I should've known I was askin' for it, for some kind of karmic balancing, by gushing and bragging about my family and my great life lately. It's only 1:30 in the afternoon, and I'm ready for bed.
This morning Carl got Hannah out of bed at 6:00 a.m., then fell back asleep on the couch. He sleeps like the dead and I sleep with a fan going in the room because I sleep so lightly. Neither of us heard Hannah fixing herself some breakfast. Not cereal. Not a piece of bread. Not even a glass of milk. She ate and smeared an entire container of peanut butter. We had greasy peanut butter on the kitchen floor, on cupboards, and on the sheets where she left the all-but-empty jar. Peanut butter everywhere. Ugh.
Later, when I checked my bank accounts online, I discovered I had failed to write in a Two-thousand-five-hundred dollar credit card payment I had scheduled. Can you say "overdraft?"
The last karmic-balancing-straw occurred when I picked up Hannah from school. For a little history, I need to explain that Hannah's teachers informed that they wouldn't be doing anything new for the rest of the school year. Therefore, I didn't need to attend her class unless I really wanted to.
"It won't matter if she's inattentive?"
"Nah. We're just reviewing and finishing up from here on out." As a result, I didn't observe her 10:30 seatwork craft project which involved finger painting. You may think you know how this ends, but believe me. You couldn't possibly guess.
As Hannah's teacher buckled Hannah into her car seat, I asked Janet, the speech therapist, if today went any better than Monday. Janet walked towards me and gave me the so-so look, then said to the other teachers, "We should probably tell her about it."
"Yeah, we should," another teacher said. Silence. I thought my meetings-at-the-schoolhouse-door had ended when they told me I didn't need to attend her seat work sessions. What could this possibly be?
"We used white paint for some finger painting," Anne said. I immediately looked at Hannah's clothes, assuming they had been ruined by paint. No white paint. Anne continued, "We took Hannah into the bathroom to wash her hands with some other kids. After she soaped up, she rinsed her hands...um...in the toilet."
In the toilet?! I laughed out of nervousness, but noticed no one was laughing with me. Feeling even more nervous, I said something like, "That's not what we do at home." Brilliant. After some hmming and see-you-tomorrow, and you-might-want-to-watch-out-for-that-at-home, Anne actually said, "Well, there's never a dull moment."
Don't I know it.
Showing posts with label Dandy-Walker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dandy-Walker. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Tuesday Tranquility Teamed with Gratitude
My Tranquil Tuesdays™ conclude just after my Tuesday babysitter, C, graduates from high school on May 17. She has agreed to babysit for two more Tuesdays, after which she goes on a 3-week tour of the U.S. with the singing group Highest Praise. She has other obligations after touring, then she begins her college career. Has it really been more than twenty years since since I viewed life from that perspective?
C began babysitting when Sheri and I decided to take a Creative Writing course together at the local community college. The class met Tuesday nights and jump-started my friendship with Sheri. After the college class ended, I kept C so that I could also keep my sanity. I home schooled at the time and desperately needed a slice of time to call my own. Now that the girls are in public school, the desperation has receded. I may or may not try to replace C. We'll see how the summer goes.
Tonight I'm spending one of my final Tranquil Tuesdays™ at the library with Van Morrison's Moondance playing through my Bose headphones on my laptop.
We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic.
I'm experiencing extreme nostalgia at the moment, feeling very lucky, very blessed. I spent so much self-pity this past winter that, hopefully, the account is dry and replaced by a Gratitude Fund. Moondance takes me back to my dating days with Carl. As a partner in a car stereo company, he had a rockin' sound system (very important in my early twenties). We would crank Van Morrison, smoke a little and head to the lake for a weekend of water skiing, sun and crazy fun with friends. Or maybe to Tahlequah, Oklahoma with our dog, Colonel, to canoe down the Illinois river and camp in a tent alone.
Evenings like this help me to regain perspective, to refresh my point of view. I'm not the first to look in the mirror and realize that the person in the reflection does not resemble the spirit behind the face. My body has aged faster than most, but in my mind's eye I am still the same.
C began babysitting when Sheri and I decided to take a Creative Writing course together at the local community college. The class met Tuesday nights and jump-started my friendship with Sheri. After the college class ended, I kept C so that I could also keep my sanity. I home schooled at the time and desperately needed a slice of time to call my own. Now that the girls are in public school, the desperation has receded. I may or may not try to replace C. We'll see how the summer goes.
Tonight I'm spending one of my final Tranquil Tuesdays™ at the library with Van Morrison's Moondance playing through my Bose headphones on my laptop.
We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic.
I'm experiencing extreme nostalgia at the moment, feeling very lucky, very blessed. I spent so much self-pity this past winter that, hopefully, the account is dry and replaced by a Gratitude Fund. Moondance takes me back to my dating days with Carl. As a partner in a car stereo company, he had a rockin' sound system (very important in my early twenties). We would crank Van Morrison, smoke a little and head to the lake for a weekend of water skiing, sun and crazy fun with friends. Or maybe to Tahlequah, Oklahoma with our dog, Colonel, to canoe down the Illinois river and camp in a tent alone.
Evenings like this help me to regain perspective, to refresh my point of view. I'm not the first to look in the mirror and realize that the person in the reflection does not resemble the spirit behind the face. My body has aged faster than most, but in my mind's eye I am still the same.
My soul becomes younger every time I appreciate my blessings, so I am spending this moment enumerating my blessings:
- My dad and his new wife spent a week in southeast Kansas so that they could help me repaint my sad, sad kitchen cupboards and walls. This was prior to my blog, so it didn't live here in infamy. (Maybe I will dig out photos and post them for posterity.)
- My mom has contributed more to the beauty of my home through her painting and sewing skills than I have with my skills. (Why didn't you pass on that gene, Mom???)
- I didn't marry R. (OK, this is WAY out of chronological order, but I'm going with chain of thought here.)
- I DID marry Carl. He pushes all my buttons, but sometimes that's a good thing.
- Dave and Matt helped with the Building Project just when we needed it.
- My sister married someone who earned an engineering degree and is a partner in a major Heating and Air company (just when we needed heat and air...thanks Ash & Ed).
- Just so you know, my sister has a degree of her own and chose to spend her education on her family.
- Liz began cleaning my house years ago and has become one of my best friends and my counsellor. I joke that I should really be paying her $120 per hour when she's here to clean.
- C has been a splendid babysitter.
- Sheri asked me to take that Creative Writing class with her, and later invited me to visit her sister in Pompano Beach, Florida with her...and all the fun in between and since.
- I have new landscaping that is as beautiful as some I've seen in magazines for small yards...in my humble opinion.
- I moved to this small town as a complete stranger just over ten years ago and now I would struggle mightily with a decision to move "back home."
I could--most definitely--add to this list, but you get the idea. I'm ever so slowly recognizing that my life is what I look at. I could (and have) looked at my body, that is crippled by rheumatoid arthritis; at my daughter who has a congenital brain defect; at every little--and big--negative element of my life. In fact, my daughter-with-a-congenital-brain-defect is this moment screaming in her sleep, distracting me as I type. Nevertheless, much of my life is determined by what I look at. Yes, I know my sentence is grammatically incorrect, but my intention is spot-on.
I'm hoping I can continue Tranquil Tuesdays™ partially by focusing on gratitude. It sounds lofty, even a little out of my reach. But as summer awaits, I'll keep that as my intention.
I just hope my summer intentions prove more fruitful than those at Christmas.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Spring Cleaning My Yard...And My Attitude
Yesterday the sun shone, for the last time this week according to the weatherman, so I charged my electric chair (OK-"battery-powered wheelchair"...but "electric chair" sounds less old fogey); gathered the troops (Katie and Hailey); accumulated rakes, giant black plastic trash bags and clippers; and zipped out to the front yard for some spring cleaning.
The view from my front window is one of the ugliest in town: combines, tractors, rusted machinery and trees choked by sumac vines in the lot across the street. But I love my east-facing front yard. Especially in spring. I enjoy cutting back the fountain grasses to make room for fresh growth. I get pleasure from raking the dead leaves out of my flower beds, smelling the moist dirt beneath, finding daisies sprouting in unexpected places. Every year two lone tulips and a purple hyacinth bloom, though I didn't plant them. Last fall I salvaged one stick from a neighbor's overlooked lilac bush and transplanted it in one of my raised "holding beds" just around the southeast corner of the house, unsure if it would survive my inexperience. It not only developed green leaves, but one bunch of lilac buds promises to bloom under my bedroom window in the next month.
The holding beds contain an odd assortment of plants waiting for the day I officially landscape my yard, something I've been intending to do for years now. I don't recall everything I've placed in the beds and anticipate the surprise I'll feel when I find the first green of the forgotten plants.
As I write this, I realize that my yard reflects my life. I had great plans for it, but those plans have yet to be realized...if ever. I expected to plant fescue and spread a weed-killing fertilizer every year for the manicured effect. But if I had done that, I would have lost the opportunity to enjoy the wild grape hyacinths and the white clover flowers that bloom in scattered patches. I mapped out flower beds with grand arches and a specific arrangement of annuals, perennials and grasses. In the same way I planned a life based around a healthy body and children, never even considering rheumatoid arthritis, blissfully unaware of "Dandy-Walker." Reality rerouted all of those plans. I used to resent that. Some days I still do.
But yesterday I understood that different plans had been made for me and I glimpsed their beauty. For a moment I felt thankful for an imperfect lawn, for my unrealized dreams. Because I felt less attachment to a certain outcome, I appreciated Katie's and Hailey's sometimes silly contributions. Since flowers bloomed wildly in my yard instead of fescue, I've received at least a dozen bouquets already, delivered by grubby Hannah hands as well as by young ladies simultaneously desiring their mother's approval and detachment. In the same way arthritis and Dandy-Walker have given me a different perspective, a strangely pretty one.
