Kid Amnesiac

We might just have a Southpaw on our hands. Matt and I have noticed for several months that Simon prefers to throw with his left hand. In fact, if we hand him a ball in his right hand or he catches a ball in his right hand, he will usually transfer it to his left before throwing it. He also holds a spoon in his left hand and better manipulates toys in his left hand. My mom noticed just last week that he can get coins in his piggy bank easily using his left hand, but can’t accomplish the same task using his right hand alone.

This may carry over to footedness as well. I’ve noticed that when Simon goes to “walk” up or down stairs (when he no longer needs help, I’ll drop the quote marks), he raises his left foot first. I haven’t consistently done all the usual tests or done some of the tests at all. We haven’t, say, seen which eye he stares through a tube with.

I assumed pretty much until Friday that this was just a stage he was going through. After all, at a year he did everything with his right hand. But Amy informed me at our session on Friday that handedness can become evident by around 18 months, and that Simon’s nearly uniform preference for his left side may well indicate that he’s left handed. In other words, while it would not be surprising if he switched hand dominance in the next few months or even years, it’s more likely that he’s a lefty.

I’m torn on this. On the con side, there’s the fact that while we no longer “beat” left-handedness out of people or consider it a sign of evilness or sorcery, it’s still easier to be a righty in this world. Whether you are sitting at a dinner party, learning to write, or using shared office and school equipment, it’s inconvenient to be left-handed.

On the pro side, it’s one more thing for me to have fun researching, and if it sticks around, it might make Simon a more formidable opponent on the tennis court. Or in the boxing ring, but I can’t bring myself to even imagine that possibility.

And why might Simon be a lefty? I don’t think anyone really knows, but every theory out there has some support in our situation.

• Maternal age: Left-handed children are much more common among older mothers. A 40-year old woman is 128% more likely to give birth to a left-handed baby than a woman in her twenties. I was nearly 37 when I had Simon. This may be because of an increased likelihood of having a difficult pregnancy or arduous delivery. It could also be because older moms are more likely to have varying hormone levels during pregnancy, and left-handedness may be triggered by testosterone.
• Genetics: Left-handedness runs in families. My father (born, notably, to an older mother himself) is left handed, as was my maternal great-grandfather. I’m not sure about the Whitworths, but I seem to recall a mention of lefties in their ranks, too.
• Gender: Males are much more likely to be left-handed than females. Simon is a boy all right. His current obsession with trucks, busses, and anything loud with an engine is making that quite clear each day.
• Birth order: Lefties are much more likely to be first-born or sixth born or later. Hormone fluctuations are more common in first and late pregnancies than middle ones. Simon is my first born.
• Brain damage: Let’s hope not. But there is also a correlation between brain trauma suffered in utero or during a difficult birth and left-handedness. Similarly, a disproportionate number of people with mental retardation are left handed. Simon D-celled a lot when he was being born and gulped down amniotic fluid during delivery, but I don’t think any of that amounts to brain damage. I’m going to pretend I didn’t find that tid-bit! Some studies list trauma such as difficulty breathing at birth as a cause of left-handedness and a sign that there are “pathological” left-handed people who are separate from “genetic”ones. This does make me wonder if Simon’s early need for oxygen might constitute mild damage.

Other than that last point, it’s all good. In fact, at least one professor who researches the topic argues that left-handed people historically accomplish more than their right-handed counterparts and that their brains are structured differently in a way that widens their range of abilities.

Having a little genius on my hands sounds swell and all, but there is a significant catch. IF Simon inherits my handwriting abilities; and IF we adjust my handwriting for being male and left-handed; THEN we have Ivan Goldstein’s handwriting on our hands, which may well be the worst handwriting recorded in history. (Mine is a close second; and is equally bad in English print, English cursive, Hebrew, and cuneiform. I have yet to find a written language in which my hand is legible.) Therefore, any left-handed-related increase in Simon’s academic abilities will likely be offset by his teachers’ total inability to decipher his scrawl.

Then again, he may start using his right hand tomorrow!

About eight months ago, I got my first clue that Simon might benefit from spending more time around other babies and toddlers. We were visiting friends in Boston, their daughter was in a “mine” phase, and Simon had no idea what to do when she took a toy from him other than suck in his lower lip and cry. It was dispiriting.

Our good intentions never materialized into more play, though, because neither Matt nor I could figure out how to work and find playgroups at the same time-especially when it was dark by five, too cold or wet to go out most days, and we saw few other children when we did get out. As a result, we all watched fall and winter go by from the confines of our cozy little bubble.

Then, about a month ago, I got to the chapter on 18-month-olds in Touchpoints, and good old T. Berry hammered home the point that at this age, regular play with peers becomes important. I heard T. Berry loud and clear, but I still couldn’t figure out how to do this when I work 10-3 or so four days a week while Simon is home with a sitter. It seems to me that working full time with Simon in day-care or working no-time with me available mid-day for play groups would both allow for more peer play than our otherwise ideal present arrangement does.

