Holy cow, where is the time going?
You are 16 months, and we are beginning to understand each other more than I thought possible. Just the other day, I asked you to pick up your cup and set it on the table. You did.
You get your shoes when we ask. You go to the door when we say the word "outside." Which may or may not be relative to the fact that we are going outside, or if I just ask your dad, "Did you take that outside?" Big mistake. We're going to have to become those parents that spell everything.
In turn, you tell us when you want to go "owsigh." You grab your shoes and hand them to us, letting us know that, indeed, it is time to go outside. Even tonight when it was 95 degrees outside (on September 9, really?). You grab things and say, "Hee-uh-go" (here you go), and the other night when you were extremely mad with your mother for not getting your way, you said, "Wan dad." Yeah, I know you wanted your dad, but your dad was busy and I was all there was left.
You are adorable at dinner, when you laugh and laugh and laugh at absolutely nothing. You try to burp, you use your fork, you love eating with us.
You can run run run and never lose steam. I lose steam after the first block, but you walked all the way to the park, which is about a quarter mile. Holy smokes! Your little legs can book it!
You are talking so much, and it's so fun to hear you try and form sentences and tell us things. You are getting so big, so much so it's hard to pick you up!
You give me a run for my money as a mom, and just when I am starting to feel like I simply cannot do anything right, you come and give me a hug, or share a cracker with me, or want to cuddle.
I love you little man. More than you know!
Monday, September 9, 2013
Friday, August 16, 2013
15 Months!
Last Sunday marked your 15 month birthday and holy cow, you're a big one! Your daddy took you to the doctor and you are officially in the 96th percentile for weight at 28 pounds, and the 61st percentile for height at 31 1/2 inches. I have qualms about the way they measure you, especially because the first time they did so, a week after you were born, your measurements told us you shrank... by two inches! So I always wonder about Miss Nurse's measuring skills when we visit. But my own measurements mark you at 32 1/2, so maybe we can say you're a happy 32 inches?? Either way, you're a bruiser. And you act like one too!
You are always running places and can't ever seem to stand still. This reminds me so much of myself. But you sleep like the dead, which reminds me so much of your dad. You have your mom's hyper-focus when you're concentrated on a task, but you have your dad's mischievous gleam in your eye that tells me you're about to do something really naughty. Which usually turns out not to be that naughty, but I'm always wondering how far you're willing to go.
When we say no, you have learned that we mean no. You know that mom has the big, loud voice when you are touching the burners on the stove, and you know that dad has the pushover voice that doesn't change when you run out into the street. Haha. But seriously, Eric needs to work on the formance in his voice.
You love to throw things off your food tray, and it kills me. We have given up until a few nights ago, when we started to ask you "All done?" in sign language about every bite. When you weren't "all done" you pointed to the dish that held the food we were giving you. When you were all done, you smiled and nodded!!! It was incredible to watch and thus far, our dinners have been much more pleasant.
You are starting to become fascinated by books, which warms my heart! I love reading and I hope that you will learn to love it too! You love your big picture books, or your touch-and-feel books. The other night, you took your book and set it down across the room. I then asked you to pick up your book. Normally, when I ask you to pick up your milk, or your toy, you do right away. When we asked you to go pet Kinnick, you did. When you close the door you do. But you didn't go get the book, and it dawned on me that you don't know what a "book" is!!! Hilarious! So we're working on that.
You are breaking out new words every day. "Kinnick" is "kit." Dad and mom are staples now, and usually in that order, which breaks my heart slightly. You say "dat" and "dis" for that and this. You point and try to say things. I try to talk to you like a little human being as much as possible, and the dr. said you are doing just fine developmentally.
In the last month, you had FOUR teeth pop through, and I can see two more bottom eye teeth coming in. Poor guy. We gave you homemade waffles, which the batter held one lone egg and you didn't have a reaction. So I think I feel better about the allergy and I hope you're growing out of it.
You are the most fun in the morning, and I love waking up to your squeals. You are a happy, funny, silly little boy and I love that you are learning so quickly. Like the other night, you learned that if you walk around teh tree, the bark covers the whole thing. And you walked and walked and walked around that tree, and then your dad and I laughed and laughed and laughed when you finally straightened out and couldn't, for the life of you, keep your balance! HILARIOUS to watch!!!!
I love you so much, I never even knew it was possible.
(In other news, it's my dear friends' due date today. Dad, please watch out for her and I hope Sydney makes a speedy, safe entry into this world. Induction is Thursday if she doesn't show her head by then!!)
You are always running places and can't ever seem to stand still. This reminds me so much of myself. But you sleep like the dead, which reminds me so much of your dad. You have your mom's hyper-focus when you're concentrated on a task, but you have your dad's mischievous gleam in your eye that tells me you're about to do something really naughty. Which usually turns out not to be that naughty, but I'm always wondering how far you're willing to go.
When we say no, you have learned that we mean no. You know that mom has the big, loud voice when you are touching the burners on the stove, and you know that dad has the pushover voice that doesn't change when you run out into the street. Haha. But seriously, Eric needs to work on the formance in his voice.
You love to throw things off your food tray, and it kills me. We have given up until a few nights ago, when we started to ask you "All done?" in sign language about every bite. When you weren't "all done" you pointed to the dish that held the food we were giving you. When you were all done, you smiled and nodded!!! It was incredible to watch and thus far, our dinners have been much more pleasant.
