Life Is Happening

This blog has been really quiet, lately. But life hasn't. I would dare to guess that it often happens this way. A blog grows quiet as the life of that particular blogger simultaneously gets louder and louder. Sometimes maybe even so loud that you want to cover your ears and crouch down in a corner somewhere. For just a few minutes, pretending that life is quiet once more.

I started this blog a few months ago with one purpose: to keep my family and friend up to date with the goings-on of our little family as we move from place to place, many miles from home. I hoped that through stories and pictures, my loved ones would have a chance to know my precious son, and feel like a part of his life despite all those miles that separate.

Lately, though, I have been struggling with what to share. It is fun to detail an outing to the zoo, or a day at the pool. But what do you do when a life update means sitting down and opening up about painful events and difficult decisions, because those are the things that are truly occupying all of my thoughts these days?

Many times, I have thought about sitting down and posting something fun like birthday party photos, or details of all the DIY projects affiliated with said birthday party. I mean, there has actually been a lot of joy around here lately, if I'm being truthful. Unfortunately, as it often happens, the heavy things in life cast shadows over those light-hearted, happy moments that probably make the best blog posts. And I just haven't been up for it.

Today, though, I got a fat envelope in the mail. The contents of that envelope probably should have cranked up my life's volume another few notches, but for whatever reason (maybe a chat with my mom or a prayer from a best friend?) things finally got quiet again. So, what do you know? I felt like updating this blog today.

The envelope that came today was lengthy report, detailing the results of a language/communication evaluation on Marty. If you Google "My two-year-old doesn't talk," you will most likely conclude that either your child is autistic, a genius, or perhaps both. Sure, there are plenty of moms posting stories about their child who started talking in full sentences at age three and experienced no delays from that point forward. But let's get real, we parents prefer to jump to extremes. So we chose genius.

I've known for a long while (for about a year) that Marty's language/communication wasn't developing as fast as his peers. And for the past year, it has been more and more obvious each passing month. Now, at two years old, a big stack of papers tells me that my son has a severe problem that, without treatment, could affect his ability to learn for the rest of his life. Oh, and also, according to the test, he is at the level of an 11-month-old when it comes to communication.

Let me say right now that I know my son can learn, and I know he is intelligent. But I've also never heard him call me mama or say his own name. He understands a lot. If you read him a book and ask him, "where is the______?" he will point to the object almost every time. He also follows simple instructions most of the time, and he can actually say many words if you ask or tell him to repeat after you. But as far as expressive, verbal communication (meaning that he thinks something in his mind, and then proceeds to express the want or need through communication that he initiates), he has zero. For some reason, his brain hasn't realized that words can be used as tools of expression.

Funny enough, none of this has really seemed to bother Marty up to this point. And until recently, it really hasn't bothered me that much, either. Although I do dream of the day my son calls out to me by name, I haven't been overly worried or wringing my hands about what to do. I figured he was a late bloomer and would figure it all out in his own time. The actual language problems haven't stressed me out, but I've been tied in knots for the past few weeks because it seems that everyone around me sees these "serious" problems, and I feel like everyone is looking at me and thinking, "why aren't you doing something??" His pre-school director has been pushing me since July to take him in for testing. I waited until he was two (felt that I should give him at least that long to figure things out on his own), and then booked the appointment with the speech pathologist when his pediatrician agreed with the director.

And now these results... In black and white, someone is judging my child (at least that is what it feels like to me). They are telling me that without therapy 3 times a week for a year or more, this language disconnect will not sort itself out. So I guess we are starting therapy soon, which is hard to swallow for me because it feels like finally admitting that there is a real, serious problem.

Well, there it is. In the end I felt like I should write about this journey from the beginning, which would be today. I have no idea what this will all look like in a few months or a year, and I feel totally clueless about even this very second. But if a few months down the road, another mama is going through this mess, maybe our journey will bring her some answers or even just some hope. Because even though I started this post thinking I wanted a little bit of quiet, I just realized that what I really want is some noise! From my baby's lips, in a timely manner thank you very much, and I feel hopeful today because this therapist tells me that her plan is the pathway to all that. So here we go...

TWO

Martypants, you are two years old! Oh, my sweet baby boy, you aren't really a baby anymore at all. You are so independent and so full of life; always on the move, feet off the ground more often than not these days. Jumping is definitely your jam. You crouch down as low as you can, then spring straight up into the air. You land on your feet most of the time, but even when you fall, you are brave, and usually get right back up to try again. Smiling from ear to ear, of course.

#secretagentdoodlehead... such a happy kid. Every single time I pick you up from preschool, or the church nursery, or the gym daycare, your teachers/caregivers comment on how incredibly happy you are, and how happy you make all of them. The other day, one of the girls in the gym Kid's Club gave me an example: you were running around the room like you always do, but all of the sudden you stopped, threw your head back, and just laughed yourself silly for no reason at all. Precious boy, I hope that joy stays strong inside you forever.

