Realizations

The Bear, also known around these parts as Stinker, is starting to pick up social cues. He's with me this morning playing Mommy-Makes-A-Really-Good-Playground-When-She-Is-Tired-And-Still-Wants-To-Stay-In-Bed. It's a great game when you're a toddler, I guess.

So after climbing over me, sliding down my legs, hanging on my back sing-songing, "I wuv you!" and all kinds of other fun activities, he lays on his back and starts kicking me. Repeatedly. You can just tell he's testing.

One look. I just gave him with one "Are you seriously kicking mommy?" look.

And he responds, "Whoops! I just jo-king!"

At least one man in my life gets social cues!!

Health Ramblings

As I've told you all before, I have a slightly kooky doctor. He draws diagrams to illustrate what he's telling me, talks about how osteoporosis is similar to the reason the Twin Towers fell on 9/11 (with the help of some crazies and their planes), and says things like, "What blood type are you? O? Oh, you shouldn't be eating peanut butter anyway. Almond butter is better for you." And no, he's not saying people shouldn't eat peanuts, he's saying people with Type O blood shouldn't eat peanuts.

I guess he's basing it on the book Eat Right For Your Type. Which I picked up this week and thumbed through. Now, I don't know how it lines up for the other blood types but a lot of the medical/allergy tendencies line right up with my family's medical issues. (We're all type O's.) Autoimmune disorders? Check! Hayfever? Check! Lots and lots of other, weird, allergies? Check! Wacked out sometimes too strong immune system? Check! Example of a wacked-out-too-strong immune system: Belle, now 11, had chickenpox. But? We didn't know it. Her version must have been a bit of a sniffle, maybe a runny nose, and a headache. But not a SINGLE SPOT. We had a titre done on her as she'd been exposed time and again but never developed the pox. It was positive. She's immune. Lucky little monkey.

Anyway, so I've been curious about why I shouldn't be eating peanuts and what I SHOULD be eating. So I hit up the health food store near the kids' ballet school and rented a few recommended books. One is the Eat Right one I've wanted. The other? The Yeast Connection. Eat Right tells me O's should eat mostly meat and certain veggies, stay away from wheat, oats, most grains, in fact. The Yeast Connection tells me I should eat mostly meats and veggies during the onset phase of dealing with yeast -- stay away from fruit and all grains (for now), refined/processed grains and sugars (forever.)

All I can say is AARRGGHHH!!

I look around my kitchen and see frosted shredded wheat, honey nut 'scooters' (Cheerios), oatmeal, fruit, and, yes, junk food. Eating 'right' (according to two authors) is going to be tough. Even tougher? Changing a family this size to rice and buckwheat based products. Getting rid of the corn chips, the potatoes and pasta, the breakfast cereals and whole grain breads. Re-doing the Sunday morning pancakes and waffles.

The thing is, for Hubby and I, this is something we really need to do. For my health if nothing else. I'm plagued by chronic yeast issues. Get rid of it, comes back. Wanna guess who else is carrying it? Yep. Probably Hubby. So if I get rid of the yeast, he'll give it right back.

So here we go again. On a diet. But for health rather than weight-loss. (Although that should be a great side-effect.) Anyone want to place bets on how long I'll be able to last?

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On a fun note -- I make the Bear leave his paci in his crib in the morning. He must have some stashed because he just came up to me, paci in his mouth chanting, "Haha! Got 'nother paci! Haha! Got 'nother paci" with his mouth full of pacifier. He's potty trained but still has his paci. Can you tell he's the baby of the family?!

Bittersweet moments

My littlest, the Bear, and I were laying on the bed the other day, me leaning over him kissing and stroking his large forehead. He was drowsy but not ready to give up the fight and drift off to sleep. Instead he began exploring my face and in little, sleepy strokes began tracing my features, whispering, "I like yours nose. I like yours eyebwows. I like yours fo-head. I like yours cheeks." One by one, naming off my parts and pieces and loving on his momma. It was so sweet I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. All I could think is, "How can this child, this sweet little boy, grow up and one day cause me pain and worry? I can't fathom worrying about drugs and drinking, sex and peer-pressure, and the other ways kids jump off the deep end. He's going to stay this sweet forever, right? Please tell me he will!"

I know deep down he won't. That he'll be a teenager. But I just hope I can remember that moment when I was his whole world and he was mine.

His whole first year, from the moment labor began with my husband 2 1/2 hours away through to the end of month 10 were fraught with anxiety. Actually, it hasn't stopped because now they want to test him for hydrocephalus, but I think the thing that hurts the most is that he couldn't nurse. To so many women that's not a big deal but for me, it was huge and devastating. Little Louie had nursing issues for three months after birth because he'd been sick from a UTI and too weak to nurse effectively. So he'd starved until day 10 and that starvation at the breast caused him to refuse to nurse out of anxiety. He finally went back to the breast at 3 months and things were fine. But with the Bear I'd really looked forward to a great nursing experience. To nursing my last child until we were both good and done. From start to finish.