The final straw came two weeks ago when Simon was evaluated by his physical therapist for First Steps. Amy offhandedly commented that if Simon were in day-care with a bunch of kids literally running him over, he’d be up and walking by now. At home with us, he’s just not feeling the pressure.

Amy didn’t say this to criticize me. In fact, she quickly added that First Steps goes to day care centers all the time, and that those kids can have their own issues crop up. “Believe me, she said, my new one starts day care in a few weeks, and I’d be happier doing what you are doing.”

Perhaps she saw the fear in my eyes and that’s what prompted her confessional. I’ll never know, but I do know that her assessment made me seriously question whether I have been doing right by Simon for the first time in a long, long while. Would he be better off in day care? If I’m going to be home, do I need to be home full-time so we can get out and join play-groups? Am I enjoying the convenience and luxury of my work arrangement at his expense? The thought, code as it was for “Am I a bad mother?” set me on edge.

Thankfully, I don’t hear that voice in my head very often. Equally thankfully, summer has arrived, making it easier to get out these days. I took Simon to a play group last Friday and managed to appear chipper enough even though I am a full decade older than most of the other moms there. Simon got into the swing of things eventually, but he spent the first forty minutes literally holding on to my shirt and watching the others play from the sidelines. That, too, was dispiriting, but in keeping with his shy demeanor at playgrounds this spring.

Finally, two of the other six kids left, and Simon warmed up enough to sit in the sandbox and make a happy mess. He also managed to play ball with a boy his age and climb up and down the stairs a bunch of times. Baby steps all.

But he was happiest with me and one of the other moms, and I realize that from now until preschool in the fall I will need to heed the wise T. Berry and not just read him and make excuses. It’s not just that I think Simon needs the pressure to walk, but also that if does get up in time for preschool, it’s going to be a rough first week if he’s totally unused to being surrounded by his peers. It’s great that he loves adults so much, but the kids will outnumber the grownups at KI preschool! So the new rule, no excuses, is playgroups twice a week. Whatever inconvenience this brings me should be more than offset by quieting the questioning voice within.

We’re hearing a lot of this in our house these days. Most of the time, though, it’s funnier than it is annoying, possibly because Simon is so enthralled with the word that he says it to mean many, many things. Consider these uses:

“No-o-o?” (slow, with intonation up at end, vowel halfway between an “o” and a “u”). We here this when after a string of negatives, we ask Simon something where the expected response would be yes. As in, “Simon, do you want a cookie?” “No-o-o?”

“No-o!” (faster, with intonation up at end, entire thing said in higher voice than the first) This one means yes. “Simon, would you like to swing?” “No-o!”

“No” (said softly, intonation down at end). This “no” is a random syllable, thrown into conversation that way many might use “like” or “um”. We here this one a lot when Simon reads to himself; it most often comes between long streams of babble and the words “light” or “ball.”

“Oh no” Another favorite combination, and another that isn’t always negative. Simon might say “oh no” after a fall, but he’s just as likely to say it as part of casual observation.

“No” (said a bit more loudly, and with the vowel closer to “ow” as in “wow”) This is an expression of wonderment often, and may even be “wow”, except that’s not a word Matt or I use very often. We hear this when Simon is animated about something or is explaining something very important to us.

“No!” (said quickly, with medium intensity). This means “no” for sure, but it doesn’t have much force behind it. When we hear this, we know we can impose our will with few repercussions.

“Noooo!” (said very loudly and lingering on the vowel). The grand-daddy of them all. This one sounds like the tekiah gadola shofar blast or the way Jorge Ramos or Andres Cantor call “gooooool” in Spanish language soccer broadcasts. When Simon says “no” loudly and holds on to the vowel for as long as he can-he is expressing toddler defiance and fury at its most textbook. We don’t always comply when we here this, but we know we’re in for a fight before forging ahead in the face of it.

When faced with a torrent toddler negativity, typically accompanied by copious thrashing and whining, I usually muster up my patience and think of the wise words from T. Berry Brazelton. I try to understand where Simon is coming from and work to calm him down or simply leave the room to let him work through it on his own.

But yesterday, I’m afraid an hour of wall-to-wall “no” got to me. After his nth “noo!”, scrunched up face, and twisted, flopping posture, I turned around, fixed him with my best death-stare and said to him in a flat, annoyed tone: “Simon, just be quiet already. I’m trying to get us ready to go out to play, and all you’ve done all morning is scream and fuss. Well, I’ve had it. So just be quiet and leave me alone. Mommy can’t take it any more.”

Simon looked confused and stunned in equal measure. He’s not used to this tone from me. At a loss for his next move, he looked at me some more, then turned around and began to quietly play with a book.

Wow! This maneuver will use its power if I over-use it, but I think I just added a new weapon to my parenting arsenal.

