Last Day of Preschool

So, today is Julia's last day of preschool. It’s hard to believe three years have flown by so quickly. I remember sitting in our new parent orientation session three years ago and feeling incredibly nervous. Our girl was so big yet so tiny. She wasn’t even two yet, but we were enrolling her in preschool? It was so beyond our frame of reference – Dave and I both started preschool when we were four years old. Did we really need to enroll Julia at the age of two? How would she make it through 2 ½ hours without her lovey, Puppy? She was still in diapers, how would that be managed? She really hadn’t spent any extended time with any adult other than the two of us and Sherrie, her nanny. Would these teachers at Cobble Hill Playgroup appreciate her energy, her spunk, her quirkiness, her sensitivity? We decided to view Julia’s first two years of preschool as an organized playdate, and if nothing else, hope she learned that there were expectations and rules for working together in a classroom environment. What happened was beyond our wildest expectations.

First day of phase in, Julia was so excited to be at school, though she still wasn’t quite sure what school was. A bigger boy was building an intricate tower of blocks. Julia marched over to him, and smacked the tower down. When the bigger boy protested, she then proceeded to hit HIM. I watched, a little horror stricken, but interested to see how the teachers would react. A teacher walked over to Julia, removed her from the situation, and got her set up with another activity, away from the clearly upset older boy. In that moment I was sold. Age appropriate, gentle, but effective classroom management. The message was clearly sent that hitting and knocking down someone else’s work is not acceptable, but not with an admonishing, demeaning tone.

The routine of school quickly became a part of our family’s week. Daddy walked Julia to school (rather, strolled her to school those first two years), our sitter picked her up. After a while, we forgot we were writing tuition checks. It was just a place Julia went twice a week. Most days the only information we got about school was that she sang “Old-De-Donald” and that she pooped in her diaper. And then magic happened. Julia and I were waiting on the train around December. The train pulled into the station and Julia said, “Look, the 4 train!” and it was. And I hadn’t taught her what a four looked like.

Many moments have happened since then that have reinforced our choice to send Julia to preschool at the tender age of two. She has thought about her role in the world, learned about recycling and holidays, and owl pellets and words. She has learned to spell, learned to read, and overcome her intense phobia of worms through a worm study. She has learned to get along with others and that school has a routine and a predictability to it. She has learned to ask questions and satisfy her curiosity. She has learned to LOVE school and LOVE her teachers.

I am dreading pick up today, dreading the final good-byes, dreading the heartfelt words that I know I will hear from her preschool head and teachers, dreading the tears that will inevitably come, dreading the end of this phase. Closing a chapter of your life is difficult, particularly when closing that chapter of your life means your baby girl is growing up and becoming more and more independent each day. I joke with Julia that I am going to strap a cinder block to her head because she is getting so big and tall and self-sufficient. But it's all relative. I remember thinking my big preschool girl was HUGE back in 2007. And look at her now.

Dear Oliver...

Dear Oliver -

Well, your big day has arrived. You (and we!) have made it your first trip around the sun, and what a wild trip it has been! A little over a year ago, as we brought the baby infrastructure up from the basement (the diaper champ, the crib, etc.) and the waves of realization hit me (we are going to have someone in DIAPERS again? We are going to be woken up at all hours? The early nursing... so hard! Labor and delivery... SO HARD!) I wondered how we were going to do it. I mean, my only frame of reference for having a baby was your sister, and for 3 1/2 years she'd had my undivided attention. When she was a newborn I didn't have to figure out how to take care of her and also parent a three year-old. How was this all going to work? How was I going to take care of a tiny, nursing around the clock, waking at all hours newborn and also be a Mommy to Julia?

I won't lie, there were some preposterous moments - some moments that made me feel like someone had stolen my very organized, in control life and given me this new, out of control, chaotic one in exchange. But somehow as a Mommy, as a FAMILY, we muddled on through and figured out how to expand our home, our life and our hearts as we transitioned from a family of three to a family of four. Looking back now, I can hardly remember what it was like to only have one child, because your arrival has made our family and our lives so much richer and more complete.

