The Rocking Pony: March 2009

Voilence in the Schools

I got a note from school that Micah kicked his Occupational Therapist. This was a few weeks ago. His personal aide was distraught to have to tell me that, but laws make reporting mandatory. Her and I both know that it's very uncharacteristic for Micah. Because it was Micah, we didn't do anything about it. I think he knows that he shouldn't kick, and talking with him after the fact may or may not register with him.

Last week I got a note that said he pulled the OT's hair.

I am a little concerned now. You have to realize that Micah is not a violent kind of kid. He does not randomly choose people to beat up, nor does he get his kicks out of torturing teachers. I'm getting the picture that he's being pushed into this kind of behavior and it's a defense tactic for him.

Let me also clarify that Micah hates OT. It wouldn't take much to push him to frustration. He frequently throws pencils across the room when we ask him to do homework in the evening. But it's a far stretch from throwing a pencil to physical harm. And there are also ways to therapize so as to avoid as much frustration as possible while still getting the job done.

I figured that two incidents are now a pattern and something needs to be said. The problem is that I don't know who to say that something to. Do I say something to his teacher, or go directly to the principal? And which principal would I talk to? We are in a district that is so small that it does not have a Life Skills class for Micah. They bus him to a larger district for school. So we have 2 principals on his IEP team.

After a bit of debating I decided to start with the principal in my district. He's not as directly involved as all that and could point me in the right direction. Plus I wanted a reason to stop in and ~~chew him out for leaving~~ tell him that we'll miss him. He accepted another position and will be leaving next month. Just when you get someone good in your corner, they up and leave. I just dread having someone who doesn't know the ins and outs of special needs or worse, won't be willing to learn them. I know by law they have to, but what if the new principal is like the OT and does what he has to just to get by?

The principal wasn't in, but the principal-in-training was. He seemed like a nice enough guy at first meeting. And it was a bit impressive that he knew who I was right away. In fact, he was just reading over Micah's IEP the other day.

Bonus. The guy is doing his homework.

I discussed the problem with him and asked what I needed to do to change OT's. He assured me that he'd look into things for me and see what he could do. Then? He said that he was a Special Ed teacher in high school before being hired here.

Total score. The guy will be a keeper.

He called back the next day (another brownie point for the new guy) and gave me the number of the company that the OT is hired through. I was to call them and request a new therapist. He would also call and let them know what was going on. And miracle of all miracles, there was no red tape or paperwork involved. Micah will have a new OT next week.

Wow. If only all the world's problems would be that easily solved.

(Ignore the road rash. Apparently he has his mother's coordination.)

That's So Gay

We've all seen the commercial, right? The one where the girl says, "that's so Emma and Julia." It's stupid as anything, but it packs a message.

Sometimes we say things and we just don't even think about the message that we're giving. Even presidents fall prey to that. Who do we hurt because we jumped on a catch-phrase bandwagon? Sure, the terms we use have different meanings. Sure, we mean no disrespect to an entire class of people when we use these words. Sure, we're better than that. But think how you'd feel if you were the the gay one in the crowd. Or the one that was retarded. Or the one who was an athlete in Special Olympics.

Today starts a campaign to ban the word "retard" as a derogatory term. All I'm asking is that you think about what you say before you say it. Just like your mother taught you to do.

Perhaps it's said best by this student.

Boys Are Strange

Luke is a collector. His A#1, all time, ongoing collection is of rocks. We're not even talking fancy rocks, we're just talking rocks. Rocks from the beach, rocks from the park, rocks from the driveway, they're all the same to him. In fact, when we were on vacation in Arizona last year his prized souvenir was - you guessed it - a rock. He didn't even go for a shiny piece of turquoise. It was just a plain old rock.

But he has other collections, too. He has the Steelers collection proudly displayed in his room.

And the "fad" collection was the teeth.

But those teeth have now been replaced. Well, sort of. He still has the teeth, he just doesn't cherish them enough to proudly display them any longer. Now? The collecting rage is used eraser crumbles. You know - the stuff left on the paper when you're done rubbing out your mistakes? Yeh. That. He ever so carefully scraps them off the paper and into a Ziploc baggie.

I have no earthly idea what one could possibly use those for. Or want those for. But I'd rather not psychoanalyze the brain of an 8 year old boy. Some things are better off a mystery.