Life can be so cruel. Because he got his big ole noggin stuck on my pubic bone he ended up with damage to the nerves leading to his tongue. We didn't know this, but he did keep loosing weight and was eventually hospitalized for jaundice. It was during that time that the lactation consultant worked with him and discovered his problem. We tried everything. Every position, every tool, every single trick of the trade. Bottles were the only thing keeping him alive and because he couldn't actually suck, but bit the nipple instead to get milk to flow, that was only barely. Two ounces of breast milk would take two hours to ingest. He'd sleep for an hour and we'd start the feeding again. The Bear was one tired little guy.

We took him to a speech therapist who had a great reputation for getting non-nursers to the breast. I took him in, confident that I'd walk out with a nursing baby. So excited. Instead, after a lengthy consult and exam her words were, "I'm sorry. So sorry. But, if they start talking feeding tube you come to me before you let them put one in."

WHAT? A feeding tube? It was that bad. He was that exhausted from bottle feeding his couple ounces at a time that she predicted there might come a day when he would fall into the failure to thrive category.

So I resigned myself to pumping. I'd pump one side and nuzzle him to the other side, trying to help him attach, encourage him to try. To my great disappointment, for both of us, it never worked.

Pumping became an obsession. A burden, a chore, exhausting and emotional. But I persisted for 10 months, bought 18 glass bottles to store my milk and feed him to avoid BPA's, and obsessed about the quantity I achieved at each session. Always helping for another drop, another drip, that last tiny bit of nutrition for my precious little monkey.

Bottle feeding doesn't seem to have hurt him in the least. He's still a little boy obsessed with Momma's 'jurgies', poking them and squealing, "Squishy Tushy!" But for momma, my failure, the thought of what we both missed still has me mourning. Wishing, longing that something could've been different.

Watching them learn

As I contemplated my third post (out of ideas already?! It can't be!) my husband called me into the living room to check out The Bear. Dressed in a one piece, blue striped outfit and looking a bit like a jailbird, he had his back to me, facing an old rocking chair. As I watched he smacked the rocking chair with both hands then just watched it bounce/rock. Surprisingly, instead of pounding on it over and over and just being a typical, wound-up little boy, he waited until it was nearly motionless before smacking it again. Over and over I watched my Bear conduct his experiment, hit, rock, wait. Hit, rock, wait. I don't know what information he was gathering or what synapses were developing but it was obvious that he was learning. It struck me, too, that that was so HIM: methodical and curious.

I always find it amazing watching my children learn. As a homeschooling mom it's been painful at times, though. Especially since several of my children have been 'blessed' with, as some circles call it, the Gift of Dyslexia. When you're a mom watching your child struggle, without the resources to spring for the outrageously expensive tutoring, and the virtual academy/charter school wants to 'track' your child for yet ANOTHER year but is reluctant to do testing and intervention it doesn't seem like much of a gift.

In the midst of struggling to find a way to teach, find a way for that light bulb to finally turn on in their brains I've come to appreciate my children for their strengths. When reading, and therefore so much basic schoolwork, is nearly torture they need the encouragement of knowing they have a strength. Belle has a fabulous memory and comprehension, especially if things are read to her. Gil quickly memorized most of his math facts, without the usual flashcards. Just knew 'em. Pixie-girl, though her learning issue is more centered around ADHD which has led to memory and comprehension difficulties, has the higher-level thinking skills of an adult. She can't remember that Paris is a city in France and France is a country on the continent of Europe (truly! You have no idea how frustrating that is for her!) but she can theorize and philosophise with just about anyone.

For me, having children with learning difficulties has been challenging. I love to read, love learning and school was easy for me. I tested well. So I figured my kids would excel academically. They're my kids, right? They're all very bright. But, turns out, that's not always what counts. I've learned a lot about my children along the way and I've had to accept some things I really struggled against. It's been difficult to accept that some of my children might not graduate from college. Heck, they may not even GO to college. Many of my children will never find joy in curling up with a good book. Their daddy sure doesn't. I've come to realize many of these things are not what's most important. The college degree doesn't make someone a better or smarter person. Your reading list doesn't mean you'll be good company. Completing a degree at a four-year institution far from guarantees success on the job.

What is most important, I firmly believe, is simply learning. And the continual willingness to learn. Whether it's through observation, experimentation or reading. Whether it's in a lecture hall, a forest, or your own home. All around you, every day, every single person has the chance to learn something new. To file away some new observation. To ask a question, look up a topic, or work in some way to increase your knowledge. This is now what I hope and wish for my children. That, despite their difficulties, they spend every day of their life doing what The Bear did this evening: filing away new information in their big, beautiful noggins.