It has been amazing to watch you grow and develop from a little baby to a little boy, and I sometimes find myself staring at you in amazement as you sleep, amazed that your tiny body is not so tiny anymore, amazed that your little face looks like a little boy and not my little newborn. When did that happen? Did I blink a little too long? Find myself occupied by other things and forgot to notice when your body grew a little longer and your face grew a little older? I can't believe you are already one year old.

You have developed clear preferences at this point. You love Mama over everyone else. When you get fussy, 9 times out of 10 it is because you want Mama. When Daddy reaches his hands out to take you from me, you either turn and grip onto me like a little monkey, or you smack his hands away. You love your Daddy and Julia too - you squeal when you see them and your face lights up, but you LOVE your Mama. You love to bounce (whether on someone's arm or in your bumper jumper). You love to dance - the second you hear music, you start bouncing up and down on my hip and start squealing. You love your music class as well. And you love love love Chloe, the cat. When you see her, your little eyes sparkle and you beam!

You have favorite toys as well. Your very favorite toy is a set of stacking plastic cups. You love to have them stacked up into a tower so you can smack them down. You love anything you can knock over, anything that makes noise. You love sirens, wheels and balls. As though you innately know you are a boy and you are supposed to love those things.

We have had our ups and downs this year. You still aren't eating very much, after an endoscopy and two swallow assessments, and you are undergoing behavioral feeding therapy at NYU's swallow center. You haven't started to crawl or pull up either and you have also qualified for 7 therapy sessions per week under New York City's Early Intervention program. You will have physical therapy 2x per week, feeding therapy 2x per week, play therapy 2x per week, and occupational therapy 1x per week. You are growing and thriving, but you need a little help moving forward in some areas to become mobile, develop an appetite for solid foods, and explore and learn from your world. Your Daddy and I are going to see to it that you get all the help you need to become the best boy you can be.

Little boy, I am so privileged to be your mother, and am so thankful you chose me. I can't imagine my life and our family without you. You and your sister make me a better person each and every day. I can't wait to see what you have in store for the coming year, and can't wait to watch you continue to grow, thrive, and discover the world around you... I love you, my best boy. Happy First Birthday.

Love,

Mama

The Report

So... Oliver's evaluation report arrived yesterday. While I was bracing myself for it, it was still hard to digest and process. The therapists unanimously evaluated him as 'delayed' on all fronts. He was even graded with letter grades in one section of the report, and received several 'Fs'. While Dave and I have known for a while now that he was behind in several areas (I mean, this is our second go-round as parents, and what parents don't compare the second experience to the first), it was hard to read the report with his name at the top and 'delayed' in every evaluation, gross motor, fine motor, cognition, speech and language and feeding. To read that he could be in danger of failure to thrive if he doesn't start eating soon, as breast milk will no longer meet his needs when he becomes more active. To read he is weak. To read he isn't playing like a one year-old should. To read he doesn't understand simple commands, or mimic back sounds or imitate signs. It's true. All of it is true.

It's also difficult to not assign blame to myself. I am the one that is with him 24 hours a day, I am the one that spends the most time with him, I am the one, I am the one, I am the one. And as much as I would like to figure out a cause, or assign blame, or really determine what we did and didn't do in order to figure out how to 'fix' this, more than likely this is just Oliver, the lot he was cast, and now we move forward from here.

Our big meeting is May 20th, where we go in and discuss his challenges, set goals, and find out what services the state is willing to pay for, and where we develop our plan. And for those people that know me, I am a woman that likes to set goals, make a plan, and move forward. We find out our therapy schedule, and we will know what we are looking at for the next 6 months. Then we go in and review his progress and make a new plan.

Tuesday we head to NYU Hospital's Swallow Center to have a swallow assessment done and to make a plan to start behavioral feeding therapy to get this boy interested in some solid foods beyond just a couple of rice puffs, a few crumbs of bread and miniscule amounts of dried fruit. His birthday party is next weekend, and realistically he won't even eat the dairy free / soy free cupcakes that I plan to make... because he won't be interested.

