I like to make soup. I am a little nuts.
How about some lighter, summer fare?
Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, I looked down at the geek’s feet. He was wearing cargo shorts and black socks.
“Um, did you wear those to Myles’ soccer game?”
Smirk.
“Yeah, why?”
“BLACK SOCKS AND SHORTS IS FOR 80-YEAR-OLD MEN!!!”
“Really? I thought it was hip!”
Yes, my nerdlet. The only thing that would have been hipper is if you had replaced your shoes with sandals.
Sweet.
It has a name. At least part of it does.
Sensory Integration Dysfunction.
Big scary name, but basically, Simon’s nervous system does not function normally. He can’t sense the space around him as well as other kids. He doesn’t feel things like other kids. He gets overstimulated easily, but his system also craves sensory stimulation. Confusing, right? Just think how confused he is most of the time! Combined with his gimpy eye, it’s a wonder he can walk, let alone ride a bike, run or jump.
As we listened to the consultant describe what kids with SID experience, and how their behavior correlates, a lightbulb went off in my head. Suddenly, I get it. Everything makes sense.
The tantrums are still frustrating. I am still tired of the hitting, biting and hair-pulling. But I’m no longer frustrated with him.
He’s doing the best he can, most of the time.
It’s treatable, especially since we caught it at a young age. Therapy should help.
We’re certain he has SID. All autistic people have SID. Not all people with SID have autism. We’ll know if it’s both in a few months, but for now I’m happy to have some answers, and hopeful he’s on the road to being a happier little kid.
I wrote about it more over here: blogs.twincities.com/dailyjuggle.
Yesterday, I stayed home with a sick Simon.
Fever put a slight damper on his usual manic qualities, and he actually sat next to me, allowed himself to be covered with a blanket and watched an entire television show.
It was 20 minutes long, but still! 20 whole minutes of mommy-toddler cocoon, and the best part — the best part! — was that he let me hold his hand and stroke his pudgy little fingers.
I softly ran my fingers over the top of his hand, and I noticed he has a little freckle just at the base of his ring finger.
That freckle just about killed me.
By three years old, I knew every inch of the other two’s bodies. I had stroked, tickled and kissed every part of them. I knew every freckle, mole and blemish.
But even getting Simon to cooperate with a diaper change is difficult. He never sits down long enough to be examined by his mommy’s curious fingers.
Makes me wonder what other cuteness I’m missing.
It occurs to me, as I’m waiting for a late-night pizza, that I’ve not seen karaoke in a LONG time.
A cute, young, black man croons to some non-descript r&B/rap song. He’s off-tune, but not as much as his smiley, spikey-haired counterpart. His dimples sell the song, so no matter, along with his tight-fitting designer jeans, which gyrate and thrust to the music …
Next up, a curly-haired duo, probably sisters.
“Everybody go sandbagging today?” the one on the left yells. There’s a loud “woo!” in response before they break into a monotone verson of “Just What I Needed.”
A middle-aged balding man in outdated round, gold, wire-rimmed glasses offers a flat rendition of “Leroy Brown” that’s just, well, karaoke. And it’s not good, dawg.
College girls text in the corner, nodding their heads in tune with the music, definitely a new addition to the bar scene since I”ve been a part of it.
Something that isn’t? Some desperate dude asking my name and whether I’m there alone. Guess I still got it.
Preface: Before lunch, he was outside. He came in soaked from puddle-stomping, despite rain pants and boots. I took off his soggy socks. He wanted dry socks, but I (somehow) talked him into eating barefoot. I told him we’d put on fresh socks after lunch.
Me: Simon, let’s go take a nap!
Him: NOOOO! Runs over and smacks his sister, who is dilligently coloring a butterfly cutout, on the head. She starts screaming. I try to grab him. He darts away, into the dining room. I corner him there. I try to pick him up, but he’s gone limp in protest, and he’s too damn heavy. I’m going to have to bring out the sweet-talk.
Walking up the stairs, sing-songy: Siimoooon! I’m going up to see the Millennium Falcon! And read Goodnight Moon! I bet you can’t find the red balloon!
He’s intrigued. Walking toward the stairs. He’s there! I show him his bottle. Here’s your bottle! Come on, bud! I’m backing up the stairs, shaking it in front of him. He gets two stairs up before he flips onto his back and starts screaming and banging his head.
