Her new thing is identifying red lights and green lights. Do you know how many stoplights there are in Studio City? Neither do I, but Sadie is helping to remedy this by helpfully pointing out each one of them.
We've been to the Americana at Brand three times since the holiday season began, and I think we could go every day for the rest of her life and she wouldn't get tired of it. Yesterday morning we met Amy and Narinder, Melanie and Dave for a really nice brunch, because I've been promising myself that I'd start inviting people out for more brunch dates. Afterwards we walked around the Americana, which is what it would look like if Christmas vomited on the lovechild of the Bellagio and Bedford Falls. Narinder got Sadie a balloon shaped like a dinosaur, and there are no words to describe what her mood was like the rest of the day. "Euphoric" comes close.
Okay, now I'm getting into the groove. I was dealing with a lot of anxiety for awhile over the pushing incidents at school, and Sadie's reaction to them. Which was, namely, to not want to be touched in any way by other kids whether it was pushes, hugs or random trips and falls. This is a problem, you know, because toddlers are all about invading the personal space of other people. When I sit and watch the other kids at school I notice little skirmishes happening constantly. Two kids will begin to argue over a toy, and it escalates incredibly quickly. From "Mine!" it goes to "MINE MINE MINE!" and then suddenly someone is smacking someone else. Sometimes there aren't even words first. The teachers intervene, the kids are pulled apart, and not one minute later the whole thing is forgotten and one is playing with the precious toy while the other is elbow deep in play dough.
Except with Sadie, it isn't like that. A kid pulls a toy from her hand, and she stares after them, crestfallen, but doesn't react. A kid pushes her aside on their way to the slide and she reels back in fear, sometimes yelling, "Be careful!" or other times, just bursts into tears.
At least, that's what was happening. Today we went to the Coop, and sat in the bouncy house. I had to be in there with her -- she wouldn't go inside by herself. But as we sat in there, kids came in and kids came out, and they cannonballed into each other at high velocities, and none of it seemed to bother her too much. That all changed, of course, the minute I tried to get out of the bouncy house without her -- she wouldn't have it, and stared at me with tear-filled blue eyes: "Mommy in the bounce house? Come in? MOMMY COME IN THE BOUNCE HOUSE." I'm hoping that means this storm might be passing.
Another nice thing happened, and that was that another of the moms at school chatted with me for awhile about what it's like having a sensitive kid. Her son, Sadie's classmate, is the youngest of four boys and one of the sweetest and most easygoing kids I've ever met. (Footnote: I haven't met many. Kids, that is.) Hearing her refer to Sadie as "sensitive" in such an off-handed way put it into sort of a nice, relaxing perspective. She has four boys, so she would know. Of course, shortly afterwards it put me into a panic. MY CHILD IS SENSITIVE, AND THIS UNIVERSE IS SO HARSH AND UNFORGIVING, HOW WILL SHE COPE??
Aaaanyway. One of the reasons why this post is so incoherent is because Scott has been gone for about ten days now, and he returns tomorrow, and the re-entry is always a little rocky so to be honest, I'm of mixed emotions about it. Here's how Sadie's and my states of mind tend to swing when we're living alone together for more than a week at a time:
DAY 1: Life is normal. Whee!
DAY 2: Hey -- where did Daddy go? I get suspicious looks and some serious attitude from my kid.
DAY 3: Sadie switches from grumpy to extremely clingy, on the off-chance that I, like her other parent, might become prone to long, unpredictable absences.
DAY 4: Okay, now we've settled into a groove. I get adventurous and do a bunch of laundry and cook meals for the following week. We spend the evening giggling.
DAY 5: My back's starting to hurt, and I could really use a full night's sleep.
DAY 6: SO. TIRED.
DAY 7: Sadie is convinced Daddy is never coming home, and when he calls over FaceTime she tends to busy herself with something else. I've crashed out at 9pm the past three nights after drinking too much wine.
DAY 8: When Ana shows up to take Sadie after four days of absence, Sadie is thrilled and I want to hurl myself into her arms and sob with relief. Then I spend the morning in the bedroom in front of the computer, quietly freaking about all the work that hasn't been done and the fact although I did laundry four days ago, I've neglected to actually put it away and now the hamper is already half full again.