As his first birthday approaches, I have found myself willing him to meet any major milestone, just to send up a flare that he is okay and making progress - crawl, move to all fours, clap, wave, ANYTHING. As if he could sense my increasing anxiety and panic, he has made some major progress in his gross-motor skills in the last week or so. He has learned to sit up from a prone position (HUGE), has learned how to roll from back to front, not just front to back, and is correcting himself more consistently when he leans too far to one side and loses his balance. Additionally, he seems to be understanding a little more lately. Day before yesterday when I asked him if he wanted to nurse, he grabbed my shirt and started pulling at it. We are moving forward, just not according to any milestone chart. We are moving forward at Oliver's pace.

So that's it. We find out our plan in the next few weeks, a plan of action, a plan of therapy, and we will see what our lives will look like for the next 6 months. And hopefully Oliver's progress will begin to move forward at a more expedited pace and he will come up to curve. We may not know for years what it is that we are dealing with, or even if there is any big picture challenge we are facing. For now, he continues to be our perfect little boy, my little love, and we will work to get him the help he needs to continue to grow, learn and thrive. And remind me when he is crawling all over my apartment and destroying our home that I wished for him to become mobile!

Reclaiming Adult Space

Julia is an artist extraordinaire. She is constantly working on her 'projects' in her play area, cutting and taping, and drawing and glittering, and wrapping... She brings projects home from school every day. She makes projects at home every day. Our small Brooklyn apartment is overrun with art, notes, pictures, and projects. AND, she wants to post these projects all over our home. She gets out her tape and tapes them up in the living room, her playroom, the kitchen, her bedroom, our bedroom, even the bathroom has displayed an occasional piece of her art.

This weekend Dave and I made a small effort to reclaim a little space of our own, moving some display shelves from her play area to the dining area of our living room (yup, no dining room, no living room, this is NYC we are talking about, where real estate is a premium), and putting up an art gallery wall in her play area. She insisted on having it written in German (a nod to our bilingual household) so it says "Cates-Addison Art Gallery" on the wall.

Compromise achieved. Our dining area now looks like a dining area, free of the 30 pieces of paper scotch taped to the wall, and her play area has a designated space for us to oohhh and ahhhh over all of her masterpieces...

Early Intervention...

Yesterday was Oliver's 11 month birthday. And he isn't eating. He will take a couple of crumbs of bagel, a couple of dried blueberries and that's all she wrote. For all intents and purposes, he isn't eating. He is still getting about 99% of his calories from nursing. After the swallow assessment and the endoscopy last month, we were directed to NYC's Early Intervention program to see if he would qualify for behavioral feeding therapy services. In order to qualify, he had to have a delay in at least one other area, so we have had a troupe of therapists parading through our home in the last two weeks. We've been assigned a case worker, and he's been assessed by a physical therapist, an occupational therapist, a speech and language therapist, and a teacher has done a general assessment and parent interview.

So here's where we freak out. Not only has he qualified for the feeding therapy, but it turns out he is delayed on ALL fronts - gross and fine motor skills, receptive and expressive language AND feeding, and he is also being recommended for play therapy. His final assessment took place yesterday - the most important one, the feeding assessment - and now we just hurry up and wait. Our big meeting with the Department of Health and Hygiene (yes, that's what the department is called... how could I make this stuff up?) happens May 20th, but time is of the essence. I go back to work in 4 1/2 months now, and each day that he doesn't eat is another day closer to the day I return to the classroom... and take the food source with me.

All sorts of irrational thoughts are flooding my brain and making me crazy. Have I failed him in some way? What have I done / not done with Oliver that I did / didn't do for Julia? Could I have prevented these delays in some way? What can we do differently now? What is causing these delays? Will he always be delayed, or will he at some point catch up and be on par with his peers? What's the long term prognosis here?

Of course there are the logistical questions too - seriously, FIVE therapists? What is our life going to look like? How will I parent Julia in any kind of an enriching way when our entire life is taken over by Oliver's therapy schedule? And by the same token, is Oliver's entire life going to be therapy? What about tumbling, and music, and swimming and all the fun things Julia got to do when she was a toddler, or just a trip to the playground? What about downtime? While we can't afford for me NOT to go back to work in the fall, how CAN we afford for me to go back to work? Clearly our son needs his Mama to be home?