Bottle! Millennium Falcon! Come on, tiger. Let’s go! Do you want me to carry you?
Carry me! I start back down the stairs. Nooo! I sit down, defeated, sigh and get up again.
Come on, Simon! Let’s go read books. Please? If I can just get him upstairs … I walk toward his room. He’s following me!
I wait for him in his room, sitting on the rocking chair. He stands outside the door, still silently protesting.
In the great green room, there was a telephone … Do you know where the telephone is? He points. Ha! Got him!
And a red balloon … Where’s the red balloon? Points again. I try to pull him up on my lap. He goes limp, slithering off my legs.
Socks! I want socks!
OK! I reach into the drawer and pull out a pair. I lean over, grab a pudgy foot and try to stuff it into a sock.
Noooo!!!!
No socks? OK. No socks.
I want socks!!!! I bend over again.
Noooo!!! My patience is wearing thin. I wrestle the socks onto his feet. He inspects them for a while; decides the socks are acceptable.
And a picture of … the cow jumping over the moon! He’s still standing a few feet away from me. He starts grunting.
Simon, did you go poop?
Yes, change me.
OK. I lift him to the changing table. He kicks me in the face. I ignore it, take his pants off.
Put my pants on! I want the brown pants!! The brown pants!!
Simon, you were wearing the brown pants, and I’ll put them back on as soon as I change you.
Noooo!!!! The brown pants! He pauses, thinking for a moment. The gray pants! I want the gray pants!
The gray pants are dirty.
The brown pants!
These are brown pants. I wrestle them back on. See? They’re cool brown pants! They even have a little pocket! I rip open the velcro on his cargo pocket and crab a tiny car from the carpet. I try to put it in the pocket. Mistake!
Noooo!!!! I want to put THIS car in the pocket! The truck he’s holding is twice as big as the pocket.
Simon, that one won’t fit. Should we find a different small car?
No!! This one!
It won’t fit, Simon. Let’s finish reading Goodnight Moon. He grabs his blanket and reluctantly climbs onto my lap. We finish the book.
OK, Simon, one song.
I’m a little tiger, and my mommy loves me …
Big blue truck!
I’m a big blue truck and my mommy loves me, I’m a big blue truck and my mommy loves me. When she tucks me in and says goodnight …
Big black truck! This game continues until we’ve exhausted five or six vehicles.
OK, Simon, time for bed! I plop him in his crib.
Superbear! Where’s Superbear’s cape? Where’s the CAPE? Where’s the cape?!?! I pluck the red satin cape from the floor and affix it to Superbear’s skin-tight leotard. Simon smiles. I cover him with the yellow blanket and the green blanket, and leave the white blanket by his head.
Here, I’ll read the trucks book, then it’s time to go to sleep. I flash the pictures in front of his face as he begins to relax. Big rig, dump truck, car transporter … I finish the book and start out the door. See you later alligator! After while, crocodile!
NOTHER BOOK! NOTHER BOOOOOOK!!!!!
I knew this was coming. I grab a few books from the table. OK. One more. Do you want the tow truck or the train book?
Tow truck!
I sigh and begin reading. I’m a big tow truck, and I like to help people …
I read the train book, too. I can’t stop thinking of how patient his dad is, how he always gets Simon to go to sleep without tears. Finally, it’s time to cut him off. Good night Simon! See you later Alligator.
NOOO!!! He’s definitely going to cry himself to sleep again. NOTHER BOOK! NOTHER BOOOOOOK!! He’s sobbing as I shut the door.
I go down the stairs and shut the door to the second floor. I stumble to my bed, put my hands over my face and try not to scream. I should probably go see the artwork Clare’s working on, but I really need to be alone right now.
So Simon is in special ed. I’m fine with, even happy about it.
His speech is improving. His fine motor skills are coming along nicely.
And today, we moved one step closer to correcting his crossed eyes.
So why do I spend so much time sighing?
Because his behavior, the thing that has frustrated us most, has not improved. He still hits, kicks, bites and head butts everyone he knows and even some people he doesn’t.
He bit his day care teacher so hard she got a round purple bruise punctuated by little tooth-mark hyphens. She was in his personal space.
He stabbed our beloved cat with a screwdriver as he was wheezing out some of his final breaths. The cat was the center of attention at the time.
