Bookemon

I mentioned to Dr. Meyer that I was anxious about taking Sadie on a trip in which she will be constantly bombarded by new places, noises, people and sights. She suggested that I put together a book detailing the adventure, and read it to Sadie in the days leading up to and during the trip.

With the help of our truly awesome friends, here's what I was able to put together.

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Gearing Up

It's almost Christmas, and we're trying to get Sadie through another cold before the holiday arrives. Well...I'm trying to. Scott's out of town again and won't be back until 2 days before Christmas. Bad timing, too; this is the worst cold she's had yet. I feel terrible for her because she's had major coughing fits for days now. Just an hour ago, she woke up with a coughing fit so bad it made her sick.

The doctor has told us no cough suppressants or cold medicine. We are allowed to give her as much honey as she wants to soothe her throat, but she doesn't like the taste of it and pushes the spoon away, which inevitably results in honey getting all over her, me, the kitchen counter and the floor. I finally started sneaking it into her milk before bedtime, although I don't know if it's helping much.

Next week we leave for five days in Vancouver, staying with friends of ours and a few other families. I've been looking forward to this New Year's celebration for a long time, and promised Scott I wouldn't stress about it the way I stressed about our Washington trip, which was mostly a blur for me because Sadie teethed, cried and went on a food strike the whole time. I'm doing my best not to stress, but I'm really hoping she recovers from this cold soon and that she doesn't develop an ear infection, like she did the last time she had a cold. Ear infection + baby + airplane = misery.

Now that she's 15 months old, I thought I'd post an update on some of the new skills she's been working on. Her newest skill is being able to walk across a room holding onto only one of my hands. She wobbles around a lot, and is rarely in the mood to practice, but a couple of times she's gotten going at a good rate of speed and then you can tell she's totally proud of herself. She can now also bend down to pick up an object without having to sit down on the floor to get it.

She's finding new words. "Ball" is an outright favorite; she can spot a ball across the room, outside the window, on television. Last week we were shopping at Trader Joe's and she yelled "BALL" like ten times before I realized she was talking about round ornaments that had been strung from the ceiling around the store.

"No" is another recent acquisition, and this presents a conundrum: she rarely has the opportunity to bust out a "no," because she's generally agreeable, but she loves saying the word, so as a result she tends to wander around the house cheerfully murmuring "Nononononononono." Only a few days ago, she busted out "up" for the first time and now that's a new favorite too.

I know it's trite and silly to say, but the amount of joy I'm getting daily from this kid is just ridiculous.

Back Again

This was a hectic weekend. On Saturday we took family portraits and had our consultation with Dr. Meyer; Sunday was a marathon of a Christmas family shopping trip down at South Coast Plaza. We thought by getting there when the stores first opened we'd be avoiding the crowds -- little did we suspect that an hour later, the line for getting your picture taken with Santa would be literally out the door. It was fun, but exhausting.

So, no Santa pictures this weekend, but I still consider it all a success, simply because my back chose to cooperate the whole time. This is notable because my back has been a total bitch recently, and it's not getting any better -- in fact it's getting worse and I can't really be in denial about it any longer.

I was diagnosed with mild scoliosis as a kid. Scoliosis is a curvature of the spine; in my case it curves to one side in a way that's not immediately noticeable but which has caused me back problems throughout my 20s and now, my 30s. The first time I ever pinched a nerve was at my college friend Rachel's wedding and it was like one day I was fine; three hours later I was in excruciating pain, using champagne to wash down Advil and feverishly searching drugstores for a heat patch. Six months later it happened again; a few months later, again.

These days I'm used to it -- every so often something throws my back out of whack. It might be a bad massage, or having slept on it funny, or moving in the wrong way. Whatever the cause, I usually get one day of really intense pain and then it tapers off and after a few days everything is mostly back to normal. When I was working out a lot, the problems all but went away and I stopped thinking about them.

Following Sadie's birth, though, things got bad again in a hurry. I haven't joined a gym since we moved to the valley; my sole source of activity is going for a long walk every afternoon with the baby and the dogs. My muscles have weakened and once I began lifting a baby every day, I went back to my usual pattern of occasional back strain and healing.

Then came Halloween, the day I carried Sadie home from the park to meet the locksmith, and the day after, when I was putting her in the carseat and something in my back went horribly awry. Since then, the pain has gone through periods of being more or less intense, but it has never fully gone away. Last weekend it worsened again, and Scott finally yelled at me to go see an orthopedist.

So I did, and surprise surprise, my problems are due to the scoliosis. One of the discs in my lower back is "unhealthy," (his exact words), and tends to get pushed out of joint every so often. I don't know, I don't speak Medical, and he wasn't interested in teaching me. He ordered an MRI and began throwing around terms like "epidural injections" and "invasive surgery." I got the hell out of there. An exercise/strengthening regimen, I can handle. Surgery and cortisone shots I'll avoid until absolutely necessary, thanks very much.