You are starting to become fascinated by books, which warms my heart! I love reading and I hope that you will learn to love it too! You love your big picture books, or your touch-and-feel books. The other night, you took your book and set it down across the room. I then asked you to pick up your book. Normally, when I ask you to pick up your milk, or your toy, you do right away. When we asked you to go pet Kinnick, you did. When you close the door you do. But you didn't go get the book, and it dawned on me that you don't know what a "book" is!!! Hilarious! So we're working on that.
You are breaking out new words every day. "Kinnick" is "kit." Dad and mom are staples now, and usually in that order, which breaks my heart slightly. You say "dat" and "dis" for that and this. You point and try to say things. I try to talk to you like a little human being as much as possible, and the dr. said you are doing just fine developmentally.
In the last month, you had FOUR teeth pop through, and I can see two more bottom eye teeth coming in. Poor guy. We gave you homemade waffles, which the batter held one lone egg and you didn't have a reaction. So I think I feel better about the allergy and I hope you're growing out of it.
You are the most fun in the morning, and I love waking up to your squeals. You are a happy, funny, silly little boy and I love that you are learning so quickly. Like the other night, you learned that if you walk around teh tree, the bark covers the whole thing. And you walked and walked and walked around that tree, and then your dad and I laughed and laughed and laughed when you finally straightened out and couldn't, for the life of you, keep your balance! HILARIOUS to watch!!!!
I love you so much, I never even knew it was possible.
(In other news, it's my dear friends' due date today. Dad, please watch out for her and I hope Sydney makes a speedy, safe entry into this world. Induction is Thursday if she doesn't show her head by then!!)
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Rock Bottom
PTSD is born from fear. It's natural for people to feel the "fight-or-flight" response when faced with fear. In people with PTSD, that "fight-or-flight" response is changed, or damaged, and essentially, becomes simply,"flight." In a lot of cases, "flight" during PTSD episodes is simply dissociating.
You don't know when you've hit rock bottom, until you've seen rock bottom in hindsight. In my case, rock bottom was October 15, 2010. I had had several dissociation episodes at school, and after a horrible meeting with a counselor that worked for my school, I remember calling my best friend. I couldn't stop shaking, crying, or getting "out of my head," so-to-speak. I can't remember what I said, but I can't imagine it was a great conversation. When I got home from school that day, I relayed my day to Eric, again, shaking, crying, and essentially, feeling like I was losing my mind. In hindsight, on October 15, I had already lost my mind. I had lost it to PTSD.
I don't remember the conversations I had later that day, I don't remember what I did. But I will never forget the intense fear that I felt. I couldn't stop my mind from racing, I couldn't stop moving about my house, and I couldn't focus on any one task. I just wandered aimlessly, crying, shaking, and wondering if maybe someone should take me to hospital. To say I was emotionally distraught would be an understatement.
I felt like I was staring at the shambles that was my life. I once was confident, I once was excited about teaching, I once was a person people wanted to be around. With PTSD, you don't succumb to fear. Instead, fear envelopes you. It's not a shallow fear, it's a deep-seeded terror that you absolutely, cannot escape.
I don't remember if I ate dinner that night. But I do remember after dinner, there was a knock on my door. Sitting on the couch, my anxiety was sky-high, and that knock sent me running into the kitchen. I remember looking in at myself - my eyes red from crying all day, my clothes hanging off me because I had lost so much weight. My hair a mess from dragging my fingers through it all day and my make-up long gone. I stood in the kitchen, hiding from the front door, terrified of what that knock would bring.
I remember hearing Eric let someone in as I stood huddled against the kitchen cabinets, hands cupped around my mouth and nose, breath held. Who was it who was it who was it? When my best friend rounded the corner to my kitchen, I remember losing it. I sighed out a huge breath and instantly began convulsing with sobs that wracked my body. She carried a basket of goodies, like bubbles for a soothing bath, and a mug with a smurf on it that said, "I Love ME."
I think in that instant, when she saw me, she knew that no basket was going to fix what was going on in my head. So she hugged me, and held me, and told me I was ok. She had driven 45 minutes on a Tuesday night, to simply make me feel better. But the basket, the hugs, the pats on the back, wasn't enough ammunition for the war I was waging in my head.
I was able to calm down enough to talk to her. I don't remember what we talked about, but I remember she didn't stay long. Sometimes, I wonder if it's because what she saw scared her. It scared me.
When she left, Eric and I talked about going to the hospital. I felt like I was losing my mind. Instead, I called into work, sick, for the next morning, and told myself, and Eric, I was going to make an appointment with the family doctor the next morning.
I cried throughout the night, barely slept, and the next morning, made that appointment. I truly believe that appointment is what saved me. When I finally met with the doctor, I remember telling him that I thought something was wrong with me. Something was very, very wrong with me. I remember him probing me with questions, and I remember finally telling him everything that was going on. I started from the beginning, gave him the Reader's Digest version, and he patted me on the knee. He told me he'd be right back, and from there, left me, curled up on the exam table, still crying. When he came back, his exact words were, "We're going to get you in to see someone who will be in your corner." And with that, he made an appointment for me to see a psychologist across town, and filled a prescription for what a friend jokingly calls, "Little Blue Crazy Pills."
In hindsight, that was the worse day of my life. People will say the day they lose a loved one, the day they lose a job, the day they lose a pet is the worse day of their life. But the worse day of my life was the day I felt like I could not get away from the immense fear I felt. It was overpowering, more-so than the grief I felt the day my dad died, and the days thereafter.
After several appointments with the psychologist, psychiatrist, and a lot of more Little Blue Crazy Pills, it was determined that my fear stemmed from self-fulfilled prophecy. If someone tells you something enough times, you begin to believe it. For three years, I had been told I was a horrible teacher, a horrible person, and I should leave. And I began to believe it. From there, that thought bubble grew until it was consuming my entire world and all thought processes.
