one week!

Punkin still isn't convinced that this Kindergarten thing is the right plan. Whenever I mention that pretty soon he'll be in Kindergarten and Miss O will be his teacher he adamantly replies, "No Ninnernarnen! No O!" Well alright then.

He says the same thing every Monday when we drive to Occupational Therapy, though. "No perpapy!" He says this despite the fact that therapy is among his top 10 favorite activities. It's just DIFFERENT than the other days. There's fewer hours to watch television, you see.

Most days at therapy we start out on the swing. He usually lays on his belly and presses his face into the material (it's breathable lycra) and has WAY more fun than the girl in this picture looks like she's having. It's fantastic deep pressure stimulation and great for his vestibular system. In other words, it reorganizes his body. Then it's on to fine motor work disguised as play -- tricky, tricky Occupational Therapist.

I'm really hoping to have one of these written into his IEP this year. I think it would be a great addition to his sensory diet. Since the school already has a swing installed (thank you awesome preschool teacher), it should be a reasonable request.

thoughts?

Because I don't get it. It is certified organic, though!

eleven days!

Well, I finally made it to my massage yesterday and it was all that I imagined it would be and more. Note to others who have never been the recipient of a full-body massage: if you can't afford to go back and get another one, don't go to the first!

In other news, I'm becoming more and more anxious for Punkin's first day of kindergarten. He has 11 days, people! ELEVEN DAYS! I already bought the supplies he needs. He chose a pink pencil case (!) and a folder with a Corvette on it. Other than that, it's just crayons, these amazing scissors that Oma and I found, and glue sticks.

My biggest relief is that he won't have to ride the bus! The school district decided a few years ago to have a one-hour early dismissal every Wednesday for teacher meetings. Super convenient, right? Well, Punkin ends up being dismissed a half an hour before I'm done with work. I thought a respite worker could come pick him up and take him to our house, but it turns out they can't do that. So I resigned myself to having him ride the bus home on Wednesdays and having a respite worker meet him there. Except I was panicking because the bus can't actually make it to our front door, and I'm not sure they could even come up our street. Normally I see the bus dropping kids off at the end of the street. This, of course, made my heart plummet into my stomach. A respite worker would have to stand down there and wait for him. And what if they weren't there????

Anyway, I mentioned this to the secretary at school (keep in mind that I work in the preschool that's inside Punkin's soon-to-be elementary school) and she said, "Oh, no. That bus doesn't get here until 2:00 anyway. He'll just hang out with me and run the paper shredder." I could have kissed her!

So now all I have to worry about are the days that he doesn't have school and the preschool does, which are plenty. I thought I had something worked out, but I don't. But, It'll work out. Right? Right.

It helps that Jennie is coming on the first day so I decided to take it off work. She'll distract me with shopping, yummy food, and laughing. I am excited!!!

medication and ADHD

Punkin started crawling at 13.5 months, walking at 16 months, and using a rare single word around 24 months. Looking at that, you might think he does things at a slow pace. You would be wrong.

At age two we all started joking about Ritalin; at age three those jokes became a lot more serious. At four I broke down and couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't function in school, he couldn't follow a simple direction, his autistic behaviors were escalating, and we were a tornado of limbs any time we attempted to leave the house.

I know. Isn't that what all four year old boys are like? Um, no. Most preschoolers do not fall out of their chair 12 times while eating a meal. Most preschoolers can sit and look at a preferred book or play with a preferred toy for longer than 30 seconds. Most preschoolers do not wail their arms and legs like a pinwheel, hitting anyone who may come within a 2 foot radius of their body. Most preschoolers who legitimately want to obey their mother when she says, "Walk to the car," will do it and not run into the street.

I called the pediatrician and asked for a referral to a Fragile X specialist -- a woman who is a neurologist and has done extensive studies on Fragile X. A woman who knows about medications and whom I had the pleasure of meeting at the National Fragile X Conference.

It was a simple visit, really. "He has ADHD." We started with clonidine, which was fine for a while, and then eventually switched to Ritalin. I remember being nervous, but ready. I also remember the first time we walked, hand-in-hand, into the grocery store, picked up a gallon of milk, stood in line to pay for it, and walked back out to the car. He stayed next to me; he walked with me. I didn't have to put him in a cart to buy a gallon of milk. I felt . . . normal.

