Christmas, and I love stationery, so there you have it...
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| Thanks, Kendy! |
12/20/11
12/17/11
It's Very Hard
There are some things I never thought I'd be excited to witness my children do. I'm not talking about those little things they accomplish that only truly obnoxious parents consumed with their own child's "superior" intellect care anything about--I knew I'd be excited about those things--'cause let's face it, at times, we're all most definitely that parent.
I was arguer extraordinaire from an early age. Those of you who know me will not be shocked. I had some great one-liners too. Around 2.5, upon being sent to time out, I told my mother that she was so mean she belonged in Satan's family. She figured that was the only way I knew how to tell her to go to Hell.
Spencer's personality has always been a bit of a puzzler, in that, he certainly gives us a run for our money (much like I pushed the limits), but in some ways he hasn't seemed "like" me at all. For example, he takes longer to warm up in social situations (though he's not at all shy once he knows you well). And that has made him seem more like his daddy (who his parents claim never needed one spanking!). So, it always seemed that the parallelisms ended there. I know that children are not exactly like one parent or the other when it comes to personality, appearance, or anything else; but so many things about Spencer resembled me as a little girl, that the few things that were different have always puzzled me.
Lately, as we've learned more about his speech disorder, Childhood Apraxia of Speech (somewhat of a misnomer, because it does not go away after childhood), I've begun to wonder how much more he would have appeared to have a personality more similar to mine had he not been been coping with his extra speech challenges. In some ways, it makes me sad and concerned for his little personality, worried that on some rudimentary level his CAS has changed who he would have been as a person. Other days I know that he feels loved and known, and we have always displayed the utmost desire to understand him, even when his articulation has made it difficult.
At the same time, I have to make a conscious decision to not allow behavior that is unacceptable just because I could imagine a scenario in which his speech issue is part of the cause of his frustration in that particular situation. Can't be too strict--the kid has a hard time expressing himself verbally. Can't be too lenient--hoping he is coming to understand social and moral norms of our family and faith at a rate which is appropriate for his age. When it's put that way, it's basically every parent's challenge with their child.
So, you'll now understand a little bit of why I was so excited when two days ago I told him to do something he didn't want to do and he looked me right in the eye and said, "Very hard, Mommy!" I immediately flashed back to a few days before when I had asked him if he could find the brown bag in my room and bring it to me in the living room. My room was a huge mess, and I think he really was having a hard time finding it. He came in and out a few times, and finally came in and said, "Brown bag--very hard!" So, I smiled at his cute explanation and went in and got it myself.
Well, apparently he remembered that saying something is very hard gets Mommy to do it for you. So, when he told me that picking up the carrots he'd purposely dropped all over the floor was "very hard, Mommy!" I smiled and laughed (which probably was not the most prudent reaction), but I was so relieved and encouraged to have my child arguing with me--in English, not body language or screaming. Thank God it wasn't more screaming! [Let me just insert that my language developed very typically, but I also did a lot of screaming. Right on up to thirteen or so years of age].
For the past two days, when asked to do something he doesn't want to do, he tells us it's very hard. And he wants me to say what I told him the first time he said that, "Yes, I know it's very hard; but I know you can do it!" He has also started making creative excuses which place the blame on something besides himself. When he didn't heed my request to stay out of his Gig's dining room, I walked in to find him staring at the Christmas tree, holding his Little People baby cow. I told him to come out of there, and he told me that "Baby cow want to see Christmas tree." Makes the term my "baby" boy so much more appropriate. He's certainly simultaneously both a baby and a boy. And now he's one who argues with the excuse that I'm asking something too difficult of him and places the blame on inanimate objects needing something in the off-limits room at Gigi's house. Hooray!
I was arguer extraordinaire from an early age. Those of you who know me will not be shocked. I had some great one-liners too. Around 2.5, upon being sent to time out, I told my mother that she was so mean she belonged in Satan's family. She figured that was the only way I knew how to tell her to go to Hell.
Spencer's personality has always been a bit of a puzzler, in that, he certainly gives us a run for our money (much like I pushed the limits), but in some ways he hasn't seemed "like" me at all. For example, he takes longer to warm up in social situations (though he's not at all shy once he knows you well). And that has made him seem more like his daddy (who his parents claim never needed one spanking!). So, it always seemed that the parallelisms ended there. I know that children are not exactly like one parent or the other when it comes to personality, appearance, or anything else; but so many things about Spencer resembled me as a little girl, that the few things that were different have always puzzled me.
