Call me Mother of the Year.
The first stage of the process is now complete. Back in September, I alluded to Peanut's preschool misadventures and mentioned that we were following up on different resources. Those resources have taken Boomer and I to pre-K screenings, the doctor's office, and most recently, a child psychologist. Now, after three months, we have a diagnosis.
Asperger's.
For those who are unaware, Asperger's is a mild, high functioning form of autism. It's more of a focus on the social/behavioral issues. The good news is that Peanut, like many with this, is intelligent to the point of awe. The bad news? It's still autism, complete with all the stigma.
So there's the facts. And we go to stage two. Stage two currently involves finding a pediatrician that specializes in the autism spectrum, another meeting with our school district, and figuring out if Peanut will have a place in a pre-K that will be more suitable than our first attempt. We know they want him; it's now a matter of do they have room for him.
The facts are cut and dried; my emotions are not.
When Boomer and my doctor put that kid in my arms nearly four years ago, I swore that I would be there for him. He would have the childhood I had. Loving parents, friends, grandparents to spoil him rotten, and every opportunity possible. He still has that, but the friends part is getting a bit more difficult. Thank God for Partner-In-Crime. And his parents.
Right now I feel like I've been kicked in the teeth. I want to know what I've done wrong. I want to keep him close to me. But I can't. And I know that I haven't done anything wrong. But it still hurts.
I know now that my son will always have an uphill battle ahead of him. More so than the other kids in his class. And no parent wants to hear that their precious baby's path isn't paved with gold.
I want to keep him safe from harm, from stares and comments. But I can't.
What I can do, however, is be his biggest fan. I can be a passionate advocate for my son. I can ensure the best education, learn his life, troubleshoot for him now, and (most importantly) teach him to deal with this crazy world. I can whisper words of love even when his temper makes him scream at me. I will make sure he knows he is adored by Boomer and me.
After all, isn't that what parenting is all about?
Call me Mother of the Year.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Thanksgiving Leftovers
Call me Mother of the Year.
I have lots to be thankful for. Peanut was well-behaved during the family dinner (and the leftover feast!), hanging out with the family was grand as always, and Boomer made breakfast Friday AND Saturday. Oh, Spoiled Mommy.
A bit more about the feasts...
We hit Boomer's family first because they were closer and there was a party. Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa celebrated their 60th anniversary this week, and we felt the need to celebrate with them. Boomer said he wanted to be like them. I said good, because I get to decide if we stay married the first 50 years, and then he gets the second 50. I may have to revise that one to the first 60, but I'm good so far. So is he.
Other than the minor point of Peanut's begging for toys at his cousin's house rather than eating, he did really well. No temper tantrums, and there was a thankful Mommy. We convinced Wonder Preschooler to leave so he could play with my cousin's kids at Nana and Papa's. We got there and realized they had left 30 minutes earlier. Drat. Luckily, Peanut knows where Nana keeps the toys and that Papa is a sucker for playing with Peanut. Disaster avoided. Too bad the Aggies couldn't say the same.
Friday was a nice, lazy day for us. Boomer made breakfast for his hungry son and grateful wife, and proceeded to take Wonder Preschooler to procure Christmas lights while I got quiet time. And there was much rejoicing. Lights look fantastic, and all are happy.
Saturday looked a lot like Friday, with one notable exception: Peanut is potty-trained! There is much rejoicing! We are quite proud of our Thomas underwear, and Mommy and Daddy are quite relieved.
And now, there is snow on the ground, Peanut wants to ski, and he's settling for going outside and sledding. Now, if only I could find the sled...
Call me Mother of the Year.
I have lots to be thankful for. Peanut was well-behaved during the family dinner (and the leftover feast!), hanging out with the family was grand as always, and Boomer made breakfast Friday AND Saturday. Oh, Spoiled Mommy.
A bit more about the feasts...
We hit Boomer's family first because they were closer and there was a party. Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa celebrated their 60th anniversary this week, and we felt the need to celebrate with them. Boomer said he wanted to be like them. I said good, because I get to decide if we stay married the first 50 years, and then he gets the second 50. I may have to revise that one to the first 60, but I'm good so far. So is he.
Other than the minor point of Peanut's begging for toys at his cousin's house rather than eating, he did really well. No temper tantrums, and there was a thankful Mommy. We convinced Wonder Preschooler to leave so he could play with my cousin's kids at Nana and Papa's. We got there and realized they had left 30 minutes earlier. Drat. Luckily, Peanut knows where Nana keeps the toys and that Papa is a sucker for playing with Peanut. Disaster avoided. Too bad the Aggies couldn't say the same.
Friday was a nice, lazy day for us. Boomer made breakfast for his hungry son and grateful wife, and proceeded to take Wonder Preschooler to procure Christmas lights while I got quiet time. And there was much rejoicing. Lights look fantastic, and all are happy.
