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Jul 18, 2007

We’re Heading Towards "Officially" Different

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I nearly skipped out on the screening today. Cordy was having a great morning – she didn’t even fight getting into the car, and when we arrived she calmly walked up the steps – so I figured they’d shoo us away quickly and tell us to stop wasting their time when there are kids with real issues who need their help.

And then I opened the door. She took one step inside, saw the large hallway looming ahead of her, and promptly threw herself down on the floor and refused to move. The receptionist told me what room to go into, and after a few minutes of trying to get Cordy to stand up, I scooped her up against her will. I must have been quite a sight walking into the room – an infant car seat hooked on one arm and a shrieking, thrashing toddler under the other arm.

While Cordy wailed and tried to run out the door, I gave the two evaluators our names and signed the necessary paperwork to give them permission to attempt contact with my unwilling participant.

After a few minutes, Cordy calmed down a little, meaning she no longer tried to run out the door, but instead chose to throw herself down on the floor and crawl under a table.

OK, maybe we do need to be here…

The younger lady tried to convince Cordy to come play with some blocks. She loves blocks! She’ll show them how smart she is, I thought. But Cordy wouldn’t budge from under the table. The lady then tried to engage her in conversation, but Cordy wouldn’t give in.

After another few minutes, Cordy emerged from under the table and came over to examine the blocks. The young evaluator tried to get Cordy to stack the blocks. Instead, Cordy arranged them in a line, ignoring the evaluator. Cordy finally spoke as she counted the blocks.

“Oh, she can count to five!” the young woman said as she noted it on her clipboard. “Actually, she can count to 19,” I added. Shut up, shut up, they don’t need your help, my internal voice shouted at me. Let them do their job and don’t get in the way.

Most of the evaluation was completed by accident. They would try to persuade Cordy to do a task, she would do something else, and they would look for the skill the new task represented. She wouldn’t identify animals in a picture, but would run around and jump (gross motor skills, check!). Ask her to draw a line? She tells you where the kitty is in the picture (cognitive skills, check!). Ask her which animal in the picture says “neigh!” and she stacks the blocks (fine motor skills, check!). Sigh. The poor young evaluator was jumping all over her clipboard as she tried to keep up.

At one point Cordy had arranged the blocks in a particular order, and was picking them up one at a time and telling us the color. The older lady picked up one out of order.

“Cordy, what color is…”

“NOOOOO!” Cordy cried frantically, snatching the block out of the woman’s hand. She carefully placed it back into the pattern, then picked up the next block in order and exclaimed with a smile and all the joy in the world, “Yellow!”

At one point she turned and ran to the doorway, stopping just short of running into the hallway. “Cordy, come back!” she said with a sly smile. I explained to the two evaluators that Cordy likes to give us the prompts for what she wants us to say. I played along and told her to come back, and she complied.

Eventually, the evaluators turned to me with questions. Does she try to take her clothes off or put them on? No. Does she use eating utensils? Nope. Does she try to brush her own teeth? Not really. Does she always have trouble with transitions? Most of the time. Each question made me feel more and more nervous.

They gave me a little quiz to fill out, with questions such as “My child has trouble calming down after a tantrum” (absolutely) and then the older lady scored it. She then explained the score to me: “Any score below 57 means that we believe there is nothing to worry about developmentally. Cordelia scored 145.”

My jaw dropped. 145? Wow, that’s a big number compared to 57.

As they wrapped up our 40 minutes, they handed me a full report. Cordy’s cognitive skills, gross and fine motor skills, and communication skills are excellent. “She’s smart,” they tell me. But the little checkbox next to Personal/Social is checked “Refer”. They’re troubled by her lack of interest in self care, her difficulty with transitions, and possible sensory issues (she hates anything gooey on her skin or people touching her if she’s upset).

The next step is a full evaluation from the county early intervention team. If the second evaluation determines she is delayed, they’ll put together a plan for therapy. I’m not sure what happens after that, because I kind of zoned out at that point, lost in my own thoughts.

As we got packed up to go, Cordy told the two ladies goodbye and then ran to the door. She turned to look back at me, big grin on her face, and collapsed on the floor dramatically.

“Cordy, are you OK?” she asked, still grinning broadly.