DAY 9: Renewed commitment to the task at hand. It's her and me, together in this cold, cold world. (Oh -- and two dogs who need constant attention but haven't been walked in a week). We're both up to the task. We won't cry. We won't back down. We're tough. Invincible.
DAY 10: Oh hey, Daddy's home!
One month later: lather, rinse, repeat.
Showing posts with label Sadie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sadie. Show all posts
Monday, December 5, 2011
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Friday, October 15, 2010
Regional Center
So, yay! We finally got contacted by the North Valley Regional Center for a developmental assessment.
The Regional Center is a fantastic thing -- it's a not-for-profit business that provides free help for children with developmental delays. Many of the children they work with are far worse off than Sadie -- kids with autism, retardation or neurological problems. For these kids, the Regional Center is a lifeline: they refer parents to in-home physical therapy teams, behaviorists, even childcare, all for free or the cost of an insurance deductible.
Everyone from our pediatrician to our nanny has recommended the Regional Center, with the caveat that they don't approve all applicants, and are often very backed up so it can take weeks or even months to be evaluated and approved for help. With that in mind, we sent in an application about a month ago, but went ahead and found Joy on our own without waiting for approval that we might never get.
Nevertheless, when they assigned a case worker to Sadie two weeks later, it was positive news. And last night I got a call from an assessor, asking if she could come by today and evaluate Sadie.
What we learned was really interesting. It was great, for one thing, to see Sadie finally be evaluated by someone who has familiarity with low muscle tone babies, and to see her put through a series of tests to get a solid idea of just how behind she is. The format they use is called the Gazelle test, and it divides skills by month as a way for the assessor to determine where a baby is compared with other children of the same age.
The assessor, a very sweet woman named Rita, tested Sadie's fine motor skills as part of the full work-up. All of those tests she passed with flying colors. She can bang blocks together, fit a peg into a hole, pull on a string to pull a toy towards her, and find a block hiding under a plastic cup. She even did some things that surprised me, like stacking one block on top of another without prompting. In nearly all of her fine motor skills she's on par with 12 and 13 month-olds.
The telling part came when we moved on to gross motor skills. I showed Rita the range of Sadie's abilities, which extend to crawling, pulling up on me, taking a few tentative steps while hanging on to furniture. Rita observed that in this area Sadie's on par with 8 and 9 month old babies.
Rita then surprised me by saying that in her estimation Sadie's hypotonia is quite moderate, not mild as we thought at first. She points out how Sadie sits: with her legs and butt making a "W" shape for maximum stability. She pointed out how her hips wobble back and forth when she stands, and how she tends to lean forward over her ankles instead of standing straight. This occurs because of the looseness in her joints, giving her an above-average range of flexibility and making her, in Rita's words, "loosey-goosey."
To demonstrate this, Rita basically sat Sadie down on her lap, grabbed her legs, and waved them around in a giant circle, shoving them into her mouth and pointing them in wild directions. Dude. Kid is CRAZY flexible. She may never be a bullfighter, but she might just become the world's tallest gymnast.
Kids like Sadie generally reach their first milestones later than other kids do -- she probably won't walk for another couple of months, and she'll most likely be late to run, climb or jump (not a surprise considering how risk-averse she is). Eventually she'll catch up and the delays will become more subtle and less immediately noticeable -- for example, Rita noted that kids like her are often late to learn how to ride a bike. As we've been told before, getting her into sports and helping to strengthen her muscles through exercise will help minimize this gap.
I explained the issues we've been having with her tantrums -- how she now refuses to cooperate during PT and is prone to throwing massive hissyfits at the drop of a hat, at which point she'll throw herself dramatically onto the floor, lie there and wail until the session is over. Rita stressed that for kids like her, in-home PT tends to be much, much more successful than off-site. Kids are familiar and relaxed in their own surroundings, willing to try new things and to cope with frustration. (And sure enough, she was an angel through the entire eval, which took place on our living room floor.)
She also scoffed at the idea of taking Sadie to see a developmental pediatrician or a child psychiatrist, saying, "I REALLY am not getting that she needs that." Bless her heart.
All in all, she's going to take her findings back to the case worker and recommend that Sadie be approved for a series of in-home therapy sessions. Whether or not they'll accept her is borderline. Typically to be approved a child must exhibit a developmental delay at 50% or less of their expected capability -- that is to say, in order for a one year old to qualify, they should be evaluated as having the capabilities of a 6 month old. Sadie, as I said, is at 8-9 months.