I have another appointment with a different orthopedist this week for a second opinion -- not because I disagree with the diagnosis, but because I'd rather have a doctor who believes in exercise first and giant scary needles second. If his prescription is to join a gym, I'd be thrilled with that -- it would give me an excuse to put Scott in charge of Sadie's bath time, for one thing. We'll see what he says.

All I know is that this getting old stuff really blows.

Good Behavior

We had our consultation this weekend with the licensed child psychologist, Dr. Meyer. She's one of those really, really sweet and enthusiastic women, and what she has been telling me over and over is that we should pat ourselves on the back! for having Sadie tested for socio-emotional issues this early in her development. She said this before observing, an hour or so later, that "you guys seem really...laid back about all of this."

Laid back? I guess. Most of the parents who take their children to a child psychologist are probably in a very different mindset from us -- upset, worried, at their wits' end. If she'd met me four months ago, that's exactly the parent she'd have come to know.

At this point, though...it seems like less of a big deal than it used to be. Having Sadie's physical problems diagnosed was a huge relief; watching PT address those problems another relief; and now we're seeing her slowly but surely conquer her emotional demons. Yet we still see in her a strong reluctance and hesitation to try new things, to push herself past what's comfortable in order to learn the skills she needs, at her age, to be learning.

To clarify for anyone who thinks that we're needlessly throwing money at yet another professional who can look at our kid and make pronouncements about her issues...you might be right. We don't know. One of the most frustrating parts about all of this is that from one week to the next, we have no idea if Sadie needs further help in surpassing her motor and emotional delays, or if she'll be able to get there on her own with a little patience and time.

A few weeks ago, for instance, I'd have told anyone that Sadie very much needed help from an expert in child behavior. After seeing her cry herself nearly sick through two PT sessions in a row after Joy had done nothing more than move a toy from one part of the room to another, I was convinced that something was seriously wrong.

But this past week, a simple change -- me leaving the room for her therapy session -- gave us a drastically different result. With me gone, Joy reported having worked with "a completely different child." Without my lap to crawl to, without me to complain to, Sadie cooperated with Joy and even learned some new skills (how to climb up and down stairs). It's the same principle that reassures me that even though Sadie might wail when the nanny arrives each morning and hurl herself into my lap, two minutes after I've left the room to take a shower, she abruptly turns off the waterworks and goes cheerfully about her day.

And if the formula is THAT simple -- if simply removing the problem, me, from the equation, results in Sadie returning to her normal cooperative self -- then why, exactly, would we spend more money and more time and more emotional energy on putting her through another battery of tests? Well, there are arguments in favor of doing so anyway.

For one thing, to deny that Sadie is behind other children her age in terms of ability, independence and confidence is foolish and ultimately unhelpful to her. It's plan as daylight, when you put her in an unfamiliar room with other children her age, that in many ways she's still far behind them. According to a series of tests administered to her by Joy (the Gasell tests), she's still testing at a 10 month level for locomotion and 11 month level for social development. Not a huge gap -- but when you consider that she's almost 15 months old, it's a significant distance to make up.

I'm Not Saying My Child's a Genius But...

Two days ago she thought blocks were splinter-prone chew toys, and today she's doing this.

Further Developments

Month fourteen stretches on. We're all recovered from the holiday flu, which has given birth to a new holiday we will forever refer to as "Pukesgiving."

Now it's Christmastime, and one thing I really love about my life now is having a renewed sense of the holiday spirit. Usually we view Christmas-tree buying, gift-purchasing and holiday card-sending as giant headaches, but it's pretty great now to be able to see it happen through the eyes of someone who has never witnessed it before.

Sadie's obsessed with the Christmas tree. Last year, looking at the lights calmed her down when she was crying -- this year it's all touch, touch, touch. The ornaments specifically entrance her ("What?") and she giggles when she touches the pine needles. ("WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?")

We're now doing tours of toddler programs at local preschools. These are basically Mommy and Me classes, usually held once a week for two hours, and the next time a parent of a young toddler starts fretting out loud about whether or not Junior will ever get into the right preschool, don't get eye-rolly with them too quickly. Because, at least here in LA, they really do stress that if you want your kid to go to a particular preschool, you need to get them into the toddler group first so by the time they hit 3, they'll already be ensconced in the school system and familiar with that school's philosophy.

That means you want to decide on the right toddler group by the time your kid is 18 months old, and ideally much earlier. Last week I toured a preschool right around the corner from us (we live on Preschool Row, there are four of them on Riverside within a mile of each other) and when I told the director that Sadie was 14 months old already, her eyes got wide and she was like, "Ohhhh, you waited." Two other moms on the tour had brought their children with them. One was nine months old was one was eight months.

