My baby girl . . .

is not such a baby anymore.  Nanny Norma has been saying it for months now, but I have kind of refused to accept it.  Of course it had to happen, but it just feels so fast.  But then again, she did come home eight months ago.  Yes, eight.  It shocks me, too.  I was putting together a photo album for this year and actually gasped when I saw these pictures.

And now?  Now, at 14 months, she’s fully mobile, walking, running, climbing and even pushing furniture around so she can climb up to get things she’s not supposed to have.  She talks like a two-year old, with a huge vocabulary.  She told me this morning she wanted yogurt, then a cracker for breakfast, and then washed it down with the juice she demanded requested.  She walks to the bathroom and says “poh poh” and tries to lift her leg up to climb onto the toilet.  Nanny Norma doesn’t want to start this process until she’s two, but I think we’re going to get cracking pretty soon.

When she gets dressed in the morning, she likes to assist with clothing selection (preferably a dress) and very clearly let’s me know which shoes she wants.  She has a pretty impressive shoe selection and she likes to mix things up a bit, not wanting to wear the same shoe for more than a few hours.  Here’s a glimpse at some of her pink-toned shoes (there are, of course, others in her closet, including other colors, naturally).  The sequined ballet flats in the back were awesome when she was just learning how to walk, but snagged on everything, so they’re a bit bare at the toes now.

She’s also very much a girly girl.  She likes to brush my hair.  She says “hair” all of the time, and pulls at her curls.  I’m always playing with her hair and putting lots of product in it (although a stylist yesterday told me that I might not be putting enough in it – that it needs to be “greasier”).  She likes to wear her jewelry all of the time.  I got her two sterling bracelets for her first birthday.  One pearl and silver and another with her birthstone and silver, with blocks that spell out her name.  We now have to keep them both on her at all times.  She has a fit if we even take them off for her bath.  I’m a bit concerned, since she’s starting to get to be too big for one of them.  I guess I might have to order another.  I am fairly certain that this next year will include a lot of additional girly stuff.

After being oblivious to all of these signs that my baby was becoming a little girl, how did I finally let the reality of her growing up come into my consciousness?  Men.  Etta has always been a bit of a flirt with men, especially men of my age, but the other night we were out and ran into a male friend of mine.   When I interrupted her conversation with my friend by snapping a picture of her captivation, my precious little baby went from this . . .

to this . . .

in the blink of an eye.  This really does not bode well.  At all.

Our first Christmas

Our first Christmas as a family of three was so awesome that we held it over so we could celebrate two days in a row.  Well, maybe we held it over because Oscar awoke on Christmas day with a horrible cold.  He had been feeling poorly for a couple days, with a fever running around 103 before Tylenol.  With Tylenol, it was dropping down to 100-101, so no big deal.  On Christmas morning, though, this is what Oscar looked like at about 8:00 am.  I sat him on the kitchen island and he proceeded to assume this position, which he really did not want to change.

I, of course, thought we should power through whatever Oscar was feeling and celebrate Christmas.  Etta, after all, was raring to go.

We moved into the living room, where Etta tried to get her brother to go check out the presents left by Santa.  When that didn’t get him off the sofa, she decided to take one for the team and feign the holiday spirit and open some presents.  Oscar eventually rallied when he saw Etta with a gift he liked (her princess ride on), walking to the playroom to get his similar toy (his birthday gift from Grandma and Papa for his first birthday).  Even he couldn’t get excited about it, though, and we decided to call off the unwrapping of the presents when he got off the car and fell asleep on the floor.

Eventually, when Oscar just couldn’t muster any energy at all, I broke down and took him to urgent care.  They thought it was either the flu, some random virus or pneumonia, but his chest x-ray was clear.   They sent us home with a prescription to force some fluids into him, preferably something like a milkshake (why do I never get these prescriptions for myself?) and we set off to find food.  Finding food on Christmas Day is not so easy.  I wasn’t able to stop at the store, since I was told not to take Oscar into public areas, since he was highly contagious, so a drive thru was needed.  Easier said than found.  Long story short, we ended up driving almost an hour to find food.  Oscar drank almost none of the required shake, but Etta made up for it, of course.  We managed to get home and ended our first Christmas together by falling into bed before 6:00 pm.