Saturday Shots

A Puddle of Springtime

Sleeping Cutie

Riley Boy

He shoots, he scores.

Umbrella Talk

And now let's explore some toy OCD, shall we?

A Car for Every Driver

Buzz has been drafted as chaperone for the Woodys and Jessies.

Which one of these things does not belong?

And on a side note, it's truly amazing that the thing that does not belong is actuall there. There was a day when Mr. OCD could not have mismatched things together. At all. The universe would have exploded.

Drink Up!

Becky is a germaphobe. A hard core one. I have no idea where she got this from. (It certainly wasn't from me. I used to ski in the cow manure when I was her age. No, I'm not kidding.) The fact that Becky asked for GermX in her Christmas stocking proves that she's not really my child. And that's the tip of the iceberg. It started with the typical things like not eating after someone else, then moved on to not drinking out of the same straw. (We had her convinced at one point that if she took it out and turned it end for end before reinserting it was all good. She has since figured that out.) Now she wont' even eat anything that someone else touched. Like bread. If her brother hands her a piece of bread she'll get another slice. It's extreme, people. She is Queen of the Teenage Germaphobe Society.

So we were at Starbucks (I need sustenance, okay?) and I bought Becky a double chocolate chip frappuccino. She declared it was the best thing since sugar was discovered so I asked for a sip. She's right, it is good.

But now she had a problem. There were gross mom-germs on the straw. She could not drink off it without fear of getting old and ugly before her time. I told her to take the straw out, turn it end for end, and put it back in. That's how I learned that she's onto me - she declared that it spread even more germs, even more quickly, because the whole drink was contaminated. She's right, you know.

She finally got desperate and got a napkin out of the glove box to wipe the straw with. I found this in and of itself rather fascinating, but knew better than to say anything. Josh didn't. Or couldn't help himself.

"You wiped it with a rat pee napkin?"

The look on her face was absolutely priceless. She took the straw out, and held her drink until we got home. Obviously, she'd forgotten about the mice who made nests out of the napkins in the glove box.

Kids are so fun to mess with. And don't worry. I already know that Mom of the Year will never be mine.

Dear Prentke-Romich, I Love You

Micah's Voice arrived today.

The emotions that came with that box were overwhelming. I wanted to both rip it open and set it on a pedestal for all the world to see. I wanted to laugh, and cry, and dance. After six months of fighting the insurance company, I have proof that we prevailed. And as satisfying as that is in and of itself, that feeling is nothing compared to the fact that Micah will have a Go Green Voice of his very own for the rest of his life.

His very own.

I wanted to laugh. And cry. And dance.

I opened the box and reverently lifted out the Voice of my son. I held it in my hands, just imagining the possibilities it held. I thought of how far he'd come already, and how much more we'd all learn with this new Voice. Micah can communicate with us. And I have Prentke-Romich to thank. Technology is amazing.

I wanted to laugh. And cry. And dance.

I emptied the box in search of the power cord so that I could turn it on and start programming it. I wanted Micah to be able to use it as soon as he got home from school. I unpacked a carrying case. And a strap for said case. And a book about PCS symbols.

Suddenly the feelings of laughter and dancing froze. The tears were making their way to the forefront with a vengeance. As was confusion. We requested these things, but the insurance denied them. They weren't medically necessary. It's not a biggie and we didn't really need them. Except the PCS symbols, and we were ready to spring for those ourselves.

(PCS symbols are pictures of sign language and simple art for kids like Micah to better communicate with. It helps him both learn signs and reinforce signing. And it makes the Voice easier to use for him. Truly it's a bonus worth spending money on.)

I called Prentke-Romich. Those things didn't belong to us because I know for a fact that the insurance denied them. I got the paperwork in the mail. But Prentke-Romich assured me that they were mine to keep. They were "low dollar" items and it was the least they could do for me. These things total several hundred dollars.

I laughed. I cried. I danced. And I praised my God.

Thank you, Prentke-Romich. We are overwhelmed with your generosity.

Lord, You are so good to us. We are so undeserving. And yet You just keep blessing us with your goodness. Thank You, God. I am humbled. Again.

Is It Flashing? Or Just My Age?