Even if she doesn't get approved, though, I think we'll still consider switching to in-home therapy. As nice and as patient as Joy is, it's a waste of her time and of ours to bring Sadie in and see her fuss and scream for an hour every week. She isn't learning any new skills because she's so bound and determined not to cooperate.
And we must keep baby happy.
The Regional Center is a fantastic thing -- it's a not-for-profit business that provides free help for children with developmental delays. Many of the children they work with are far worse off than Sadie -- kids with autism, retardation or neurological problems. For these kids, the Regional Center is a lifeline: they refer parents to in-home physical therapy teams, behaviorists, even childcare, all for free or the cost of an insurance deductible.
Everyone from our pediatrician to our nanny has recommended the Regional Center, with the caveat that they don't approve all applicants, and are often very backed up so it can take weeks or even months to be evaluated and approved for help. With that in mind, we sent in an application about a month ago, but went ahead and found Joy on our own without waiting for approval that we might never get.
Nevertheless, when they assigned a case worker to Sadie two weeks later, it was positive news. And last night I got a call from an assessor, asking if she could come by today and evaluate Sadie.
What we learned was really interesting. It was great, for one thing, to see Sadie finally be evaluated by someone who has familiarity with low muscle tone babies, and to see her put through a series of tests to get a solid idea of just how behind she is. The format they use is called the Gazelle test, and it divides skills by month as a way for the assessor to determine where a baby is compared with other children of the same age.
The assessor, a very sweet woman named Rita, tested Sadie's fine motor skills as part of the full work-up. All of those tests she passed with flying colors. She can bang blocks together, fit a peg into a hole, pull on a string to pull a toy towards her, and find a block hiding under a plastic cup. She even did some things that surprised me, like stacking one block on top of another without prompting. In nearly all of her fine motor skills she's on par with 12 and 13 month-olds.
The telling part came when we moved on to gross motor skills. I showed Rita the range of Sadie's abilities, which extend to crawling, pulling up on me, taking a few tentative steps while hanging on to furniture. Rita observed that in this area Sadie's on par with 8 and 9 month old babies.
Rita then surprised me by saying that in her estimation Sadie's hypotonia is quite moderate, not mild as we thought at first. She points out how Sadie sits: with her legs and butt making a "W" shape for maximum stability. She pointed out how her hips wobble back and forth when she stands, and how she tends to lean forward over her ankles instead of standing straight. This occurs because of the looseness in her joints, giving her an above-average range of flexibility and making her, in Rita's words, "loosey-goosey."
To demonstrate this, Rita basically sat Sadie down on her lap, grabbed her legs, and waved them around in a giant circle, shoving them into her mouth and pointing them in wild directions. Dude. Kid is CRAZY flexible. She may never be a bullfighter, but she might just become the world's tallest gymnast.
Kids like Sadie generally reach their first milestones later than other kids do -- she probably won't walk for another couple of months, and she'll most likely be late to run, climb or jump (not a surprise considering how risk-averse she is). Eventually she'll catch up and the delays will become more subtle and less immediately noticeable -- for example, Rita noted that kids like her are often late to learn how to ride a bike. As we've been told before, getting her into sports and helping to strengthen her muscles through exercise will help minimize this gap.
I explained the issues we've been having with her tantrums -- how she now refuses to cooperate during PT and is prone to throwing massive hissyfits at the drop of a hat, at which point she'll throw herself dramatically onto the floor, lie there and wail until the session is over. Rita stressed that for kids like her, in-home PT tends to be much, much more successful than off-site. Kids are familiar and relaxed in their own surroundings, willing to try new things and to cope with frustration. (And sure enough, she was an angel through the entire eval, which took place on our living room floor.)
She also scoffed at the idea of taking Sadie to see a developmental pediatrician or a child psychiatrist, saying, "I REALLY am not getting that she needs that." Bless her heart.
All in all, she's going to take her findings back to the case worker and recommend that Sadie be approved for a series of in-home therapy sessions. Whether or not they'll accept her is borderline. Typically to be approved a child must exhibit a developmental delay at 50% or less of their expected capability -- that is to say, in order for a one year old to qualify, they should be evaluated as having the capabilities of a 6 month old. Sadie, as I said, is at 8-9 months.