Lately, as we've learned more about his speech disorder, Childhood Apraxia of Speech (somewhat of a misnomer, because it does not go away after childhood), I've begun to wonder how much more he would have appeared to have a personality more similar to mine had he not been been coping with his extra speech challenges. In some ways, it makes me sad and concerned for his little personality, worried that on some rudimentary level his CAS has changed who he would have been as a person. Other days I know that he feels loved and known, and we have always displayed the utmost desire to understand him, even when his articulation has made it difficult.
At the same time, I have to make a conscious decision to not allow behavior that is unacceptable just because I could imagine a scenario in which his speech issue is part of the cause of his frustration in that particular situation. Can't be too strict--the kid has a hard time expressing himself verbally. Can't be too lenient--hoping he is coming to understand social and moral norms of our family and faith at a rate which is appropriate for his age. When it's put that way, it's basically every parent's challenge with their child.
So, you'll now understand a little bit of why I was so excited when two days ago I told him to do something he didn't want to do and he looked me right in the eye and said, "Very hard, Mommy!" I immediately flashed back to a few days before when I had asked him if he could find the brown bag in my room and bring it to me in the living room. My room was a huge mess, and I think he really was having a hard time finding it. He came in and out a few times, and finally came in and said, "Brown bag--very hard!" So, I smiled at his cute explanation and went in and got it myself.
Well, apparently he remembered that saying something is very hard gets Mommy to do it for you. So, when he told me that picking up the carrots he'd purposely dropped all over the floor was "very hard, Mommy!" I smiled and laughed (which probably was not the most prudent reaction), but I was so relieved and encouraged to have my child arguing with me--in English, not body language or screaming. Thank God it wasn't more screaming! [Let me just insert that my language developed very typically, but I also did a lot of screaming. Right on up to thirteen or so years of age].
For the past two days, when asked to do something he doesn't want to do, he tells us it's very hard. And he wants me to say what I told him the first time he said that, "Yes, I know it's very hard; but I know you can do it!" He has also started making creative excuses which place the blame on something besides himself. When he didn't heed my request to stay out of his Gig's dining room, I walked in to find him staring at the Christmas tree, holding his Little People baby cow. I told him to come out of there, and he told me that "Baby cow want to see Christmas tree." Makes the term my "baby" boy so much more appropriate. He's certainly simultaneously both a baby and a boy. And now he's one who argues with the excuse that I'm asking something too difficult of him and places the blame on inanimate objects needing something in the off-limits room at Gigi's house. Hooray!
12/12/11
Speech Antics
You know it's gonna get interesting when your son's speech language pathologist (SLP) walks him out of the therapy gym after his hour long session with a funny look on her face and says, "Ok, funny story..."
To be honest, it sort of strikes fear in your heart if you're a mom of a spencer. You know what he's capable of, and you love him to death, but you hope no one else ever has to love him like you do--at least until he gets married. Friends who work with children professionally assure me that the people who take care of him at various points throughout the week have seen a lot worse than what he has to offer, but they don't know him like I know him. So, an opening line like that sends my mind racing. What in the world did he do? What action of his is remarkable to someone who spends all day every day treating kids? The mind reels with possibilities.
Thankfully, none of my worst case scenario knee-jerk imaginations turned out to be the "funny story" she had to tell me. And, even more thankfully, it truly was a funny story. Not a not-so-funny story that a professional calls funny in order to lessen the blow or try to allay the sure feelings of self-loathing and doubt their news will stir up. Thank God (really), it was a funny story.
When children play in the therapy gym they do it sans shoes or socks. So, immediately upon entrance, foot ware comes off. Apparently, a favorite past time of my little angel's has been to lull his SLP into a state of relaxation while he "plays" in the foam pit. Then, he would race across the gym to grab his socks out of his shoes. Then, he waves them around in front of her, to make sure she sees them. Finally, he jumps into the foam pit and buries them as far down as his little then-2-year-old arms can reach. And, this has not been a rare occurrence. Yes, at this point I'm thinking, "Great. He's that kid." And to be honest, he probably sort of is. However, at this point in the story, the SLP is laughing and smiling about this behavior, so she must either be cool with it, or have been bewitched by his impish beauty. Probably a bit of both.
So, she goes on to tell me, that he pulled this little stunt today, but that they couldn't find one of his socks this time. She said they both looked for his socks, and he actually found one of them, but she couldn't find the other one. She finally told him that they'd have to tell his mom they couldn't find his other sock. If you know me, then you know that at this point, I am wondering how much of his therapy time he has wasted by hiding his socks for his poor SLP to dig out. But that's neither here nor there for the purpose of this little tale.