My psychiatrist wrote on a piece of paper, "This situation does not define me as a teacher or a human being." I took that piece of paper and copied the mantra on post-it notes. Bright orange post-it notes that adorned any place I would look in my house. On the mirror in the bathroom, by the closet where I dressed in the morning, at the bottom of the stairs, and tucked safely inside my wallet.
As time went on, as I was exonerated, and as I began to take down the beasts that had taken root in my mind, those orange post-it notes began to lose their stickiness. As they fell, one by one, off the mirror, wall, door, steering wheel, and anywhere else I had posted them, so did the monsters that lived inside my head.
The mind is a powerful thing, in the fact that even after fear had enveloped it, it was able to bounce back. My confidence returned, my personality returned, and a love for life returned.
In hindsight, October 15 was rock bottom. But with rock bottom comes another direction, and really, the only direction.
Up.
You don't know when you've hit rock bottom, until you've seen rock bottom in hindsight. In my case, rock bottom was October 15, 2010. I had had several dissociation episodes at school, and after a horrible meeting with a counselor that worked for my school, I remember calling my best friend. I couldn't stop shaking, crying, or getting "out of my head," so-to-speak. I can't remember what I said, but I can't imagine it was a great conversation. When I got home from school that day, I relayed my day to Eric, again, shaking, crying, and essentially, feeling like I was losing my mind. In hindsight, on October 15, I had already lost my mind. I had lost it to PTSD.
I don't remember the conversations I had later that day, I don't remember what I did. But I will never forget the intense fear that I felt. I couldn't stop my mind from racing, I couldn't stop moving about my house, and I couldn't focus on any one task. I just wandered aimlessly, crying, shaking, and wondering if maybe someone should take me to hospital. To say I was emotionally distraught would be an understatement.
I felt like I was staring at the shambles that was my life. I once was confident, I once was excited about teaching, I once was a person people wanted to be around. With PTSD, you don't succumb to fear. Instead, fear envelopes you. It's not a shallow fear, it's a deep-seeded terror that you absolutely, cannot escape.
I don't remember if I ate dinner that night. But I do remember after dinner, there was a knock on my door. Sitting on the couch, my anxiety was sky-high, and that knock sent me running into the kitchen. I remember looking in at myself - my eyes red from crying all day, my clothes hanging off me because I had lost so much weight. My hair a mess from dragging my fingers through it all day and my make-up long gone. I stood in the kitchen, hiding from the front door, terrified of what that knock would bring.
I remember hearing Eric let someone in as I stood huddled against the kitchen cabinets, hands cupped around my mouth and nose, breath held. Who was it who was it who was it? When my best friend rounded the corner to my kitchen, I remember losing it. I sighed out a huge breath and instantly began convulsing with sobs that wracked my body. She carried a basket of goodies, like bubbles for a soothing bath, and a mug with a smurf on it that said, "I Love ME."
I think in that instant, when she saw me, she knew that no basket was going to fix what was going on in my head. So she hugged me, and held me, and told me I was ok. She had driven 45 minutes on a Tuesday night, to simply make me feel better. But the basket, the hugs, the pats on the back, wasn't enough ammunition for the war I was waging in my head.
I was able to calm down enough to talk to her. I don't remember what we talked about, but I remember she didn't stay long. Sometimes, I wonder if it's because what she saw scared her. It scared me.
When she left, Eric and I talked about going to the hospital. I felt like I was losing my mind. Instead, I called into work, sick, for the next morning, and told myself, and Eric, I was going to make an appointment with the family doctor the next morning.
I cried throughout the night, barely slept, and the next morning, made that appointment. I truly believe that appointment is what saved me. When I finally met with the doctor, I remember telling him that I thought something was wrong with me. Something was very, very wrong with me. I remember him probing me with questions, and I remember finally telling him everything that was going on. I started from the beginning, gave him the Reader's Digest version, and he patted me on the knee. He told me he'd be right back, and from there, left me, curled up on the exam table, still crying. When he came back, his exact words were, "We're going to get you in to see someone who will be in your corner." And with that, he made an appointment for me to see a psychologist across town, and filled a prescription for what a friend jokingly calls, "Little Blue Crazy Pills."
In hindsight, that was the worse day of my life. People will say the day they lose a loved one, the day they lose a job, the day they lose a pet is the worse day of their life. But the worse day of my life was the day I felt like I could not get away from the immense fear I felt. It was overpowering, more-so than the grief I felt the day my dad died, and the days thereafter.
After several appointments with the psychologist, psychiatrist, and a lot of more Little Blue Crazy Pills, it was determined that my fear stemmed from self-fulfilled prophecy. If someone tells you something enough times, you begin to believe it. For three years, I had been told I was a horrible teacher, a horrible person, and I should leave. And I began to believe it. From there, that thought bubble grew until it was consuming my entire world and all thought processes.
My psychiatrist wrote on a piece of paper, "This situation does not define me as a teacher or a human being." I took that piece of paper and copied the mantra on post-it notes. Bright orange post-it notes that adorned any place I would look in my house. On the mirror in the bathroom, by the closet where I dressed in the morning, at the bottom of the stairs, and tucked safely inside my wallet.
As time went on, as I was exonerated, and as I began to take down the beasts that had taken root in my mind, those orange post-it notes began to lose their stickiness. As they fell, one by one, off the mirror, wall, door, steering wheel, and anywhere else I had posted them, so did the monsters that lived inside my head.