Even if she doesn't get approved, though, I think we'll still consider switching to in-home therapy. As nice and as patient as Joy is, it's a waste of her time and of ours to bring Sadie in and see her fuss and scream for an hour every week. She isn't learning any new skills because she's so bound and determined not to cooperate.
And we must keep baby happy.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Touchy Touchy
Today I took Sadie in for her regular PT session, and it didn't go well. At home she's been so great -- crawling everywhere, being cool with me moving around the house. This week she began cruising, although she's still very tentative about it and will only do it if I'm standing nearby. She also pulled up successfully a few times on the couch and coffee table.
At PT, though, she's a mess. She immediately wigs out if I try to move away from her, or if she gets frustrated by not being able to do something, and goes into complete shut-down mode, screaming. She stiffens up all of her muscles, grabs whatever toys are in reach, and hurls them across the room. Usually she can be distracted out of her crying, but today it just got worse and worse. Eventually she went into full meltdown, crying hysterically. It was so hard to watch her physically shut down, so that even though she was standing up playing with toys, she wouldn't sit down so she could crawl over to me. Joy had to move her into a sitting position by hand, after which she crawled over to me, wailing dramatically, buried her head in my lap, and refused to move.
Joy and I had a talk afterwards. I explained that while she's cool at home, social situations often cause her to freeze up. Even if she's more curious than fearful -- like, for instance, if we're at a baby gym or at someone's house on a playdate -- she still would much rather sit in one spot and watch the action around her than explore, experiment or join in.
I know that I'm making it sound like I'm expecting too much of her, and maybe I am. On the other hand, this is all tied together to her behavior at day care, where she would get upset and, rather than try to find a solution on her own, go into immediately hysterics and stay in that hysterical state until someone picked her up and soothed her, gave her a paci, let her hold her special blanket.
Joy has recommended that we take her to a developmental pediatrician. Apparently there's a woman who works out of the Pasadena Children's Center who is supposed to be very good. I talked with Scott about it and his immediate reaction was, "If they want to put her on drugs, we're saying no." I agree with him, of course, and I feel torn about the whole thing.
We know that Sadie has no physical conditions that will prevent her from learning and growing. We know that with Selena, her nanny, or with me or Scott, she's curious, content and happy to learn and play. So maybe she's not the most adventurous baby -- is that really such a bad thing? Should I just let her grow up the way she pleases and just accept that she's emotionally...rollercoaster-y?
On the other hand, I see her get furiously upset over nothing. I see her react to Joy with utter rage, the way she used to react to the women at Happy Star when they wanted her to play by herself independently or sit calmly in her high chair like all the other babies. I see this behavior, and I want to know how to fix it -- or at the very least, find out what's behind it. I'm not the kind of person who accepts that some things just are -- I always want to know why, and it's killing me that I don't know.
Today Joy became the second person to posit the theory that maybe something happened to Sadie when she was younger that traumatized or frightened her (Rose was the first), which might explain why she gets so panicked when I'm not around. I know it's nothing that ever happened at home -- she's been a lucky baby in that she's never even sported so much as a lasting bruise. Could something have happened to her at day care, something they never told me about or never even knew happened to begin with? If that's true, then how could a problem like that ever possibly be fixed?
Well...regardless, I guess the next step is to call the developmental pediatrician and take her in for yet another evaluation. At what point do we just acknowledge that she is who she is, for better or worse?
At PT, though, she's a mess. She immediately wigs out if I try to move away from her, or if she gets frustrated by not being able to do something, and goes into complete shut-down mode, screaming. She stiffens up all of her muscles, grabs whatever toys are in reach, and hurls them across the room. Usually she can be distracted out of her crying, but today it just got worse and worse. Eventually she went into full meltdown, crying hysterically. It was so hard to watch her physically shut down, so that even though she was standing up playing with toys, she wouldn't sit down so she could crawl over to me. Joy had to move her into a sitting position by hand, after which she crawled over to me, wailing dramatically, buried her head in my lap, and refused to move.
Joy and I had a talk afterwards. I explained that while she's cool at home, social situations often cause her to freeze up. Even if she's more curious than fearful -- like, for instance, if we're at a baby gym or at someone's house on a playdate -- she still would much rather sit in one spot and watch the action around her than explore, experiment or join in.