Saturday looked a lot like Friday, with one notable exception: Peanut is potty-trained! There is much rejoicing! We are quite proud of our Thomas underwear, and Mommy and Daddy are quite relieved.
And now, there is snow on the ground, Peanut wants to ski, and he's settling for going outside and sledding. Now, if only I could find the sled...
Call me Mother of the Year.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Welcome Home!
Call me Mother of the Year.
After six months, our house is finally a home. All the members of our family are back under the same roof.
Boomer and I quickly realized that when we moved, we would need to fence in the backyard. Not necessarily because of adventuresome preschoolers, but an adventuresome dog who enjoys chasing birds and bunnies. Other projects got in the way, and the fence was put off. Until this weekend.
Boomer and Papa were able to finish the fence yesterday. It looks wonderful, and will keep all children safely in the yard. After admiring his work, Boomer looked at me with a slightly pleading gaze and asked if we could get his dog back ASAP. Since Doggy Luke really is Boomer's, I cheerfully agreed. Grammy was equally pleased, as she had been dog-sitting for the past six month. We owe her. Big.
Suffice it to say that Doggy was ecstatic to see Boomer and lost no time in expressing his love and affection by not letting my husband out of his sight. The ride home was entertaining; seventy-pound dog in the back seat next to Peanut, who went into gales of laughter every time Doggy Luke stuck his nose in Boomer's side.
Doggy is trying to adjust to the much bigger preschooler, off-limit furniture, and an infinitely bigger yard. He's already scoped out the single hole in the fence that we thought was too small for him to squeeze through, and thankfully he came back into the yard when called. Right now, he's on the lookout for Boomer's truck, afraid of being left again.
Welcome home, Doggy Luke.
Call me Mother of the Year.
After six months, our house is finally a home. All the members of our family are back under the same roof.
Boomer and I quickly realized that when we moved, we would need to fence in the backyard. Not necessarily because of adventuresome preschoolers, but an adventuresome dog who enjoys chasing birds and bunnies. Other projects got in the way, and the fence was put off. Until this weekend.
Boomer and Papa were able to finish the fence yesterday. It looks wonderful, and will keep all children safely in the yard. After admiring his work, Boomer looked at me with a slightly pleading gaze and asked if we could get his dog back ASAP. Since Doggy Luke really is Boomer's, I cheerfully agreed. Grammy was equally pleased, as she had been dog-sitting for the past six month. We owe her. Big.
Suffice it to say that Doggy was ecstatic to see Boomer and lost no time in expressing his love and affection by not letting my husband out of his sight. The ride home was entertaining; seventy-pound dog in the back seat next to Peanut, who went into gales of laughter every time Doggy Luke stuck his nose in Boomer's side.
Doggy is trying to adjust to the much bigger preschooler, off-limit furniture, and an infinitely bigger yard. He's already scoped out the single hole in the fence that we thought was too small for him to squeeze through, and thankfully he came back into the yard when called. Right now, he's on the lookout for Boomer's truck, afraid of being left again.
Welcome home, Doggy Luke.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Treasure Seeker
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm not sure I've mentioned this yet, but Peanut has an obsession with pirates. For the record, Opa's Talk Like a Pirate Day is not helping. Right now the obsession involves seeking buried treasure. In throw pillows and clean laundry.
Courtesy of Nana and Papa, we have a toy pirate ship, mainly because I was desperate to entertain the Wonder Preschooler in cold months. We are now following an imaginary treasure map in an attempt to find the treasure of Peanut's dreams. Trains will probably be involved. So far, we have braved the Confusing Couch, the Looming Pile of Laundry (clean! Clean I say!) and the Positively Petrifying Pile of Throw Pillows. Good thing I was an English major; my supply of adjectives is exhausted.
I think I know how to handle Christmas: massive treasure map.
But for now, I must investigate the treasures Peanut comes up with. And plot my revenge to Opa for Peanut's constant yelling of "AARRRGGGHHH!" Most importantly, though, I need to report for duty.
"Right Captain Mommy?"
"Right, First Mate Peanut. Full speed ahead!"
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm not sure I've mentioned this yet, but Peanut has an obsession with pirates. For the record, Opa's Talk Like a Pirate Day is not helping. Right now the obsession involves seeking buried treasure. In throw pillows and clean laundry.
Courtesy of Nana and Papa, we have a toy pirate ship, mainly because I was desperate to entertain the Wonder Preschooler in cold months. We are now following an imaginary treasure map in an attempt to find the treasure of Peanut's dreams. Trains will probably be involved. So far, we have braved the Confusing Couch, the Looming Pile of Laundry (clean! Clean I say!) and the Positively Petrifying Pile of Throw Pillows. Good thing I was an English major; my supply of adjectives is exhausted.
I think I know how to handle Christmas: massive treasure map.