I figured there was no way Oscar was recovering from this bug for at least a couple of days, so I was in for a surprise when I got up this morning and found a bright-eyed Oscar asking for food.  After eating something, he ran into the living room and found his stocking.  Christmas mayhem finally ensued, with Oscar tearing through a few presents and then playing for hours.

Yes, Oscar is wearing the same pyjamas as the day before (he even wore these to the urgent care).  You can tell it’s another day, though, by the hair.

Thankfully, Oscar was willing to attend to his personal hygiene and take a shower (with glasses) before we opened more presents.

We got tired of opening presents.  Not because there were hundreds, but I’m happy to say that my kids like to open a present and then play with it for a considerable while.  No tearing through dozens of presents at a time yet.  The only downside is that we have now had three present-opening sessions and will need a fourth tomorrow to get through the presents under the tree.  Even I find three days of this to be a bit much.

Anyway, it ended up being a beautiful day today and we ventured outside to play with Oscar’s scooter.

The kids were having a good time, but I noticed Etta wasn’t looking quite like her fun-loving self, so we headed inside.

When we got inside, Etta showed me something awesome.  A nose even runnier than her brother’s had been the day before.  Super.  Then she threw up (which was the first symptom Oscar exhibited).  She’s now asleep with a fever, and I suspect that we’ll have to postpone our last day of opening presents and read some of these gifts instead.  I’m thinking that little kid who said “pooh” to receiving books for Christmas (see youtube) wouldn’t last long in our house. . .

Hope your holidays were healthier than ours.

A Tiny Clarification

I’m finding it next to impossible to actually draft the contract that I was given for Christmas by my employer, so I thought I’d head over here instead to explain something.  When I mentioned having a nervous breakdown when Oscar received an autism diagnosis, I did not mean to imply that I lost it because of autism.  The breakdown I experienced was more of a result of the fact that I thought that the specialists just were not paying attention to Oscar’s symptoms, but simply wanted to put him in a box and mark it PDD-NOS.  I felt like no matter what I told them in the hours and hours of interviews and tests, that the moment they saw him spin and shake his hands near his face (which, although not typical hand flapping, would be close enough for them), that he would be smacked with the PDD stamp.  This, despite everything else they had been told about how he processes information, his social and very affectionate nature, etc.  And, sure enough, that is what happened.

What I like about the center we’re using for his treatment is that, although Oscar (and I) have gone through dozens of hours of assessments, they are not quick to label him at all.  Sure, there have been certain diagnoses of the obvious (like SPD and a very apparent anxiety disorder), but they’re also very open about the complexities of his condition.  What I respect about them is that the therapists will comment throughout their sessions with Oscar, pointing things out to me (e.g., “see, that’s what caused others to say Oscar has apraxia”) and then a few moments later they’ll point something else out that explains away that previous categorization (e.g., “if Oscar was apraxic, he would not be able to do [x] and [y] at all, or not very clearly, and we’ve seen him do [x] and [y] repeatedly and very well”).  He doesn’t fit nicely in a box.  They’ll tell me straight out that they don’t have a label for him, but they’ve seen traits like his before.  That, to me, is the most honest approach possible in this situation.

At one point I thought it would be easier if they would just pin a diagnosis on him and that would be that.  I didn’t even care what that diagnosis was.  Autism?  Fine.  They could even tell me that his brain is composed entirely of feta cheese, and my response would be “okay . . . what’s the best course of treatment for feta head?”

To me, this is no longer about the label, it’s only about getting Oscar the most appropriate treatment for whatever is going on in his brain.  And, since the most likely cause of his issues appears to be a processing disorder, I just didn’t want us to go down a course of treatment for autism that would certainly overlap in parts with a treatment for a processing disorder, but would not be as effective as treating the processing issue specifically.

Anyway, here are some recent pics of feta head and Etta getting ready for a Christmas party . . .

Almost Three Years Ago

I co-founded an organization, the sole goal of which was to permit American parents to receive visas to allow their newly adopted Vietnamese children to come to the United States.  I cannot tell you how thankful I am that I am not one of the moms behind this website.

If you have a chance, please sign this petition to help these parents bring their children home.

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