I've always been more comfortable in the cooler temperatures. Not exactly cold, mind you, but cooler. The perfect temperatures are somewhere in the 60's. If I can wear a sweatshirt with capris I'm happy as a clam.

(As an aside, I've always wondered why clams are such happy creatures. You, too, can now ponder that little mystery of life.)

If it gets below 60 I simply put on a few more layers. If it's above 60 I tend to whine louder as I am forced to expose more skin. My mantra has always been, "you can put on more layers, but there's only so much that you can take off." Being hot has never been one of my favorite things. Why on earth I chose to go to college in the Deep South is beyond me. Needless to say, I moved back North as soon as I could.

And then Sam and I met, got married, and were moved to Alaska. Nothing says cold like -40. But really, anything below 0 is just cold. In fact, winters right here in Western PA are far worse than a lot of winters in Alaska. I know you're thinking that I froze a few brain cells (or more), but hear me out on this. In Fairbanks where we had the privilege of freezing, there is no wind. That's right, no wind. Here in Western PA, there's wind. The rip through your coat, feels like you have nothing on under it, freeze your very bones kind of wind. The wind is far, far worse than any kind of cold. I hate cold winter winds.

Until this year.

While I'm still not a fan of cold winter winds, they don't seem to bother me like they did. For some reason, my internal heater kicked in this year. I can count on one hand how many days I've worn a coat this winter, and it wasn't for lack of cold weather. I just don't seem to get cold.

I rather like having the heater turned on. But I worry. Is this premenopausal? For crying out loud, I'm not even 40. And what will happen once warmer weather rolls into the region? Will I melt into the sidewalk like the seasonal snowmen? Will I start streaking through the 'hood? (I apologize in advance for that mental image.) Will I be forced to invest in central air, or hire someone to fan me everywhere that I go?

I wish that life wouldn't be so complicated.

Hello, Monday

Becky went to Virginia with her grandparents over the weekend. She had a great time visiting her cousins even though she came back with a tell-tale cough and fever. I knew from experience that bronchitis was being harbored in her lungs. We spent the morning at the doctor where we found out that in addition to mom's diagnosis she also has a respiratory flu. She's on three different drugs (each hefty duty) to try to get her back on her feet. To say that she's miserable is the understatement of the month.

She had a sleepwalking bout last night because of the fever. Those are always fun. I was up babysitting her for a few hours trying to keep her from falling down steps and such like. Poor girl, she is always in hysterics when she's sleepwalking. It's incredibly funny the morning after. Not so much between the hours of 1 and 3 in the AM. Thank goodness for the medicinal knock-out effects of NyQuil.

Because she'll be home for a few days, and laying around trying to recover, we rented some movies. I introduced her to the classic, Gone With the Wind. I'm not sure that she was completely thrilled with it, but we all know that movies aren't as good as books. I haven't seen the movie in years, but read the book every year without fail. It's my very fave.

We also rented Twilight. While I loved the book series despite my every effort not to, the movie was um, well, yeh. Disappointing. Edited. Fast paced. Lacking emotion. All of the above. Sorry.

I spent the latter half of Twilight holding a dog's paw because she was incredibly stressed and in much terror over her impending labor. I employed my stellar canine midwifery skills and revived a for-all-practical-purposes dead puppy. (Go, me!) But after several more hours of pure nothingness we headed to the vet for oxytocin. *sigh* I love that stuff. Mostly when it's used on others and not myself.

I got news today that Micah's Vantage Lite has been shipped and we should expect to receive it Wednesday. Our very own. After 6 months of tears and fighting. We are beside ourselves. The joy, the relief, the sense of accomplishment. It's all there. I will be posting all about it in the future, trust me.

I did not even pick up The Rebel once today. Life was coming at me a little too fast to record things for posterity's sake. That's not so good. I'll try to remedy that tomorrow.

Everyone Has the Right to Slide

I read a wonderful book called Angel Behind The Rocking Chair. The author, Pam Vredevelt, has a son with Downs and shares stories of his life. On March 5, 2009 Nathan Vredevelt passed away. He was 16 years old. Nathan was at a basketball game with a caregiver and his sister in a luxury box, so when he asked to use the restroom it was no big deal. But the door was locked, so Nathan wandered out of the box, out of the building, and onto the highway where he was struck by a car. He was in critical condition for several days before passing quietly in his sleep.