I know that I'm making it sound like I'm expecting too much of her, and maybe I am. On the other hand, this is all tied together to her behavior at day care, where she would get upset and, rather than try to find a solution on her own, go into immediately hysterics and stay in that hysterical state until someone picked her up and soothed her, gave her a paci, let her hold her special blanket.
Joy has recommended that we take her to a developmental pediatrician. Apparently there's a woman who works out of the Pasadena Children's Center who is supposed to be very good. I talked with Scott about it and his immediate reaction was, "If they want to put her on drugs, we're saying no." I agree with him, of course, and I feel torn about the whole thing.
We know that Sadie has no physical conditions that will prevent her from learning and growing. We know that with Selena, her nanny, or with me or Scott, she's curious, content and happy to learn and play. So maybe she's not the most adventurous baby -- is that really such a bad thing? Should I just let her grow up the way she pleases and just accept that she's emotionally...rollercoaster-y?
On the other hand, I see her get furiously upset over nothing. I see her react to Joy with utter rage, the way she used to react to the women at Happy Star when they wanted her to play by herself independently or sit calmly in her high chair like all the other babies. I see this behavior, and I want to know how to fix it -- or at the very least, find out what's behind it. I'm not the kind of person who accepts that some things just are -- I always want to know why, and it's killing me that I don't know.
Today Joy became the second person to posit the theory that maybe something happened to Sadie when she was younger that traumatized or frightened her (Rose was the first), which might explain why she gets so panicked when I'm not around. I know it's nothing that ever happened at home -- she's been a lucky baby in that she's never even sported so much as a lasting bruise. Could something have happened to her at day care, something they never told me about or never even knew happened to begin with? If that's true, then how could a problem like that ever possibly be fixed?
Well...regardless, I guess the next step is to call the developmental pediatrician and take her in for yet another evaluation. At what point do we just acknowledge that she is who she is, for better or worse?
Friday, September 24, 2010
September 24, 2010
Dear Sadie,
Today, you turn one.
As I type this, I'm watching you on the video monitor as you take your midday nap. You're splayed out in a position that looks terribly uncomfortable, with your head mashed up against the bars of the crib. Your ability to sleep constantly amazes me.
In the past few weeks, we've been guilty of focusing on the negative aspects of your growth -- the gross motor skill delays, the hissy fits, the fact that you're such a little juvenile delinquent that you actually got expelled from day care and are already putting your physical therapist through her paces.
Sometimes we're guilty of overlooking the aspects of you that are perfect and wonderful -- the brag-worthy stuff, the things that make us look at you in complete and total awe and sometimes, secretly high-five while other people's backs are turned.
For starters, you sleep. I mean, you really like to sleep. Always have. You began sleeping five and six-hour stretches when you were six weeks old. One night when you were only a few months old, you slept for ten straight hours and your Dad had to physically restrain me from going in to check on you and make sure you were still breathing.
We understand what a rare, incredible gift we've been given, having a child who requires 12 straight hours of undisturbed rest, with two daytime naps on top of it. Other parents hate us because of it. We've learned not to talk about it because it's like telling everyone that you have so much money that you've run out of ways to spend it, but once a year we're allowed to be smug.
Not only do you like your crib, but you demand to be in your crib. Sometimes when it's nap time and we're walking around lowering blinds and hunting for a clean pacifier, you fuss and whine, leaning out toward your crib, wanting us to turn out the lights and leave you in peace. Once I place you in bed, you roll around for awhile, then sit up and play with your stuffed animals, or flip through a book. You talk quietly to yourself, and at some point you lie down and simply go to sleep. Sometimes when you wake up, you'll hang out in there for awhile longer, just because you don't yet care to see us. For this, we thank you.
You are a mercifully non-picky eater. I hope this is something you never grow out of, but in case you do, I'm going to enjoy it now while it lasts. You rarely turn down a meal; even if you aren't hungry you'll generally sample a few bites. There are foods you aren't crazy about, like eggs -- but mostly, you'll eat anything.
This morning, you sat with me in the garden and we shared a raw green pepper. You were down with it. Do you know how weird it is that you actually like vegetables? You greatly enjoy a steamed veggie salad, picking up the carrots and peas and zucchini one at a time and sampling them like a gourmand. That's very different from your style of eating banana, which is to stuff it all into your mouth at the same time, discover you no longer have room to chew, spew out the excess and hurriedly shovel it back in as quickly as possible.