Something is not right. I’ve tried everything I can think of. We have figured out some things, such as yelling never helps, even to get him to stop doing something that could hurt him. For instance if I yell, “HOT!” as he’s reaching for the stovetop, he’ll rush his hand there all the faster.
If he accidentally hits his head on, say, the kitchen countertop, he’ll lash out and bang his head some more on the floor. I don’t dare try to comfort him in that situation. He’ll head butt or bite me for sure.
We’re constantly walking on eggshells. The other kids are getting shortchanged. The geek and I are bickering over really stupid things.
So yesterday, I called Fraser, a center moms of special-needs kids seem to worship. He’s on a waiting list to be evaluated for Autism. That’s not to say I am certain that’s what it is, or even that the Fraser people think that. It could be something else entirely. But I want someone to tell me what it is, and I WANT HELP. I don’t know how to handle him. If he continues like this, he can’t possibly function in the real world.
I hope it’s something I’m doing wrong. I hope someone can tell me what to do better. But my gut says it’s something more.
I hear all the time about parents who are in denial, who don’t want to hear that something might be wrong with their child. Honestly, I have to believe those people are few, because right now, in the thick of it, I would do anything to find out how to help him. He’s frustrated and angry all the time. So are we. I want us all to be happy, and I really don’t care what it takes. If it means someone has to throw a label on him, fine. So be it. Label the hell out of him. Just help me help him, please.
But hey, it’s not all dark clouds and death around here! Check out the new kitty — he purrs and purrs and plays and he’s super-duper soft and yay! I think we all needed something cute and cuddly, and we found him. His name is Harry.
Meow.
So as I sat in the newsroom, listening to the words, “I just don’t know when it will stop,” I started thinking. Thinking about how until now, I really thought everything was going to be OK. I thought we’d get out of it somehow. Sometimes, being an optimist is a liability.
For now, everything is OK. But when does the bleeding stop? When does a few layoffs and a week unpaid for the rest of us turn into NO JOBS AT ALL?
The more businesses close, the more advertisers we lose. There are readers on the Web, for sure, and we need to learn to make money from that. But if no one can afford to advertise at all, then what’s to be done? How do we get paid? Who signs my check?
And besides the jobs, I worry incessantly about what happens if there is no journalism. I mean, there will be bloggers — but most of them are not professionals. They have no one to report to — no one to hold them accountable for producing the most unbiased article possible.
Honestly, I don’t want to live in a country without a press corps. We keep people honest. Politicians, cops, everyday people DON’T DO THINGS, bad things, because they don’t want us to find out about it.
We’re shrinking, we’re losing faith, we’re losing will. Somebody, make it stop.
On the upside (yes, of course there has to be one), I have a feeling that I’m going to learn lots of money-saving tactics, a la my grandmother who lived through a depression.
And hopefully, my grandkids can make fun of me for saving buttons, darning socks on a lightbulb and washing out baggies. Oh, who am I kidding, I will never darn socks.
Things may not be perfect, but his dream, it is pretty close to reality. I’m not sure even King would have dared to dream we’d come this far this quickly. Watch this today. Feel proud of your nation.
It’s been a while, I know. Adjusting to this new schedule has been much harder than I thought it would be. I spent my entire adult life working the night shift, so I guess it shouldn’t be surprising that getting straight to work in the morning is a challenge.
I spend way too many nights staying up late, then cursing the alarm clock in the morning. I can’t figure out how to fit in exercise and blogging. My house is messier, even though we spend less time here. I’m working on all these things and have some ideas to fix them, especially since it’s January, the traditional time to attempt to reinvent myself.
That said, I really like my new job. And I will adjust – it’s just happening slower than I had hoped.
In other news, Simon is starting special ed on Wednesday. He adores his new teacher (and so do I), and I think he can catch up in time for kindergarten (and so does she). He’s becoming less of a pain every day, but there’s still something different about him. He flips from happy to enraged without any warning. He hits playmates, siblings, teachers and us when he’s frustrated. There are other things, too, that I hope this program can help us with. So he’s riding the short bus.
And, oh yeah, we just noticed he has a lazy eye. He will see a specialist in a few weeks — probably to have surgery. So at least he won’t be the kid with the lazy eye who rides the short bus. Oy.
I’d really like to start writing here again. I miss the free form of it, and it’s cathartic. But I’m not making any promises.
Happy New Year!
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