The mind is a powerful thing, in the fact that even after fear had enveloped it, it was able to bounce back. My confidence returned, my personality returned, and a love for life returned.
In hindsight, October 15 was rock bottom. But with rock bottom comes another direction, and really, the only direction.
Up.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Unbreakable
Just getting a tattoo after all this time is a reminder of the conversation my dad and I had about getting a tattoo after I turned 18, when he thought a doodle on my foot really was a tattoo. The placement of this tattoo represents that fact that with the weight of the world on my shoulders, I have survived. The placement of this tattoo on the left side is the same side as my heart, which my little boy stole, and my dad's memories are tucked deep inside. The word itself is a representation of everything I have been through. And most importantly, the font, which is my dad's handwriting, is representative that my dad is always with me.
I know, that with this tattoo, I truly am unbreakable.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
14 Months!
You are getting to be quite the little ham. You love making people laugh, and do it for me on a regularly basis. The other night you farted, and immediately after, you burped, sending you into a fit of giggles. Don't worry, I laughed too. It was pretty hilarious.
You are walking so much faster and better now! I would say it's a light jog on most days, but to you, it's probably just a brisk walk. You are talking so much more. There are so many things you say consistently, I just have no idea what they are.
I'm pretty sure I have narrowed down "mom mom" and "dad." You love saying "I do!" and "Achoo!" You also say "this" and "that" probably because we say it all the time. Although it comes out as "dis" and "dat" I know you learned it from your good ole' mom and dad always saying, "Do you want this?" or "Can i have that?" You can say ball, but I'm not sure you know what you're saying. I can point to nearly anything and you go fetch it and bring it right back. Usually, when I stick my hand out and say, "Can I have that?" Aha, just typing that confirmed the aforementioned! I'll have to work on that! You say "na-na" for snack, or really anytime you're hungry, that's your word. "Na-na" means "You better have food ready for me in 10 seconds, or I'll start to scream."
You are obsessed with wheels. You don't ride in the cozy coupe, you push it around. I gave up the thought of buying you a tricycle as I know you'll just push it around. You push around Mr. Lion. You push around chairs, even though they don't have wheels. As long as they move, you're usually happy. You can blow us kisses, which is the sweetest thing. You love giving high-five's, and when you aren't getting something, you throw your arms and hands in a downward motion to hit your stomach. It honestly looks like it hurts and I usually just keep letting you carry on, since I'm not the type of mom to cave. Sorry buddy!
You are the most fun in the mornings. You love love LOVE it when we knock on the door and then come in to surprise you. You always breathe harder and faster when you get excited and it's hilarious!
You play so well on your own. You're so easy to manage, 99% of the time. And when you're not, it's either because you're tired or hungry.
You most definitely know the meaning of no, especially when I use my special "mom" voice that has a lot of resonance and carries very far. I have only ever used it when you go for the burner knobs on the stove. That usually stops you in your tracks, and you figure out something else to do very quickly.
You love love LOVE taking utensils out of the drawers. Holy lord, on any given knight, we have a cheese slicer, pizza cutter and spatula adorning our kitchen floor. And usually, I don't pick it up until the next morning because I"m too tired. You love the magnets on the fridge - especially if you can get them off the fridge by brushing them with your hands. I've moved all the magnets above your little reach. Again, sorry buddy.
You love to flush the toilet, which is hilarious. We've trained you to flush the toilet only after we go to the bathroom. You love watching the toilet paper go down the hole! Then we've trained you to close the lid (good thinking mommy, that will come in handy later!) and you clap for yourself when we say, "Good job, James!" Then we turn off the light when we walk out and usually close the door so you're not in there the entire afternoon or morning flushing the toilet.
You're so hilarious. I thought when you were just a tiny baby that that was my favorite age. But this by far outweighs that. I love watching you discover things, and I love watching you problem solve. You are such a good problem solver! Tonight, I watched you duck under the table to get around an obstacle that was created by your baby pool, which was folded against the side of the house. Genius.
You have no interest in watching TV. If you do, it's because there are brightly moving objects on the screen. It's because you love the outdoors that you don't like TV and for that, I am one thankful mama. Too many kids sit in front of the TV. Outside is where you want to be, which makes me scared for what the winter months will bring.
"Redirection" for you is non-existent. When you want something, or want to do something, you are hard-headed like your mama. If you want to go up the stairs, then by God, we are going upstairs. When you want to come down, we are coming down. makes it hard for us to get things done, but it's a work in progress.
When we put you in your crib, it's lights out for you. Not that I have any comparison what-so-ever, but you are one of the easiest babies to put down. When you're tired, you rub your eyes, flick your ears, and generally like to snuggle. It's a sure sign that someone's ready for a nap, or bedtime, and we listen. It's a smooth process and for that, I'll be eternally grateful.
You don't smile very much when we're taking your picture. You used to love your picture being taken, and smile so big for us, but that has gone away. We have to try to make you smile, which isn't always the easiest thing to do. Certainly not like putting you down for a nap!
A couple weeks ago, we had an appointment for an allergist. When you were 6 months old, we fed you eggs. You ended up making choking noises, then threw up not even 5 minutes after. Everywhere on your body were red splotches, where the puke had landed. It was about that time that you started having some pretty bad eczema outbreaks on your back and the tops of your arms. Sometimes on your neck and on your chest too, but it was pretty much confined to the aforementioned spaces.
A few months later, the babysitter gave you scrambled eggs, and the same thing happened. We decided that you just didn't like eggs? We had no idea. But after doing a few google searches on eczema, I realized that the words "egg allergy" were a direct correlation in some babies. Could it have been that way for you too?