When you have, on rare occasion, a nightmare, I imagine that it is because you've envisioned a universe in which blueberry yogurt doesn't exist.
You love to be hugged and held close. You're not always snuggly -- sometimes you push us away, literally holding us at arm's length. But more often, you want to be cradled on our laps, tucked safely into your carseat, or just to chill in your stroller. You like being enveloped by the world around you. Our physical therapist says it's because babies like you have difficulty mentally placing yourself in space -- it makes it easier and less scary to be touching things at all time. Whatever the reason, it means that a long car ride or an hour-long walk in your stroller are not things to dread, but instead ways to calm you down and make you happy.
You challenge, surprise, frustrate and educate us in ways we never could have imagined. You're an amazing kid, and it's too bad you don't have any concept of what a birthday is, because if you did you'd appreciate just how much extra love, affection and attention you've been getting today from the many people who love you. Enjoy it, kid.
Happy Birthday.
Today, you turn one.
As I type this, I'm watching you on the video monitor as you take your midday nap. You're splayed out in a position that looks terribly uncomfortable, with your head mashed up against the bars of the crib. Your ability to sleep constantly amazes me.
In the past few weeks, we've been guilty of focusing on the negative aspects of your growth -- the gross motor skill delays, the hissy fits, the fact that you're such a little juvenile delinquent that you actually got expelled from day care and are already putting your physical therapist through her paces.
Sometimes we're guilty of overlooking the aspects of you that are perfect and wonderful -- the brag-worthy stuff, the things that make us look at you in complete and total awe and sometimes, secretly high-five while other people's backs are turned.
For starters, you sleep. I mean, you really like to sleep. Always have. You began sleeping five and six-hour stretches when you were six weeks old. One night when you were only a few months old, you slept for ten straight hours and your Dad had to physically restrain me from going in to check on you and make sure you were still breathing.
We understand what a rare, incredible gift we've been given, having a child who requires 12 straight hours of undisturbed rest, with two daytime naps on top of it. Other parents hate us because of it. We've learned not to talk about it because it's like telling everyone that you have so much money that you've run out of ways to spend it, but once a year we're allowed to be smug.
Not only do you like your crib, but you demand to be in your crib. Sometimes when it's nap time and we're walking around lowering blinds and hunting for a clean pacifier, you fuss and whine, leaning out toward your crib, wanting us to turn out the lights and leave you in peace. Once I place you in bed, you roll around for awhile, then sit up and play with your stuffed animals, or flip through a book. You talk quietly to yourself, and at some point you lie down and simply go to sleep. Sometimes when you wake up, you'll hang out in there for awhile longer, just because you don't yet care to see us. For this, we thank you.
You are a mercifully non-picky eater. I hope this is something you never grow out of, but in case you do, I'm going to enjoy it now while it lasts. You rarely turn down a meal; even if you aren't hungry you'll generally sample a few bites. There are foods you aren't crazy about, like eggs -- but mostly, you'll eat anything.
This morning, you sat with me in the garden and we shared a raw green pepper. You were down with it. Do you know how weird it is that you actually like vegetables? You greatly enjoy a steamed veggie salad, picking up the carrots and peas and zucchini one at a time and sampling them like a gourmand. That's very different from your style of eating banana, which is to stuff it all into your mouth at the same time, discover you no longer have room to chew, spew out the excess and hurriedly shovel it back in as quickly as possible.
When you have, on rare occasion, a nightmare, I imagine that it is because you've envisioned a universe in which blueberry yogurt doesn't exist.
You love to be hugged and held close. You're not always snuggly -- sometimes you push us away, literally holding us at arm's length. But more often, you want to be cradled on our laps, tucked safely into your carseat, or just to chill in your stroller. You like being enveloped by the world around you. Our physical therapist says it's because babies like you have difficulty mentally placing yourself in space -- it makes it easier and less scary to be touching things at all time. Whatever the reason, it means that a long car ride or an hour-long walk in your stroller are not things to dread, but instead ways to calm you down and make you happy.
You challenge, surprise, frustrate and educate us in ways we never could have imagined. You're an amazing kid, and it's too bad you don't have any concept of what a birthday is, because if you did you'd appreciate just how much extra love, affection and attention you've been getting today from the many people who love you. Enjoy it, kid.