This isn't the yard I've planned. This isn't the life I've planned. But if I look closely and cultivate gratitude, I find an unanticipated magnificence in it's plainness.
The view from my front window is one of the ugliest in town: combines, tractors, rusted machinery and trees choked by sumac vines in the lot across the street. But I love my east-facing front yard. Especially in spring. I enjoy cutting back the fountain grasses to make room for fresh growth. I get pleasure from raking the dead leaves out of my flower beds, smelling the moist dirt beneath, finding daisies sprouting in unexpected places. Every year two lone tulips and a purple hyacinth bloom, though I didn't plant them. Last fall I salvaged one stick from a neighbor's overlooked lilac bush and transplanted it in one of my raised "holding beds" just around the southeast corner of the house, unsure if it would survive my inexperience. It not only developed green leaves, but one bunch of lilac buds promises to bloom under my bedroom window in the next month.
The holding beds contain an odd assortment of plants waiting for the day I officially landscape my yard, something I've been intending to do for years now. I don't recall everything I've placed in the beds and anticipate the surprise I'll feel when I find the first green of the forgotten plants.
As I write this, I realize that my yard reflects my life. I had great plans for it, but those plans have yet to be realized...if ever. I expected to plant fescue and spread a weed-killing fertilizer every year for the manicured effect. But if I had done that, I would have lost the opportunity to enjoy the wild grape hyacinths and the white clover flowers that bloom in scattered patches. I mapped out flower beds with grand arches and a specific arrangement of annuals, perennials and grasses. In the same way I planned a life based around a healthy body and children, never even considering rheumatoid arthritis, blissfully unaware of "Dandy-Walker." Reality rerouted all of those plans. I used to resent that. Some days I still do.
But yesterday I understood that different plans had been made for me and I glimpsed their beauty. For a moment I felt thankful for an imperfect lawn, for my unrealized dreams. Because I felt less attachment to a certain outcome, I appreciated Katie's and Hailey's sometimes silly contributions. Since flowers bloomed wildly in my yard instead of fescue, I've received at least a dozen bouquets already, delivered by grubby Hannah hands as well as by young ladies simultaneously desiring their mother's approval and detachment. In the same way arthritis and Dandy-Walker have given me a different perspective, a strangely pretty one.
This isn't the yard I've planned. This isn't the life I've planned. But if I look closely and cultivate gratitude, I find an unanticipated magnificence in it's plainness.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
10:30 A.M.
10:30 a.m. That's what time I go to Hannah's school daily, as of Monday, to help her focus at seatwork time.
When I picked Hannah up from school last Wednesday, all three of her teachers were standing at the door (not unusual) and reported that Hannah simply will not stay focused. Every sound turns her head, and there her eyes remain focused as she absentmindedly scribbles on her unseen seatwork assignment.
Her teachers have tried many things, as I've already written ad nauseum. She peered around the cardboard cubicle they erected around her. She was ambivalent to the weighted vest, though they've only tried it once. I'd like to try it again. With a 5-to-1 student-teacher ratio, they have the ability to--and do--redirect her constantly during seatwork. They've tried seating her separately from the group. Time out. Threatening to call Mom. I don't even remember all that they've tried.
Hannah can't tell me, but I can imagine what she experiences. I envision that she processes every sound equally, as if it were the voice of authority, the voice of a teacher or her mother. Her brain interprets the sound of the loud child across the room as equal in importance to the teacher at her table. The doorbell requires her attention as if it were her mother giving her instructions. Each of the hundreds of little sounds she hears in her three-hour span of class time are equal in pressure to that of an adult giving her a job to do. I would zone out, too.
The Big M--Medication--sits in the back of my mind and taunts me: You've tried everything. She's never going to get better. She'll flunk Kindergarten at this rate. Pick me. I can make it all better.
Logic swats the Big M aside: She has a brain defect, not a chemical imbalance. Medication is a band-aid, not a solution.
So, I've opted to attend her 10:30 seatwork session daily and help her focus. Today completed day three and so far I'm pleased with my decision. It's given me an opportunity to personally witness how Hannah handles a classroom setting, which is exactly as the teachers have described. Exactly as I've described. I don't know that I'm helping her to improve, only that I'm helping her to not worsen.
And avoiding the Big M one 10:30 a.m. session at a time.
When I picked Hannah up from school last Wednesday, all three of her teachers were standing at the door (not unusual) and reported that Hannah simply will not stay focused. Every sound turns her head, and there her eyes remain focused as she absentmindedly scribbles on her unseen seatwork assignment.
Her teachers have tried many things, as I've already written ad nauseum. She peered around the cardboard cubicle they erected around her. She was ambivalent to the weighted vest, though they've only tried it once. I'd like to try it again. With a 5-to-1 student-teacher ratio, they have the ability to--and do--redirect her constantly during seatwork. They've tried seating her separately from the group. Time out. Threatening to call Mom. I don't even remember all that they've tried.
Hannah can't tell me, but I can imagine what she experiences. I envision that she processes every sound equally, as if it were the voice of authority, the voice of a teacher or her mother. Her brain interprets the sound of the loud child across the room as equal in importance to the teacher at her table. The doorbell requires her attention as if it were her mother giving her instructions. Each of the hundreds of little sounds she hears in her three-hour span of class time are equal in pressure to that of an adult giving her a job to do. I would zone out, too.
The Big M--Medication--sits in the back of my mind and taunts me: You've tried everything. She's never going to get better. She'll flunk Kindergarten at this rate. Pick me. I can make it all better.
Logic swats the Big M aside: She has a brain defect, not a chemical imbalance. Medication is a band-aid, not a solution.
So, I've opted to attend her 10:30 seatwork session daily and help her focus. Today completed day three and so far I'm pleased with my decision. It's given me an opportunity to personally witness how Hannah handles a classroom setting, which is exactly as the teachers have described. Exactly as I've described. I don't know that I'm helping her to improve, only that I'm helping her to not worsen.
And avoiding the Big M one 10:30 a.m. session at a time.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Staying in the Game
The girls and I sat around the table last week discussing Easter as we ate our macaroni and cheese.
"We need to choose your Easter dresses soon. I don't want to wait until the last minute," I warned. A friend had given us five or six Easter-worthy dresses, among other clothes, that looked like they had never been worn. Tommy Hilfiger. Gap. Score! I hate to shop, so those dresses were three-pointers (trying to stay in the March Madness basketball frame of mind, even though basketball runs a close second to shopping.)
"What about shoes, mom?" Hailey asked.
Shoot. Shoes. "I guess we'll have to make a mad dash to Joplin and match the shoes to the dress you pick." I turned t0 Hannah. "What are you going to wear?" The friend's clothes did not include size 3T.
"I sit on E-puhn ap," Hannah replied. What???
"You sat on Ethan's lap?" I guessed. She's been talking about Aunt Ashley and her family, including cousin Ethan, daily though I don't know why. Leave it to Hannah to completely change the subject.
"No," Hannah responded. "I sit on E-puhn ap." Emphasis on the E, as if that helped. Great. I braced myself for the meltdown that follows her frustration with being misunderstood.
"Nooo." Bracing. Bracing. Eyes cringing.
Silent pause.
"Mmmm. Faking. (Hmmm. I'm thinking)," Hannah said with her index finger to her lips.
What's going on here?
Suddenly Hannah raised her elbows to her head with her hands flopping around and said, "It has beeg ewhs. White. (It has big ears. White.)"
Momentarily stunned, I finally got it. She was describing E-puhn: The Easter Bunny. "You sat on the Easter Bunny's lap!"
"Yeah! I sit on E-puhn ap!"
"Hannah, you are so smart! Good description!" I praised as I kissed her whole face. This was HUGE! It marked the first time Hannah has realized that she can explain what she is trying to say rather than uselessly repeating the same thing over and over, ultimately melting down.
Events like this cause me to look back and appreciate the progress. At the beginning of the school year Hannah spoke in one- to three-word sentences. Her speech therapist taught her to say, "Daddy. Is. At. Work." while holding up a finger for each word. Effort. Now she jabbers so much I find myself wishing she would be quiet for a moment. Though still difficult to understand, her speech has improved in both understandability and amount.
We finished our macaroni and cheese and continued the normal routine of the day. But that moment remained pivotal. It's as if each meltdown has been a foul. Let's just say Hannah fouled out weekly. Sometimes daily. With this new weapon, now maybe she can stay in the game.
"We need to choose your Easter dresses soon. I don't want to wait until the last minute," I warned. A friend had given us five or six Easter-worthy dresses, among other clothes, that looked like they had never been worn. Tommy Hilfiger. Gap. Score! I hate to shop, so those dresses were three-pointers (trying to stay in the March Madness basketball frame of mind, even though basketball runs a close second to shopping.)
"What about shoes, mom?" Hailey asked.
Shoot. Shoes. "I guess we'll have to make a mad dash to Joplin and match the shoes to the dress you pick." I turned t0 Hannah. "What are you going to wear?" The friend's clothes did not include size 3T.
"I sit on E-puhn ap," Hannah replied. What???
"You sat on Ethan's lap?" I guessed. She's been talking about Aunt Ashley and her family, including cousin Ethan, daily though I don't know why. Leave it to Hannah to completely change the subject.
"No," Hannah responded. "I sit on E-puhn ap." Emphasis on the E, as if that helped. Great. I braced myself for the meltdown that follows her frustration with being misunderstood.
"Nooo." Bracing. Bracing. Eyes cringing.
Silent pause.
"Mmmm. Faking. (Hmmm. I'm thinking)," Hannah said with her index finger to her lips.
What's going on here?
Suddenly Hannah raised her elbows to her head with her hands flopping around and said, "It has beeg ewhs. White. (It has big ears. White.)"
Momentarily stunned, I finally got it. She was describing E-puhn: The Easter Bunny. "You sat on the Easter Bunny's lap!"