My primary anxiety about toddler group is that Sadie be physically ready for it. The group we plan to join begins its next session in February, which would put her at 16 months old. She might have learned how to walk since then, but it's a long shot -- she still hasn't learned how to fall over without toppling like a tree, and every fall is terribly traumatic for her and for me. Last Sunday, she was playing with me, Scott and the dogs while hanging onto the ottoman. When she lost her balance, there was no sticking out of the arms or anything -- just BAM, straight over and smacked her head on the floor. That's the worst sound in the world. If there's one thing I'd really like her to learn in PT, it's not how to stand up -- it's how to fall over.

Speaking of PT, we've hit some recent snags. Sadie doesn't really make progress anymore, because she's gone back to crying and tantrum-throwing through the entire hour. Joy and I have tried everything we could think of -- moving appointment times to later in the morning when she might be less tired, letting her play by herself first before trying to work with her, but it doesn't matter. She howls with anger when Joy gets anywhere near her, and once she gets upset, it rapidly turns into a full-blown hurricane of a temper tantrum. It's frustrating for all three of us, especially because Joy has pointed out that physically, she's capable of making great progress. Whatever is holding her back now doesn't have anything to do with physical capability; it's Sadie's own decision that she would rather scream for 60 straight minutes than allow Joy to teach her how to climb up a set of steps.

On Joy's recommendation, I called a licensed child psychologist and explained to her where we're at and the problems we've been having. We had a really good conversation. "Child psychologist" is a scary term and makes it sound as if we're worried we might be raising the next Charlie Manson. In reality, it has more to do with teaching us, the parents and caregivers, to see things from a child's perspective and to incorporate that into how we introduce her to the world. Right now we know that little tiny things in PT can set a tantrum in motion -- we just don't know why that is. One day it could be Joy putting a hand on her leg, the next it could be something as insignificant as not being able to figure out how a new toy works. PT has become a place of frustration and anger rather than accomplishment, and I feel like if Sadie could talk, she'd be yelling, "I don't get it, why are we HERE? I HATE this place. DON'T EFFING TOUCH ME, WOMAN."

This weekend Scott and I meet with the LCP just the two of us, to discuss...well, I'm not sure exactly what we'll be discussing. It's a 2 hour consultation, and after that comes two sessions with me and Sadie, and possibly an in-home session as well. Then the LCP works with us to draw up an action plan -- the best ways to introduce Sadie to new things and the best ways to help her cope when she gets upset. I feel good about the decision to do this; I think it will help all three of us -- not to mention any future kids that show up down the line.

I don't know if we'll be convincing anyone to come back to our place for Thanksgiving dinner next year

Thanksgiving, a few short hours before all hell broke loose

Wednesday

Things started innocently enough. Around 2am on Wednesday morning, we awoke to the sound of Sadie crying -- as she sometimes does if she has a nightmare or is just out of sorts. I sent Scott in to put her back to sleep, and a few moments later I heard:

"AMANDA I NEED YOU."

I came in to see a miserable baby, covered in puke from head to toe. I changed her clothes and diaper while Scott changed out the dirty crib sheet and her blanket for clean spares; we briefly debated what might be the problem, and I remembered that two days earlier at the indoor playroom, I'd caught her licking plastic balls in the ball pit. A stomach bug seemed the likely culprit. We soothed her, gave her a pacifier, put her down and went back to bed.

A few minutes later, this process was repeated all over again. From that point on we resigned ourselves to a sleepless night. Sadie was up every fifteen minutes, then every twenty, then finally only every hour. (We stopped trying to clean her up pretty quickly -- what's the point of mopping up infant puke at 3am when you know it'll be making a reappearance the minute you leave the room?)

And we seriously discussed canceling Thanksgiving. This, we worried, would be disastrous. Not only did we have his parents, my parents, my sister and her husband, and my elderly grandparents coming over, all with dishes of their own, but our house was packed to the rafters with food. We'd bought a deep fryer, for Christ's sake. There was no contingency plan for shifting the holiday somewhere else -- if it didn't happen at our house, it probably wasn't going to happen.

Thursday

Luckily by 9am, Sadie seemed largely over her illness. She was tired and not very hungry, but her mood was fine. We spoke with her doctor. "Yup, sounds like a stomach bug," he said.

"Is she contagious?"

"Well, could be, but chances are that whatever virus she's fighting, you've already had at some point in your life. You'll probably be fine."

We consulted with everyone in the family, and the consensus was, "Don't cancel Thanksgiving -- we'll just keep the baby at a distance."

"No problem -- she'll probably be asleep by the time you all arrive, anyway."

