Kid Amnesiac

A Failure of Imagination: Mother’s Day

May 12th, 2008 by Jessica

The thing about being a blabbermouth, is that when you broadcast your every thought, your words have an unfortunate tendency to come back to haunt you. Not quite 11 years ago, at Matt’s and my rehearsal dinner, my sister-in-law Stacy gave a toast in which she recalled with cheek-reddening accuracy a monologue I had given a few years before. The essence of which was that the entire wedding industrial complex is a blight on smart people and that I would never don a white poufy dress with a veil to exchange vows. As it happens, I wore an ivory poufy dress with a veil to exchange vows with Matt, so I suppose I get off on a technicality.

Last month, two other friends in California recalled with similar cheek-reddening accuracy my declaration that I’d probably never have kids and that, if I ever did, they would almost certainly be adopted. I couldn’t see myself wanting kids, and I really couldn’t imagine choosing to get pregnant or give birth in the unlikely event of changing my mind.

My imagination has never been my métier.

The first time these anti-baby thoughts had a chance to haunt me was when Simon was about three weeks old and an old friend from graduate school called to check in on us. He and his wife were considering having a baby themselves, and so he asked me, “Now that you have Simon, can you imagine your life without him?”

At the time my friend asked, Simon was a colicky infant and I was terribly sleep deprived. Could I imagine my life without him? You bet! I wouldn’t have minded a brief dip into the pre-baby waters at all. I earnestly reassured him that while I was loving being a mom, I was sure my life would be equally fulfilling had a chosen a different path. At the moment I spoke, I have to say, I’m not sure that either half of that statement was true.

When Kelley and Christine reminded me of my earlier anti-baby stance, it was as though they were describing a different person. I could imagine someone who looks a lot like me saying or thinking what I said and thought, but I couldn’t effectively empathize with her. Then, oddly, I got choked up-partly from the sense that I need to protect Simon’s feelings from thoughts that predate him, but mostly because at that moment I realized how close I came to blowing a major life decision.

Because truly, it’s not just that I can’t quite imagine my life without Simon, it’s that I don’t even want to try. I’m not deluded about the daily grind of motherhood. Lately Simon has been fighting diaper changes and getting more stubborn and emotional in general, and at times during his whining or thrashing about I’d love to put him in a straight jacket and/or toss him out a window.

But those are small moments and small truths. The larger picture is that-yes, yes, cliché, I know, a horrible, leaden cliché-Simon fulfills me in a way that prior attempts at self-fulfillment have not. He’s made me appreciate daily life. He’s freed me to play again. And the way he loves me is astonishing. Everyone tells you that you’ll love your kid more than you can imagine. What they don’t tell you is how much your baby will love you. That, I think, is the greater revelation.

When I consider how close I came to missing this, I get a shiver down my spine. Truth be told, my primary motivation for having Simon was that I was bored and unfulfilled, and it seemed like a good way to shake things up. I had also considered divesting of my worldly possessions and working a sheep ranch in Scotland or joining the Peace Corps and running off to a developing nation, but we had just bought the house, I know nothing of sheep other than their wool, I have no skills the Peace Corps need, and I’m kind of attached to my stuff. Ergo: baby.

One person alone knew how wrong I was: my mother*. She told me I’d feel this way if I ever got around to having a baby, and I spent the better part of a decade demurring. Now I have to admit that she was right and that I can’t remotely imagine my life without Simon. So happy Mother’s Day, Mom. You were absolutely right, and on this score at least knew my own heart better than I did.

* OK, so two people knew: my mother and my friend Beth. But Beth said less, and hey, it’s Mother’s Day after all…

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Stair Climber

May 7th, 2008 by Jessica

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!

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Geriatric Motherhood

May 6th, 2008 by Jessica

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.

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A Boy and His Doll

May 5th, 2008 by Jessica

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.

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My Last Derby

May 3rd, 2008 by Jessica

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.]

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The Data Are In…

May 2nd, 2008 by Jessica

… 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:

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.
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.
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:

Move objects further apart so he has to get more adventurous in his cruising.
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.
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.
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.
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!

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Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Apr 29th, 2008 by Jessica

I suppose the aphorism is true. On our flight from SF to Cleveland two weeks ago, Matt and I accidentally left Dirty Dog behind. We worried that its loss would complicate getting Simon to sleep that night, and indeed he looked a bit confused when we handed him a frog blanket and a taggie blanket that night. Thankfully, he fell asleep without too much fuss.

Our first day back in town, we went to the Whitworths’ house and collected Dirty Duck, Dirty Dog’s sibling, which they keep for Simon’s Thursday naps. Dirty Duck is made from the same fabric as Dirty Dog, so the feel in a sleeping baby’s hands is identical and the appearance is similar enough to make it effective as a lovey and part of our sleep-time ritual.

While Simon cozied up with Dirty Duck Saturday night, Matt went online and ordered two replacement Dirty Dogs. Frankly, we felt a bit silly about the thing, as we strongly suspected that we were more attached to Dirty Dog than Simon was.

“He’d be fine with just Dirty Duck” we told each other. “We’re the ones who are attached to Dirty Dog.”