Mart-Mart, you love to play in the water. From the tiniest puddle to the biggest ocean, you adore getting wet. Your daddy tells me that you are entirely too clean for a little boy because I give you a bath every night. But I know how much fun you have splashing around with your fishies and duckies, dunking your head under water and practicing blowing bubbles. So even if you wanted three baths a day, I'd certainly oblige.

You also love graham crackers, macaroni and cheese, climbing on everything (and giving me heart attacks), The Bubble Guppies, choo-choo trains, stacking blocks, playing drums with whatever "sticks" you can find, shoes and hats, jumping on our bed, and chocolate milk.

I love you, bud-bud. And every single day, I look forward to the day that you can whisper those sweet words back to me. But even if that were never to happen... just being your mom, watching you grow, and seeing you become more spectacular each and every day... that would be enough. Being near you is more of a blessing than I could have ever dreamed up. My love tank is full because you are mine.

Happy birthday James Martin. I got the best one, and that one is you.

Mushy Thoughts On Fear and Motherhood

Sometimes I think my heart may just explode. Like seriously thump right out of my chest from the intense waves of emotion that pulse through my soul when I look at this boy. I mean-- look at him.

Before I became a mother, I just couldn't see it. Couldn't picture it in my mind, or imagine what it would feel like. Sure, friends with kids always told me that there was "no feeling like it," and it would feel "different when it is your own." But I still didn't expect this. I didn't expect to be sitting at my laptop, in tears, not knowing what to do with all of these feelings.

We had a perfectly lovely morning. The truly best kind-- just him and me, marching around in our swimming pool with not a care in the world. He was in the best mood, and when we came back to our apartment, he ate all his lunch, and then went down for a nap without so much as a whimper of protest.

So why am I crying? Because it is all just so good. And that terrifies me. I'm a rookie mom, for sure, and at this point, we haven't dealt with much more pain and heartbreak than a busted lip and the ending of the pacifier era (which my dreamboat of a son hardly noticed). But I know it is coming.

The other day, Bo and Marty were playing on our bed, like they do almost every night. Bo lifts him up high over head and drops him down on a huge mound of pillows, strategically arranged to satisfy the highest of safety standards (mine). That kiddo is a real thrill seeker, I tell ya.

In response to being dropped from heights that must seem extreme to an almost-2-year-old, my son gets up and "pushes" his daddy off the bed. Bo may insert a bit of dramatic flair to this part of the routine. Round and round they go, dropping and pushing, dropping and pushing. It never seems to get old for either of them.

But that particular day, the timing was off by just a hair. Marty lunged to "push" his daddy off the edge of the bed before his daddy was in position to be pushed. The result was my baby boy pretty much catapulting himself over the side of the bed, and disappearing with a thud. I saw it happen. Before it happened, even. I knew, but couldn't stop it. As I watched him fly headfirst over the bed, not able to see the landing, I thought to myself, "he's paralyzed...his neck is broken..."

I ran over to him and looked down at his sweet, blue/red/green face, eyes and mouth open wide, but unable to make a sound. I scooped him up and blew in his face (because someone had once told me that this act makes them breathe. Wives tale? Whatever.), at which point he finally inhaled deeply and started screaming. He was fine. Scared, but fine.

I was able to hold it together long enough to make sure he was okay, but then I lost it. Tears flooded my eyes, and I felt sick. My mind refused to be still... it raced forward in time, without my permission, and imagined a day with a similar scenario, but a different outcome. Someday, it will be worse. Someday, he is going to feel real pain, and there will be nothing I can do to stop it.

These thoughts are not healthy, I know. Being afraid doesn't prevent the things you fear from happening. All it really does is prevent you from truly opening yourself up, as wide as you can go, and soaking up every last drop of these care-free moments life blesses us with. Oh how I pray that God will calm my mind, and allow me to trust in Him fully, not borrowing trouble, or letting fear steal one single second of joy from me and my boy...

But today, I find myself on the brink once again. Loving this little man-cub so hard that my mind spins to the things I can't control, but frighten me, nonetheless. Will my son get sick? Hurt? Heartbroken? Will he hate me one day? Will he have a proper length childhood, sustained by this gorgeous innocence I see in him today, even in a world where Miley Cyrus and her tongue are front page news? Will he ever really know his value, and how much he is loved?

I don't know the answers, but I do know Someone who does. And I know that God will be consistent and strong and gentle and wise, even when I am a blubbering mess worried about things "above my pay grade." Lord, take him, he's yours. You know what you are doing, and that is the only thing that gives me peace.