“Yes, Cordy, you’re OK,” I replied as I took her hand and we walked out the door.

You’re OK. But am I OK? I’m not sure yet.

Filed Under: big issues, Cordy ·


Jul 16, 2007

She’s Just Different

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Cordy has been in daycare, two days a week, for four weeks now. Every day after the first has been met with screaming “No school!” followed by one of her teachers having to pry her off of whichever of my limbs she has tried to melt into while I make my getaway.

The day doesn’t remain that bad, thank goodness. Usually at the end of the day we return to find her playing with a toy with a smile on her face. But it’s clear she missed us, too, as she sees us and yells, “Mommy! Daddy! You saved me!”

But all is not perfect at school, either. Any transition between activities is met with a full out tantrum and tears. One day she had to be removed from an assembly because she wouldn’t calm down and it was bothering everyone. She refuses to feed herself most items, and as a result she won’t eat much. (The teachers do make sure she eats something during the day, however.) We have to send one of her sippy cups or she’ll go the entire day without drinking anything, too. She spends most of the day playing by herself and not participating in group activities.

Last week I ran into Aaron’s aunt, who happens to be the director of the preschool and daycare. We chatted for a few minutes, and then she leaned in a little closer to me. “Hey, are you still thinking about having Cordy evaluated for developmental delays?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so. Why?”

She put a hand on my upper arm. “I had the chance to watch her a little bit today, and I think getting her evaluated is a good idea. She’s the oldest in her classroom, and while she’s probably smarter than most of the other kids, in behavioral age she’s one of the youngest in the room. I definitely don’t think she’ll be ready for the three-year olds room when she turns three in the fall.”

We continued talking about Cordy’s behavior and how she really isn’t like the other kids. She’s never had the ability to cope well with transitions. Other kids can happily finish their paintings and move on to storytime, but Cordy can’t switch gears without a meltdown. She has the physical ability to use a spoon and fork (we’ve seen her do it), yet when it comes time to use them to eat, she simply can’t do it. If she’s not in control of the situation, a tantrum shortly follows.

Cordy’s vocabulary is growing every day. She knows hundreds of words. Yet when it comes to carrying on a conversation, she struggles. Many times what she says is simply a phrase she heard from us or from TV. When she’s bored, she will quietly talk to herself, quoting entire scenes of Dora or Backyardigans or some other show, word for word, with different voices for each character. If she ever wants to be an actress, she’ll have no trouble memorizing her lines.

Aaron’s aunt watched her try to interact with another little girl. Cordy approached her and said something that his aunt couldn’t hear. The little girl responded in a positive way to Cordy. But Cordy stared at her, unsure of where to take the conversation next, then turned and ran away.

I’ve seen these quirks developing for several months now, and Aaron and I have struggled with the thought of having her evaluated. The option has been debated over and over in my head. On one hand, I see her all the time and see how other kids don’t act the same way. On the other hand, my mom would remind me, “You’re not exactly normal, either, so why should you expect it from her?”

I’ve often wondered if this is all in my head and I’m seeing problems that don’t exist. I don’t want her to have problems – I want my child to be perfect in every way, like most moms. But there comes a point when you wonder if it’s only your kid who has a screaming half-hour tantrum because you bought her the toy she wanted, or who can spend over an hour at the playground and not once acknowledge another child there.

Even worse is the feeling that I’m somehow responsible for her awkward social behavior. Did I do something wrong that has shaped her into a child who can’t cope with change? Did I not take her to the playground enough? Was there too much of a routine at home? Should I have been more strict, forcing her to do things my way and not let her have any control? Did she watch too much TV? Did taking an anti-depressant during pregnancy cause this?

So now I’m taking Cordy for an initial evaluation this Wednesday. We’ve been considering it for months, but it wasn’t until Aaron’s aunt – a childcare professional with over twenty years of experience – admitted that she saw possible warning signs that I finally made the call. They’ll look at all aspects of her development, give me an assessment, and if they do see any problems, give us some idea of where to go next.

I’m not sure what I’m hoping for from the evaluation. I know Cordy isn’t your average toddler. She’s different, but I don’t know if it’s a kind of different that requires intervention. It’s like a stab to the heart to see her wander her classroom, playing by herself, unsure of how to interact with the other kids. It hurts to see other kids approach her, trying to befriend her, only to be ignored or answered with some babbled line from Dora. If this continues, eventually the other kids will stop trying.