How wrong we were! Several days later the twin Dirty Dogs arrived. I gleefully ripped open the box in anticipation of bedtime. Once 8:00 p.m. arrived and we went through our nightly ritual, we placed Simon in his crib and I handed him Dirty Dog. What I saw next surprised me, because Simon clearly recognized Dirty Dog and was happy to see him after a week’s absence.

He reached out for the blanket, but did not tuck it under his arm and snuggle up right away. Instead, he held Dirty Dog at arm’s reach, turned him around, and seemingly inspected his face. Satisfied that this was indeed his old friend, he made a part-sigh, part-laugh sound and snuggled up with him.

From that day on, Simon has been more attached to and in love with Dirty Dog than ever. He carries him around, he hugs and kisses him, we hear him talk about “dir doe” throughout the day, and he’s integrated Dirty Dog into his daily play. We have since taken to use Dirty Dog as a general comfort object and have him kiss Simon when he’s upset. It didn’t keep him from crying at the pediatrician’s office on Friday, but I’m sure it got him to calm down faster after the exam.

What a funny and endearing turn of events. All hail Dirty Dog!

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First Steps

Apr 27th, 2008 by Jessica

Wednesday was the big intake interview with First Steps, Kentucky’s early intervention systems for children under three who need help to develop properly and be ready for school.

I self-referred based on my pediatrican’s advice and because Simon is now 18 months old and can’t walk on his own. Much of the interview was pretty straightforward, but there were a few surprises along the way.

First, our intake coordinator was extremely careful in her language. As Matt and I do not have the same last name, she referred to him simply as “Simon’s father” throughout the first half of our interview. In fact, for quite some time she didn’t realize he lived in the house with us. I didn’t realize this until she asked, “Does Simon’s father live here, too?” Once I understood what was going on, I casually dropped in the words “husband” and “mother-in-law” wherever possible to tip her off. I suspect this will be the first of many times our differing last names raise questions about our family’s status, but I suspect few will be as neutral and professional as this woman was.

Second, I was surprised to find myself at a loss for words a few times. When it came to describing Simon’s daily activities and all his abilities, I was my usual voluble self. But then Sheila (the coordinator) would throw a curve ball my way:

Q: “What daily activities does Simon’s delay prevent you from doing?”

A: “Um…. Well, none really. I just have to carry, push or help him walk everywhere. It’s just harder I suppose.”

Q: “What are your goals for Simon in the next six months?

A: “Um… walking?” Seriously, I haven’t thought six months ahead. I eventually, lamely, came up with “Walking, running, a little climbing, and whatever your physical therapists deem appropriate for a two-year-old.”

Q: “What activities does Simon not enjoy?”

A. “Um…We don’t really do things he doesn’t enjoy. Diaper changes maybe? Getting his face cleaned? Going down the slide if he’s not in the mood? Sitting in the stroller if he’d rather play?” It’s not like I’m forcing to take piano lessons, he hates math class, or he argues with me about cleaning up his room. I was grasping at straws here.

Last but not least, I was surprised by the complexity of the program. I knew there was a call, then an intake appointment, and then an assessment. But I thought once those three hoops were jumped through, they sent in the experts. Not so fast. You have the call. Then the intake appointment. Then the assessment. Then I’m referred to a primary service coordinator (today I met with an initial service coordinator). Then I attend an IFSP meeting with my entire IFSP team (I somehow missed what the acronym stands for) to review Simon’s proposed course of treatment. Then there’s an opportunity for me to accept, reject, or change this plan, possibly by working with a parent consultant. And then actual therapy begins.

Start to finish, from first phone call to first appointment with a therapist, I’m looking at 45 days.

It will surely be interesting to see where Simon is by this point.

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Eighteen-Month Checkup

Apr 25th, 2008 by Jessica

Today Simon has his 18-month and 9 day check-up. He’s a growing boy! Stats are:

Height: 32 3/4 inches. Still in the 65% percentile. Now over half my height.

Weight: 25 lbs. 3 oz. This puts him into the 40th percentile, up from 30th. Dr. Newstadt was happy to see him continue to gain here. Interestingly, it puts his Body Mass Index (BMI) at what, for an adult, is a super-model-skinny 16.5.

Head circumference: Always the amusing high point of any vist: 19 3/4 inches, now back up to 96th percentile. No surprise here as I’ve had to search out brands of clothes that put shoulder, neck, or back snaps on clothes for babies up to 24 months. (Boden and Tea get high marks here). Otherwise, things get stuck on his noggin. This trip, even Dr. Newstadt joined in on the joking.

Dr. Newstadt watched Simon cruise and is not worried about the non-walking at all. He’s clearly very close, and we’ve begun the process with First Steps to help us out. More on that later. He also noted Simon’s considerable overbite, something my brother noted when Simon was only hours old, and suggested we start weaning from the pacifier to avoid making it worse. Oh boy.

Simon hated this trip even more than the last, shrieking once the exam got started and not calming down until it was time to leave. That part is getting old and got me so discombobulated that when I tried to jokingly suggest Simon might not cry so much if Dr. Newstadt were a young, pretty, woman, I instead managed to suggest Simon might cry less if Dr. Newstadt were just more attractive himself. I hear insulting your dedicated, talented pediatrician is a great way to get better care! While I’m at it, I think I’ll also call his home phone line at 1:00 a.m. with a question about vitamins…

Thankfully, we’re not due back for 6 whole months. Whew!

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