"May have Monday"

I may have stayed in bed long past acceptable "mommy" rising time thanks to my husband who stayed home this morning after being gone all weekend for work.  I may have dragged myself into the shower for the first time in a week.  I may have, yet again, turned a blind eye to the pieces of leaves, dirt, and other nonsense littering the floor around our carport door, gingerly tip-toeing for the sake of my newly-cleaned feet.  I may have forgone any sort of beauty regimen, only managing to brush my teeth and put on clothing appropriate for hosting any emergency personnel should the need arise.

I may have let my toddler proceed to peel and eat an entire banana while walking around our house.  He may have ground the last quarter of it into the carpet with his maverick-y little foot.  I may have disciplinarily punted, telling him, "We don't squish bananas into the carpet.  Next time, you're going get a spanking."  He may have not even cared.

I may have helped him with his shape sorter and laughed as he perfectionistically lined up every shape, utterly bereft whenever he was incapable of getting each specific groove of one shaped block to sit flush or be inserted into the groove or lack thereof of the shaped block he attempted to "lock into place" next to it.

I may have concluded this particular morning's audition for mother of the year by sweetly and calmly rocking my toddler for five or ten minutes and then laying him in his bed.  I may have been so naive as to think that he'd drifted off to sleep just in time to hear him calling me from underneath his doorway.  (He may have, of late, grown accustomed to a few curtain calls at nap and bed time.)  I may have decided that today was not his lucky day.  He may currently be asleep on the hardwood floor.

I know what you're thinking.  But there's one thing that could make sense of this whole, sad, pitiful morning of neglecting our home, my appearance, and some arguably pivotal child-rearing moments.

I may have something to announce.

I'm pregnant.

This post has been brought to you compliments of Emily's "Mayhave Monday" link up, and of course, my pregnancy hormones.

"Fun Friend?"

We have been snowed in.  We have been slightly sick.  And we are officially sick of being snowed in and sick.

Bright spot?  My sweet friend Emily paid me the ultimate compliment by asking me to write something for her blog series "Fun Friend Friday."  She likes to focus on "keepin' it real" by talking openly about issues and struggles and what to do (or not do) with them.  My post doesn't make me sound like a very "fun friend," but I did manage to keep it pretty real.

Thanks so much for the opportunity, Em!

http://keepinitdownanddirty.blogspot.com/2011/02/fun-friend-friday-lauren.html

Faulty Assumption #3792

A ring pop will be analogous to a dum dum in the way in which Spencer will be able to handle and/or consume it.

Drama at The Little Gym

The middle of January began the "new semester" at The Little Gym.  Many of the same people were there, but there were also a lot of new people.  I'm horrible at guessing numbers, so this following statement means little to nothing, but I'd say there were probably three times as many people there than there usually are.  You know what I'm going to say next, right?  Spencer did not react well.  He wasn't bad, per se.  He was just super active.  And it is winter, and he doesn't get to go outside very often, so I would never qualify his activeness as "bad;"  it's just, what's a good word?  It's awesome--in the purest sense of the word.  It inspires in you a sense of awe.  

I had not bargained on there being so many new people in addition to all of the regulars, so, in my naivete, I tried to take his pacifier away as he was on his way into the gym.  I asked if he'd put it in his bag, if I could hold it for him.  We'd already discussed leaving it in the car, to which he gave me a resounding and negative response.  But, usually, once the fun gets going, he's cool being paci-less.  So, his teacher, "Miss Erin" yanked it from his little mouth and handed it to me as he ran into the gym.  I'm not sure if it was that she took it away or that it appeared to him that I wasn't coming in to the gym with him or that all of that happened as he simultaneously realized there were a bunch of strangers in the room, but he had a little fit.  And by little, I mean big.  

All the moms who've been around him all fall are so sweet.  They are not judgmental; they believe you are doing the best you can; their kid is totally different from yours and you both affirm that there is equal and amazing value in them all.  But I could feel the stares from all the new moms.  And I'm sure they are also just as understanding and kind (at least most of them probably are, lol!), but their poor little children are in a brand new, huge gym, which could be overwhelming to some toddlers (it never was to Spencer, by the way), and I just kept thinking, "Just smile, and act calm.  Raise your eyebrows.  Distract him.  He'll settle down.  Don't give the paci back, it'll just reinforce this behavior (you know, behavior any and every human naturally displays from time to time when their comfort is ripped from them just as their expectations for the day are broadly swept aside)."  But he didn't stop.  

