We have been doing this nonsense for a year. I thought this was a call for celebration. I decided to celebrate by driving myself crazy and creating a collage of shoes. Don't ask.
Thank you for all the submissions so far and here is to another year of shoes.
Michael is in a "drama" class for 4 year olds, and they had their mid-way performance this weekend. And I found myself doing the things I promised I never would do. I compared him to the other kids in the class. Do he know his lines better or not run as well? Could he have a learning disability?
And you know what? Fuck this. It is a acting class, FOR FOUR YEAR OLDS. I'm not doing this anymore. Is he learning disabled? I DON'T KNOW, but I'm not going to find out by over analyzing a 20 minute performance at an extracurricular activity. And really, I think some of the pauses and lack of activity is the low tone, and others are the fact that 8 parents are in the room starring at him.
And maybe I'm in denial, but how much denial can you be in when you have your child in Occupational Therapy and Play Therapy and are filling out the paperwork for a school system evaluation and have seen a development pediatrician and everyone says "I don't know."
So I stopped, and recorded the video for the cuteness. Because really, it was damn cute. (And sorry for the closeup on Michael. I try hard not to post other people's kids. And don't worry, it's only about a minute. Not a full 20.)
I love fall. I love sweaters and boots and pumpkin and vanilla and cinnamon. I love fires and football. (But not the Redskins, seriously, guys, can you win a game?)
On the Sunday morning after the party, Doug decided to suck it up and do some yard work. One of the reasons Doug fought so hard against a new house was he hates, hates yard work. One of the houses we looked at had such a big yard he looked at our Realtor and said "less land." Our Realtor said, "I've never had anyone say that to me."
Michael, on the other hand, found leaf piles to be the best thing ever.
There have been moments where I have really regretted the new house. When we have been spending thousands of dollars on evaluations, when faced with the realization that my child may have to go to private school, when thinking about the fact that somehow this move contributed to the school problems.
But watching Doug cover Michael in leaves, knowing how much he loves this backyard, his "playground" as he calls it, I don't regret it for a minute.
On Saturday afternoon we hosted a housewarming party. And even though the evite (can I rage against evite for a minute? If you think you should have been invited to my housewarming, and you were not, you were. You just didn't get the evite, and I grew tired of emailing people and saying, hey did you get the evite?) specifically said no gifts, people brought gifts. Which was so nice, but unnecessary, and now I have to write thank you notes. And about a million people brought wine, without a card, so if you brought me wine, THANKS, and please tell me, BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA, and I need to send you a card.
Anyway, back to the cat and bag thing. So, most of my real life friends don't know I blog. In fact, very few of my real life friends know I blog. And they were at the party. As were my blogging friends. And the fact that hey, Jodi has a blog came up quite a few times at this event. I'm waiting for a phone call from my BFF like, "what's up with this blogging thing everyone was talking up?" Or, she hit google after the party and is reading this right now. I have no idea.
So, I think it might be time to come clean. I've already come out to my family, and a few close friends, what is a few more really?
And thank you Cory, for screaming "who is here from Twitter" at the top of your lungs. Nice.
But the party was lovely. Good wine, good food, and good friends. Except for the monsoon, when my husband had planned to grill outside. So, he indoor grilled, what can you do? The children adored Michael's playroom, and Michael shared all of his toys nicely, instead retreating to his bedroom with a few school friends and jumping on his bed. (He later told me with a "sorry, Mommy, don't be mad.") He then decided I should read books to all the kids and shuttled books from his room to the playroom that I sat in a chair and read. (A few comments about Jodi being a preschool teacher were thrown out. Um, no.) He ended the night by hysterically crying when he dropped the piggy bank someone brought him and it shattered in a million pieces. What good party does not end with a 4 year old crying?
My house has now been sufficiently warmed. Thank you for all the love.
It's sad that these raspberry patent peep-toe pumps are on their way to
Goodwill. Too pinchy. What's sadder is that I've been wearing them
for almost a whole year and have been putting up with being hobbled by
the end of the day. Slave. To. Foot Fashion.
In between ALL of the doctor's appointments, and ALL of the stress, there are times I catch my breath and think, how can a child be okay 3 months ago, and then have the whole world arupt. And I make my self remember that no matter what the outcome, diagnoses or no diagnoses, he will be okay. He IS okay.
Yesterday it was gorgeous in DC. So after school I took him for ice cream. Not because he had had a good day at school. In all honesty I have stopped asking and that is a whole other post. But just because. Because I believe ice cream can make everything better. Because he is still a litlle boy that needs to know I love him, good day or bad day.
Because we can still have fun, just because.
The last couple of nights after dinner the three of us have been running around playing flashlight tag. And it is one of the few times in the day I honestly forget everything that has been going on. We run, and laugh, and yell gotcha, and Michael is so excited when he wins and gets back to base first.
We will be okay. It may be different, we may be on a new path, but we will make it.
A year ago, I wrote this. And when I wrote it I thought somehow everything would change and nothing would be the same again. And I was right, and wrong, all at the same time.
My life is the same, and it isn't. I wear sunscreen, or sun protection clothing, all the time. I drink vitamin water because my rheumatologist recommended it, not because it is in style, and I gave up Diet Coke because the same rheumatologist said there is nothing worse for me then fake sugar. I can't function when I don't get enough sleep. I go to the doctor once a month and get my blood drawn once a month.