So at your one year appointment, our doctor reluctantly made an appointment at an allergist after we told her we thought you might have an egg allergy. So off to the allergist we went.
She began the appointment by asking, "What makes you think he has an egg allergy?" Needless to say, I wasn't very thrilled that's how the appointment started, but I explained my hypothesis and thought it would be good to get him checked out.
They did the skin prick test, and with seconds, the spots with egg white and egg yolk began to puff up and get swollen. It looked like little bug bites. When the nurse came in halfway through the waiting period, the redness was beginning to spread.
I felt validated as a mom and really wanted to put my hands on my head and say "Na-na-na-na-na-naaaa!" But refrained.
After the feeling of validity went away, I was terrified. Oh my God, you have an egg allergy. Egg is in everything. The terror that I felt at that moment was 10 fold the moment that they stuck a little needle in your arm to draw blood.
But no blood came out. they tried the other arm, your hands, your leg. Nothing. I had to wait with you, screaming, while we waited for the life-flight nurses in the hospital to come and draw it out of your foot. It was terrifying and I felt helpless. One of the worst feelings in my life.
Once the blood work came in, we discovered your allergy is a 2 on a 0-6 scale, 6 being life-threatening and 0 being no allergy present. They asked if I wanted to make another appointment in 3 months to get you re-tested and see where you were at. Hmmm, see if you have gone from a 2 to a 1, or even just remained at a 2, or sit for another 45 minutes while they poke and prod you, and you go from screaming to whimpering because you're so tired from screaming? I'll pass, thanks. I'll do my own allergy testing at home, first with baked goods, since those are a big no-no for three months, and then again with actual scrambled eggs if that helps.
I have noticed that since we are watching what we give you, and making sure there is no egg in it, your eczema has completely cleared up. Amazing.
I love you, little man. Even in your most frustrating moments, you have my heart.
You are walking so much faster and better now! I would say it's a light jog on most days, but to you, it's probably just a brisk walk. You are talking so much more. There are so many things you say consistently, I just have no idea what they are.
I'm pretty sure I have narrowed down "mom mom" and "dad." You love saying "I do!" and "Achoo!" You also say "this" and "that" probably because we say it all the time. Although it comes out as "dis" and "dat" I know you learned it from your good ole' mom and dad always saying, "Do you want this?" or "Can i have that?" You can say ball, but I'm not sure you know what you're saying. I can point to nearly anything and you go fetch it and bring it right back. Usually, when I stick my hand out and say, "Can I have that?" Aha, just typing that confirmed the aforementioned! I'll have to work on that! You say "na-na" for snack, or really anytime you're hungry, that's your word. "Na-na" means "You better have food ready for me in 10 seconds, or I'll start to scream."
You are obsessed with wheels. You don't ride in the cozy coupe, you push it around. I gave up the thought of buying you a tricycle as I know you'll just push it around. You push around Mr. Lion. You push around chairs, even though they don't have wheels. As long as they move, you're usually happy. You can blow us kisses, which is the sweetest thing. You love giving high-five's, and when you aren't getting something, you throw your arms and hands in a downward motion to hit your stomach. It honestly looks like it hurts and I usually just keep letting you carry on, since I'm not the type of mom to cave. Sorry buddy!
You are the most fun in the mornings. You love love LOVE it when we knock on the door and then come in to surprise you. You always breathe harder and faster when you get excited and it's hilarious!
You play so well on your own. You're so easy to manage, 99% of the time. And when you're not, it's either because you're tired or hungry.
You most definitely know the meaning of no, especially when I use my special "mom" voice that has a lot of resonance and carries very far. I have only ever used it when you go for the burner knobs on the stove. That usually stops you in your tracks, and you figure out something else to do very quickly.
You love love LOVE taking utensils out of the drawers. Holy lord, on any given knight, we have a cheese slicer, pizza cutter and spatula adorning our kitchen floor. And usually, I don't pick it up until the next morning because I"m too tired. You love the magnets on the fridge - especially if you can get them off the fridge by brushing them with your hands. I've moved all the magnets above your little reach. Again, sorry buddy.
You love to flush the toilet, which is hilarious. We've trained you to flush the toilet only after we go to the bathroom. You love watching the toilet paper go down the hole! Then we've trained you to close the lid (good thinking mommy, that will come in handy later!) and you clap for yourself when we say, "Good job, James!" Then we turn off the light when we walk out and usually close the door so you're not in there the entire afternoon or morning flushing the toilet.
You're so hilarious. I thought when you were just a tiny baby that that was my favorite age. But this by far outweighs that. I love watching you discover things, and I love watching you problem solve. You are such a good problem solver! Tonight, I watched you duck under the table to get around an obstacle that was created by your baby pool, which was folded against the side of the house. Genius.
You have no interest in watching TV. If you do, it's because there are brightly moving objects on the screen. It's because you love the outdoors that you don't like TV and for that, I am one thankful mama. Too many kids sit in front of the TV. Outside is where you want to be, which makes me scared for what the winter months will bring.
"Redirection" for you is non-existent. When you want something, or want to do something, you are hard-headed like your mama. If you want to go up the stairs, then by God, we are going upstairs. When you want to come down, we are coming down. makes it hard for us to get things done, but it's a work in progress.
When we put you in your crib, it's lights out for you. Not that I have any comparison what-so-ever, but you are one of the easiest babies to put down. When you're tired, you rub your eyes, flick your ears, and generally like to snuggle. It's a sure sign that someone's ready for a nap, or bedtime, and we listen. It's a smooth process and for that, I'll be eternally grateful.