"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous hand." Isaiah 41:10

One Rainy Day {according to my iPhone}

It was a Puddle-jumping, Car-climbing, Rainy-driving, Loud-singing, School-going, ASTYM-ing, Teeth-cleaning, Package-mailing, Modge-podging, Graham-crackering, Long-napping, Feet-resting, Bath-playing, Pj-wearing, Train-pulling, Tongue-sticking, Mess-cleaning, Blog-reading kind of a day.

I Skipped Church Today + Blessings From the Blogosphere

Life has been busy lately. I much prefer my days slow and simple, with no particular place to be before 10am. But somehow in the last few weeks, my calendar has taken on a life of its own and every square seems to be full.

I enrolled Marty in the cutest little preschool about a month ago. He only goes two mornings a week, from 8:30-1:00, and when he started I thought how much free time I was going to have, and how much more productive I would become during all of that free time. Wrong-o.

Just as Marty was starting "school," my orthopedic doc discovered a problem with my feet and prescribed physical therapy twice a week. I had been in pain for several months, and I'm not a fan of pain, so I have been a good little patient and obeying doc's orders. Now, on school days, I drive Marty to school, drive to PT, drive to the grocery or post office or whatever errand is most urgent to do kidless, and then drive back to collect Marty. By the time we return home, we are both needing a nap.

On the in-between days, I am usually teaching fitness classes, or having play dates or doing whatever end of summer activities are written down in all those little squares I mentioned.

Truth be told, I am wearing myself out. My house is a wreck because of so much time away from it lately. And when I am home, my feet and legs are screaming (I still have a long way to go with my recovery), and all I want to do is sit down and not move. It feels like I am going and going, yet accomplishing practically nothing. Seriously, this basket of clean clothes hasn't moved from this spot in about 2 weeks:

Last night, after yet another long, filled-to-the-brim week, I told Bo that I needed some rest. I decided to skip church this morning and just stay home with Marty, both of us in our pajamas until whenever, nowhere to be and no one rushing anyone else out the door in a frenzy. A slow morning was what I needed. And that is what we had.

We stacked up some blocks and threw a beach ball at each other's heads for a bit. We played the late-talker's version of a vocabulary game: I say "where's a............ [whatever]??" and then he points to a [whatever] in his first words board book. Then we blew some bubbles in the kitchen until the floor was a sticky, slippery mess. And finally, we got dressed and drove to Target to buy diapers, because you can only put that one off for so long, right?

A morning well spent, I think. I even got to catch up on some blog reading, and was quite touched by several things I read. I may not have made it to church, but I felt almost like church made it to me, right here through my laptop. Blessed by the blogosphere... Take a peek and maybe these words will bless you, too...

Small FryDay  ||  Marty is still not talking. I'm not in a tizz about it or anything, but as we approach his birthday next month and his progress just seems to creep at a snails pace, I do start to get down on myself, wondering if I should be doing more. Perfect timing for me to read this post.

Facing Fear  ||  Casey's blog is beautiful and her life appears magical through her photos. But no matter how things appear on the surface, you just never know when someone might be struggling with something. I relate to this big time.

Love Taza  ||  I guess all moms just need to slow down every now and then.

Boys and Blood

Poor little busted lip boy. He fell at pre-school today. His teacher is new at the school this year, and I think Marty was the first to bleed on her watch. Poor Ms. April, she just kept apologizing and telling me how it happened and explaining how carefully she tended the wound. My heart went out to her. The sweet lady felt so bad. She must not realize that around here, a day isn't complete until a body part is scraped, bruised, or perhaps a little bloody. My short tenure as a "boy mom" has convinced me that boys are just meant to get banged up. Rough and tumble and fearless and wild... how quickly they find ways to get hurt. But once the kisses are dispensed and the tears dry up, they are just as quickly on to their next adventure (natural consequences forgotten), in pursuit of more ways to test limits. And keep mama on the verge of a heart attack.

"The accidental therablog" -or- "Perhaps the deepest thoughts you're ever gonna get out of me"

Just couldn't choose a title for this one... 

It took Bo and I eight years of marriage to talk ourselves into getting pregnant. We had relocated 11 times in those eight years, and we were not entirely sure that a child would respond well to our transient lifestyle. Many conversations were had, many scenarios were discussed, many pros-and-cons lists were made. Did I mention that we were smack in the middle of our three-and-a-half year stint in CHINA during all this?? Oh, the timing...

We ultimately decided to give it a go, figuring that no time would ever be the "perfect" time, and heck, I wasn't getting any younger. I got preggers so quick we couldn't have changed our minds if we had wanted to. And man-oh-man am I glad. Marty was born in Beijing, China on 9.10.11 and I wouldn't change a single detail about how things went down. (I want to write a post about his birth sometime soon).

My Chinese pregnancy test. Couldn't read a word of the instructions. Thank goodness pee sticks are fairly universal.