She’s a happy child much of the time, she’s funny, and she’s so very smart. But I worry she’s not normal, and while it’s OK not to be normal (heaven knows I’ve never been “normal”), I want her to be successful in life. She will need social skills, and she will need to deal with change. I’d never push her to totally conform with the crowd – a drone in a sea of average – because I know she’s anything but average. But without social skills, she’ll be that weird kid in the corner that no one likes.

I guess we’ll see what happens on Wednesday.

Filed Under: big issues, Cordy ·


May 7, 2007

It’s OK To Be A Good Parent

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(Inspired by Rebecca’s post, Good Parent. I admit this went a little off subject, but the kernel of truth is still there.)

Like most high schools, it was considered very uncool to be smart. I was a straight A nerd, trying so hard to fit in with my peers like everyone around me. So I lied about my grades. “Wasn’t that math test hard? Yeah, I thought I bombed it, but I got a low C. Just enough to get by, right?” (In reality, I aced it.)

If you had listened to me talk to my friends, you’d have thought I was really struggling in school, just like them. I sighed about how mean it was to force us to read Crime & Punishment (a favorite of mine) in English class, and when asked by another student how to balance a chemistry equation, I’d look at them slack jawed and say, “I have no idea. I’m awful at Chemistry! What will we ever need to know this for?”

It was the “in” thing to do.

It seems that having the appearance of being an underachiever is often the way to go in our society, and this even applies to parenting. Read through 100 parenting blogs, and witness how 99 of them will make some self-depreciating joke about what a bad parent they are. No one wants to brag, no one wants to hold themselves up to a higher standard for fear of being knocked down the one time they do admit to doing something wrong. It’s far easier to roll your eyes, laugh and proclaim yourself to be a near-failure at the job rather than subject yourself to the criticism that could follow if you dare call yourself a good parent. Because saying you’re a good parent somehow might imply that you think others aren’t as good.

But let’s be honest: most of us are good parents. In fact, I’d bet most of us are pretty damn awesome parents much of the time.

Parents today are held to much higher standards than they were in years past. Whereas parenting was just a part of daily life in our parents and grandparents time, it is now a competitive sport and professional occupation (without respect and benefits, of course) all rolled into one.

Now we have exhaustive checklists, measurements and standards to hold ourselves accountable for, with invisible grades assigned to us based on how well our child is reaching each milestone. If my daughter walks late, it’s because I wasn’t doing enough to encourage her. If she doesn’t know her colors by two years old, it’s my fault for not taking her to more Gymboree classes or buying her fancy flashcards to practice with. If she doesn’t graduate at the top of her class in high school, I’ll know it was because I didn’t sacrifice enough to give up working and stay home, spending all of my time focused on her development while also cooking nutritious organic and hormone-free food to give her the best chance of optimum brain development.

Seriously? We’ve gone off the deep end, folks.

My grandmother often tells me about her upbringing. She was born into a poor farm family. She said that as an infant, she was left on the bed most of the day by herself, with her older siblings occasionally checking to make sure she hadn’t rolled off onto the floor. Her mother later told her, “It’s a good thing you were a quiet baby and kept to yourself on the bed all day. Your brothers wouldn’t have been happy if they had to entertain you.” Her mother didn’t have time for developmental games and enrichment activities – she had a farm to run. As my grandmother grew older, much of her time was spent finding her own entertainment, and learning as she went.

My mother was also raised on a farm, and her early childhood was often spent in the fields. She’d wander off into the fields or woods with no one watching her except the family dog. But her parents were busy, and they knew the collie would keep an eye on her.

I would consider both of these women to be intelligent and caring people who clearly didn’t suffer as a result of having no access to a LeapFrog phonics bus and Baby Einstein. And I know I didn’t have those things, either, and yet somehow graduated from college with honors.

So why are the parents of this generation so hard on ourselves? Why are we holding ourselves up to impossible standards in secret, while we jokingly admit our failures in public? And are we really failures?