Happy Birthday.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
A Little Muscle
Do you ever feel sorry for yourself, and then get annoyed at yourself for feeling sorry for yourself, and then pity yourself because now someone's annoyed at you?
Or is that just me?
It's been a long week, with Scott in Anchorage for work and Sadie starting a new day care, only to discover that she is in no shape right now to move to a new place with new people.
I wrote a really long, bitter blog post a couple of days ago which, when I reread it the next morning, horrified me. I sounded so bitter and annoyed about everything that's going on, and it just read like ME ME ME WAAAAHHH MY LIFE.
I deleted it and decided to start over, but the last three days have been so hectic that I never got the chance. I don't have it in me to start over from the beginning, but the short version goes like this:
Sadie started at her new day care on Wednesday, for a half day. Three hours in, I got a call from Rose that Sadie hadn't stopped screaming ever since she put her down on the floor. She would only stop crying if Rose held her -- but she'd taken her nap and eaten lunch beautifully. It was only play time that she wouldn't tolerate. Rose didn't know what was wrong, but she did tell me she thought Sadie's behavior wasn't normal, and advised me to take her to the doctor.
Once we got home and I spent Wednesday afternoon and Thursday morning with her, I couldn't help but notice that Sadie's behavior really has grown extreme. She wouldn't let me walk more than two feet away from her without bursting into hysterical tears. She wanted to be with me at all times.
The doctor examined her, put her on the table and urged her to go after a toy -- Sadie wouldn't, couldn't, and started to cry. I explained it to her: this is what happens. She has no mobility at all, really -- even the crawling backwards has stopped, because it frustrates her not to be able to move in the direction she wants to go.
The doctor diagnosed her with mild hypotonia, which is something you should never, ever Google if you think your kid has it, because you will give yourself a heart attack and call your spouse in utter panic, as Scott did, saying, "She'll never catch up to the other kids! I think she has an overactive thyroid! Have you noticed a slack jaw and copious drooling?"
What it is, essentially, is low muscle tone, and it means Sadie could benefit greatly from physical therapy. It's a problem that could or could not be grown out of on its own, but if she doesn't grow out of it then it could easily grow worse, as she gives up and stops trying out of frustration.
Speaking of the frustration, the doctor explained that what's likely happening to Sadie attitude-wise is the same thing that happens to toddlers who are slow to master speech. They desperately WANT to talk, they know what they want to say -- they just aren't able to tell you. All that frustration manifests itself as tears, anger, tantrums.
Sadie's like that, except her problem is that she can't crawl after a ball that has rolled away, can't follow me when I walk across the room, can't explore a new toy that has caught her eye but is just out of reach. I try to imagine living like that, like a person who uses a wheelchair but has been told that they can't use it and must just sit in the center of the room all day, and I can't imagine the frustration she must feel. She wants to explore her world and can't do it.
I'm really looking forward to the physical therapy evaluation Monday morning, and learning how to help her strengthen her muscles. I'm also trying to swallow worry over what the next few weeks will bring, as far as who will take care of her while I'm working, how much time each day will need to be devoted to strength exercises, how long it will take to see improvement, and how to explain to her other caregivers what she needs. I hope, more than anything, that increased mobility will make her happier and more content than she currently is.
I'm tired, but relieved to have a diagnosis and confident that now things can get better.
Or is that just me?
It's been a long week, with Scott in Anchorage for work and Sadie starting a new day care, only to discover that she is in no shape right now to move to a new place with new people.
I wrote a really long, bitter blog post a couple of days ago which, when I reread it the next morning, horrified me. I sounded so bitter and annoyed about everything that's going on, and it just read like ME ME ME WAAAAHHH MY LIFE.
I deleted it and decided to start over, but the last three days have been so hectic that I never got the chance. I don't have it in me to start over from the beginning, but the short version goes like this:
Sadie started at her new day care on Wednesday, for a half day. Three hours in, I got a call from Rose that Sadie hadn't stopped screaming ever since she put her down on the floor. She would only stop crying if Rose held her -- but she'd taken her nap and eaten lunch beautifully. It was only play time that she wouldn't tolerate. Rose didn't know what was wrong, but she did tell me she thought Sadie's behavior wasn't normal, and advised me to take her to the doctor.
Once we got home and I spent Wednesday afternoon and Thursday morning with her, I couldn't help but notice that Sadie's behavior really has grown extreme. She wouldn't let me walk more than two feet away from her without bursting into hysterical tears. She wanted to be with me at all times.