I look at my boy and know he is a beautiful, happy little boy. I know he is bright and curious because I see the sparkle in his eyes. However, I an consumed by worry... what is going on in his little head and in his little body? And what can I do? Once again, I remind myself to breeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaattttttthhhhhheeeeeee, and take this one step at a time. But then the crazy seeps back in, the panic starts to rise in my chest, and I leap ahead 53 steps...

The Eve of 38

So, it's the eve of my 38th birthday... hard to believe. There are so many moments where that Talking Heads song runs through my head - you know the one... Once in a lifetime... truly... how DID I get here? How am I 38 years-old racing towards 40? Where did those crow's feet around my eyes come from? How have I been married almost 12 years? How do I have a child who is entering kindergarten in the fall? How is my baby almost a year old? How am I responsible for two other people?

I feel I spend so much time watching the clock, watching the calendar, making plans, looking towards the future. I can't wait for nap time so I can have a moment of down time. I can't wait until 7 PM until the relief shift comes home. GOD LET THIS HORRIBLE NIGHT OF TORTURED SLEEP BE OVER. I can't wait until the cold weather is over. Can't wait until summer. Can't wait until the beach. Can't wait until the heat is over. Can't wait until Christmas. Can't wait until my glass of wine after the kids go to bed. Can't wait to go for a run later... Can't wait, can't wait, can't wait...

I forget I am living in the present, that the little moments here and now are my LIFE. They are guaranteed, not the ones 6 months from now, or even 6 minutes from now. It's so hard to appreciate the little moments, to live in the moment, to enjoy the NOW, when you are constantly looking forward, looking forward, looking forward, and essentially wishing your life away.

The end of my maternity leave is in sight... As I look at my huge girl, my almost real-deal school girl, and my little boy who is very quickly losing his baby look and racing toward 'little boy,' I just want to slow down this crazy ride. I know I only have a few more months at home with my littles, and I want to appreciate those crazy moments, good, bad, and ugly. And try to remember to live for the NOW, not the THEN. Easier said than done, but no time like this beautiful 80 degree springtime day to give it a go.

Going Under... and resurfacing...

Phew. The week is over. Well, at least it's over for all intents and purposes. Too many procedures, too many appointments, too much stress. Tomorrow, we breathe.

Our day started at 4:45 this morning. That was the time we set the alarm to go off, because Oliver couldn't nurse beyond 5:00 AM. You see, today was his dreaded endoscopy. We got to New York Presbyterian around 8:00 AM for paperwork and consultations with the anesthesiologist and the gastroenterologist. Oliver was given super cute scrubs to wear. We tried to keep him happy. And we started to panic. With each passing minute, I just wanted to get it over with. We hadn't anticipated that he would have to be on a respirator during the procedure. The idea of my little boy being put under anesthesia was enough for me to digest, but the fact that his body couldn't breathe on its own while he was under? Terrifying.

9 AM, they were ready. Was I ready? I felt like we were marching to the gallows as we walked back to the procedure room. They put monitor sticky pads on his back and chest. They put an oxygen monitor on his toe. They asked me to lay my baby boy down on an inflated, heated pad on the bed. They put a mask on his face and he started to cry. And then he stopped and became eerily calm. And then his eyes grew blurry and rolled back. And they told me to kiss him and leave the room. And I cried.

And we waited. 30 minutes. 35 minutes. They came to get us to bring us back to the recovery room. And we waited. Then I heard his cries. The anesthesiologist carried him to me and placed him in my arms. He flailed and cried, all the while his eyes were closed. They brought a warm blanket and wrapped it around his little body, and he fell into a deep, calm sleep in my arms.

So, nothing really to report. We survived it, he survived it. The waking up process was pretty grueling, with more tears, vomit, and some blood, but the good news is there are no major obstructions in his digestive tract. We should get the pathology report in another week. So no real answers as to why my otherwise healthy 25 pound 10 month old won't eat, but also no real bad news... so do we call it a draw?

Tonight, he splashed around in his bath, happy as a clam. The bruises on his foot from his IV and the red square marks on his chest and back from the monitors stuck to his tender skin were the only reminders of our morning. But PHEW. It's over.