DadaMama

So Far, 8 Is The Oldest You've Ever Been

 

Eight Things About Being Eight:

1. You never ever have to stop talking, for any reason. Not even when you have no idea what you're talking about. Also, you're welcome to engage in a little free association, or randomly insert words you've just heard into your stream of consciousness. (No lie, this boy was talking talking talking and heard me say "biscotti" which he then inserted into his never-ending speech without bothering to check if it even made sense.)

2. You DO know everything. Also, you're awesome. You spend lots of your time pointing this out to the rest of us lame-os.

3. You want to be older. So you wear your two-strap backpack with only one strap, across your chest, hanging ridiculously close to the ground. This makes it nearly impossible to walk, but you don't care.

4. You feel entitled to bitch about chores you don't want to do. So far you haven't figured out that this only makes YOU miserable, as the rest of us just ignore you when you're bitching anyway.

5. You mercilessly mock things you think are stupid. Like Justin Beiber and Dora. It actually takes more effort to stand around and mock these things than it does to just go find something else to do, but you think it's time well spent.

6. You love school, but keep trying to find homework loopholes. Your teacher expects you to read every day for 20 minutes, so last week you brought me a picture book and said, "I'll just read this twice." Nice try, kid.

7. You are, like, so over your little brothers. GOD.

8. You are the most frustrating person I've ever met. (But I DO love you. Motherhood is such a mixed bag that way.)

Things I've Learned the Hard Way

1. Singulair has neuropsychiatric side effects that closely resemble ADHD in my child.

2. Advair appears to cause hyperactivity in my child.

3. These side effects are not well publicized. I had to dig so deeply into the Advair pamphlet to confirm my suspicions that I nearly reached China.

4. Doctors and drug companies will assure you that your child's behavior issues are NOT caused by the harmless allergy and asthma medications. I don't buy it.

5. That ADHD diagnosis my child received last week? Possibly not accurate. (See above.) We need further testing from a specialist.

6. Insurance companies are as bad as drug companies. Specialists cost more than ADHD medication--Avmed has strategies in place to not so subtly encourage people to choose meds over psychotherapy.

7. The number on my insurance card for member services? IS FOR PHONE SEX. Yes, really. Dear Avmed: your editors suck.

8. Finding the Psych Care phone number is like finding One-Eyed Willy's gold. The woman on the other end of this number has been instructed to ration provider names like the US rationed food in WWII. I was given three names the first time I called. Names of people who are NOT specialists in ADHD. I'm waiting to hear back from four more. If I want more names, I'll have to call back. I'm looking forward to it, Avmed. You'll hate me when I'm done.

9. Sobbing on the floor like my heart is broken doesn't solve my kid's problem, but it does wonders for my resolve.

10. I am angry, frustrated and determined. Either we'll get the psychotherapy we need for our kid, or several people at Avmed will be needing psychotherapy of their own.

No Bad Vowels

Gus and I are in another difficult place lately; he's a hard kid and even normal tasks take on a whole new meaning some days. He often acts without thinking, and while I know this is to some degree common kid behavior, most days it feels like chasing my tail. I'm sick to death of hearing myself, so God only knows what Gus must think about me.

Sometimes, when he's made a bad choice, I ask him what he was thinking. I'm not asking this question rhetorically--I really want to know. I often get answered with varying degrees of "I don't know" or "Mmrph." Honestly, I don't think Gus knows what drives him and some days he's just as frustrated as I am.

But this afternoon was different.

"Think of it this way, Mom," he said. "I'm the vowel that doesn't always follow the rules--but that doesn't make me a bad vowel."

My son is the letter "Y." Very, very handy under the right circumstances, but a tricky one to nail down. Depending on his mood, he can start a word, end a word, or jump in the middle and seriously screw you over.

I think this makes me love him even more.

I Don't Drink, But Today Seems Like A Good Day to Start

"(speaking to the camera) What the hell's going on? I lost my show, I lost my best friend, I lost my girl. I'm being shit on, that's all, shit on, and you know what really pisses me off — [camera pans away] " -- Wayne Campbell

Do you remember that scene in Wayne's World? My life is like that, except around here, the shit isn't metaphorical.

Just a minute, I'm getting ahead of myself here. Did you know that preschooler poop is like grown-up poop, only it gets pooped into a Pull-Up and I have to do all the ass-wiping? As you may be able to imagine, I am WAY over the ass-wiping.  And the poop. Because of this, we've gone cold turkey, and Will is using the potty.