Malin's (the "a" is like the "a" in "mail"--isn't it a cute name?) mom and I had an entire conversation about how they didn't give Malin her paci the other night before bed, and she never asked for it or missed it, so they're done with it.  But she can tell that probably won't work for Spencer.  (lol!  probably not!)  She said he's probably more of a "paci party" kid.  He'd probably do better when he could understand why he couldn't have it anymore, etc.  And as we discuss this paci-quasi-philosophy, he was still screaming.  

I made a few last-ditch efforts at "redirecting" his energy, but he must have felt my resolve dwindling because he just got louder.  Finally, I decided this was not the time or the place for a battle of the wills over his paci.  Or maybe it was the time and the place, and I admitted defeat.  I'm cool with either rendition.  Many, many other little children were starting to look down-right upset because of the adorable, screaming little boy in their class.  What must his mommy have done to him?  I asked him if he could say "Paci please," and he said "Peeese."  And immediately dried it up.  I left the gym to get his paci and returned to a sweet little boy awaiting his security object.  He immediately received it; and then, he was off.  

It was as if, on this particular Wednesday morning, his pacifier had given him strength--or maybe endurance would be a better word.  He ran, climbed, swung, and pulled me places non-stop.  One of the new mom's complimented the utter adorable-ness of his curls (you know, once people could hear people well enough to actually have conversations since Spencer had stopped screaming).  I told her they were his saving grace.  "Miss Erin" laughed and agreed.  He did his skills with "Miss Erin," but otherwise he was outta there.  He was obsessed with standing on the bars like a balance beam.  I was helping him do front and back hip circles and the kind with one leg over the bar (I can't remember what those are called).  He was jumping from the bar onto the ground.  I can't even remember much more besides being jealous of the mom's who've been coming as long as I have, standing on the side of the mat talking to each other while their children were playing happily in the gym without their input or assistance.

There is a mat wrapped around the water fountain and a two-door closet that is perpetually unlocked--both of which Spencer knows are off limits.  He went down both of those paths today.  And he hadn't messed with those things in so long.  I'd totally underestimated the power of things being a "little" bit different to totally sabotage all of Spencer's "progress" in class.  He was (not surprisingly) begging for his milk by the end of the class.  He wouldn't go get in line (or the blob of children) to get a stamp.  So, we just walked out.  And as soon as we did, it was like the clock had struck midnight, but in a good way.  He walked directly where I told him to go.  He sat down as soon as I asked.  He drank his milk as I put on his socks and shoes.  He said good bye to "Miss Erin."  And the whole gymnasium breathed a sigh of relief as we walked out.

Towards the end of the class hour-long session of crazy, a sweet mom who has known Spencer since August told me that her oldest daughter could not handle being over-stimulated, and that now, even at eighteen, she is still like that.  At first I was so thankful for her encouraging words (not automatically assuming I'm some half-brain-dead mom who can't calm, comfort, or control her own child but instead seeing Spencer and his needs in the broader context of all the differences that were at work today), but now that I'm reflecting, I wonder what this means for his (and my) future.

Then we went to get my allergy shot, where I decided it was the day to fight the battle over whether or not we stand in the chairs at the doctors' office.  I think the earlier paci defeat gave me new resolve.  I won, but it wasn't pretty.

Wound A Bit Tightly?

The night of the Sugar Bowl, I could not get over the behavior I witnessed from Spencer.  In the forefront of my mind swirled images of his less-than-joyous reactions to many of the "new" people and schedule amendments throughout our Christmas rounds.  I fully expected him to behave basically the same way towards all of the guests that would be dropping by his Gigi and Papa's house to watch the game.  Instead, he reinforced my slowly-learned "clarity statement" that I should employ any and every time I enter a room with my Spencer--expect the unexpected.