But for now, I must investigate the treasures Peanut comes up with. And plot my revenge to Opa for Peanut's constant yelling of "AARRRGGGHHH!" Most importantly, though, I need to report for duty.
"Right Captain Mommy?"
"Right, First Mate Peanut. Full speed ahead!"
Call me Mother of the Year.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Sleep, Peanut, Sleep
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm sure there's a reason for this. I'm equally sure I'm a major part of the reason. But I'm forced to wonder aloud why the HECK my kid is acting like someone gave him the preschooler version of No-Doz? The usual suspects include a contrary Peanut, disgustingly early wake-up time, and nearly two-hour nap due to disgustingly early wake-up time. Result: two hours of diversion while Peanut entertains us, his ghosts, stuffed animals and possibly the neighbors with singing and sound effects from a sippy cup. At least the kid's got rhythm. And we now know that bars on a toddler bed sound kind of like a xylophone when beaten with a sippy full of water. Learn something new every day.
There are lessons here. First, never allow a three and a half year old boy anywhere near my bed before 7:00 a.m. I'd prefer 8:00, but I'm attempting to be realistic. Second, if such insanity is in fact allowed, don't let the kid nap until 4:00 in the afternoon. Thus two-hour block. Not good.
On the other hand, a wired Peanut is seriously entertaining. When Boomer is in charge. And all I have to do is accept kisses and hugs. I'm good with this part. But it fell to me to convince Wonder Toddler that sleeping in Mommy and Daddy's bed all night wasn't going to happen. Major kicking. And sleeping with Peanut's feet in my face isn't comfortable.
At last, however, there is peace and quiet emanating from the Peanut's room. Which has been torn apart in the valiant but futile attempt at avoiding sleep. And he still needs to explain how sleeping under the pillow and over the covers is comfy. Oh well. Sleep well, little Peanut.
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm sure there's a reason for this. I'm equally sure I'm a major part of the reason. But I'm forced to wonder aloud why the HECK my kid is acting like someone gave him the preschooler version of No-Doz? The usual suspects include a contrary Peanut, disgustingly early wake-up time, and nearly two-hour nap due to disgustingly early wake-up time. Result: two hours of diversion while Peanut entertains us, his ghosts, stuffed animals and possibly the neighbors with singing and sound effects from a sippy cup. At least the kid's got rhythm. And we now know that bars on a toddler bed sound kind of like a xylophone when beaten with a sippy full of water. Learn something new every day.
There are lessons here. First, never allow a three and a half year old boy anywhere near my bed before 7:00 a.m. I'd prefer 8:00, but I'm attempting to be realistic. Second, if such insanity is in fact allowed, don't let the kid nap until 4:00 in the afternoon. Thus two-hour block. Not good.
On the other hand, a wired Peanut is seriously entertaining. When Boomer is in charge. And all I have to do is accept kisses and hugs. I'm good with this part. But it fell to me to convince Wonder Toddler that sleeping in Mommy and Daddy's bed all night wasn't going to happen. Major kicking. And sleeping with Peanut's feet in my face isn't comfortable.
At last, however, there is peace and quiet emanating from the Peanut's room. Which has been torn apart in the valiant but futile attempt at avoiding sleep. And he still needs to explain how sleeping under the pillow and over the covers is comfy. Oh well. Sleep well, little Peanut.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Election
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's the night before the election, and I find myself pondering. Again. About who I'm going to vote for. Again. I have changed my mind more times than I can count, and I'm certain I'm not alone. On one hand, I really wanted to like Obama. But I'm not sure about his policies or his experience (or rather, lack thereof). I wanted to spend my time snarking about McCain, but I find myself agreeing with a few of his policies. As for Palin, well, there's a reason the pit bull costume stayed in my closet. Lipstick didn't match. Drat. So I'm stuck.
As I search for my voter registration card, polling place, and lucky quarter (hey, gotta make a decision somehow), I realize there is a candidate I haven't considered. He's young, but able to make tough decisions. No problem with cutting taxes. Good with foreign relations. Has firm opinions about energy options. In short, the perfect candidate.
Peanut for President.
Partner-In-Crime for Vice-President.
Peanut is excellent at deciding snack time and outdoor play. Peanut has no problem cutting taxes because he doesn't know what they are. Does not know strangers, and considers everyone his friend. Objects to nap time with furious vigor. And, well, he's short. Plus, his Vice-Presidential candidate is six months older, and does his best to tell Peanut what to do. The perfect ticket.
So I've got big plans to vote for the Dastardly Duo ticket on November 4. Except the age thing caught up to me. And the lack of education. And the likelihood that those two would turn the White House into their playground at taxpayer expense. Maybe this isn't such a good idea. Where'd that quarter get to?