You don't smile very much when we're taking your picture. You used to love your picture being taken, and smile so big for us, but that has gone away. We have to try to make you smile, which isn't always the easiest thing to do. Certainly not like putting you down for a nap!
A couple weeks ago, we had an appointment for an allergist. When you were 6 months old, we fed you eggs. You ended up making choking noises, then threw up not even 5 minutes after. Everywhere on your body were red splotches, where the puke had landed. It was about that time that you started having some pretty bad eczema outbreaks on your back and the tops of your arms. Sometimes on your neck and on your chest too, but it was pretty much confined to the aforementioned spaces.
A few months later, the babysitter gave you scrambled eggs, and the same thing happened. We decided that you just didn't like eggs? We had no idea. But after doing a few google searches on eczema, I realized that the words "egg allergy" were a direct correlation in some babies. Could it have been that way for you too?
So at your one year appointment, our doctor reluctantly made an appointment at an allergist after we told her we thought you might have an egg allergy. So off to the allergist we went.
She began the appointment by asking, "What makes you think he has an egg allergy?" Needless to say, I wasn't very thrilled that's how the appointment started, but I explained my hypothesis and thought it would be good to get him checked out.
They did the skin prick test, and with seconds, the spots with egg white and egg yolk began to puff up and get swollen. It looked like little bug bites. When the nurse came in halfway through the waiting period, the redness was beginning to spread.
I felt validated as a mom and really wanted to put my hands on my head and say "Na-na-na-na-na-naaaa!" But refrained.
After the feeling of validity went away, I was terrified. Oh my God, you have an egg allergy. Egg is in everything. The terror that I felt at that moment was 10 fold the moment that they stuck a little needle in your arm to draw blood.
But no blood came out. they tried the other arm, your hands, your leg. Nothing. I had to wait with you, screaming, while we waited for the life-flight nurses in the hospital to come and draw it out of your foot. It was terrifying and I felt helpless. One of the worst feelings in my life.
Once the blood work came in, we discovered your allergy is a 2 on a 0-6 scale, 6 being life-threatening and 0 being no allergy present. They asked if I wanted to make another appointment in 3 months to get you re-tested and see where you were at. Hmmm, see if you have gone from a 2 to a 1, or even just remained at a 2, or sit for another 45 minutes while they poke and prod you, and you go from screaming to whimpering because you're so tired from screaming? I'll pass, thanks. I'll do my own allergy testing at home, first with baked goods, since those are a big no-no for three months, and then again with actual scrambled eggs if that helps.
I have noticed that since we are watching what we give you, and making sure there is no egg in it, your eczema has completely cleared up. Amazing.
I love you, little man. Even in your most frustrating moments, you have my heart.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
The Investigation: The Truth Shall Set You Free
Being accused of something in real life is terrifying. Usually, if you're accused of something in real life, it's something that will take a lot of evidence to convict you. However, in order to be convicted, you usually have to stand trial, and in order to even go to trial, there has to be enough evidence to support the case.
It's really not any different in a public school system, which for a lot of students, is nothing like real life.
An accusation can damage a teacher's reputation for the rest of their career, even if the accusations aren't even credible. I can think of three colleagues off the top of my head who have resigned from their careers simply because of accusations, which usually turned out to be so outlandishly false, that it almost made the situation laughable. But it isn't laughable.
On July 22, 2009, I got a phone call from my administrator, asking me to come in to school and talk to him. So I went.
My dad had died only 5 months earlier. If you've ever gone through the grieving process, or you've read this blog, Month 5 was hard. It was the month where I was resenting my brothers for not living closer and being able to be there for my mom. Month 5 was the month that I was grieving the loss of my dad so heavily, my marriage was rocky, my eyes were constantly swollen from crying, and I was beginning to think there wasn't any way off the bottom of this murky pool of tears.
So I went to school as soon as I could and spoke with my administrator. He told me the version he had heard of the Target incident (he was sorry, he said), asked me for my version, asked me a few questions, I replied to them the best I could, and then proceeded to fold his hands together and lean forward at his desk.
"Laura, these accusations are either so crazy, they're true, or so crazy, they're not true. The school district will be launching an investigation to figure that out."
The word "launch," by definition, means to "send forth, catapult, or release, as a self-propelled vehicle or weapon." The word "launch" catapulted me into a panic attack, right there in my administrators office.
I was told I would be questioned by the associate superintendent a week from that day. I was to wait, 7 days, suspended in a constant state of anxiety. It was like that moment had "launched" me into suspended animation.
Day 1: hysteria. getting my facts straight. reviewing documentation
Day 2: calmer. reviewing documentation. taking moments for myself.
Day 3: back to hysteria. crying. reviewing documentation.
Day 4: complete calm washed over me and my life moved faster than it had days 1, 2, and 3.
Day 5: hysteria. crying. more hysterics.
Day 6: complete panic. reviewing documentation. fight with Eric.
Day 7 came, and I dressed in what I thought was one of my more professional looking outfits. Pointed-toe, black high heels, black dress pants, teal sweater, black long necklace, matching black earings. I wonder if my subconscious thought I was, instead, headed to a funeral.
I met my union representative outside the district office. She told me to keep my answers short, but honest.
In all, there were 27 questions. Questions about whether or not I would make gay jokes in class (no). Did I threaten this student in any way (no). Did I ever tell her she wasn't good enough (no). Did I do this, that, the other things during class, after class, out in the hall, during lunch (no).
At the end, the associate superintendent asked me, "Is there anything you want to say?" Yes.