I remember watching him play with toys -- pretending to use a wrench and a screwdriver beyond banging them together or waving them in the air in front of his face and being amazed that those skills were trapped inside his mind this whole time just waiting to get out.

And I remember not hearing, "He hit me" and instead, "He gave me a hug."

Medicating a young child is never an easy decision. And yes, I've seen and heard of it go terribly wrong. In our case, though, it was liberating. It was and still is the right choice for us. Now that he's headed to kindergarten, I'm glad that these issues are taken care of already. It's one less hurdle for him to have to jump.

He still has his quirks and his meltdowns. Pills aren't a cure-all. He isn't a "new" kid or a different kid; he's just able to be his fast-moving, cars-loving, paper shredding, dog barking, best self AND complete puzzles, sit at a table and eat, use slower speech, work with his teacher, and control more of his impulses.

do you think he's trying to tell me something?

a mess! a mess!

To say there was poop all over the bathroom this morning does not do my son or this particular bowel movement any justice, and we wouldn't want anyone or anything being denied their proper due, now would we? I think not.

Allow me to back up. This week has been slow but stressful. Punkin had another mystery sore throat and high fever Tuesday (beginning at 1am, thank you). Tuesday is one of my respite days and I also had an appointment with a psychiatrist that day to evaluate my anti-depressants. Luckily Oma was able to watch Punkin during my doctor visit, but I missed respite completely. I didn't have anything other than an oil change planned, but it's hard to miss those hours when you feel like you're a human magnet.

By Thursday morning Punkin was back to normal and we spent the day at school and then swimming with friends. Then 1:00 Friday morning came and I thought, "You have to be kidding me." It wasn't just that he was awake, it was that at about the 4am mark he began moaning. And I began questioning my sanity.

Oma came to my rescue because she is THE MOST AWESOME WOMAN EVER AND I CAN NEVER REPAY HER and let me drop him off at her house at 6:45 on my way to work. His fever came back, I cancelled respite for the evening, and by the time I came to pick him up at 2pm, he was running around with shreds of paper wearing a swimsuit and asking for noodles. I took him home and he hasn't stopped eating since.

Now, back to this morning. I've missed all of my respite for the week, I'm starting a new anti-depressant, and Punkin is being LOUD. I'm crabby, but it's okay because in a few hours I will be on my way to the spa for an hour long massage.

Twenty minutes before we're supposed to leave, Punkin runs into his room to grab his blanket. It takes longer than it should.

"MOM."
"What?"
"Clean up me?"

And so it begins. See, the mess in the bedroom wasn't actually that bad. His underwear and swimsuit contained most it. The problem was the inevitable removal of those two pieces of clothing because he'd been so stopped up from being sick that once it came out, it wouldn't stop. The literal ___ hit the floor, folks, and it quickly spread all over the toilet, bath, and shower wall.

The wiping and soaping and spraying of cleaners was just never ending. By the time I started putting his shoes on to take him to Oma, it was too late. But I left anyway, called the spa, and they asked me to reschedule for next week. We went to Oma and Opa's house, where I continued to crab for what was probably an undue amount of time, and eventually bought some peach salsa from the farmer's market.

I'm eating that salsa right now and it is amazing. Maybe it was meant to be.

(If you are curious, I am switching from Lexapro to Pristiq, which seems to be having the same side effect as Effexor and Cymbalta -- muscle pain mainly in the calves, feet, hands, and lower arms. Back to square one on Monday, I guess!)

oh ya

After a few calls to my landlord, a pest control guy showed up today with a can of spray as big as my head to kill the wasps. He sprayed the balcony, both top and bottom, and removed the nests. Thank goodness!

And just in case you were wondering, if you ever get stung by a wasp, you should scrape the stinger out with a butter knife. I know! When Oma came over and told me that, I said, "A butter knife?"

"I printed off directions from the internet."

"What internet?!"

"The internet! It's fine."

I grimaced. But hey, it worked.