She wasn't, of course. And naturally, people wanted to hold her and snuggle her. She's going through an especially cute phase right now in which she wants to hug and snuggle everyone, and come on -- are you going to reject a fourteen month old baby's hug, you heartless bastard? I fucking dare you. So she did a lot of hugging, and then passed out, and dinner proceeded well without incident.

Better than well, actually -- it was great. Scott deep-fried a turkey for the first time this year, and after all of my worrying (that we were going to start a gas fire and burn the house down because they showed it on the news and BOILING OIL IS NOTHING TO MESS AROUND WITH, SCOTT, SO STOP MAKING JOKES ABOUT DEEP FRYING COOKIES JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT), the end result was a flawless, juicy, garlic butter-infused bird. My butternut squash casserole and creamed spinach were well received, my mother-in-law's legendary stuffing was as big a hit as ever, and the rest of the family did a heroic job of supplying rolls, pie, homemade cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and everything else we had no time to put together on our own.

We intentionally made and requested too much of everything, the point being to have enough leftovers for everyone. Not a single party walked out the door without a shopping bag of packed-full Tupperware at the end of the night. Our own refrigerator was stuffed so full that we were storing leftovers in the crisper and on the butter shelf. We made plans to hit the market the next day for lettuce and tomatoes so we could eat turkey sandwiches, and envisioned grand plans for eating stuffing for breakfast four days in a row before finally, reluctantly beginning our unavoidable post-Thanksgiving diet.

Friday

We were not as hungry as we'd imagined we'd be. That feeling of fullness continued for me all day, and after a plate of leftovers for dinner I was actually left feeling...kind of gross. The thought of dessert was not appealing, but there was so much food in the house (even after our cleaning lady came and took an entire pumpkin pie home with her) that I ate a couple of cookies, just to clean out some space.

By bedtime Friday night, my stomach was in knots. "I think I might be getting sick," I told Scott, then went to sleep and hoped for the best. The best did not come. It was a long night. I spent most of it in the bathroom and shivering under the covers on the couch with a wastebasket next to me. Two thoughts carried me through:

Thought #1: At least I'm not going to gain any weight this weekend.

Thought #2: When Scott gets up, I am going back to bed and claiming a sick day.

At 6am, he staggered into the living room and looked at me. "What, exactly, were you feeling last night?" he asked.

"Stomach pain...and then nausea."

He sighed, closed his eyes, groaned softly, and went back to bed.

So much for claiming a sick day.

Saturday

This day is largely a blur. Here are a couple of snapshots:

7am: I text my sister to warn her that whatever Sadie had was catching. She reports back that she has already been up barfing all night, thank you very much, so I can take my warning and shove it.

9am: I'm on the couch, willing myself to move, staring dully at the television. Scott's lying on Sadie's play mat on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. Sadie's crawling around cheerfully. "This is what it must be like for babies whose parents are crackheads," Scott says.

10am: Both of our babysitters have politely declined our pleas to come over and take care of Sadie while we lock ourselves in the bedroom. My mom has offered to come over and help, but you can tell she's hoping we'll tell her not to bother. Instead, we put Sadie down for a forced nap and struggle back into bed for another hour.

12pm: I'm not longer throwing up, but I have a fever and have wrapped myself in blankets. Scott emerges from the bedroom in sweatpants and a hoodie, with the hood around his ears.

12:30pm: I feed Sadie the only lunch I can prepare without losing it: cut-up grapes, a slice of cheese and cheerios. So much for leftovers.

1pm: The room fills with the smell of poop, as Sadie smiles brightly. Scott and I look at each other. He says softly, "I can't. I just...can't. Please don't make me." I get changing duty instead.

2pm: From Scott's mother's house comes the report that her husband is the latest casualty.

3pm: Repeated calls to my parents reassure me that neither they nor my grandparents have exhibited any signs of illness, thank goodness. Scott now has the fever, although mine has broken and I'm starting to feel better.

6:30pm: At long last Sadie is down for bed, and we have returned to some semblance of feeling human again. Every time we open the refrigerator to see the tubs and tubs of leftovers, we groan and shut the door again. Instead Scott brings home Chicken McNuggets and fries, which we pick at.

7pm: One final round of calls and text messages reveals that yes, my mother and father are now both sick, and so is my sister's husband, which means that the only Thanksgiving attendees who didn't get ill were my 90 year old grandparents -- who apparently are also superheroes. "I know you feel bad now, but it passes quickly!" we tell everyone, in a desperate attempt to divert attention from the fact that they spent their holiday in a germ-infested house of horrors and will probably never be able to look at stuffing again.

Sunday

Feeling much better. Only...

Those damn leftovers.

Screw it. Tonight we're ordering Italian.