Did you know she had sat outside my house at night? Did you know she had said things to people who had come into my classroom to observe me? Derogatory, hurtful, leading things that would make those individuals believe I might actually be a bad person? Did you know she wrote me letters, telling me what a horrible person I was? Did you know that I can't even go into Target anymore because she works there? Did you know she has said things to other students, who have then told me what's going on? AND I CAN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THIS! Did you know she doesn't try in class, but that I'm forced to give her an A anyway because God forbid this leads to anything about discrimination? Did you know I've asked the administration to remove her from my classroom and they didn't for an entire year?! Did you know my administration have made jokes about this to my face? Did you know my administration TOLD ME they were going to remove her from my class, tell her and her parents, and when I double checked with them later that day, they told me IT HAD BEEN DONE? DID YOU KNOW THAT THEY ACTUALLY DIDN'T DO THAT??? That's why I'm here. THAT'S WHY THIS IS HAPPENING.
But I didn't say anything like that. Instead, I said, "I haven't done anything wrong."
I cried when I got out to the car. I came home and cried some more. I was exhausted. I was thoroughly, and completely, exhausted. And then it was done. Just as slowly as my life had suspended itself in those 7 days, it all of a sudden caught up to that moment in time, sitting in my driveway, with my head against my steering wheel, crying.
And just like that, it was done. Again. Or so I thought.
It's really not any different in a public school system, which for a lot of students, is nothing like real life.
An accusation can damage a teacher's reputation for the rest of their career, even if the accusations aren't even credible. I can think of three colleagues off the top of my head who have resigned from their careers simply because of accusations, which usually turned out to be so outlandishly false, that it almost made the situation laughable. But it isn't laughable.
On July 22, 2009, I got a phone call from my administrator, asking me to come in to school and talk to him. So I went.
My dad had died only 5 months earlier. If you've ever gone through the grieving process, or you've read this blog, Month 5 was hard. It was the month where I was resenting my brothers for not living closer and being able to be there for my mom. Month 5 was the month that I was grieving the loss of my dad so heavily, my marriage was rocky, my eyes were constantly swollen from crying, and I was beginning to think there wasn't any way off the bottom of this murky pool of tears.
So I went to school as soon as I could and spoke with my administrator. He told me the version he had heard of the Target incident (he was sorry, he said), asked me for my version, asked me a few questions, I replied to them the best I could, and then proceeded to fold his hands together and lean forward at his desk.
"Laura, these accusations are either so crazy, they're true, or so crazy, they're not true. The school district will be launching an investigation to figure that out."
The word "launch," by definition, means to "send forth, catapult, or release, as a self-propelled vehicle or weapon." The word "launch" catapulted me into a panic attack, right there in my administrators office.
I was told I would be questioned by the associate superintendent a week from that day. I was to wait, 7 days, suspended in a constant state of anxiety. It was like that moment had "launched" me into suspended animation.
Day 1: hysteria. getting my facts straight. reviewing documentation
Day 2: calmer. reviewing documentation. taking moments for myself.
Day 3: back to hysteria. crying. reviewing documentation.
Day 4: complete calm washed over me and my life moved faster than it had days 1, 2, and 3.
Day 5: hysteria. crying. more hysterics.
Day 6: complete panic. reviewing documentation. fight with Eric.
Day 7 came, and I dressed in what I thought was one of my more professional looking outfits. Pointed-toe, black high heels, black dress pants, teal sweater, black long necklace, matching black earings. I wonder if my subconscious thought I was, instead, headed to a funeral.
I met my union representative outside the district office. She told me to keep my answers short, but honest.
In all, there were 27 questions. Questions about whether or not I would make gay jokes in class (no). Did I threaten this student in any way (no). Did I ever tell her she wasn't good enough (no). Did I do this, that, the other things during class, after class, out in the hall, during lunch (no).
At the end, the associate superintendent asked me, "Is there anything you want to say?" Yes.
Did you know she had sat outside my house at night? Did you know she had said things to people who had come into my classroom to observe me? Derogatory, hurtful, leading things that would make those individuals believe I might actually be a bad person? Did you know she wrote me letters, telling me what a horrible person I was? Did you know that I can't even go into Target anymore because she works there? Did you know she has said things to other students, who have then told me what's going on? AND I CAN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THIS! Did you know she doesn't try in class, but that I'm forced to give her an A anyway because God forbid this leads to anything about discrimination? Did you know I've asked the administration to remove her from my classroom and they didn't for an entire year?! Did you know my administration have made jokes about this to my face? Did you know my administration TOLD ME they were going to remove her from my class, tell her and her parents, and when I double checked with them later that day, they told me IT HAD BEEN DONE? DID YOU KNOW THAT THEY ACTUALLY DIDN'T DO THAT??? That's why I'm here. THAT'S WHY THIS IS HAPPENING.
But I didn't say anything like that. Instead, I said, "I haven't done anything wrong."
I cried when I got out to the car. I came home and cried some more. I was exhausted. I was thoroughly, and completely, exhausted. And then it was done. Just as slowly as my life had suspended itself in those 7 days, it all of a sudden caught up to that moment in time, sitting in my driveway, with my head against my steering wheel, crying.
And just like that, it was done. Again. Or so I thought.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
13 Months!
It was so easy to document things as you went before you were 1. First tooth on this date, first genuine smile on this date. I thought walking was going to be {insert date here} and tadaa, you were officially walking.
That is not the case for this first-time mommy.
You took a few steps here and there before your first birthday. You were probably about 11 1/2 months old. But it was only a few steps. Some steps to dad, some steps away from the couch after you pulled yourself up. Walking all the way across the room pushing Mr. Lion in front of you.