I know that I am very lucky, and not everyone with my diseases are as lucky as me. I can honestly say that in the past year I have had one flare and one bout of a never ending virus that ended in strep and ear infections and pink eye. I need to more scared of swine flu and seasonal flu than the average person.
I also know that I am a better, kinder, more patient person since I got sick. Lupus taught me to sweep the small stuff under the rug, something that I wasn't so good at before. Hell, I'm not so good at it now, but I'm trying. I'm getting better. I'm not sure I would trade what I have learned. Would I rather not have Lupus and Rheumatoid Arthritis and assorted other auto immune diseases? Of course. But I'm not sure who I would be then.
I've let go of the me I was before. I used to tell time by the diagnosis. Like, that was before I was diagnosed. Or, that was when when they still thought I had Lyme, before we knew I had Lupus. And now, it just is was it is. I am not planning on making this a yearly post. The Me Before is gone. I'm Me. Now.
I will reiterate what I said last year. I will have a life. I believe the mind is powerful. I believe I can refuse to be sick.
On Friday Michael had an appointment for Occupational Therapy testing that proved illuminating. While he needs some more testing, the OT believes he has low tone, and that is impacting his fine motor skills, which is impacting his ability to do things like cut and use a pencil. Since this preschool is more academic than his old preschool, he is acting out, hence the aggression. We are not going to discuss the fact that the preschool has been rallying against the behavior but never bothered to notice the can can't hold a scissor, a pencil, or sit up correctly at circle time for goodness sake. She did see what she said was some "sensory seeking behavior" but she was not sure she would diagnose him with sensory processing disorder and hey, if he is going to get OT anyway, we can just throw that in.
And that is why he never nursed. He couldn't. (Talk about finally releasing all the mommy guilt 4 YEARS LATER.) And he never crawled, he went straight to walking. And he still won't dress himself, I thought he was just being lazy, but he actually can't do buttons and snaps. And the not riding a bike, he doesn't think he can, so he won't try.
I'm hoping that this is the answer, and we can to put to bed all the ADHD, severely learning disabled concerns the school has put in my head. As for the school, I'm starting to be a little concerned they are killing his self esteem. Michael told me this weekend, "he was dumb" and "he is always a bad boy," things I has never heard him say before. I chose this school because I thought it would be a better fit for my schedule, they had a better pre-k program, and his last school BROKE HIS HAND. But hey, I'd take a broken hand over a broken spirit any day. Broken bones heal. I'm not sure how to explain it, but it is like they are slowly killing the joy inside of him. The change I have seen in him over the past month is heartbreaking.
Doug and I went to see Where The Wild Things Are this weekend, as I'm sure many of you did. And Max reminded me so much of Michael, and I think he was supposed to, I think he was cast to be the "everyboy." But it was his complete and utter sadness that reminded me of Michael. How hopeless he seemed.
I will not have that for my four year old. He is bright. He is charming. He is lovely, and sweet, and a daredevil, and has a smile that could break your heart. I need to bring that smile back. As Max says in the movie, I will be "his sadness shield." I will bring my Michael back.
I start looking at new schools today. And I'm planning on a conversation with his current school as well. Michael will be okay. I'm just not sure I'm ever going to recover. I absolutely cannot watch this without sobbing.
Have I told you lately how much I love you? Because really, you guys? Between the emails, the tweets, the comments? You guys rock. Every comment, every email. I'm not sure I could have survived this before the blog. This is why I started jodifur. For the response on posts like this. Because I was jumping off the deep end, and there you all were, ready to catch me.
And poor Mir. How can you not love Mir. She thought she offended me by the mere suggestion that hey, maybe I should listen to the school, maybe there is something there? And no, no, no. I was not offended. And yes, yes, yes. I get it. Michael's behavior in school is not normal. So, just this week we have a pediatrician appointment and an OT evaluation. I have made a development pediatrician appointment (for February, but what can you do?), and called our county's early intervention services. His therapist will observe him in school AND talk to last years teachers. We will figure this thing out. Maybe it is the school, maybe he has every learning disability known to man. The truth, unfortunately, will probably lie somewhere in the middle.
After my breakdown over the weekend, which involved everything from us pulling Michael from the school immediately to Michael never being able to be Bar Mitzvaed (one of my best friends is a rabbi, she quashed that one), I realized that it was not the information they were presenting to me that was the problem. Could Michael have ADHD? Sure. Could he have SPD? Maybe. But I can not express the sheer ridiculousness of some of their statements "Michael will never make it in public school but will never qualify for early intervention services." Huh? How does that even make sense?
I have stepped away from google and stepped into the light. We will figure this thing out. Burying my head in the sand and pretending there are no problems gets me no where. But let's figure out what the problem is before we jump off the deep end again.
At least, that is what I tell myself in the middle of the night when I have my deepest scariest, "how am I going to do this?" thoughts creep in. My "I only have one child why can't he be okay?" pity party moments.
I still don't even know what this is. And he is okay. And really, I even want me to shut up.
I hope it is nothing. I want it to be nothing. I want the school to just be a "bad fit." But if it is not, we have to get him help. I can't deny him that because I'm too busy being mad at the school to admit the truth.