The doctor examined her, put her on the table and urged her to go after a toy -- Sadie wouldn't, couldn't, and started to cry. I explained it to her: this is what happens. She has no mobility at all, really -- even the crawling backwards has stopped, because it frustrates her not to be able to move in the direction she wants to go.
The doctor diagnosed her with mild hypotonia, which is something you should never, ever Google if you think your kid has it, because you will give yourself a heart attack and call your spouse in utter panic, as Scott did, saying, "She'll never catch up to the other kids! I think she has an overactive thyroid! Have you noticed a slack jaw and copious drooling?"
What it is, essentially, is low muscle tone, and it means Sadie could benefit greatly from physical therapy. It's a problem that could or could not be grown out of on its own, but if she doesn't grow out of it then it could easily grow worse, as she gives up and stops trying out of frustration.
Speaking of the frustration, the doctor explained that what's likely happening to Sadie attitude-wise is the same thing that happens to toddlers who are slow to master speech. They desperately WANT to talk, they know what they want to say -- they just aren't able to tell you. All that frustration manifests itself as tears, anger, tantrums.
Sadie's like that, except her problem is that she can't crawl after a ball that has rolled away, can't follow me when I walk across the room, can't explore a new toy that has caught her eye but is just out of reach. I try to imagine living like that, like a person who uses a wheelchair but has been told that they can't use it and must just sit in the center of the room all day, and I can't imagine the frustration she must feel. She wants to explore her world and can't do it.
I'm really looking forward to the physical therapy evaluation Monday morning, and learning how to help her strengthen her muscles. I'm also trying to swallow worry over what the next few weeks will bring, as far as who will take care of her while I'm working, how much time each day will need to be devoted to strength exercises, how long it will take to see improvement, and how to explain to her other caregivers what she needs. I hope, more than anything, that increased mobility will make her happier and more content than she currently is.
I'm tired, but relieved to have a diagnosis and confident that now things can get better.
Monday, September 13, 2010
A Palate Cleanser
In honor of the new blog template (and to soothe my mother, who I know will soon be emailing me to ask, "Did you really need to do this again? And can you please make the font larger?"), I present this video of a baby with funny hair.
One Year Minus 11 Days
Our bizarre little eleven-and-a-half-month old is less than two weeks away from her birthday. What an odd duck she is. There are many things she can't do, things that a typical baby her age can. But there's so much more she does that just kind of stuns me.
I'm about 95% sure she's said her first word, although "word" is really a very generous way of describing it. To be honest, I don't understand how any parent can tell what their child's first word is. She's been yammering away since she was a few months old; about six weeks ago she picked up mimicry, and since then it's just been a steady chug towards full sentences.
If you were wondering what the word was, it's "doggie."
It's the result of me ceaselessly pointing at the dogs, petting the dogs, letting the dogs lick her face, all the while inanely repeating, "Nice doggies! See the doggies? Love the doggies! Kiss the doggies! No, don't pull on the doggie. The doggie doesn't like that. Please let go of the doggie, you're hurting her."
I suffered and the dogs suffered (and Sadie suffered, going into hysterics every time I prevented her from ripping Pepper's beard out of her head. Luckily, Pepper is very stupid and interprets pain as affection, so she really doesn't mind), but it finally paid off last week when we walked in the door after day care. Sadie saw the dogs and screamed "DA DA DA DA" at the top of her lungs and I was like, "DONE! IT COUNTS!"
By the way, as I type this, Sadie is sitting next to me in the Jumparoo making a sound that I can only approximate as this:
"RRRRNNNNGH. Hic Hic Hic ARRRRRRNGH."
This means she's concentrating on laying a giant turd. And, okay, not to hijack my own blog with poop stories, but about two hours ago she made this sound and then started crying incredibly pathetically. I took her over to the changing table and saw why: there was the saddest little poop sitting in her diaper, looking all lonely and friendless.
I'm used to a softer poop, so I was a little hasty in pulling her diaper off. As I balled it up, the piece of poop flew off the diaper, sailed through the air and landed softly on the surface of her dresser, moulding to its shape like a piece of Silly Putty.
Because there wasn't anything better to do in that moment, I screamed, "EW."
Sadie looked at me and said, "Ew!"
So I guess technically, she can say two words.
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