Can you even imagine what the family was going through at this time? The fear? The questions? The heartbreak? And in this time of tragedy there were people who had the nerve to kick them in the gut. Some out of ignorance, and some, it seemed, on purpose.

The original article about the accident said, "Some people have asked why would he even be at a Blazers game."

Are you freaking serious?! Nathan had Down syndrome. That did not make him incapable of enjoying sports. Of having a normal life. Of finding pleasure in fun. That is just as absurd as asking why a 16 year old boy would be at the game. Because that's exactly what Nathan was. I cannot believe that people voiced such stupidity and spewed discriminatory remarks when a life hung by a thread and a family was shattered.

The comments left on that news article ripped my heart out. In re-reading the article, I see that the worst comments were deleted, thank goodness. But I saw them. I now know that people think these things, and it hurts. How many of those ignorant people are out there, thinking unkind things about my dear boy and others like him? How many people see my boy on a day-to-day basis and wonder why he has the right to shop in Wal-Mart just like they do? How many are upset that he eats in restaurants with "normal" people? How many think that my son doesn't deserve to be treated like a person just because he has a disability?

There are still people that judge others based on appearance and IQ. While these people are the uneducated ones and I shouldn't care what they think or say, I do. Their next target may be my son. How can I tell him or my other children to ignore it? How can I ask them to let it go? Words hurt, and judgment goes deep. Being a mother, I take offense when someone slights my children. If a kid pushes mine out of the way to go down the slide first at the playground, it's a mother's instinct to want to shove that kid right back. I don't, of course, but you know the feeling.

My son has a lifetime of bullies out there just waiting to tell him that he doesn't deserve to slide. And so help me, I'll be only too glad to push them to the back of the line.

My boy has Down syndrome, and I'm incredibly proud of him. He has the right to slide on this playground of life, and I'm right behind him every step of the way to be sure that he is granted that right.

The Weekend in Pictures

Celebrating Our World

Saturday, March 21 is World Down Syndrome Day.

I thought long and hard about what to post here in honor of such an occasion. But it all came down to this.

This is my baby. He's a boy. He's a son. He's a brother. And he is a much loved member of our family.

He has blue eyes. He has blonde hair. He has a smile that can light up a room. And he has an extra chromosome.

See how that doesn't really matter? He has so much more in common with the rest of us than he has differences. We choose to focus on what's important.

And we're learning things from our son that we will never master. Micah loves unconditionally. He sees everyone at face value and never judges. He will never lose the joy and wonder of childhood.

I wish that I could be more like my son. The one with the disability. That one.

Called Out

There was a day when I cooked and cleaned. That was the day that we moved into our first apartment as newlyweds. Things went downhill from there.

I used to love to cook. (Cleaning and I have never had a love affair.) I made everything from scratch. My kids didn't know that you could buy cookies until I introduced them to the goodness of Oreos. I invented new dishes (admittedly, that was never my forte), I enjoyed making healthy meals for the family, I even grew a garden and canned it's bounty so that we could eat home-grown goodness through the lean winter months. There was little that I didn't do. One of my most fun things to do was bake bread. I was truly a freak.

And then I had kids. Many of them. And the older they got, the more verbal they became. Things they loved last week were suddenly poison-infused this week and there was no way they were going to eat that. Mostly because Friend So-And-So's mom made box mac-n-cheese and it was far superior to my cheesy homemade offerings. I got so frustrated that I quit cooking from scratch.

The last few years have been rather lean in our home. We frequently have "find it yourself" nights here. It's sad, really. But my evil plan is working because Becky is now becoming quite a little chef, and is enjoying it.

Today I got a call from the propane company. They were following up on clients with unused tanks to see if they could reclaim them.

Ummmm, we use our tanks.

You normally go through a tank a year, and it's been 2 years since your last fill-up. I thought maybe you weren't using them any longer.

Huh. Apparently I don't' cook as often as I should.

Nothing like a random stranger calling you out.

The Swimming Pond

We have flirted with the notion of putting a pond in for years. A large pond, a small pond, a pond with a waterfall, a pond for goldfish. We have discussed it all. And it all comes down to one single factor: Micah. A large pond was a drowning hazard, and everything else was just a headache waiting to happen. The boy throws things in water. It's what water is there for.