Spencer, as the story goes, seemed fine with admitting defeat. He probably looked at her and said, "'Kay..." So, together they tromped over to his shoes and backpack, and proceeded to put on his one sock and both of his shoes. His SLP then begins to put her foot into her shoe, and something doesn't feel quite right. She reaches inside her shoe to pull out---by this time you've guessed, right?--Spencer's missing sock. He didn't put both in the foam pit today. He stuck one in her shoe, and stuck the other in the foam pit. She said when she found it, he started cracking up. He laughed and laughed. And I'm sure she did too. Thank goodness she can appreciate his antics.
And what, do you imagine, did his SLP gain from this experience with Spencer, the sock hider? What conclusion did she draw at the end of her "funny" story? That Spencer is really smart. Again, what a blessed soul to tell me that story and end it with saying how smart he is. Ha! I have a feeling that won't be the same sentiment I will receive from his first grade teacher if he does something like that. Then again, maybe it will be. I've always said God knew what he was doing when he made Spencer so inordinately beautiful. It is certainly paying dividends in speech therapy.
To be honest, it sort of strikes fear in your heart if you're a mom of a spencer. You know what he's capable of, and you love him to death, but you hope no one else ever has to love him like you do--at least until he gets married. Friends who work with children professionally assure me that the people who take care of him at various points throughout the week have seen a lot worse than what he has to offer, but they don't know him like I know him. So, an opening line like that sends my mind racing. What in the world did he do? What action of his is remarkable to someone who spends all day every day treating kids? The mind reels with possibilities.
Thankfully, none of my worst case scenario knee-jerk imaginations turned out to be the "funny story" she had to tell me. And, even more thankfully, it truly was a funny story. Not a not-so-funny story that a professional calls funny in order to lessen the blow or try to allay the sure feelings of self-loathing and doubt their news will stir up. Thank God (really), it was a funny story.
When children play in the therapy gym they do it sans shoes or socks. So, immediately upon entrance, foot ware comes off. Apparently, a favorite past time of my little angel's has been to lull his SLP into a state of relaxation while he "plays" in the foam pit. Then, he would race across the gym to grab his socks out of his shoes. Then, he waves them around in front of her, to make sure she sees them. Finally, he jumps into the foam pit and buries them as far down as his little then-2-year-old arms can reach. And, this has not been a rare occurrence. Yes, at this point I'm thinking, "Great. He's that kid." And to be honest, he probably sort of is. However, at this point in the story, the SLP is laughing and smiling about this behavior, so she must either be cool with it, or have been bewitched by his impish beauty. Probably a bit of both.
So, she goes on to tell me, that he pulled this little stunt today, but that they couldn't find one of his socks this time. She said they both looked for his socks, and he actually found one of them, but she couldn't find the other one. She finally told him that they'd have to tell his mom they couldn't find his other sock. If you know me, then you know that at this point, I am wondering how much of his therapy time he has wasted by hiding his socks for his poor SLP to dig out. But that's neither here nor there for the purpose of this little tale.
Spencer, as the story goes, seemed fine with admitting defeat. He probably looked at her and said, "'Kay..." So, together they tromped over to his shoes and backpack, and proceeded to put on his one sock and both of his shoes. His SLP then begins to put her foot into her shoe, and something doesn't feel quite right. She reaches inside her shoe to pull out---by this time you've guessed, right?--Spencer's missing sock. He didn't put both in the foam pit today. He stuck one in her shoe, and stuck the other in the foam pit. She said when she found it, he started cracking up. He laughed and laughed. And I'm sure she did too. Thank goodness she can appreciate his antics.
And what, do you imagine, did his SLP gain from this experience with Spencer, the sock hider? What conclusion did she draw at the end of her "funny" story? That Spencer is really smart. Again, what a blessed soul to tell me that story and end it with saying how smart he is. Ha! I have a feeling that won't be the same sentiment I will receive from his first grade teacher if he does something like that. Then again, maybe it will be. I've always said God knew what he was doing when he made Spencer so inordinately beautiful. It is certainly paying dividends in speech therapy.
Happy Birthday, Spencer!
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| Toes, sleeping Spencer, bunny ears, and I heart Mommy pix courtesy of Hannah Bauer. |
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| My little love at last year's bash, turning 2. |
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| So grown up that you can actually see time flying. |
12/7/11
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