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...

A Day At the Houston Zoo {Not Our Best Idea}

Bo got off work early last Friday, so we had this brilliant idea to wake Marty up from his nap early, and take him to the Houston Zoo! He is getting so stinkin' good at those animal sounds, after all. And wouldn't he love to go see some real animals up close? Rookie parent mistake, y'all. Until we put him back to bed for the night several hours later, he pretty much looked like this:

The crying started when I picked him up out of his bed. I snuggled him for a few minutes and tried to explain that we were going bye-bye to the zoo, but he didn't want any of what I was selling. Things only escalated as I proceeded to dress him, carry him out to the car, and strap him into the carseat. We should have aborted the plan at that point. We should have taken his kicking and screaming and tears as a sign of things to come, but instead, we fed him graham crackers and told ourselves that once he saw the animals, he would dry it up and be happy.

Shocker, it didn't happen that way. At all. He was hot and sweaty and tired. And there were millions of Texas-sized mosquitos feasting on us the whole time we were there. The poor kiddo didn't have much fun at all.

There were, however, a few moments where he was distracted juuuuuust enough to seem happy. Until he wasn't. Here are some images that I managed to snap in between meltdowns. It is amazing how photos of five percent of an outing can almost convince you that the other ninety-five percent wasn't that bad... 

When Marty saw/heard his daddy bust out some cool beats on these African drums, he forgot all of his woes (for a minute) and joined the fun. Mr. Graham Cracker Face was all smiles until we wanted to move along to the carousel before it closed. Cue meltdown. He sat down in the middle of the walkway and wailed. Bo ended up carrying him to the carousel because, I promise you, that stubborn little dude would have sat there all night just to prove his point (he gets that from me is how I know).

Catching a glimpse of all those brightly painted animals, with all the mirrors and lights and music, was all it took to settle him down once again. He fought his way out of Daddy's arms and ran up to the fence for a better look. I watched him taking it all in, and thought how magical that giant spinning machine must seem to a little boy. And so, while Bo was off buying Marty a ticket to ride, the stinker decided that he wasn't very fond of all this waiting around nonsense, and tried to sneak into the ride without a ticket. Little devil.

We finally got our turn, and Marty chose to ride on this silly monkey eating a banana. I think his choice was based solely on the banana. Maybe he thought the monkey would share?

The end of our ride was the beginning of the next tantrum. And that is how it went. We would find something to make him happy for a short while, and when it was time to move on, he let every patron and animal in that zoo know that he was miffed.

Needless to say, our trip to the zoo was cut very short due to all the 'tude flying around that day. Yet somehow, we still managed to meet a few animals before we admitted defeat. Marty's favorite by far was this very ordinary black bird that was walking around in front of the Rhino exhibit.

Toddlers.

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

Chips For Dinner

Have I mentioned that we live in a mall? It is one of those trendy "Shop, Dine, Live" concepts. And since I personally love to do all three of those things, it only took about 2 seconds for me to fall in love, sign a lease, and move right in.

On weekends, you can usually find the three of us strolling through the mall, visiting our little splash pad (Yes, I said "our." Marty seriously thinks this whole retail & entertainment wonderland belongs to him), and most definitely making our way down to Barnes and Noble to visit [what he thinks are] his trains.

Last weekend, after some wandering and a quick hello to the trains, my husband declared that he had a craving for sushi and nothing else would do. As luck would have it, there is a sushi place mere seconds from B&N, so off we went.

Marty had not eaten sushi before that night, but due to his adoration of all foods white, I was optimistic. With eyebrows raised, and my best "this is going to taste soooooo good" smile, I placed two California rolls on his little plate. Next, I began the standard first time food performance, telling him how num-num-nummy the "rice" was, taking an over-exaggerated bite of my roll, chewing and mmm-ing dramatically (eyebrows still up, by the way). The success rate of this routine hovers somewhere around 4%, but we mamas all keep trying, don't we?

After I swallowed my huge bite, Marty reached out toward the community sushi plate, and attempted to load his plate with a few more rolls before he had even taken one bite. Had my dramatics finally paid off? I'll admit it, I got my hopes up. Hopes that we would actually pull it off: introducing him to this foreign food, one that his mama and daddy happen to love, and having him gobble it up with a smile. For a split second, I dreamed of us leaving the restaurant with a full-bellied baby, all happy and ready for a long night's sleep. I imagined all of the other patrons looking on during the meal, impressed by our well-behaved toddler, eating his sushi like a big boy and letting his parents have an interesting conversation.

Silly Mommy.

This kiddo here had no intention of actually eating the rolls. He just thought they might be something fun to destroy. So after both of his pieces were ripped to shreds, and he realized that his little belly was still empty, the tantrum began. Bo and I started shoveling our dinners, shoulders slumped, heads hung in shame. Peeking out the corners of our eyes to see if people were staring and thinking, "...that poor starving toddler... and those parents who thought it was a good idea to bring a baby to a sushi joint..."

Ugh.

But wait! The waiter! He had the brilliant idea to bring Marty some chips to snack on. I didn't even know sushi places had chips. But they do! And so our night is saved by that saint of a waiter. And the emergency iPad mini stashed in my purse. God bless good waiters and iPad minis.

I probably should have limited the number of chips he ate that night, because they totally spoiled his dinner. He wouldn't eat a thing when we got home. But, whatever. My man and I got to finish our sushi in peace, aaaaaaaaand we even got to have some of that conversation I had hoped for. I can't remember if it was interesting, though. *Mom problems*

Late Summer Buzz

Some folks will call me crazy for paying twenty bucks to get my toddler's hair cut. But lots of others are standing right there in line with me, during this back to school frenzy. (Next year, I'll try not to let Mart-meister get so shaggy as to require a cut in August.) Snip-its is packed this week. Today I saw a girl of probably 6 or 7 getting quite the works: hair washed and cut and curled and glittered, plus a manicure and pedicure, etc., etc. I guess maybe I actually get off cheap, having a boy.

I love going to the kiddo salon because I honestly don't possess the skills, tools, or patience involved in cutting Marty's hair myself. Our local place has friendly stylists who have perfected the art of distraction. Belt the child in, snip-snip, buzz-buzz, here's another cookie, and we're done. Not a teardrop in sight, which is totally tip-worthy in my book.

In typical almost-two-year-old fashion, Marty wouldn't stand still long enough to get a good "after" photo of the front. We basically just buzzed the sides and back, leaving the top long so that we could sweep it over. The style was inspired by this little cutie.

Submissive Chalk

Marty finally found some chalk that knows how to fall in line. 

And if you ever find yourself short one caboose? Colored bubbles will do in a pinch.

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.

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!

Rainy Saturday

Rain, rain, go away, come again another day. Because this guy is bored and wants to go outside.

Mama tries to distract him with crayons and a biiiiiiiiiig sheet of paper.

That lasts for about 5 minutes, so I pull out the big guns. 

Stickers can always be relied upon for a good 10 minutes of fun.

Maybe even 15 if Daddy joins the game.

And Mama, of course.

After breakfast/crayon/sticker/ipad time, he still has cabin fever, so we decide to brave the rain and let this kiddo loose at Barnes and Noble (his very own personal theme park, as far as he knows).

At which time he runs straight to the beautiful "Thomas the Train" activity table, carefully selects a lucky bunch of trains, and promptly moves them (one-by-one) to the big, empty stage. 

Surely trains appreciate a change of scenery on a rainy day, too.