Kid Amnesiac

More and more, Simon resembles the 10-11 month old babies described in What to Expect the First Year. This may sound alarming given that he’s over 18 months old, but the reverse is actually true. Those babies were supposed to be in constant motion-pulling up, knocking things over, grabbing things off tables, and generally making messes and getting into trouble. Meanwhile, Simon contentedly sat and played with his books and blocks.

By now, thank goodness, we are into our fifth week of constant motion. Simon spends a large chunk of each day doing all the messy, active things I expected him to last fall. He stands as often as he sits, and he divides his locomotion nearly evenly between butt-scooting, crawling, and cruising. Crawling is the newest piece to this puzzle, and it’s a welcome one as I know it is helping Simon build some much needed upper body strength and increase his coordination.

Tonight he finally put all his new skills together to master a new task: he climbed several stairs. I’ve been working on this for a week or so, and he’s gotten up one step to my landing a few times in the last 2-3 days. Tonight, though, he did a full climb up about four steps. Then we had to call it a night and put him to bed.

But not before we took a few pictures!

Any pregnant woman aged 35 or over is considered medically “geriatric”. When I first had this term leveled at me, I thought it very funny. After all, if being called geriatric allowed me to pick my preferred doc as my primary OBGYN (he takes the high risk cases), allowed me amniocentesis, and sent me home with a hilarious magazine called “Plum,” who was I to complain? From what I could see, my 36-year-old self was doing just as well as-nay, better than-a huge percentage of pregnant women a decade younger than me.

Post baby, I felt nearly the same. I recovered fine. I handled the sleep deprivation better than most. I didn’t seem to be any slower than the other moms on the playground. Thanks to a liberal dollop of color planted on my head every two months or so, I may even look nearly as young as I feel. Who you calling “geriatric”?

Then something funny happened. One day, without warning or precedent, I found myself a bit queasy after swinging next to Simon at the park. Hm. Must have been a bit dehydrated that day. Then it happened again. Hm. Must have eaten something that didn’t sit right. Then it happened again. Hm. Must be nausea resulting from these stupid allergies that have stuck around for so long. Then it happened again. Hm. Have I started getting motion sick from swinging? That would be new.

Let’s Google it. Oh geez. I now have a “vestibular balance disorder”, something pretty common in older folks, usually appearing in people over 40. In other words, my inner ear ain’t what it used to be and therefore my equilibrium is going downhill.

Well holy —! My mom gets terrible motion sickness and always has. My oldest brother has problems in the back seat of cars and always has. I seemed to have dodged this bullet, and took full advantage of my ability to read on planes, trains, automobiles, and MUNI. It never occurred to me that my status might change with age. Not once.

I really do enjoy swinging, so I’ll miss that during my park visits. But what really gets my goat is that I’m 38 years and 4 months old right now. Did the universe not read the fine print? I’m not due for an age related vestibular balance disorder for 20 more months.

Nearly all the moms I knew in San Francisco and Berkeley-the ones a generation older than me-had a similar story to tell about boys and dolls. All these moms grew up in the progressive 60s and 70s and swore they’d work to overcome rigid gender divisions in their kids. Moms would be seen having meaningful work, dads would be seen doing their part in the house, and boys and girls would each be given dolls and trucks to play with.

To their amazement, all these well intentioned parents then sat back and watched their girls rush for the dolls and boys rush for trucks. All the moms of boys reported having unloved dolls to then dispense with-the detritus of a grand experiment in gender neutral child rearing.

Given these stories-which even make it into several child-rearing books-I never bothered to get Simon a doll. He’s got stuffed animals that he likes, but I never pushed it past that. The thought occurred to me a few times: when I’d read about a pediatrician modeling his exam on a doll before approaching his patient or when milestone check-lists would say “can feed a doll”, for example. I’ve even thought that getting a modern Dapper Dan might be good way to teach Simon to dress and undress and finagle buttons and zippers. Something like Haba’s Phil the Doll would do nicely.

But each time I’d consider a doll, the cautionary tale of discarded dolls would enter my mind. “Forget about it,” I’d think. “Why throw good money away?”

Derby eve, friends David and Lisa came over with their 2 ½ year old daughter Sophie. Sophie brought her doll, and was kind enough to share her towards the end of the night. Simon loved it! He held the doll, cradled the doll, and carried the doll around. And unlike with his stuffed animals, he never tossed the doll aside or threw her. Nope, he modeled gentle, caring behavior throughout.

Was this a fluke? Shall I bring Phil home to live with us? Stay tuned.

Just a few days ago, I said in passing to Matt that one day we should find a connection, spend a ton of cash, and buy tickets to the Derby. I’m from here, after all, so it seems like a reasonable thing to do one day.

Or not. I’m pretty sure I’ve just watched my last thoroughbred race-Derby or not, televised or live. It’s a brutal sport, and I’m done. About 30 minutes ago, Eight Belles, the filly who finished second, broke both ankles when she crossed the wire and had to be put down on the track. And so came the painful end to a magnificent and sensitive creature.

Two years ago, Kentucky Derby champion Barbaro pulled up in the Preakness, shattered a leg, and was put down after several months and several surgeries. And so went another painful end to another magnificent and sensitive creature.