Sweet Jesus, if only it were that simple.  And it would be that simple, if by "using the potty" I really meant "crapping his pants at random and occasionally peeing on the rug." All, however, is not lost! There is good news! If by "good" you mean "crazy-making": apparently, the kid has full control of his sphincter, because he can pinch it tightly closed when he's naked and his mother is keeping close track of his movements, loosing the tide, as it were, only when his bottom is comfortably swaddled in cloth (underwear) or paper (Pull-Up).

No one, and I do mean no one, should ever have to spend this much time thinking about poop.

Will managed to poop in the potty exactly one time today. This was after much cajoling and bribery on the part if his desperate mother, who violated a Cardinal Law today: DO NOT SHOW FEAR. Bees and dogs can smell it, and SO CAN THREE-YEAR-OLDS. He is now the proud owner of a goldfish (don't ask), and I am the proud owner of three pairs of shitty underwear (size XS), a pee stain on the area rug under my dining table, and a peed-on king-size mattress pad (note to self: make untrained child nap in his own bed the first time he naps in underwear).

The piece de resistance? Wiping poop off Will's fingers after he stuck them in his butt. God, that was awesome.

And then? AND THEN?! Superbaby puked on the freshly laundered and just reinstalled king-size mattress pad. Before I even got to put sheets over it.

I am going to go lick my wounds and read my People magazine. Brangelina's twins suddenly seem very important.

The Kind of Day I'm Having

Gus: I hate you, Mom. I always have.

Me: Well, that's too bad.

He also threw some blocks at my head. My approval rating has never been higher!

I Should Really Be in Bed Right Now

Typepad has changed their interface and it's freaking me out.

It's 10:50, and I can't sleep. I could blame the nap I took this afternoon, but I think, mostly, that it's because my brain has been working overtime lately. Gus has been driving me crazy. We've lost our way again.

I look at my son, my beautiful, intelligent, crazy-making boy, and I wonder where he came from. And then I look a little closer and I see myself. We have the same hazel eyes and long, dark eyelashes; we're both selfish and grouchy and incredibly possessive of our space. We both expect to be noticed when we've done something amazing. We both hate to share. We come expecting to be entertained. We think we're the best thing going.

Are all first children this way?

I realized last night that almost everything I say to my child starts with "No," "Not right now," or "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!" This shouldn't be. What am I doing wrong? You'd think because he's five, and can dress himself and get his own drink of water, that maybe the tie is loosening. Maybe it's not so umbilical anymore.

But it is. These days, I no longer wake up in the middle of the night, waiting for the baby who needs breastmilk to wake up too--instead I find myself all wrapped up in his emotions. The truth is, I don't how to help him anymore, not when I can barely temper my own reactions. When Gus gets mad, I get madder. When he's acting out-of-control, my own grasp on sanity quickly loosens. The kid is a tempest; he needs a mother who isn't.

I always say that you get the kids you're supposed to have. Clearly, I have Gus so that I can learn to be a better person. Raising him is going to take all the patience, stamina, love and understanding I can muster--he deserves no less.

The task I have set myself this week is to really focus on attending to my son, noticing the little, wonderful things he does all day long. The things that get swept under the rug first when he's misbehaving. The things I rarely comment on because I'm afraid they won't last.

And Now We Can Put the Madness Behind Us

I threw a birthday party today for a bunch of little kids. Thank goodness the weather cleared up and allowed us to hold it in the park after all. And I wonder: is there any person more self-centered than a 5-year-old boy? I think not. He spent his time leading up to the party asking me what he would get from his friends, and then asking his friends and their parents what they were bringing him. Is it possible to raise a middle-class child without a sense of entitlement these days? I swear I don't give him every single thing he asks for--and yet, he thinks the world revolves around him.

New plan: introduce boy to the idea that lots and lots of people have nothing, not clothes or toys or shoes or houses or food. I have brought this up from time to time, but I'm pretty sure the boy thinks I invent lies with which to torture him. Like that time I told him he would be unable to see a T-Rex because they're extinct.

I am so tired.