Not in this house, anyway. Simon’s budding vocabulary is increasingly lyrical, filled as it is with metonymy* and metaphor.

Consider, for example, the ball. Simon learned the word in association with the balls we play with in the house and outside. Soon after, he recognized balls in picture books, and learned to point and say “ball” whenever he saw one on the page. It wasn’t long after this that “ball” became the term for anything that reminded him of balls, specifically anything round or cylindrical. Thus, a ball is now a polka dot, the moon, the cylinder in a shape sorter, or even a puppy’s nose. When Simon reads to himself, he says “ball” an awful lot.

Not, however, as much as he says “light”. In Simon’s world, a “light” could be a table lamp, a floor lamp, a ceiling fan light kit, a spot-light, a flush-mouted ceiling light, a wall sconce, or any other artificial light you can name. He also calls ceiling fans lights, probably because many of them have light kits attached. And now, the sun, moon (when it’s not a ball) and stars in books are also lights, which I suppose is not entirely incorrect.

His calling numbers lights may be taking this poetry a bit too far. How did a number become a light? It’s not as crazy as it sounds. From the first time Simon read Do Princesses Count? (our desperation book purchase at San Francisco’s airport last month), he was mesmerized by the oversized glittery numbers that appear on each page. Since these numbers sparkled and shone, he pointed to them and said “light” on each page. All this attention to glittery numbers made him take notice of the numbers that appear in other books, and the association carried over. As a result, I can count on Simon to see a number on a page, point to it enthusiastically, and yell “light!”

I’d try harder to correct him were it not so funny and cute. I promise to fix before kindergarten.

Other examples abound. On any given day, all dogs are “cats” or cats are “dogs”. “Throw” is usually a verb, but can stand in for a noun at times if he spots a favored projectile.

Amidst all this poetry, Simon remains steadfastly literal and specific in his use of one word: Mama. Three times now Matt has asked Simon to point to “the mama” in a picture book. And three times Simon has ignored the mama in the book and instead pointed to me or to the room I was currently in. Once, when he was in the living room and I was upstairs, he pointed straight up. Right now Simon is in a major daddy phase, making his stinginess with the word “mama” all the sweeter.

*metonymy: the extension of one word to others with which it has become closely associated.

…Is imitation of course. Simon has begun to mimic our activities more often lately, and the results can be hilarious.

Example A: Last Tuesday I replaced the batteries in the Pooh Train, as the song it plays was getting a bit draggy and Simon can’t/won’t cruise behind it without musical accompaniment. (Evie compares this to the way a teenager drives, with one hand on the wheel and the other on the radio at all times.) I had to use a screw driver to take off the battery case, and once Simon saw the tool come out he wanted a part of the action. So there he sat, cheek dimpled with the effort, twisting the screw driver (sort of) into the open battery case. As the train sounded better once we both finished with our ministrations, perhaps Simon’s “help” was helpful after all.

Example B: Saturday, imitation popped up meal time. I got an apple to share for dessert after lunch, carefully cutting off bites for Simon while I bit off bites myself. After a few nibbles, Simon looked plaintively in my direction and gestured for the apple. Figuring this would be good for a laugh, I handed it over to him. Simon knew exactly what to do and dove in with surprising energy. He didn’t just get one or two bites off the core, he scraped off half the apple, maneuvered the apple to get at remaining flesh as he got close to the core in some places, and quickly learned to avoid the poles.

There are other examples as well, but these are the two that stand out the most in my mind and make me smile the widest.

Pardon the bad pun. The weave in question here refers to Simon’s pants. For some time now, my mom has told me about how I wore out my pants on the bottom as a baby because I was a butt-scooter. I also get queried about whether Simon wears his pants out on the bottom whenever people see him do his scooting thing. This entire time, I’ve thought to myself, “No, his pants are fine” or “Why would that happen?”.

Ahhhh. Now I get it. After 6 months of scooting on plush carpet or (more often) slick hardwood floors during a Louisville autumn and winter, Simon has now taken his means of locomotion to the driveway, the sidewalk, and the playground with predictably destructive results.

• His really nice Janie and Jack gray long pants? Tear at the pocket, but wearable for play.
• His really nice Charlie Rocket lightweight jeans? Tear on the tush, can wear a few more times.
• His really nice Mish boys navy board shorts? Multiple tears on the tush. Ruined.

At this rate, Simon will be naked or I will be broke in no-time. Besides getting his butt up and walking, I have no good solution either. I can’t let him wear pants with greatly diminished structural integrity, because his diapers cost as much or nearly as much as his pants and shorts! I can’t keep buying nice things for him to trash. I don’t know if I can patch the tush. And they don’t make disposable pants, do they?

My not very good solution is to buy a bunch of cheap stuff from Target and pray to the walking gods that Simon gets up before he destroys everything he owns.