"Yeah! I sit on E-puhn ap!"
"Hannah, you are so smart! Good description!" I praised as I kissed her whole face. This was HUGE! It marked the first time Hannah has realized that she can explain what she is trying to say rather than uselessly repeating the same thing over and over, ultimately melting down.
Events like this cause me to look back and appreciate the progress. At the beginning of the school year Hannah spoke in one- to three-word sentences. Her speech therapist taught her to say, "Daddy. Is. At. Work." while holding up a finger for each word. Effort. Now she jabbers so much I find myself wishing she would be quiet for a moment. Though still difficult to understand, her speech has improved in both understandability and amount.
We finished our macaroni and cheese and continued the normal routine of the day. But that moment remained pivotal. It's as if each meltdown has been a foul. Let's just say Hannah fouled out weekly. Sometimes daily. With this new weapon, now maybe she can stay in the game.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Not So Dandy Comparisons
Following is an excerpt from an e-mail sent to my online Dandy-Walker support group.
My son whom has DWM [Dandy Walker Malformation--Hannah's malformation] and is 10-1/2 years old, has a one-to-one aide in school. He is non-verbal, we sign and use a dynavox for all communication. He started to walk only 4 years ago. He went from a wheelchair, to a walker and is now walking on his own. He has come such a long way, but the reality is, he still has a long way to go. He has poor coordination, balance, muscle tone, non-verbal, depth perception, extropia [extropia??? I don't know what that is], etc, etc, etc. He receives physical therapy, occupational therapy and speech therapy through school and privately through insurance. He's been in hippotherapy [horse-riding therapy] for 8 years, karate for special needs, gymnastics and softball for special needs. You name it I try it. Again.... he has come a long long way physically but still has some serious issues.
I've been mildly obsessed with this mom's letter on two levels.
First, I'm thankful Hannah's Dandy-Walker symptoms are much milder than those of the child above. Hannah's speaks like a two- or three-year-old, rather than like the five-year-old she is. Her gross motor skills are delayed, but she finally runs. That's not always a blessing, but I'm always grateful. Hannah's primary problem seems to be sensory-oriented: every sound at school distracts her so that she doesn't do well with seat work...as I've repeated over and over here. Thankfully, Hannah's meltdowns have nearly disappeared. I hadn't considered that until this very moment. Wow.
The second level: that woman sounds like supermom and I am slackermom in comparison. I've contemplated hippotherapy. Katie even took riding lessons at a facility that provides hippotherapy, but I have never followed through for Hannah. Hannah would probably be completely potty trained if we were consistent at home; instead, she continues to have "accidents" regularly.
Why do we do this to ourselves as moms? We compare ourselves to the mom who appears to be doing everything and give ourselves an F in mommy school. Maybe you don't do this. Maybe you have mastered self-approval, raising it to a level of art, like a painting on fine canvas. I, on the other hand, am still coloring with the eight-pack of fat crayons on the self-approval piece of paper from the recycle pile.
My son whom has DWM [Dandy Walker Malformation--Hannah's malformation] and is 10-1/2 years old, has a one-to-one aide in school. He is non-verbal, we sign and use a dynavox for all communication. He started to walk only 4 years ago. He went from a wheelchair, to a walker and is now walking on his own. He has come such a long way, but the reality is, he still has a long way to go. He has poor coordination, balance, muscle tone, non-verbal, depth perception, extropia [extropia??? I don't know what that is], etc, etc, etc. He receives physical therapy, occupational therapy and speech therapy through school and privately through insurance. He's been in hippotherapy [horse-riding therapy] for 8 years, karate for special needs, gymnastics and softball for special needs. You name it I try it. Again.... he has come a long long way physically but still has some serious issues.
I've been mildly obsessed with this mom's letter on two levels.
First, I'm thankful Hannah's Dandy-Walker symptoms are much milder than those of the child above. Hannah's speaks like a two- or three-year-old, rather than like the five-year-old she is. Her gross motor skills are delayed, but she finally runs. That's not always a blessing, but I'm always grateful. Hannah's primary problem seems to be sensory-oriented: every sound at school distracts her so that she doesn't do well with seat work...as I've repeated over and over here. Thankfully, Hannah's meltdowns have nearly disappeared. I hadn't considered that until this very moment. Wow.
The second level: that woman sounds like supermom and I am slackermom in comparison. I've contemplated hippotherapy. Katie even took riding lessons at a facility that provides hippotherapy, but I have never followed through for Hannah. Hannah would probably be completely potty trained if we were consistent at home; instead, she continues to have "accidents" regularly.
Why do we do this to ourselves as moms? We compare ourselves to the mom who appears to be doing everything and give ourselves an F in mommy school. Maybe you don't do this. Maybe you have mastered self-approval, raising it to a level of art, like a painting on fine canvas. I, on the other hand, am still coloring with the eight-pack of fat crayons on the self-approval piece of paper from the recycle pile.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Deciding Not to Decide
The whole Ritalin thing really has me down. I haven't written anything, I haven't started anything, I haven't done...anything. Well, except ponder, then talk to whomever is available: Mom, Sheri, Liz, my sister, the checkout lady at the grocery store.
Instead of dealing with this issue I have worked diligently on our business bookwork in escapist fashion, travelled to Tulsa for my own doctor appointment and avoided Hannah's teachers when picking her up from school. Oh, and I've watched Supernanny on TV and determined that if we were better parents Hannah wouldn't be having these problems. A naughty chair would solve them all.
I've decided not to make a decision, which really means I've decided not to medicate Hannah this school year. I want to learn more details: Does she still do well during circle time? Is she only falling behind in her seat work, or has she regressed in other areas as well? What else is available instead of medication? For what length of time does "seat work" last? If it's only thirty to forty-five minutes, would she benefit from one-on-one attention? Is one-on-one attention available? If it isn't available, could I provide it? Would she improve at school if I provided more structure at home, or would more structure push her over the edge?
In a blog comment Tonya recommended, among other things, that we try a rewards system. In knee-jerk fashion I thought been there, done that, doesn't work. However, after giving it some thought I realized that Hannah has matured since we tried stickers and other rewards. Previously Hannah didn't "get it." No sticker? No big deal. However, maybe now she would respond.
This post has been a train-of-thought entry with no real creative writing involved. I have avoided posting because I didn't know what I wanted to do for Hannah, but that has only resulted in a kind of backlog in my brain. Hopefully this rambling post will release some of that build up and give me a new momentum.
Instead of dealing with this issue I have worked diligently on our business bookwork in escapist fashion, travelled to Tulsa for my own doctor appointment and avoided Hannah's teachers when picking her up from school. Oh, and I've watched Supernanny on TV and determined that if we were better parents Hannah wouldn't be having these problems. A naughty chair would solve them all.
I've decided not to make a decision, which really means I've decided not to medicate Hannah this school year. I want to learn more details: Does she still do well during circle time? Is she only falling behind in her seat work, or has she regressed in other areas as well? What else is available instead of medication? For what length of time does "seat work" last? If it's only thirty to forty-five minutes, would she benefit from one-on-one attention? Is one-on-one attention available? If it isn't available, could I provide it? Would she improve at school if I provided more structure at home, or would more structure push her over the edge?
In a blog comment Tonya recommended, among other things, that we try a rewards system. In knee-jerk fashion I thought been there, done that, doesn't work. However, after giving it some thought I realized that Hannah has matured since we tried stickers and other rewards. Previously Hannah didn't "get it." No sticker? No big deal. However, maybe now she would respond.
This post has been a train-of-thought entry with no real creative writing involved. I have avoided posting because I didn't know what I wanted to do for Hannah, but that has only resulted in a kind of backlog in my brain. Hopefully this rambling post will release some of that build up and give me a new momentum.
Monday, February 18, 2008
What's In A Name?
"Whah du-wing?" (What are you doing?) Hannah asked me.
"I'm getting ready to help your sister with her music paper," I answered and paused. "Who is your sister?"
"Ummm, name Tatie," (um, her name is Katie).
"Who is your other sister?" I prompted.
"Name Hayey" (name Hailey), Hannah answered without hesitation.
"Who's your daddy?" I asked without music, though in my mind I was singing What's your name? What's your name? Who's your daddy? Who's your daddy? from the song Time of the Season.
Hannah answered, "Name Pop Cah" (name Papa Carl.) So far so good.
"What's my name?" I asked next.
Hannah looked puzzled. "Yoh name?" she asked.
"Yes. What's my name?"
"Ummm. Name mom." (no translation needed.)
Hailey piped in, "Her name is Angela."
"Oh," Hannah paused, thought a moment, then phoneticized my name in a way I never imagined. "Name Jajagoo." (no translation attempted.)
I don't think I'll be posting that in Hannah's speech therapy journal.
"I'm getting ready to help your sister with her music paper," I answered and paused. "Who is your sister?"
"Ummm, name Tatie," (um, her name is Katie).
"Who is your other sister?" I prompted.
"Name Hayey" (name Hailey), Hannah answered without hesitation.
"Who's your daddy?" I asked without music, though in my mind I was singing What's your name? What's your name? Who's your daddy? Who's your daddy? from the song Time of the Season.
Hannah answered, "Name Pop Cah" (name Papa Carl.) So far so good.
"What's my name?" I asked next.
Hannah looked puzzled. "Yoh name?" she asked.
"Yes. What's my name?"
"Ummm. Name mom." (no translation needed.)
Hailey piped in, "Her name is Angela."
"Oh," Hannah paused, thought a moment, then phoneticized my name in a way I never imagined. "Name Jajagoo." (no translation attempted.)
I don't think I'll be posting that in Hannah's speech therapy journal.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
The 21st Century Question: Medication or No Medication
Hannah's teacher has suggested that I consider medicating Hannah. Keep in mind, that's my summary of a five-minute conversation I had with Hannah's teacher.