The thing is, my love of thoroughbreds and enjoyment of the race was a bit of willful ignorance on my part, and I can’t help but feel that my bluff has been called. I know the physiology of thoroughbreds makes them extremely fragile. I know at three they are too young to be run the way they are. I know they run their races too close together. I know many are run too often when they are unwell and suffer tremendously. I know a dirt track is dangerous. I knew all of this, yet I continued to watch the Derby as though it were somehow exempt from this reality. Like I said: willful ignorance and a chance to fit in among my fellow Kentuckians for at least a few minutes every year. That and the fact that I find these animals a beauty to behold. I rarely bet or follow the odds; I just like to admire these horses up close.

Before the race today, I stood Simon up in front of an ottoman and had him watch. I also said out loud, “I don’t care who wins, I just hope everyone is OK at the end.” Thank goodness Simon didn’t understand what he saw. I, on the other hand, knew exactly what was on the screen before me, and no amount of pretty dresses, elaborate hats, or trumpet calls could cloak it.

The thing is, by now I should be an expert at not fitting in-I don’t expect that throwing one more oddity into the mix will matter that much. And hey, if the day ever comes that they run Clydesdales on fake turf for the Derby, I’ll be right back.

[Coda, May 4: I just read Jane Smiley in the Times. She's a big thoroughbred fan and an ambivalent racing fan. She says Unbridleds (Unbridled was Eight Belles Grand Sire) are notoriously fearless and therefore unsound, and she thinks Eight Belles probably hurt herself trying to beat a stronger horse. She just would not give up no matter what. Maybe. Or it could be that these horses are, in one expert's words, "genetic mistakes." Regardless, she also pointed out that European horses run longer races, only sprint at the end, do so when they are older, and race on polytrack. Their "breakdown rate"--and how convenient a euphemism there to not have to say "death rate" is significantly lower.  Heck, just installing polytrack cut the rate down by as much as 80% in Southern California.

You hear that Churchill Downs? You can save 75%-80% of these glorious animals if you ditch tradition and install polytrack. Ditch the dirt already.]

… And Simon has qualified for physical therapy in the First Steps program. He had his assessment today, and I learned much about him from the fabulous therapist, Beth, who came to our house.

In some areas, I learned what I already knew. He’s on track linguistically, he’s very social, and his cognition is fine overall. He is, of course, quite late in his gross motor skills, operating where an average child of 9-11 months would.

Then there were two huge surprises. The first is that Simon’s gross motor delay is affecting his fine motor skills, which used to be ahead but are no longer. Simon can’t scribble the way he’d like to, and he struggles with squares in the shape sorter and sitting up posts in pegboard, all because his underdeveloped upper body isn’t providing the strength or agility he needs to rotate and balance objects.

The next big surprise was that Simon’s delayed locomotion has had an effect on his cognition. When Beth put a wash cloth on top of a ring, Simon knew to lift the cloth to get the ring. When she put a wash cloth on top of a ring and laid down a second cloth beside it, he knew which cloth to lift up to get the ring. But when she laid down the ring, covered it with a cloth and put a second cloth down beside it, and then reversed their positions, Simon consistently reached for the wrong cloth. Beth explained to me that this level of understanding only develops when a baby has been mobile for a certain amount of time-longer than Simon has been mobile.

Beth pin-pointed several reasons for Simon’s delay:

1. His reflux prevented us from giving him adequate tummy time, and the Back to Sleep campaign prevented him from getting comfortable in that position at times the reflux was better.
2. His body shape is working against him. Simon is rather tall, which raises his center of gravity. He is lean, which also makes him less grounded. He had an ill-timed growth spurt just as he was getting mobile. And he has a large head, which throws off his balance completely. You could call these combined features a biomechanical storm of delay.
3. Genetics are working against him. I was a butt-scooter and a late walker. Matt was always a bit uncoordinated (yes, more than me). Since butt-scooting delays bilaterial coordination and he wasn’t destined to be super-coordinated to begin with, he got hit from both sides.

Wrap all these together, and it’s really no wonder that he is delayed. So what do do? I will learn more when I have my IFSP meeting next week and therapy begins. (Thanks for the explanation, Beth! You were right.) Until then, I’ve been given a few tips:

1. Move objects further apart so he has to get more adventurous in his cruising.
2. Have him hold on to a stuffed animal or towel that I hold instead of my hands, so he’ll have to power himself more.
3. Weigh down the push-toy he has so it moves slower on the hard-wood. The more he uses this toy, the better, as it encourages confidence and independence in walking.
4. When Simon walks holding on to my hands, I should kneel down so his hands are at chest or waist height-not over his head.
5. We should put him in wheelbarrow position regularly; when he’s strong enough he can then “walk” on his hands and develop better muscle tone.

At times like this, it’s hard not to engage in a bit of Monday morning quarterbacking. Should I have been firmer about tummy time? Should we have intervened earlier? Was I too cavalier or nonchalant about Simon’s delay? Beth mentioned that she would have liked to have tried Simon on a wedge for tummy time (she says bolsters do little good if any), and that she would not have been happy with his level of cruising (nearly non-existent) at fifteen months.

On the other hand, he’s happy, he’s social, he’s smart enough for now, he’s eager to develop, and Beth doesn’t think it will take long to catch him up. I hope she’s right. Simon’s preschool begins mid-August, giving us exactly three and a half months to get him where he needs to be.

Let’s roll!