Hello! Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I myself was starting to believe the hype, and that---coupled with several folks telling me of confirmed flu cases around here lately---sent me off to my doctor to make sure I didn't have the plague, or anything. The good news is that I don't have the flu! So that's excellent. On the other hand, this is the first time I've had an ear infection without knowing it. That seems like it could be a neat party trick, somehow, but actually the reason I didn't know is because I also have a sinus infection, and as my ENTIRE HEAD has been...
Monkey is terribly interested in imprinting. Specifically, he finds it unfair that Licorice "knows" I am her mommy, but that she also seems to find Chickadee a suitable stand-in in the event of my absence. Monkey, however, is clearly forever a puppy in her mind, and this bothers him. Chickadee or I can reach into Licorice's mouth and extract even the tastiest treat without a hint of protest, but if Monkey approaches when she wants to be left alone she gives him a little "lay off, kid" growl. "Someday I'll be adult-sized!" he complains. "She'll have to act like I'm big, then!" "Oh, I don't...
Part of what we do as parents is walk a constant tightrope between what makes our kids comfortable and what makes them grow. I think we all do it. It's such a delicate balance to strike, under the best of circumstances, and what I'm learning with my son is that his particular tightrope is thirty stories up. And occasionally lit on fire. And I'm on it, trying not to fall off. In Monkey's case, he has a specific set of social and behavioral challenges, right? And we desperately want to help him overcome those challenges. But a lot of things are hard for him that just aren't for me or Otto or...
Otto and I were discussing work, and somehow the conversation worked around to the sorts of things I talk about when I go give guest lectures or speak on a panel or whatever. My darling daughter---who probably wonders why anyone would VOLUNTARILY subject themselves to me droning on and on---asked what people usually want from me when I'm asked to speak somewhere. "Well," I said, "it usually boils down to them wanting to know how to start a blog that people will actually want to read." "That's EASY!" she said, throwing her hands in the air with the absurdity of it all. "You just tell them to...
My children were born a little over eighteen months apart, which means that it has been very easy for most of their lives to treat them similarly. I mean, those early days were the most different, I suppose, when Monkey wanted nothing more than to nurse while Chickadee wanted nothing more than to be read that same book againagainAGAINMAMAAGAIN! But for the most part, they're nearly the same age, right? They've always had the same bedtime. They get the same allowance. Obviously there are differences: Because they're not the same gender, because they have different classes and different...
The setting: Our kitchen table. The time: Any given night around 6:15 or so. The preset: Food on table, I open my mouth and yell "DINNER!" because I'm classy and stuff. And... begin scene. "Where is Monkey?" "Bathroom." "Didn't he hear me call dinner?" "Yeah, that's why he went to the bathroom." "Do you think that he'll ever go BEFORE I call dinner?" "Do you really want me to answer that?" "No, nevermind." "Whose book is this?" "It's mine." "Why is it here?" "Because I didn't take it upstairs yet. BECAUSE I CAME WHEN YOU CALLED DINNER. LIKE A GOOD CHILD." "Uh huh. Please take it up after...
I realized at some point this week that I haven't written very much about Monkey, lately. I'm not sure why that is. I think that since his official Asperger's diagnosis I've felt conflicted. I felt relief to know what we already knew, but sadness for him to be saddled with a label. I felt hopeful that people who might be able to help him now had a handle on his needs, but wariness about the assumptions that might be made about him by those less than loving. For a while he was still having a hard time with everything, and it was just too difficult to talk about, too painful to say, "He's my...
My children are hoarders. I mean, not Prime Time Special, bring in the forklift kind of hoarders, but hoarders nonetheless. Every item that comes into the house is the most wondrous [insert category of object here], and every drawing is sacred, and every graded test a reminder of a more halcyon time. I have to remove outgrown clothing under cover of darkness or create an elaborate diversion during the day ("Hey, look! Is that a big sign that says FREE COOKIES?"), lest the wailing and gnashing of teeth commence. Otto is meticulous and organized, and while he has a vast quantity of STUFF,...
My baby would forgive me if she ended up going blind because I couldn't figure out what the hell her various eye care professionals were smoking, right? I'm sure she would. I mean, it's not like she's ever mad at me about things that aren't even my fault, or like she overreacts to the smallest provocation, or... HAHAHAHAAAAAAA. Holy crap, I'm doomed. I may as well hand her a voodoo doll and a white cane for her birthday this year, I think. Perhaps it's my fault. (Oh, who am I kidding? OF COURSE it's my fault.) I should've taken her to her last eye appointment. But the yearly trek into...