Truthfully, it’s hard to consider a parent a failure. Unless you’re abusing your child, starving your child, or willfully neglecting your child in a way that places them in danger, you’re probably doing OK. And if you’re not doing any of those things, but are doing what you can to make sure your child is loved and feels safe, putting their needs above your wants (notice the particular placement of “needs” and “wants”), then you’re probably a good parent.

Few can live up to the new standards of parenting. It isn’t healthy, and it isn’t practical for many. In fact, I’d argue that these new standards are doing nothing more than putting unnecessary stress on moms and dads. Some say it causes the “child-centered” family, which puts strain on a marriage and gives kids an overinflated sense of self. I don’t know if that’s true, but I know that I can admit that when it comes to the new standards, I’m not a straight A student.

Yes, my toddler eats fast food at least once a week. Shocking, right? But we’re a very busy family, and we don’t always have time to be at home and cook a healthy meal. And I can counter the fast food with the Good Parent fact that she’s never had candy in her life.

Cordy also watches a lot of TV. Hours a day, in fact. But before you accuse me of rotting her brain with commercials and violence and sex, know that she only watches Noggin and Playhouse Disney – nothing else, period. Thanks to Moose A. Moose, she knows her shapes, colors, and numbers, which I help to reinforce when I can.

In other words, I am a good mom, despite what the media and experts and social scientists and sanctimommies might say. My daughter’s needs are met, her wants are met within reason, she is happy and healthy, and I do my best to encourage her in her development. I’m in no way perfect, but I also know there’s no such thing as a perfect parent. Who cares if Cordy isn’t using the potty yet? I highly doubt she’ll be going to college in diapers.

I refuse to let my entire self-worth be based on my evaluation as a parent, mostly because I don’t believe there is such a thing as an accurate evaluation. Parenting is not black and white: between “good” and “bad” there is an enormous spectrum of grey. And so it is important that we moms and dads relax a little, let go of our need to downplay our successes in public, while at the same time stop flogging ourselves in private because we can’t live up to some imaginary set of standards that are completely unreachable. Take off the hairshirt, people. Most of us are good parents – let’s admit it and not be ashamed to look at our successes.

My daughter wakes up every day and wants nothing more than to hug me in the morning. She goes to bed with more hugs and says, “I love you.” She is full of happiness, content with all she has. Her intelligence and curiosity are far-reaching, and there’s a passion in everything she does, including her tantrums. She is loved and well cared for.

I’m a good mom.

Filed Under: big issues, mom blogs, pop culture ·


Apr 26, 2007

Damn You, American Idol

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I look forward to my weekly dose of mindless TV, aka American Idol. One hour of listening to singers, criticizing their song choice, clothing, hair style, etc. while enjoying the comments from Simon. Ah, pure, snarky bliss.

But no, not tonight. Tonight was their charity night. A two hour episode filled with stories of children living in poverty, some now orphans after their parents died, unable to attend school, and dying from preventable diseases.

I’m 36 weeks pregnant, carrying more hormones in my body than a national sorority convention combined with the entire steroid-enhanced WWE wrestling roster.

So it’s no surprise I bawled my eyes out, and yet could not stop watching.

Of course, this was clearly part of the show’s design. By tugging on our heartstrings, they knew people would open their wallets to give to a very worthy cause.

But now I’m haunted by the images. One video showed a mother travelling to get help for her baby, who was dying from malaria. Ryan’s voice-over then gave the news that they didn’t get there in time, and the baby died. Another video told the story of a mother of two children, too sick to even walk, who died two days later from AIDS. They interviewed a twelve year old boy who had lost his parents and now was the head of the household and responsible for taking care of his sister.

I’m not naive. I know there are children dying every day from disease and starvation, living in horrible conditions and forced to endure nightmarish situations every day. However, in my overly emotional state, I can only see those poor children, and want to reach out and take every one of them in, wipe away their tears, hold them close and tell them it will all be OK.

But we can only do what we can do. I can’t save them all. I can help when possible, encourage others to also help when they can, and know that even a little bit of help can go a long way. And I can teach Cordy how lucky she is to have her family, to be healthy, and to be able to go to school when she’s older. I am thankful for what we do have, even if we live under a tight budget and don’t have the luxuries some do. It’s my hope that Cordy will want to help others when she’s older, too.