When I look back on my thought process before I had Marty, I realize how completely wrong I was about so many things. The main one being that having a baby would add more chaos and stress to a lifestyle that has both of those things in spades. But God gave us exactly the kid we needed, as He is known to do. Marty has, in fact, brought so much calm into our crazy life that I can't imagine how we survived without him to mellow us out.

Having him around caused me to slow down and simplify my routine, which resulted in me having less on my plate and fewer things to worry about. Becoming a mom has also made me less self-centered, translating into less time worrying about whether this or that is impressive to those around me,  be it the clothes I'm wearing, my relationship with my husband (how it appears to others anyway), or how many events I get invited to. Since Marty's birth, all I want every day is to impress this tiny little man, which makes me think about what qualities a child actually finds impressive. Does a 2-year-old care if I'm 6 months past the point of needing a haircut or pedicure? No. He looks to me for kindness, consistency, patience, and love.

>>Side note: I'm embarrassed to say that those qualities weren't necessarily tops on my priority list pre-Marty. My mind was once filled with so much anxiety, fed by a desire to be accepted and admired by my peers. Maybe it is just part of being young. I don't know. Does everyone wrestle with this at some point? I want to think that it is a typical part of personal growth (to make myself feel better?), but then again, I want to hope that not many others waste valuable years looking inward when there is so much to see out there.  When I think about how much time I spent worrying about what others thought of me, or if enough people liked me... well, it's just shameful, really. I'm not sure how nearly all of that evaporated with the arrival of my child, but it did somehow. And for whatever reason God saw fit to change my perspective, I'll accept that gift with gratitude.<<

Anyway, back on track... Isn't that brilliant?! Becoming a mother was like a chance to start over as a totally different person. A better, more authentic one this time. Someone who strives to display the characteristics I want to see develop in my child. Qualities that I'd want him to seek in a wife someday. In about 40 years.

It comes fairly easy in these early days, when your hero status is correlated to the number of blocks you can stack (and I can stack high!).  Nice that I get to eeeeeeaaaaasssssseee into this whole transformation thing. Whew! But everyday, I am aware of (and thankful for) those two little eyes that stay locked on me. Those little eyes that are making me want to do better, be better, every single day. I must admit, however, that if I let my mind settle for too long on the fact that I am raising a man... well I start to hyperventilate a little bit. Lord help me.

Mart-man has totally perfected the fist-bump and peek-a-boo. We are still working on closed mouth kisses, though...

Does anyone else feel that blogging is like really cheap therapy? Yeah me, too.

Moving on... Overnight, my baby has morphed into this toddler and is on his way to turning into a full fledged boy. I can hardly even type that without my heart tightening just a smidge. He is just so BIG. Independent like nobody's business. And his buddha belly is shrinking by the minute (which is downright sad).

So naturally, as more and more of the baby disappears, more and more people start asking about the next baby... sheesh. I guess we don't have another 9 years to mull this over (as a matter of fact, I always said I didn't want to get pregnant after I turned 35. That happens in like...5 months. Yikes.), so the conversations are starting once again. Pros and cons of just keeping it like it is. It seems pretty perfect at the moment, but that is what I thought when we had no kids. Decisions, decisions. Tick-tock, tick-tock.

Chalk Train

A few days ago, Marty woke up from his nap especially itchy to go outside. Granted, he wants to go outside pretty much always... but this particular day, he was literally at the front door pounding those chubby little fists with all the spunk he could muster. He is still a man of few (actual) words, but I got the message.

Most days, I'd be totally on board for an afternoon outing. But that morning, at the pool with friends, the sun had zapped just about every drop of energy out of my body. It is also currently hovering around a million degrees here in Houston. Sooooooo hot and humid and sticky, and frankly I just didn't want to leave the a/c. As a compromise, I opened the back door that leads out to our teeny tiny 3rd floor balcony/patio, gave Martypants some chalk, and let him loose. He got to enjoy some fresh air (and make a mess), and I got to sit in the doorway, half-in-half-out, running up our utility bill. (But staying cool, by golly.)

Marty is an interesting little man. He isn't really talking yet, but he is an observer of the world. I swear, sometimes I can actually see his mind working, his wheels turning. After only 3 weeks at his new preschool, his teacher is already predicting that he will be an engineer someday. He loves to stack, and build, and organize, wanting everything to be orderly, in its proper place. And try as I might to show him what you are supposed to do with sidewalk chalk, he had his own agenda. Silly mommy.

It was really very cute (but I suppose all moms think that). First, he tried to balance each chalk piece on its round little end in an effort to line them all up. But those pesky chalks just kept falling down. He'd get one or two to stand up, and then they would all come crashing down.

My boy is no quitter, though. When at first you don't succeed...? Build a chalk train instead!

Graham Crackers

When you are almost 2, they fix just about everything...