Had he not been identical in appearance, weight, speed, and strength to the Spencer I'd been with throughout the winter holidays, I would have sworn he was not the same child.  He smiled, squealed--still running off from many who greeted him--but he did so with a skip in his run (he doesn't take many "steps") and a welcoming grin on his face.  Spencer's countenance was inarguably unprecedented for a group event.  I could easily write enough for a year of blog posts with my hypotheses for this bewildering phenomenon; but suffice it to say I think it has much to do with his parents' subtle differences in mood and expectation levels--differences that I would argue are not so subtle to their young child.  Those of you who know us well know that we're both wound a bit tightly.

I don't hold that our every negative or ambivalent emotion is the cause of Spencer's every negative and ambivalent action.  And, I'm in no way new to the idea that there exists some sort of correlation.  These ideas are in no way an epiphany to me; but there was no ambivalence in the display of good will and excitement on this particular evening.  Not from me, not from Jonathan, and not from Spencer.

And since y'all don't come here just to hear me play psychologist, see for yourself.

"Hillary, come here!  I've got a plan."

"Not too bad for a rookie."

"I'd prefer you not catch me when I dive."

It's hard to get good pictures, no matter where I moved, he was turning the other way.  But, just know, behind those curls is a big smile alternating with looks of determination.  Either way, he wasn't screaming.  

Perfect angle for maximum leverage.

"Now they're off."

"Time for some bouncing."

Abusing Creatively arranging the sofa cushions take one hundred eighty six million.

"It was the best day."  --Ross reminiscing about mini-muffins at work.

I include the sheer volume of sofa cushion pictures to give you a proportional insight into what the evening entailed.  Yeah, it was mostly this.  He certainly stayed true to himself and continuously ripped the sofa cushions off of his Gigi's Century sofa.  [Side note, if you squelch your fear of his seemingly un-tameable physical conquests and invite us to your home, I won't let him do this to your furniture.]

Later, Spencer discovered a wooden recorder that was left out of his Christmas booty because his Gigi didn't think he'd be able to use it.  If you've ever seen Spencer anguished in the mire of frustration, you understand the importance of not setting him up for it on a holiday past his bedtime.  However, although Spencer was able to blow into the recorder and make one high, woodwind note fill the air; he was much more interested in forcing me to play it.  A failure at the piano for many, many years, I can still play the rendition of "Amazing Grace" taught to my entire fifth grade class in Music on the recorder.  Spencer ate it up.  He wouldn't let me quit.  Really.  I eventually had to switch to "Hot Cross Buns" just to make it less boring for me.  My mom and sister were cracking up; and it's hard to laugh and play the recorder simultaneously.  Spencer had no patience for my nonsense.  He will make quite the conductor someday--or merciless dictator.  We're all pulling for conductor.

While forcing me to play the recorder, he sashayed around the room.  Again:  expect the unexpected.  In my naivete, I'd pictured him running through the house, blowing on the recorder as hard as he could.  Glowing in his new found ability to add piercingly high sound waves to the already raucous atmosphere he enjoys creating.  Wrong again.

The testosterone was palpable that evening--which also may have contributed to putting Spencer at ease--and Spencer zeroed in on the one grown man who could match him bounce for bounce in both energy level and overall craziness--Steve Craig.  And bounce they did.

Again, to know Spencer is to know the rareness of this occurrence.  He doesn't let other people with whom he is not intimately acquainted bounce him.  Apparently Steve Craig ain't people.  

That same night Spencer spontaneously counted to four with coasters for his Gigi.  And when I say, "counted to four," I expect you to know that the average person on the street would have recognized the word "three" maybe.   If they'd had kids, who hadn't talked well, in the past two years--ha!  He does these sorts of things best when we are attempting to ignore him.  If we talk amongst ourselves, he'll approach us with a trick that he knows will get attention.  If you ask, or even invite or suggest, that he do an activity of this nature--you're sure to be left high and dry.  I found a great article about this "type" of kid.  It was written by an SLP about (surprise surprise) another boy.  She had to explain to his parents that "testing" him was  not the way to get him to learn how to do things or to evaluate whether or not he was able to do them.  Poor kid.  I think he was three or four and his parents still hadn't figured this out about him.  I could also write a year's worth of blog posts about that!  But, don't worry, I won't.