Other news of the less repetitive kind (because ya'll are tired of hearing me say I'm tired, I know it): I convinced the local university that they want to study my son. I've written here about the struggles we've had with the child, about how he can never quite behave like the other kids, how frustrating he is, and how crazy he can make us all (see the "My Difficult Child" section of the archives). I have wondered what the hell I'm doing wrong, what's wrong with my kid, and what I'm going to do about it. I've dismissed things as "a phase", or decided that maybe this is how all boys behave.

But the truth is, this isn't working. I've bought a library's worth of books and spent hours and hours talking over his behavior endlessly with anyone who will listen. I've become obsessive about watching how other kids behave in the situations that send my son into a tailspin, hoping to find an answer, or at least a clue. I want someone to tell me he's normal, that he will grow out of this, and that I am not crazy. I've even sought the help of a licensed clinical social worker--who has turned out to be basically useless. My mommy sense tells me that something else is going on here, but I have failed, so far, to put my finger on it.

Enter the university. The Child Psychology Lab is doing a study on children who are either diagnosed with or showing the markers of ADHD. They will pay me to bring my kid in for an evaluation, and if he meets their criteria, we get free parent-child interaction therapy. This is awesome on many levels, not the least of which is that my insurance will not cover this kind of comprehensive assessment and it's REALLY DAMN EXPENSIVE to pay for it out of pocket. Also awesome is that this isn't a drug study--it's a study of a play-based therapy I can do with my child every day, myself, at my house.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Our first appointment is May 5th.

 

An Open Letter to the Baby Who Assails Me at Inopportune Moments

Dear Superbaby,

It'd be really nice of you to stop freaking out in the following situations:

1. Driving to school to pick up your brothers.

2. Driving to Nana's house.

3. Driving anywhere.

4. When I'm on the phone trying to register for continuing teacher education courses.

Thanks, you're a peach.

Love,

Mama

Someone Tell Superbaby He's On Notice

This morning I spent an hour at the OB's office. What was I doing there, you ask? Well, it's like this: I spent all last night having cramps and uncomfortable lower back pain. I didn't sleep well because I couldn't get settled. I became concerned that this may be the Start of Something, and wondered if it was a good idea to let it go all weekend. Being a woman with two previous c-sections under her belt (ha! that's funny!), I decided to get it checked out, as full-blown labor is not good for a damaged uterus.

So I was hooked up to a fetal monitor, and a contraction measure-er (real scientific term!), and there I sat for roughly twenty-five minutes. The verdict? Nothing--in fact less than nothing--is happening in there. The cramps? Annoying, but not productive. Cervix? Locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Kind of like the last time I went into labor, actually. Remind me to tell you about it sometime, it was a really fun 28 hours.

Let's just say that I am now, officially, affronted. Superbaby is about to get his walking papers. I'm tired of the not sleeping, the restless legs, the heartburn, the tiny feet in my ribs, the having to pee every 15 minutes--but most especially of being Super Bitch Wife and Mommy. I'm ready to throw myself at the feet of the nearest obstetrician and beg for an end to this madness.

38 weeks tomorrow!

Next Time, I'm Asking for the Anti-whine Drug

Will has spent the day alternately whining and trying to crawl up my body. The whining is what's really making me crazy, though I must say he's inspired when it comes to this particular facet of childhood.

Today's whines include:

Why are those trees planted there? I don't like those trees. (When I encouraged him to find something more productive to whine about, say the state of things in Sub-Saharan Africa, he replied, "I'm not talking to you. I was talking to MY DAD!")

I don't liiiiiike that city bus. It has people on it. (Right. Remind me to call the city bus service to file that complaint for you.)

I don't liiiiike my sword! I don't waaaaaant my sword! I can't hooooold it anymore! (Why, oh why, does he insist on acting like he can't part his toys from his fingers without my intervention?)

I really really don't like everybody! (Again, whatever. YOU HAVEN'T LIKED A SINGLE THING ALL DAY. COLOR ME NOT SURPRISED.)

When the kid isn't whining, he's asking questions. Hundreds of thousands of questions. His favorite new game is this:

Mom, what comes after four?

Five.

What comes after five?

Six.

What comes after six?

Seven.

...and so on, ad nauseum. Also popular are questions about movies or books he's been through a billion times.

Mom, is Lightning McQueen a race car? Why is he a race car? Is a bad guy? Is he red? Does he like that blue car? Is the tow truck's name Mater? Is he Lightning McQueen's friend?

I think I liked it better when he used sign language and only knew the sign for milk.