I thought for sure you were going to "take off." That was not the case. Then your first birthday rolled around - more standing on your own, a few more steps. Reports from the babysitter said you were walking more and more each day. We did not see that at home - why? Because I believe in a firm difference between "walking" and "taking steps." To me, your mommy, you were still just taking steps.
And then it was more and more bravery. All of a sudden, you were taking steps across your room, which amounted to about 10, uneasy, mostly-forward steps. So does that constitute walking? I am a black and white, draw the line type of gal. This was a hard one for me!
Just recently, you've started taking even more steps - more measured, more careful, more consistent steps. But does that mean you're walking?
Now that it's reached more of a consistency, yes, I guess you could say you are walking. And then it was like someone knocked me over with a feather.
You're walking. Holy crap! Where did my projectile-pooping, hiccuping baby boy go? The one I swaddled and we let sleep on the ottoman for his naps. All of a sudden, you're able to ask for your "mom mom mom" and your "dada." Now you can say "achoo!" when I sneeze (which is adorable!) which you have been saying for ages and came out like "hets." Until one day I actually sneezed, and you said it, clear as day. You can say "hi dada" and "papa." Those b's are hard to come by, so we're working on "ball." You're getting there with "baba" but no singular "ba" so this black-and-white mama isn't buying it. We'll get there, though.
You love the outdoors. So much so that when we get home, you go right for the sliding glass door. So much so that you will stand against the front door and try with all your might to get the handle to come down just far enough to open it. And again, knock me over with a feather - you know how doors work.
You know that if you yank down hard enough on the toilet handle, you can flush the toilet, which is hilarious to watch because as soon as I am in the bathroom upstairs, you are right there, ready to flush it for me.
You can feed yourself, and well. You have figured out what you like, and what you don't like. You can hit. As in, tonight you slapped me across the face, which then led you to discover "time out."
You are down to one nap a day, which makes for one tired mommy. BUT, it's a good nap, and you're always in such a great mood after you wake up - both in the mornings and the afternoons.
You don't suck your thumb or need a pacifier - THANK GOD. I remember once watching a four-year-old cry for her "paci." Ugh. We can hold conversations with each other. I love "talking" with you, which includes a lot of grown-up words on my end, and a lot of babble on yours. But it works.
You sleep like the dead. You sleep through your dad's nail gun, you sleep through thunderstorms, and you sleep through just about anything that might be happening outside your bedroom window. You love sleep.
Tonight, in one of your crabby crying stages of the evening, I tried to put you in my lap and rock you. And you're too big. That about broke my heart - my little man is truly turning into my little man. A walking, talking, smiling, laughing, silly little man.
I love being a "mom mom mom."
That is not the case for this first-time mommy.
You took a few steps here and there before your first birthday. You were probably about 11 1/2 months old. But it was only a few steps. Some steps to dad, some steps away from the couch after you pulled yourself up. Walking all the way across the room pushing Mr. Lion in front of you.
I thought for sure you were going to "take off." That was not the case. Then your first birthday rolled around - more standing on your own, a few more steps. Reports from the babysitter said you were walking more and more each day. We did not see that at home - why? Because I believe in a firm difference between "walking" and "taking steps." To me, your mommy, you were still just taking steps.
And then it was more and more bravery. All of a sudden, you were taking steps across your room, which amounted to about 10, uneasy, mostly-forward steps. So does that constitute walking? I am a black and white, draw the line type of gal. This was a hard one for me!
Just recently, you've started taking even more steps - more measured, more careful, more consistent steps. But does that mean you're walking?
Now that it's reached more of a consistency, yes, I guess you could say you are walking. And then it was like someone knocked me over with a feather.
You're walking. Holy crap! Where did my projectile-pooping, hiccuping baby boy go? The one I swaddled and we let sleep on the ottoman for his naps. All of a sudden, you're able to ask for your "mom mom mom" and your "dada." Now you can say "achoo!" when I sneeze (which is adorable!) which you have been saying for ages and came out like "hets." Until one day I actually sneezed, and you said it, clear as day. You can say "hi dada" and "papa." Those b's are hard to come by, so we're working on "ball." You're getting there with "baba" but no singular "ba" so this black-and-white mama isn't buying it. We'll get there, though.
You love the outdoors. So much so that when we get home, you go right for the sliding glass door. So much so that you will stand against the front door and try with all your might to get the handle to come down just far enough to open it. And again, knock me over with a feather - you know how doors work.
You know that if you yank down hard enough on the toilet handle, you can flush the toilet, which is hilarious to watch because as soon as I am in the bathroom upstairs, you are right there, ready to flush it for me.
You can feed yourself, and well. You have figured out what you like, and what you don't like. You can hit. As in, tonight you slapped me across the face, which then led you to discover "time out."
You are down to one nap a day, which makes for one tired mommy. BUT, it's a good nap, and you're always in such a great mood after you wake up - both in the mornings and the afternoons.
You don't suck your thumb or need a pacifier - THANK GOD. I remember once watching a four-year-old cry for her "paci." Ugh. We can hold conversations with each other. I love "talking" with you, which includes a lot of grown-up words on my end, and a lot of babble on yours. But it works.
You sleep like the dead. You sleep through your dad's nail gun, you sleep through thunderstorms, and you sleep through just about anything that might be happening outside your bedroom window. You love sleep.
Tonight, in one of your crabby crying stages of the evening, I tried to put you in my lap and rock you. And you're too big. That about broke my heart - my little man is truly turning into my little man. A walking, talking, smiling, laughing, silly little man.
I love being a "mom mom mom."
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