Here's the history: Hannah has been easily distractable this entire school year. She seemed to be improving a bit before Christmas, but has consistently regressed since then. The climax of distraction occured Tuesday while Hannah worked on her seatwork assignment which involved identifying which butterflies were different and which were the same. In the past she has been capable of this, but Tuesday she struggled.
During the struggle Hannah stood from her seat and began wandering around the classroom.
"Hannah, come back here and finish your work," Ann, Hannah's teacher, said.
Hannah looked at Ann and said, "No."
Hannah did return to her seat, but didn't complete the assignment.
Her teachers have tried several things this past year. With a five-to-one student-teacher ratio, they have constantly redirected her: "Hannah, finish your work. Hannah, color your picture. Hannah, Hannah, Hannah." They've placed a cardboard cubicle around her, which worked beautifully the first day, then steadily decreased in efficacy. Now she peers around it every time she hears a noise. We tried the weighted vest once. Nothing.
I write all of that to dispel the notion that these particular teachers just want cooperative students and thus recommend Ritalin with a first offense. In fact, Ann was not insistent about medication, but instead insisted that she's not a doctor and is only making a suggestion.
That leaves me with a decision. A big decision. At this point my head is screaming noooooOOOOOOO!!! I'm questioning myself as a parent--is my seasonal depression effecting Hannah at school. If I was more with it would she be more attentive? I feel pressured to "fix" Hannah immediately or else choose drugs to "fix" her.
Several ideas present themselves. First food. Could I change her diet and thus change her bevhavior? I at least want to try. But I've been such a failure at dietary changes in the past, I struggle to trust myself.
Second, candida. Hannah received (to my shame now) many rounds of antibiotics in her first two years of life due to chronic ear infections. All the good bacteria was killed off right along with the bad, leaving her a prime target for a chronic internal yeast infection. What doctor do I see about that???
Third, phase. It could just be an extended phase. Hannah's speech has greatly improved this year. Maybe she's focusing on her speech to the exclusion of her seatwork. That's how she has progressed in other areas: while she learned to walk, she spoke little. When she began to focus more on cognitive skills, her gross motor skills plateaued. Maybe now she's focusing on her speech. Her speech therapist has had less trouble than her classroom teachers, though not NO trouble. (How's that for a double negative.)
This is a rambling post. I have a fifth grade class Valentine's day party to help prepare and my house is a mess. I also have an appointment with a new doctor in Tulsa Friday for which I want to study so that I can convince him to prescribe the antibiotic protocol to treat my arthritis.
To medicate or not to medicate. That's the 21st century question.
Here's the history: Hannah has been easily distractable this entire school year. She seemed to be improving a bit before Christmas, but has consistently regressed since then. The climax of distraction occured Tuesday while Hannah worked on her seatwork assignment which involved identifying which butterflies were different and which were the same. In the past she has been capable of this, but Tuesday she struggled.
During the struggle Hannah stood from her seat and began wandering around the classroom.
"Hannah, come back here and finish your work," Ann, Hannah's teacher, said.
Hannah looked at Ann and said, "No."
Hannah did return to her seat, but didn't complete the assignment.
Her teachers have tried several things this past year. With a five-to-one student-teacher ratio, they have constantly redirected her: "Hannah, finish your work. Hannah, color your picture. Hannah, Hannah, Hannah." They've placed a cardboard cubicle around her, which worked beautifully the first day, then steadily decreased in efficacy. Now she peers around it every time she hears a noise. We tried the weighted vest once. Nothing.
I write all of that to dispel the notion that these particular teachers just want cooperative students and thus recommend Ritalin with a first offense. In fact, Ann was not insistent about medication, but instead insisted that she's not a doctor and is only making a suggestion.
That leaves me with a decision. A big decision. At this point my head is screaming noooooOOOOOOO!!! I'm questioning myself as a parent--is my seasonal depression effecting Hannah at school. If I was more with it would she be more attentive? I feel pressured to "fix" Hannah immediately or else choose drugs to "fix" her.
Several ideas present themselves. First food. Could I change her diet and thus change her bevhavior? I at least want to try. But I've been such a failure at dietary changes in the past, I struggle to trust myself.
Second, candida. Hannah received (to my shame now) many rounds of antibiotics in her first two years of life due to chronic ear infections. All the good bacteria was killed off right along with the bad, leaving her a prime target for a chronic internal yeast infection. What doctor do I see about that???
Third, phase. It could just be an extended phase. Hannah's speech has greatly improved this year. Maybe she's focusing on her speech to the exclusion of her seatwork. That's how she has progressed in other areas: while she learned to walk, she spoke little. When she began to focus more on cognitive skills, her gross motor skills plateaued. Maybe now she's focusing on her speech. Her speech therapist has had less trouble than her classroom teachers, though not NO trouble. (How's that for a double negative.)
This is a rambling post. I have a fifth grade class Valentine's day party to help prepare and my house is a mess. I also have an appointment with a new doctor in Tulsa Friday for which I want to study so that I can convince him to prescribe the antibiotic protocol to treat my arthritis.
To medicate or not to medicate. That's the 21st century question.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Arsenic Hour Antidote
Have you ever noticed the particular time frame during which every aspect of home life disintegrates into discord? You know, when mom attempts to fix supper, kids do homework and need mom's help, dad isn't home yet, Hannah suffers a meltdown (if you have a "Hannah"), someone bangs on practices the piano. If you have a baby it cries for no specific reason and refuses any efforts made to pacify him or her. We call it "arsenic hour."
Our arsenic hour slowly swelled until it lasted from the moment the older girls began their homework after school until bedtime. A nice glass of wine no longer took the edge off and I became resentful of my hard-working husband's good work ethic, despite the fact that he is our sole source of income. Between Hannah's meltdowns, Katie's need for help with her homework, Hailey's basketball schedule and my desire to feed my kids nutritiously rather than Sonic or Pizza Hut (our only two choices in my small town), I had to do something.
So, I hired another high school girl. At this rate I'll employ the entire female population of our tiny high school, thus boosting the local economy and doing my part to end this supposed recession. B (the aforementioned high school freshman) arrives Monday, Wednesday and Thursday at 4:30 and interacts with Hannah while I help Katie and Hailey with homework, hear about their day at school, taxi Hailey to basketball practice and generally make myself available to my older two. Before B leaves around 6:30 she cleans the kitchen, traditionally Carl's "job."
Talk about a win-win-win situation. Hannah is happy with the special treatment she receives (I've been pleasantly surprised with how quickly B has been able to interpret Hannah's speech and find fun things to do), the older girls have more attention and help from me, Carl is relieved of kitchen duty AND he retains more of his a** because his wife is less of an a** chewer. Not only that but we are actually ahead financially because Carl can work later, earning markedly more money per hour than we pay B.
I hired B two weeks ago. So far so good. There's a learning curve involved--teaching how to load a dishwasher & where to put away dishes, where basic things are located, how to entertain Hannah, what I expect. B has done remarkably well and "fits" with our family's personality. Nothing is perfect, but this has been a good antidote to our arsenic hour, for now, and another key in my quest to find balance and serenity amidst the trials that are mine.
Our arsenic hour slowly swelled until it lasted from the moment the older girls began their homework after school until bedtime. A nice glass of wine no longer took the edge off and I became resentful of my hard-working husband's good work ethic, despite the fact that he is our sole source of income. Between Hannah's meltdowns, Katie's need for help with her homework, Hailey's basketball schedule and my desire to feed my kids nutritiously rather than Sonic or Pizza Hut (our only two choices in my small town), I had to do something.
So, I hired another high school girl. At this rate I'll employ the entire female population of our tiny high school, thus boosting the local economy and doing my part to end this supposed recession. B (the aforementioned high school freshman) arrives Monday, Wednesday and Thursday at 4:30 and interacts with Hannah while I help Katie and Hailey with homework, hear about their day at school, taxi Hailey to basketball practice and generally make myself available to my older two. Before B leaves around 6:30 she cleans the kitchen, traditionally Carl's "job."
Talk about a win-win-win situation. Hannah is happy with the special treatment she receives (I've been pleasantly surprised with how quickly B has been able to interpret Hannah's speech and find fun things to do), the older girls have more attention and help from me, Carl is relieved of kitchen duty AND he retains more of his a** because his wife is less of an a** chewer. Not only that but we are actually ahead financially because Carl can work later, earning markedly more money per hour than we pay B.
I hired B two weeks ago. So far so good. There's a learning curve involved--teaching how to load a dishwasher & where to put away dishes, where basic things are located, how to entertain Hannah, what I expect. B has done remarkably well and "fits" with our family's personality. Nothing is perfect, but this has been a good antidote to our arsenic hour, for now, and another key in my quest to find balance and serenity amidst the trials that are mine.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Smokin'!
I've tagged this entry as "Dandy-Walker" just because it involves Hannah, though it's not particularly Dandy-Walker oriented. My dandy-girl still makes me smile!
Tonight I let loose the eighties girl in me and listened to Boston's Smokin'. OK, so that's seventies. Sue me. Hannah immediately started playing her air guitar & shake-shake-shakin' it, which makes me laugh every time. (thank you, Sheri, for giving Hannah her air guitar roots).
In mid-song I said, "Hannah, can you close the curtain for me, please?"
She stopped, put one air-guitar finger in the air and said, "Mmmm, faking. (Hmmm, I'm thinking)." Pause. "Naaah. 'mbizzy (No, I'm busy)", after which she immediately resumed jammin' on her air guitar...to these lyrics:
Smokin, smokin
We're cookin' tonight
Just keep on tokin'
Holy cow--I'm really mother of the year. I sincerely didn't know the lyrics until just now, when I looked them up online in order to post them. I won't let my kids watch Sponge Bob, but I'll crank Boston.
Rock on!
