be the last one of the day, of the week.  But you know it's not.  

If he starts with a tantrum in the morning over breakfast, every meal or snack will be a battle.  And God help you if you want to get him dressed and out the door.  Oh he'll agree to go out, but of course will refuse to put on shoes and a coat.  And once he's crossed the threshold, good luck catching him.  Then there are the screaming fits in the middle of the grocery store, when he hits you and you try to calmly restrain him but he gets even angrier and bites you.  And you know that he's overwhelmed and stressed and having a bad day, but everyone around you is giving you that look:  the one that makes you feel like you're wearing the scarlet letter of parenthood - the bad mother who can't control her child, the one who's obviously taught her child that it's okay to act like this in public, who must hit her child otherwise how would he know how to do it.  And you want to just have a meltdown right there with your child, because you're both so confused and frustrated.

But you keep going, finding the strength somewhere, to cross the items off your list, check out, and load everything into the car.  He's still crying and you still want to join him, but you get yourselves home again, and let him run off some of his seemingly boundless energy.  As soon as you call him to come in, he takes off in the other direction.  You finally coax him in the house with the promise of Thomas and Cheerios, and he comes running to you.  For a split second, you feel a surge of hope, that he's running up to give you a hug.  But no, he just runs around you, shouting, "Thomas!  Thomas!  Watch Thomas, please?"  And you're so grateful to hear him talk, to request something so clearly, that you just scoop him up and cover him with kisses while you put Thomas on for him to watch.

He settles in on the couch, and you curl up with a book next to him, while he watches Thomas.  He sings with the songs, and jumps up when Thomas comes on screen.  But after awhile he becomes so enthralled with the story, that he calms down and scoots over to you.  And he lays his head on your arm and absently pats your hand.  And that's when you realise that everything is going to be fine.

A Diagnosis

My 2 year-old son has a speech delay.  We were concerned when he didn't start talking at 18 months.  By the time I was that age, I was speaking in full sentences.  He could only say "hi" and "bye", but not with any consistency.  At his 2 year check-up, we brought up our concerns with his pediatrician, who suggested a program that works with children who have at least a 25% delay in one or any of the following areas:  physical, social, communication, emotional, and behavioral.  He qualified to receive in-home therapy from a speech therapist, an occupational therapist, and an education specialist for at least 6 months.

A few months in, they suggested we test him for Autism Spectrum Disorders.  I was floored.  I thought he was doing so well with his therapy, he was learning to communicate, he was able to focus more.  And they said he was improving, but they wanted to know if there might be an underlying issue that needed to be found.  So my husband and I agreed.  Our son was tested in September and received a diagnosis of PDD NOS. Technically, he is on the Autism end of the spectrum, as opposed to Asperger's, but the degree of his disorder is relatively mild as of right now.  And with the continued treatment plan of therapy, he may be able to assimilate with a class of typical children when it's time for him to start attending school.  I am glad we had him tested b/c now I know we're on the right track.

Having a diagnosis really didn't change my interactions with my son, but it does make me more defensive.  I worry that once people find out about it, they'll view him differently and treat him differently.  He's a sweet, affectionate, little boy, with a fantastic sense of humor, and possibly a little too much intelligence.  Knowing about his diagnosis just tells you that he learns and processes things a little differently; it doesn't define who he is.

Mama Never Said There'd Be Days Like This

One screaming, grumpy toddler who refuses to nap...check.

Four rambunctious felines, locked in a small bathroom for three hours...check.

Husband gone to the dentist for 3 root canals...check.

Broken water heater...check.

Pile of dishes in the sink that can't be washed til the water heats...check.

Pile of cat crap on the bathroom floor...check.

On the plus side, the water heater has been replaced at no cost to us.  Hooray for a decent landlord!

One of those Days

Do you ever have one of those moments when you're like, "Wow!  I'm not fucking good at my job.  Why do I expect I'll get paid?"

Okay, maybe not quite like that, but some variation on the theme.

But for me, I look at my work sometimes and think everything I've ever done is complete and total crap.  Why would anyone in their right mind want to buy anything I've ever made?

Perhaps that's my problem.  I'm attempting to cater to a very small crowd: the sane, well-adjusted, non-neurotic, well-off patrons of the arts.  Really, aren't the ones who actually do provide a good amount of funding for artists, aren't they themselves quite batty in the belfry, so to speak?  Maybe I should remember that the people who may really like my stuff are going to be just as crazy if not more so than myself (which is possibly certifiable).  Maybe I'll make it into the DSM-V as a criteria for diagnosis:  "purchases art from TJL".  That's when I know I've really made it.  So many crazy people will be buying my work, I'll have a corner on the market.  I'll set up near the asylums, so you can hit me up going in and coming out.  And who knows, you might pass me in the hall.