So damn you, Idol. I didn’t want to spend this evening feeling so small in such a big world of need. But the message did get through, and though my eyes are puffy and red now, I did enjoy the music. Hopefully a lot of money was raised, and that money will do a lot of good.

I’d just like to add, though, that you’re lucky none of your singers wanted to sing “Danny Boy” or the heavy sobs might have sent me into labor. (Danny Boy was a song we sang in high school choir, but we had to sing it for a state competition just days after one of our classmates collapsed and died at school from a congenital heart defect. I’ve never been able to listen to that song since then.)

Filed Under: big issues · Tagged:


Apr 15, 2007

Alone in the House

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It’s Saturday night, Cordy is upstairs asleep, and I’m sitting downstairs alone. It’s days like this I feel chained to this house and a handmaiden to Her Royal 3ft. Highness.

This weekend, there is a 24 hr. science-fiction movie marathon in town. Aaron has gone to this every year since he was a kid, so of course he must be there. I don’t know if he’d even be willing to leave if I went into labor, because, let’s face it – the movie marathon was a part of his life long before I was. I can’t blame him – he and the marathon are only a few years from their Silver Anniversary.

In our child-free years, I loved going with him to the movie marathon each year. It’s a fun mix of good sci-fi movies combined with a lot of cheesy B-movies from the 40’s and 50’s, sprinkles with some short-subject features in-between. In other words, it’s a geek’s paradise. Once Cordy was born, it was more difficult for me to keep going, because we had a baby that needed cared for. I missed one entirely, and the other I went to the daytime part of the marathon, but then had to go home for the overnight part of it to relieve the babysitter.

This year, we bought a ticket for me, but it looks like I don’t get to spend much time there at all. My mom was my babysitter, but decided that she was only staying until 4pm today. The marathon started at noon, and I had to work until 1pm today, so I saw a grand total of half a movie. My aunt has agreed to watch Cordy tomorrow morning, so I can go back and watch the very last movie tomorrow morning.

As I was expressing my disappointment to my mom, she sighed and said to me, “Tough luck. You’ve got a kid now, so you can’t just go out and do shit like this anymore.” The words stung as much as a slap in the face. This was the first time she’s said it so matter-of-factly. When it comes to work or other important things, my family is always willing to help with babysitting, but when I ask them to watch Cordy so Aaron and I can do something fun, I’m often met with an unsaid disapproval, as if I no longer should have the right to do anything fun.

I know that having kids means sacrifice. You can’t do as much as you used to, you have more responsibility, blah, blah, blah. But I don’t remember signing away my entire freedom as a human being when I became a mom. And I don’t feel like I should have to give up everything that makes me “me” just because I’ve added the title of “mommy”.

I already feel like a shell of my former self – in discussing hobbies with Aaron last night, it occurred to me that he still has several hobbies that he enjoys, while I can barely think of any that I still do. Oh sure, there’s blogging, and every now and then I’ll break out my knitting. But if I had to make a list of my interests right this minute, it would be a pretty small list compared to the list I could have made 5-7 years ago.

Believe me, I hate asking people to babysit. I’m aware that no one finds Cordy as charming as we do, and I always feel guilty asking friends or family to give up their free time to sit at our house while Cordy pesters them for “Bwue’s Baby Bwudder?” and “ice cweam!” Because of this, date nights and time away are carefully considered before asking anyone. I do understand that as parents we can’t run out to dinner and a show anytime we want, and we try to balance our need to get out with our responsibilities.

But sometimes that hollow feeling inside of me reaches a near-vacuum state, forcing me to get out and do something fun with friends or (gasp!) spend time with my husband as a couple and not just as parents. And if I’m denied the chance to ease that emptiness, the darkness of depression flows over me and I’m left stuck at home in tears, resenting being a parent even though I know deep down that I’d never want to give up being a parent for anything.

It’s not like I want to go out to wild parties every weekend. Just a little time here and there would be nice. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. And I don’t think it’s fair to believe that parents have no right to do something fun now and then because they have a child. Who can live under the pressure of being all mommy, all the time?

Do you ever, occasionally, miss the freedom from your child-free days? How do you keep your own identity from being lost in mommydom?

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Filed Under: big issues, more than parents ·