Tonight I let loose the eighties girl in me and listened to Boston's Smokin'. OK, so that's seventies. Sue me. Hannah immediately started playing her air guitar & shake-shake-shakin' it, which makes me laugh every time. (thank you, Sheri, for giving Hannah her air guitar roots).
In mid-song I said, "Hannah, can you close the curtain for me, please?"
She stopped, put one air-guitar finger in the air and said, "Mmmm, faking. (Hmmm, I'm thinking)." Pause. "Naaah. 'mbizzy (No, I'm busy)", after which she immediately resumed jammin' on her air guitar...to these lyrics:
Smokin, smokin
We're cookin' tonight
Just keep on tokin'
Holy cow--I'm really mother of the year. I sincerely didn't know the lyrics until just now, when I looked them up online in order to post them. I won't let my kids watch Sponge Bob, but I'll crank Boston.
Rock on!
Humility
Word for the day: weary. When I picked Hannah up from school today Ann, Hannah's teacher, said while shaking her head back and forth, "We tried the weighted vest with Hannah today."
"Did she need it today?" Immediately after asking, I realized it was a stupid question. Yes, there is such a thing as a stupid question.
"Yes, she spaced out during her seatwork today. The vest didn't phase her. How did the doctor appointment go Monday?"
"I liked the doctor and left with a good rapport, but I only took Hannah to him so I would have my foot in the door if she should ever require medication. She doesn't need medicated at this point," I paused. "Does she? Do you think I should consider medicating her?" I value Ann's opinion. She's not a doctor, but she's been in the trenches teaching special-needs kids for at least twenty years.
"No," she thought for a moment. "No, we can keep working with her through this year and see how she's progressed when school starts next year. Maybe after the first nine weeks of next year we can re-evaluate that decision. Right now, though, her spaciness is effecting her ability to learn."
Ugh.
Ann continued, "Hannah could make lots of changes before next year, though. It might not even be an issue at that point. Hopefully she'll grow out of it."
Score one for positive thinking. Hoping.
In this blog I've called Hannah The Destroyer and our Barometer...among other things. Today she is my humbler. Katie and Hailey are excelling in school, making friends, adjusting. We've had little issues pop up here and there, but both girls have bounced back quickly. I enjoy talking with their teachers because I know that the report will be a good one. The couple of times that teachers have approached me with a problem, the solution presented itself clearly to me. I feel like a pretty good mom when my mom mirror reflects off of them.
Hannah humbles me. The reports from school are more often negative than positive. Though the problems are not extreme, the rain of day-to-day downers sits heavily on my shoulders like a wool blanket in a thunderstorm. Today I can't seem to wring it out. Hannah forces me to remember that each of my children are little humans unto themselves, gifts from God for me to shape from partially pre-determined molds.
Without Hannah I might be unbearably full of pride, the bad kind. I might still be a my-kid-will-never-do-that kind of mom, even though I like to think I have learned that lesson by now. Hannah reminds me that I am charged with the responsibility of doing my best while being given no guarantees as to the outcome. Do you know how frustrating it is to work towards a goal when the primary reward is the lesser-of-two-evils prize? The imagine-how-much-worse-it-would-be trophy?
On another note: I have an appointment for myself with a new doctor on February 15. I plan to begin an antibiotic protocol for my rheumatoid arthritis, a treatment I began and quit five or six years ago, but have been anxious to begin again. The doctor I see happens to specialize in hormone treatment, a serendipity I didn't expect when making the appointment. My arthritis went into remission with two of my three pregnancies, so I've always wondered if a hormonal connection existed. Not only that, but I've suspected that my mood swings and feelings of being overwhelmed are exacerbated by hormone problems. Now I get to find out for certain.
Hopefully the word for tomorrow will be refreshed.
"Did she need it today?" Immediately after asking, I realized it was a stupid question. Yes, there is such a thing as a stupid question.
"Yes, she spaced out during her seatwork today. The vest didn't phase her. How did the doctor appointment go Monday?"
"I liked the doctor and left with a good rapport, but I only took Hannah to him so I would have my foot in the door if she should ever require medication. She doesn't need medicated at this point," I paused. "Does she? Do you think I should consider medicating her?" I value Ann's opinion. She's not a doctor, but she's been in the trenches teaching special-needs kids for at least twenty years.
"No," she thought for a moment. "No, we can keep working with her through this year and see how she's progressed when school starts next year. Maybe after the first nine weeks of next year we can re-evaluate that decision. Right now, though, her spaciness is effecting her ability to learn."
Ugh.
Ann continued, "Hannah could make lots of changes before next year, though. It might not even be an issue at that point. Hopefully she'll grow out of it."
Score one for positive thinking. Hoping.
In this blog I've called Hannah The Destroyer and our Barometer...among other things. Today she is my humbler. Katie and Hailey are excelling in school, making friends, adjusting. We've had little issues pop up here and there, but both girls have bounced back quickly. I enjoy talking with their teachers because I know that the report will be a good one. The couple of times that teachers have approached me with a problem, the solution presented itself clearly to me. I feel like a pretty good mom when my mom mirror reflects off of them.
Hannah humbles me. The reports from school are more often negative than positive. Though the problems are not extreme, the rain of day-to-day downers sits heavily on my shoulders like a wool blanket in a thunderstorm. Today I can't seem to wring it out. Hannah forces me to remember that each of my children are little humans unto themselves, gifts from God for me to shape from partially pre-determined molds.
Without Hannah I might be unbearably full of pride, the bad kind. I might still be a my-kid-will-never-do-that kind of mom, even though I like to think I have learned that lesson by now. Hannah reminds me that I am charged with the responsibility of doing my best while being given no guarantees as to the outcome. Do you know how frustrating it is to work towards a goal when the primary reward is the lesser-of-two-evils prize? The imagine-how-much-worse-it-would-be trophy?
On another note: I have an appointment for myself with a new doctor on February 15. I plan to begin an antibiotic protocol for my rheumatoid arthritis, a treatment I began and quit five or six years ago, but have been anxious to begin again. The doctor I see happens to specialize in hormone treatment, a serendipity I didn't expect when making the appointment. My arthritis went into remission with two of my three pregnancies, so I've always wondered if a hormonal connection existed. Not only that, but I've suspected that my mood swings and feelings of being overwhelmed are exacerbated by hormone problems. Now I get to find out for certain.
Hopefully the word for tomorrow will be refreshed.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Doctor's Office Difficulties
Yesterday I took Hannah to a pediatric psychiatrist in Missouri. His office staff requested that I arrive at 9:30 for my 10:00 appointment to allow time to fill out paperwork and bring my picture I.D., Hannah's birth certificate, Hannah's social security card, my social security card, divorce papers (only if I was divorced, which I'm not) and a blood sample to prove my identity. OK, not the blood sample.
I awoke yesterday irritable and achy, got around slowly--even more slowly than usual, searched for the abovementioned paperwork and found it exactly where it belonged after fifteen minutes of searching, then left ten minutes later than intended. Considering my morning, I thought I was doing OK.
The psychiatrist was located in the 500 block of 34th street. I expected to drive down 32nd, a major street, then turn south somewhere in the 500 block to hit 34th street. BUZZZZZ!!! Wrong answer. I wasted ten minutes trying to figure out how to get to 34th street, which caused me to arrive "late" for my 10:00 appointment by getting there at 9:45. Those who know and love me know that's pretty da** good for me.
Hannah exited the Tahoe without argument in spite of the fact that I had to stop her movie. Thank God for small favors. Being a veteran mom, I brought a few books and Hannah's leapster, which I carried in my left hand, balanced myself with my cane in my right hand, and basically corralled Hannah through the entryway. After seating Hannah in the waiting room at 9:50, I approached the receptionist. Once she opened her glass partition I said, "I'm Hannah's mom."
The receptionist looked at me like I had offered her anthrax and replied, "You were supposed to be here at 9:30 to fill out paperwork."
"I know. I'm sorry. I had a little trouble finding you. Here's the stuff you requested."
Again with the anthrax look, "It takes thirty minutes to fill out the paperwork. We may need to reschedule you."
"You've got to be kidding me. I drove here from Kansas. Could I fill it out after the appointment? Or maybe I could fill it out real fast?"
"I'll check with the doctor," she said curtly then closed her little glass partition on me.
Wait, wait, wait. Hurry up and wait. The receptionist returned, opened her glass window and said, "The doctor will see you, but he may have to cut your appointment short." It was all I could do not to reach through and throttle her, but I exercised supreme self-control, smiled a pursed smile and took the paperwork she offered me. All four pages of it.
After approximately seven minutes I returned the completed paperwork to her. The time: 10:00. I sat back down with Hannah and waited some more. At 10:05 I approached the glass window. When another receptionist asked if she could help me, I said, "Do you have more paperwork for me? I was of the understanding that it would require thirty minutes to complete."
"No, it is a little tedious to complete, though." Tedious. Her actual word. It dawned on me: the paperwork didn't require thirty minutes from the patient; it required thirty minutes of the staff! They expected me to bring a child with behavioral issues to their office, fill out their paperwork and wait/entertain the child while they processed the paperwork! Could they not mail me the *&! paperwork in advance?
I finally saw the doctor at 10:20 for my 10:00 appointment.
Though his staff sucked (sorry mom, "sucked" really says it all), the doctor was excellent. I never felt rushed. He showed me a poster of the human brain as well as one of those three-dimensional plastic brains to explain the location of Hannah's Dandy-Walker malformation in relation to the emotional center of the brain. When I explained my reluctance to medicate Hannah, he concurred and said he thinks we are doing exactly what we should be doing with the weighted vest, the PT, the OT, the speech therapy and the special school. He would keep her file open should things change. I nearly cried. I didn't realize how badly I needed/wanted to hear an outside party tell me I was doing a good job.
I'm considering lightly editing this post and sending it to the doctor, not to his office. We'll see.