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's the night before the election, and I find myself pondering. Again. About who I'm going to vote for. Again. I have changed my mind more times than I can count, and I'm certain I'm not alone. On one hand, I really wanted to like Obama. But I'm not sure about his policies or his experience (or rather, lack thereof). I wanted to spend my time snarking about McCain, but I find myself agreeing with a few of his policies. As for Palin, well, there's a reason the pit bull costume stayed in my closet. Lipstick didn't match. Drat. So I'm stuck.
As I search for my voter registration card, polling place, and lucky quarter (hey, gotta make a decision somehow), I realize there is a candidate I haven't considered. He's young, but able to make tough decisions. No problem with cutting taxes. Good with foreign relations. Has firm opinions about energy options. In short, the perfect candidate.
Peanut for President.
Partner-In-Crime for Vice-President.
Peanut is excellent at deciding snack time and outdoor play. Peanut has no problem cutting taxes because he doesn't know what they are. Does not know strangers, and considers everyone his friend. Objects to nap time with furious vigor. And, well, he's short. Plus, his Vice-Presidential candidate is six months older, and does his best to tell Peanut what to do. The perfect ticket.
So I've got big plans to vote for the Dastardly Duo ticket on November 4. Except the age thing caught up to me. And the lack of education. And the likelihood that those two would turn the White House into their playground at taxpayer expense. Maybe this isn't such a good idea. Where'd that quarter get to?
Call me Mother of the Year.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Halloween Wrapup
Call me Mother of the Year.
The candy begging is over, and the sugar rush is just beginning. Despite my son's enviable eating habits (I'm grateful to have the only child in America who begs for broccoli), he is currently convinced that he needs candy for all meals. Seriously, Peanut on sugar high is not on my list of fun things. Especially when I'm the one saying no.
Not surprisingly, there are a few fun stories. One of Peanut's cousins, slightly younger, called "trick or treat" to the kids at his house and then tried to reach into their bags to thief their candy. Too bad wee ones do NOT get the thought of "if I'm giving them candy, they're not giving it back". I'm snickering only because it wasn't my kid. According to Boomer, my kid bellowed "trick or treat" with everything he had (and trust me, this kid's got quite a bit... blame his mother) at an unsuspecting elderly lady. Friends are snickering. Same reason as my earlier snickering.
I too had a moment to ponder that had nothing to do with chocolate. A friend and I were supervising our sons in their I-look-cute-so-give-me-candy scheme and, during our collective admonishments to say thank you, he offered a bit of advice.
"We helicopter parents need to quit hovering."
Huh.
I like to think that I'm giving Peanut his space, or as much space as a three and a half year old can expect. But as I write this, the evidence suggests otherwise. Mommy constantly watching child at the park, ready to correct or make better? Right here. Rarely lets Wonder Toddler out of sight? You guessed it. Husband contemplating patenting phrases "He'll be fine." "I've got this." "Relax!" Present and accounted for.
It may be prudent for me to start realizing that protective is good, but hovering is bad, even for toddlers. And yes, I'm going to start attempting to let go of some of my control. The Peanut will undoubtedly react with glee. The laughter you hear is Boomer's. But then, he knows me too well for my own good.
Call me Mother of the Year.
The candy begging is over, and the sugar rush is just beginning. Despite my son's enviable eating habits (I'm grateful to have the only child in America who begs for broccoli), he is currently convinced that he needs candy for all meals. Seriously, Peanut on sugar high is not on my list of fun things. Especially when I'm the one saying no.
Not surprisingly, there are a few fun stories. One of Peanut's cousins, slightly younger, called "trick or treat" to the kids at his house and then tried to reach into their bags to thief their candy. Too bad wee ones do NOT get the thought of "if I'm giving them candy, they're not giving it back". I'm snickering only because it wasn't my kid. According to Boomer, my kid bellowed "trick or treat" with everything he had (and trust me, this kid's got quite a bit... blame his mother) at an unsuspecting elderly lady. Friends are snickering. Same reason as my earlier snickering.
I too had a moment to ponder that had nothing to do with chocolate. A friend and I were supervising our sons in their I-look-cute-so-give-me-candy scheme and, during our collective admonishments to say thank you, he offered a bit of advice.
"We helicopter parents need to quit hovering."
Huh.
I like to think that I'm giving Peanut his space, or as much space as a three and a half year old can expect. But as I write this, the evidence suggests otherwise. Mommy constantly watching child at the park, ready to correct or make better? Right here. Rarely lets Wonder Toddler out of sight? You guessed it. Husband contemplating patenting phrases "He'll be fine." "I've got this." "Relax!" Present and accounted for.
It may be prudent for me to start realizing that protective is good, but hovering is bad, even for toddlers. And yes, I'm going to start attempting to let go of some of my control. The Peanut will undoubtedly react with glee. The laughter you hear is Boomer's. But then, he knows me too well for my own good.
Call me Mother of the Year.
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