The day ended on a lighter note. The temperature neared eighty degrees with plenty of sunshine. LOVE sunshine! I met a previous homeschool mom for lunch, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I ended my day in the metropolis by washing the Tahoe and driving with the window rolled down.
Happy Fat Tuesday everyone!
I awoke yesterday irritable and achy, got around slowly--even more slowly than usual, searched for the abovementioned paperwork and found it exactly where it belonged after fifteen minutes of searching, then left ten minutes later than intended. Considering my morning, I thought I was doing OK.
The psychiatrist was located in the 500 block of 34th street. I expected to drive down 32nd, a major street, then turn south somewhere in the 500 block to hit 34th street. BUZZZZZ!!! Wrong answer. I wasted ten minutes trying to figure out how to get to 34th street, which caused me to arrive "late" for my 10:00 appointment by getting there at 9:45. Those who know and love me know that's pretty da** good for me.
Hannah exited the Tahoe without argument in spite of the fact that I had to stop her movie. Thank God for small favors. Being a veteran mom, I brought a few books and Hannah's leapster, which I carried in my left hand, balanced myself with my cane in my right hand, and basically corralled Hannah through the entryway. After seating Hannah in the waiting room at 9:50, I approached the receptionist. Once she opened her glass partition I said, "I'm Hannah's mom."
The receptionist looked at me like I had offered her anthrax and replied, "You were supposed to be here at 9:30 to fill out paperwork."
"I know. I'm sorry. I had a little trouble finding you. Here's the stuff you requested."
Again with the anthrax look, "It takes thirty minutes to fill out the paperwork. We may need to reschedule you."
"You've got to be kidding me. I drove here from Kansas. Could I fill it out after the appointment? Or maybe I could fill it out real fast?"
"I'll check with the doctor," she said curtly then closed her little glass partition on me.
Wait, wait, wait. Hurry up and wait. The receptionist returned, opened her glass window and said, "The doctor will see you, but he may have to cut your appointment short." It was all I could do not to reach through and throttle her, but I exercised supreme self-control, smiled a pursed smile and took the paperwork she offered me. All four pages of it.
After approximately seven minutes I returned the completed paperwork to her. The time: 10:00. I sat back down with Hannah and waited some more. At 10:05 I approached the glass window. When another receptionist asked if she could help me, I said, "Do you have more paperwork for me? I was of the understanding that it would require thirty minutes to complete."
"No, it is a little tedious to complete, though." Tedious. Her actual word. It dawned on me: the paperwork didn't require thirty minutes from the patient; it required thirty minutes of the staff! They expected me to bring a child with behavioral issues to their office, fill out their paperwork and wait/entertain the child while they processed the paperwork! Could they not mail me the *&! paperwork in advance?
I finally saw the doctor at 10:20 for my 10:00 appointment.
Though his staff sucked (sorry mom, "sucked" really says it all), the doctor was excellent. I never felt rushed. He showed me a poster of the human brain as well as one of those three-dimensional plastic brains to explain the location of Hannah's Dandy-Walker malformation in relation to the emotional center of the brain. When I explained my reluctance to medicate Hannah, he concurred and said he thinks we are doing exactly what we should be doing with the weighted vest, the PT, the OT, the speech therapy and the special school. He would keep her file open should things change. I nearly cried. I didn't realize how badly I needed/wanted to hear an outside party tell me I was doing a good job.
I'm considering lightly editing this post and sending it to the doctor, not to his office. We'll see.
The day ended on a lighter note. The temperature neared eighty degrees with plenty of sunshine. LOVE sunshine! I met a previous homeschool mom for lunch, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I ended my day in the metropolis by washing the Tahoe and driving with the window rolled down.
Happy Fat Tuesday everyone!
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Dandy Update: You Can Help
Tomorrow morning Hannah has an appointment with a pediatric psychologist...or is it psychiatrist? Whichever can prescribe medication. I have no intention of medicating Hannah at this point, but want my foot in the door, so to speak, before the door actually needs opened. We had to wait four months to see this particular doctor, so waiting until the need for medication was obvious wasn't an option.
When Hannah was diagnosed with Dandy-Walker we were told that 1 in 25,000 children were born with a Dandy-Walker variant. Now, partially due to heightened awareness, some claim that 1 in 5,000 children are born with Dandy-Walker. In my personal circle of Dandy-Walker acquaintances (through other blogs, the Dandy-Walker yahoogroup and the Dandy Walker Alliance) I'm beginning to realize that Hannah's autistic-like behavior is more common than I realized.
Autism has received much well-deserved attention recently. As a result, more autistic children are receiving the treatment they need to live their best possible lives. That attention is causing an internal nudge, a growing desire to see Hannah and other Dandy Kids like her receive the attention and treatment they need without every Dandy-Walker parent feeling like he or she needs to "reinvent the wheel" (my, aren't I full of cliche's tonight?)
I look forward to the day when I'm pointed to a pediatric neuropsychologist by my pediatrician rather than by a member of an online community. Great will be the day when the treatment for Dandy-Walker enters the twenty-first century. As it is now, doctors treat it as they did when they discovered it over fifty years ago: by surgically implanting a shunt to drain the fluid buildup on the brain, then treat the subsequent symptoms. Obviously, that's for the Dandy-Walker children with hydrocephalus, of whom Hannah is not one. The emotional issues that arise from a brain malformation near the emotional center of the brain have no specific diagnoses or treatment. Sensory Processing Disorder? Autism? Again, poor parenting? She's my little sweet onion, each layer creating it's own river of tears. Some are tears of sadness. But others are tears of hilarity, accompanied by a growing need for Depends.
The children who receive treatment are the ones who were not aborted at the suggestion of their parents' doctors, a situation that happens more often than I realized. Would those babies be aborted if the parents had knowledge and hope? How many more Hannahs could there be? She's a challenge for certain, but no more of a challenge than some children without congenital brain defects whom I have met.
If you have a moment, check out the Dandy Walker Alliance website at http://www.dandy-walker.org/ . You'll find all kinds of information about Dandy-Walker. More importantly you'll see a section titled "What Can You Do" in the middle of the first column of the home page. A three-minute phone call to your congressman could encourage him or her to cosponsor House Congressional Resolution 163...which would bring Hannah--and other Dandy Kids like her--one step closer to receiving the correct treatment that they deserve.
Thanks everyone! Have a wonderFebruaryful week!
When Hannah was diagnosed with Dandy-Walker we were told that 1 in 25,000 children were born with a Dandy-Walker variant. Now, partially due to heightened awareness, some claim that 1 in 5,000 children are born with Dandy-Walker. In my personal circle of Dandy-Walker acquaintances (through other blogs, the Dandy-Walker yahoogroup and the Dandy Walker Alliance) I'm beginning to realize that Hannah's autistic-like behavior is more common than I realized.
Autism has received much well-deserved attention recently. As a result, more autistic children are receiving the treatment they need to live their best possible lives. That attention is causing an internal nudge, a growing desire to see Hannah and other Dandy Kids like her receive the attention and treatment they need without every Dandy-Walker parent feeling like he or she needs to "reinvent the wheel" (my, aren't I full of cliche's tonight?)
I look forward to the day when I'm pointed to a pediatric neuropsychologist by my pediatrician rather than by a member of an online community. Great will be the day when the treatment for Dandy-Walker enters the twenty-first century. As it is now, doctors treat it as they did when they discovered it over fifty years ago: by surgically implanting a shunt to drain the fluid buildup on the brain, then treat the subsequent symptoms. Obviously, that's for the Dandy-Walker children with hydrocephalus, of whom Hannah is not one. The emotional issues that arise from a brain malformation near the emotional center of the brain have no specific diagnoses or treatment. Sensory Processing Disorder? Autism? Again, poor parenting? She's my little sweet onion, each layer creating it's own river of tears. Some are tears of sadness. But others are tears of hilarity, accompanied by a growing need for Depends.
The children who receive treatment are the ones who were not aborted at the suggestion of their parents' doctors, a situation that happens more often than I realized. Would those babies be aborted if the parents had knowledge and hope? How many more Hannahs could there be? She's a challenge for certain, but no more of a challenge than some children without congenital brain defects whom I have met.
If you have a moment, check out the Dandy Walker Alliance website at http://www.dandy-walker.org/ . You'll find all kinds of information about Dandy-Walker. More importantly you'll see a section titled "What Can You Do" in the middle of the first column of the home page. A three-minute phone call to your congressman could encourage him or her to cosponsor House Congressional Resolution 163...which would bring Hannah--and other Dandy Kids like her--one step closer to receiving the correct treatment that they deserve.
Thanks everyone! Have a wonderFebruaryful week!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Silliness
While Hannah played "Joyful Joyful" on the piano, I heard a distinct phhhtt!
"What was that?!" I asked, laughing.
"Me. Han-nah."
"What was that sound, me-hannah?"
"Ah tooh, (a toot)" she replied, laughter in her own voice.
"A too-T," I corrected, emphasizing the missing ending T.
After a brief pause she asked, "Whuh-za mehw? (What's that smell?)
She's been around her daddy too much!
"What was that?!" I asked, laughing.
"Me. Han-nah."
"What was that sound, me-hannah?"
"Ah tooh, (a toot)" she replied, laughter in her own voice.
"A too-T," I corrected, emphasizing the missing ending T.
After a brief pause she asked, "Whuh-za mehw? (What's that smell?)
She's been around her daddy too much!
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Hannah: Our Barometer
January. Ack. December's full, shorter days close into the frozen, lifeless days of January. How's that for a peppy intro? For the past several years January's lifelessness has drifted into my soul and I feel like I need an ice pick to remove it.
WELL then! This past week I tried to find something funny in this darkness about which to post. I've tried to find the humor in Hannah's behavior, but her behavior hasn't been very humorous.
Hannah is our family barometer: if any pressure rises, she measures it and provides a fairly accurate reading. Between my moody mental state, Carl's late working hours and the flu bug my family passed amongst itself, Hannah's had plenty of pressure to gauge. On top of that, she had physical therapy AND occupational therapy last Tuesday. She communicated this pressure in several ways.
One example: she cried out in the night several times per night, saying things like, "No, Tatie! 'top! AAaaahh! (No Katie! Stop! AAaaahh!) after which we could hear the bed bang bang bang against the wall as she rolled back and forth to calm herself. At school she spaced out, refusing to pay attention or complete her work. Her teacher placed a cardboard cubicle around her, but even that wasn't completely successful. Hannah's speech therapist wrote (in a communication journal we keep): "Hannah did not try today--she left sounds out and would just stare at me" and "She has trouble following through...3 steps forward and 2 steps back." She also added, "I understand the frustration. My son has done the same." Thank goodness the speech therapist shares her own humanity with me.
Another "thank goodness:" I have finally figured out that when Hannah's teachers and therapists share these things with me, they are not attacking me or implying I'm a bad mom. Yet I still feel as if I have somehow failed. This feeling of failure combined with sleep-deprived nights and the other pressures mentioned above has left me feeling like I'm in a downward spiral that I'm powerless to stop. However, I know logically that the powerlessness feeling is false, a lie. I know that just as January will pass, so will this current set of circumstances. Right now that's all I've got--the hope that this will end: mere survival and not authentic living. I'm going to do the best I can with that for now and believe that better days are just around the corner.
Sorry this post is a bit depressing. The coming week promises to be better. My niece and nephew are staying with me while their mom and dad take a much-deserved trip to Vegas. I hope to post some of the humorous antics here. That's my best anti-depressant: looking for the funny stuff and focusing on it hard enough to be able to convey it in writing.
WELL then! This past week I tried to find something funny in this darkness about which to post. I've tried to find the humor in Hannah's behavior, but her behavior hasn't been very humorous.
Hannah is our family barometer: if any pressure rises, she measures it and provides a fairly accurate reading. Between my moody mental state, Carl's late working hours and the flu bug my family passed amongst itself, Hannah's had plenty of pressure to gauge. On top of that, she had physical therapy AND occupational therapy last Tuesday. She communicated this pressure in several ways.
One example: she cried out in the night several times per night, saying things like, "No, Tatie! 'top! AAaaahh! (No Katie! Stop! AAaaahh!) after which we could hear the bed bang bang bang against the wall as she rolled back and forth to calm herself. At school she spaced out, refusing to pay attention or complete her work. Her teacher placed a cardboard cubicle around her, but even that wasn't completely successful. Hannah's speech therapist wrote (in a communication journal we keep): "Hannah did not try today--she left sounds out and would just stare at me" and "She has trouble following through...3 steps forward and 2 steps back." She also added, "I understand the frustration. My son has done the same." Thank goodness the speech therapist shares her own humanity with me.
Another "thank goodness:" I have finally figured out that when Hannah's teachers and therapists share these things with me, they are not attacking me or implying I'm a bad mom. Yet I still feel as if I have somehow failed. This feeling of failure combined with sleep-deprived nights and the other pressures mentioned above has left me feeling like I'm in a downward spiral that I'm powerless to stop. However, I know logically that the powerlessness feeling is false, a lie. I know that just as January will pass, so will this current set of circumstances. Right now that's all I've got--the hope that this will end: mere survival and not authentic living. I'm going to do the best I can with that for now and believe that better days are just around the corner.
Sorry this post is a bit depressing. The coming week promises to be better. My niece and nephew are staying with me while their mom and dad take a much-deserved trip to Vegas. I hope to post some of the humorous antics here. That's my best anti-depressant: looking for the funny stuff and focusing on it hard enough to be able to convey it in writing.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Dandy Updates & Household Sounds
Hannah's week has slowly improved. I posted Monday about her difficult day at school. I have since made it a point to get her to bed early. Of course, that decision is entirely for Hannah's benefit--it has nothing to do with the peace that permeates the house after Hannah falls asleep...yeah...nothing. Tuesday went slightly better for her. At least I wasn't met at the preschool door by the teacher when I picked Hannah up. Yesterday Hannah failed to pay attention during center-time, but did complete her coloring page...with constant redirection by her teacher.
She has been more easily distracted than usual. Again: Dandy-Walker? Sensory issues? Poor parenting? She was doing so well before Christmas. Since Christmas she's returned to her beginning-of-school behaviors. That doesn't reflect well on the Solomon home. In my own defense, she did well last Thursday, her first day back after Christmas.
They haven't begun using her weighted vest at school yet. They're waiting for the next occupational therapist visit, as the OT determines the amount of weight to use. We had hoped that visit would occur this week, but unless she arrived today, we'll be waiting until next week.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
I just returned from picking up Hannah from school. No OT. Hopefully next week. On the way home Hannah said, "I in tye moat." I was in time out. Did she mean she was in time out today? Yesterday? Monday? To Hannah every day is right now. I have sent an e-mail to her teacher to determine the details.
I heard Hannah in the kitchen right now. The dishwasher creaked open, next the refrigerator door seal ssssssssed as it released, then the milk jug lid clicked onto the floor. Finally I heard the tink tink tink of a spoon stirring something (presumably milk) in a glass followed by lips smacking. Is it a mom thing to automatically hear and identify all the sounds particular to her own home? That is one of the most exhausting aspects of family life: I'm never completely "off" as long as anyone else is here. Which reminds me of my nice Tuesday evening. I'll close this post and tell you about it next.
She has been more easily distracted than usual. Again: Dandy-Walker? Sensory issues? Poor parenting? She was doing so well before Christmas. Since Christmas she's returned to her beginning-of-school behaviors. That doesn't reflect well on the Solomon home. In my own defense, she did well last Thursday, her first day back after Christmas.
They haven't begun using her weighted vest at school yet. They're waiting for the next occupational therapist visit, as the OT determines the amount of weight to use. We had hoped that visit would occur this week, but unless she arrived today, we'll be waiting until next week.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
I just returned from picking up Hannah from school. No OT. Hopefully next week. On the way home Hannah said, "I in tye moat." I was in time out. Did she mean she was in time out today? Yesterday? Monday? To Hannah every day is right now. I have sent an e-mail to her teacher to determine the details.
I heard Hannah in the kitchen right now. The dishwasher creaked open, next the refrigerator door seal ssssssssed as it released, then the milk jug lid clicked onto the floor. Finally I heard the tink tink tink of a spoon stirring something (presumably milk) in a glass followed by lips smacking. Is it a mom thing to automatically hear and identify all the sounds particular to her own home? That is one of the most exhausting aspects of family life: I'm never completely "off" as long as anyone else is here. Which reminds me of my nice Tuesday evening. I'll close this post and tell you about it next.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Tornadoes All Around
Here in southeast Kansas we are under a tornado watch as a result of a PDS (Particularly Dangerous Situation, as tagged by our local weatherman). In January. Today's high temperatures topped 70 degrees with gusty winds.
Hannah must be channeling the storm. When I arrived at the preschool to pick her up, her speech therapist stuck her head out the door and asked me to come inside. Ugh. I felt like a child being called to the principal's office. Hannah had a bad day--wouldn't focus, wouldn't follow instructions, wouldn't care.
Miss Ann, her teacher, threatened Hannah, "Do we need to call your Mom?"
"OK," Hannah responded and shrugged. She probably would have viewed my visit as a treat, not trouble.
Time Out? No big deal.
Finish her coloring page while the other kids played? Fine with her.
Frustratingly, Hannah doesn't get the concept of punishment unless it involves spanking or raising my voice. I can speak to her sternly and she understands that she's doing something wrong, but it doesn't immediately change her behavior. The preschool teachers experience the same thing.
She knew she had misbehaved because one of the first things she told her Aunt Ashley on the phone today was, "Teachew say...Tye moat." (Teacher say time out.) So now what??? At home Hannah's tornadoes blow through loudly and destructively. Self-destructively. At school Hannah remains a billowy thunderhead that never lets loose it's storm.
Continuing with the storm theme, I can't help but wonder if this is all the culmination of the stormy atmosphere in our home since my ER trip Wednesday. Hannah watched my entire choking experience from Papa Carl's lap, occassionally approaching me with worried eyes to ask, "Mama sick?" I wasn't her usual mommy through the whole weekend and even spent most of Saturday asleep. Carl allowed her to stay up past 10:00 Friday and Saturday nights, she failed to take a nap Sunday and I heard her cry out several times in the night last night. I suspect the poor girl is exhausted, physically and emotionally, and it's playing out in school. Yes, I told her teachers that, hoping to enlighten them but hating to seem like I sought pity.
On a little different note, I delivered Hannah's weighted vest today (see this post for more information), so her teachers will have it available for the next time she has a day like today. Hopefully that day isn't tomorrow.
Hannah must be channeling the storm. When I arrived at the preschool to pick her up, her speech therapist stuck her head out the door and asked me to come inside. Ugh. I felt like a child being called to the principal's office. Hannah had a bad day--wouldn't focus, wouldn't follow instructions, wouldn't care.
Miss Ann, her teacher, threatened Hannah, "Do we need to call your Mom?"
"OK," Hannah responded and shrugged. She probably would have viewed my visit as a treat, not trouble.
Time Out? No big deal.
Finish her coloring page while the other kids played? Fine with her.
Frustratingly, Hannah doesn't get the concept of punishment unless it involves spanking or raising my voice. I can speak to her sternly and she understands that she's doing something wrong, but it doesn't immediately change her behavior. The preschool teachers experience the same thing.
She knew she had misbehaved because one of the first things she told her Aunt Ashley on the phone today was, "Teachew say...Tye moat." (Teacher say time out.) So now what??? At home Hannah's tornadoes blow through loudly and destructively. Self-destructively. At school Hannah remains a billowy thunderhead that never lets loose it's storm.
Continuing with the storm theme, I can't help but wonder if this is all the culmination of the stormy atmosphere in our home since my ER trip Wednesday. Hannah watched my entire choking experience from Papa Carl's lap, occassionally approaching me with worried eyes to ask, "Mama sick?" I wasn't her usual mommy through the whole weekend and even spent most of Saturday asleep. Carl allowed her to stay up past 10:00 Friday and Saturday nights, she failed to take a nap Sunday and I heard her cry out several times in the night last night. I suspect the poor girl is exhausted, physically and emotionally, and it's playing out in school. Yes, I told her teachers that, hoping to enlighten them but hating to seem like I sought pity.
On a little different note, I delivered Hannah's weighted vest today (see this post for more information), so her teachers will have it available for the next time she has a day like today. Hopefully that day isn't tomorrow.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Hannah's Weighted Vest...and the Resulting Memories
The last three paragraphs of this post explain the purpose of a weighted vest, for those who only want that information.
One of the more unusual therapy recommendations Hannah has received is a weighted vest, which is just what it sounds like: a vest with inside pockets that hold under one pound (for Hannah's size) of clay weights. One doesn't find a weighted vest at Wal-Mart. So, after searching the Internet and finding them priced near $100, I purchased a pattern sold online (still near $40) and asked Wonderworker Extraordinaire sew one. This decision supplied the added bonuses of providing a custom fit and allowing Hannah to choose her fabric.
Ah, fabric. Fabric equals fabric stores equals vivid childhood flashbacks. When I and my brother, who is 363 days younger than I, were pre-kindergarten my mother taught herself to sew. Yes, I have been blessed in adulthood by her self-teaching, but I paid for it dearly during childhood. Once Mom learned to sew, she made nearly all of our clothes, which required many one-hour car rides to Wichita to the much-dreaded fabric store. I would have preferred receiving thirty minutes of straight-pin torture to those trips. At least I would have known when the pin torture was scheduled to end.
After enduring the hour-long containment in a car with my then-nemesis brother Brad, we were expected to behave ourselves while my Mom spent what seemed like hours pouring over pattern books and browsing through endless bolts of fabric. At first Brad and I were satisfied to page through the books with Mom. After tiring of the books, we tried the are you almost done? whine. No luck. Finally we progressed to hide-and-seek amongst the circles of fabric positioned like forts throughout the store. I remember hiding under the velvet, hoping to find a bolt that dangled low enough to supply a curtain sufficient for concealment as well as a sample for rubbing against my face.
On one trip as I absentmindedly stroked the soft material, my brother snuck up on me. Startled, I forgot to let loose of the velvet before running to the circle of plaid we had deemed base. Crash! I brought the bolt to the ground, bringing Mom and at least one store attendant running. Why did my mom come running? I'm sure she knew that the source of any commotion had to somehow stem from her own children. Let's just say Brad and I were in trouble--big trouble.
These trips nearly always ended in trouble for me. I became like Pavlov's dogs; even the mere mention of fabric stores made me curl my nose and feel that rolling dread in my stomach...and does to this day. So, when Mom suggested recently that we all drive to the fabric store to allow Hannah to choose her own weighted vest material, I experienced the initial Pavlovian drool, even though the fabric store was only six blocks from my mother's house, the pattern was already purchased and I personally wanted the vest.
I overcame the autonomous response, loaded grandma and the girls into the Tahoe and drove to the fabric store. Hannah chose a bright blue Little Einsteins fabric covered with red Rockets, we picked matching thread and buttons, and even spent a little time browsing (yes, I actually browsed in a fabric store) through Christmas clearance items. All in under thirty minutes.
Mom finished the vest this past weekend while the girls and I visited her (that's another story). All I have left to do is form the clay weights and distribute the completed product to Hannah's school.
Why a weighted vest? I have searched my resources for a detailed explanation to put here, but haven't found one. It has been explained to me verbally by both Hannah's psychiatric therapist and occupational therapist. I didn't write the explanations at the time, so I'll give you my best recollection.
Hannah is easily distracted by sounds (called "auditory sensitivity" by sensory processing disorder - SPD - proponents). Her classroom contains three separate tables, each at which one teacher and five students sit during seat work. It is theorized that children who suffer from SPD (or sensory integration dysfunction--whatever it's called) do not discriminate between sounds. Whereas a "normal" child learns to distinguish between the importance of the teacher's voice at her table over the unimportance of a student's voice across the room, a child with SPD hears and values all sounds almost equally. Not only does this make it difficult for Hannah to know which voice to listen to, it causes a sensory overload to which she often responds by zoning out, barely coloring the page in front of her or even by resting her head on her desk.
Theoretically, the weighted vest will help Hannah feel grounded-- or fixed--in her seat by physically pulling her down into it. This physical weight will then help her to mentally be more grounded--or fixed--in place as well. I'm cautiously hopeful. Maybe a little skeptical, too. However, I certainly prefer a weighted vest to medication, so we'll give it our all with that in mind. The only thing going against Hannah: she doesn't like clothing in general. She'd sit at her school table in the buff if they'd let her.
One of the more unusual therapy recommendations Hannah has received is a weighted vest, which is just what it sounds like: a vest with inside pockets that hold under one pound (for Hannah's size) of clay weights. One doesn't find a weighted vest at Wal-Mart. So, after searching the Internet and finding them priced near $100, I purchased a pattern sold online (still near $40) and asked Wonderworker Extraordinaire sew one. This decision supplied the added bonuses of providing a custom fit and allowing Hannah to choose her fabric.
Ah, fabric. Fabric equals fabric stores equals vivid childhood flashbacks. When I and my brother, who is 363 days younger than I, were pre-kindergarten my mother taught herself to sew. Yes, I have been blessed in adulthood by her self-teaching, but I paid for it dearly during childhood. Once Mom learned to sew, she made nearly all of our clothes, which required many one-hour car rides to Wichita to the much-dreaded fabric store. I would have preferred receiving thirty minutes of straight-pin torture to those trips. At least I would have known when the pin torture was scheduled to end.
After enduring the hour-long containment in a car with my then-nemesis brother Brad, we were expected to behave ourselves while my Mom spent what seemed like hours pouring over pattern books and browsing through endless bolts of fabric. At first Brad and I were satisfied to page through the books with Mom. After tiring of the books, we tried the are you almost done? whine. No luck. Finally we progressed to hide-and-seek amongst the circles of fabric positioned like forts throughout the store. I remember hiding under the velvet, hoping to find a bolt that dangled low enough to supply a curtain sufficient for concealment as well as a sample for rubbing against my face.
On one trip as I absentmindedly stroked the soft material, my brother snuck up on me. Startled, I forgot to let loose of the velvet before running to the circle of plaid we had deemed base. Crash! I brought the bolt to the ground, bringing Mom and at least one store attendant running. Why did my mom come running? I'm sure she knew that the source of any commotion had to somehow stem from her own children. Let's just say Brad and I were in trouble--big trouble.
These trips nearly always ended in trouble for me. I became like Pavlov's dogs; even the mere mention of fabric stores made me curl my nose and feel that rolling dread in my stomach...and does to this day. So, when Mom suggested recently that we all drive to the fabric store to allow Hannah to choose her own weighted vest material, I experienced the initial Pavlovian drool, even though the fabric store was only six blocks from my mother's house, the pattern was already purchased and I personally wanted the vest.
I overcame the autonomous response, loaded grandma and the girls into the Tahoe and drove to the fabric store. Hannah chose a bright blue Little Einsteins fabric covered with red Rockets, we picked matching thread and buttons, and even spent a little time browsing (yes, I actually browsed in a fabric store) through Christmas clearance items. All in under thirty minutes.
Mom finished the vest this past weekend while the girls and I visited her (that's another story). All I have left to do is form the clay weights and distribute the completed product to Hannah's school.
Why a weighted vest? I have searched my resources for a detailed explanation to put here, but haven't found one. It has been explained to me verbally by both Hannah's psychiatric therapist and occupational therapist. I didn't write the explanations at the time, so I'll give you my best recollection.
Hannah is easily distracted by sounds (called "auditory sensitivity" by sensory processing disorder - SPD - proponents). Her classroom contains three separate tables, each at which one teacher and five students sit during seat work. It is theorized that children who suffer from SPD (or sensory integration dysfunction--whatever it's called) do not discriminate between sounds. Whereas a "normal" child learns to distinguish between the importance of the teacher's voice at her table over the unimportance of a student's voice across the room, a child with SPD hears and values all sounds almost equally. Not only does this make it difficult for Hannah to know which voice to listen to, it causes a sensory overload to which she often responds by zoning out, barely coloring the page in front of her or even by resting her head on her desk.
Theoretically, the weighted vest will help Hannah feel grounded-- or fixed--in her seat by physically pulling her down into it. This physical weight will then help her to mentally be more grounded--or fixed--in place as well. I'm cautiously hopeful. Maybe a little skeptical, too. However, I certainly prefer a weighted vest to medication, so we'll give it our all with that in mind. The only thing going against Hannah: she doesn't like clothing in general. She'd sit at her school table in the buff if they'd let her.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
My Favorite Christmas Present
This is the first year Hannah understood that all those fancy packages wrapped in colorful paper and bright ribbons (unless you live at Sheri's house -- hee hee) might be for her to unwrap. When she received her first present this holiday season, she eagerly ripped off the wrapping paper to expose a plain brown box. I don't remember now what was inside the box. She looked at me with bright eyes and a huge smile and said, "Yook Mom! A box!!"
Of all the presents I received this Christmas season, that was my favorite: a daughter satisfied, even excited, to have the pleasure of unwrapping a gift and receiving a plain, brown box.
Of all the presents I received this Christmas season, that was my favorite: a daughter satisfied, even excited, to have the pleasure of unwrapping a gift and receiving a plain, brown box.
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