Last year I tried putting in a teeny tiny (Rubbermaid crate sized) pond and as I was lining the edge with rocks to hide the blue crate, he was right behind me pushing those rocks in. This happened twice before I joined him. It was apparent that I wasn't going to beat him. This is the water feature that we ended up with. While it's nothing I'd envisioned before, I did enjoy it.

We had no other plans to expand due to that one factor that still lives here and throws things in water. Those plans had no intentions of changing right up until I saw a pre-formed pond on clearance at a "if you don't buy me, you're an idiot" price. So I did. I'm no idiot. (We'll forget about the fact that apparently I'm willing to take on the Rock Thrower and attempt to win.)

Tonight we placed that thing lovingly near the patio. The boys found it all kinds of fun.

After we got it placed just so, the thought then occurred to me that Micah would use it for a swimming pool. That could be a problem. The poor fish wouldn't stand a chance. Nor would the water plants. And we've already discussed the surrounding rocks.

My brilliant husband asked me why on earth I was fighting it. Just make it a pool for Micah and be done with it.

So we are. We are making the waterfall just as we'd planned, and that will add to the fun for The Boy. This summer, we are installing a personal pool just for Micah. Maybe someday he'll let us use it for goldfish. When he's 20.

The All American Boy

A friend of ours is moving into a much, much smaller home and is selling off stuff. Lots of stuff. We helped her out by taking some of the stuff off her hands. While we were there making decisions on exactly what we needed and what we could live without, Luke spied a wagon. Not just any wagon, mind you. It was an industrial, king-sized wagon extraordinaire. Truly, a little boy's dream. (Actually, it is a concrete mixing bin on a wagon wheel base, but Luke doesn't care.)

Luke asked our friend how much she wanted for that. Knowing that it wasn't worth a whole lot on the Craigslist market, she said, "how about $5?" Luke was crestfallen. That was just a dollar more than he had with him. Our dear friend thought for a moment and said, "if it's okay with your parents, you can have it for free."

Luke was in little boy wagon owning heaven.

On the ride home he made plans for his wagon. Big plans. Boy plans. Entrepreneurial plans. He would use his free wagon to make money with. That wagon could be commissioned to clean the pony stable, or the dog kennel, or pick up sticks in the yard, or haul rocks. He could make all kinds of money with that free wagon. It would be awesome.

(At risk of interrupting the flow of your train of thought, I love this picture. Can you hear the Hallelujah Chorus as the sun shines down from heaven on The Wagon?)

While the thrill of the free wagon and it's potential to make money was still fresh in his mind, I put him to work. I was a slacker and did not clean out the garden at the end of the season last year. We did that together, Luke and I and his wagon.

And then we hauled the dried vegetation to the furnace. That was fun, too. The kids have inherited my love of burning things.

It was truly a win-win. You can never go wrong when your kid is happy to help with chores because of a free new toy.

Rats

I opened the glove box of the van a while back and saw a stash of half-eaten foods that the kids left there. While I was wondering why on earth the kids would have stuffed it there instead of just taking it to the house and tossing it, and thinking many uncharitable thoughts toward my own offspring, a gray nose with long whiskers and black beady eyes popped out of the hole where the light is.

I screamed like a girl. (Never mind that I am one.)

I am not afraid of mice, mind you. Not tame ones, not wild ones, not dead ones. Mice aren't fun to have where they shouldn't be, but they do not bother me in the least. But when a mouse practically jumps into your lap when you're least expecting it, it takes on a heart-stopping quality.

Aren't we the lucky ones that get a mouse in the van? How on earth do you go about killing that thing? A traditional trap would go off by bouncing down the highway (we live in the mountains, remember?). Poison would make that thing die way up in an unreachable crevice somewhere, forcing us to smell decaying carcass. A cat locked in the van isn't really an option for so many reasons.

So I bought a new kind of mouse trap. One where you pull the sticker off the hole in the bottom, pack it with peanut butter, put the sticker back over, and spin the whole thing to align the holes. The mouse walks into the hole to get the bait and the trap spins around again, thereby trapping the mouse inside. You never have to see it, and it's safely disposed of.

I had my doubts.

The very first night the mouse flipped over that trap, ate through the sticker and helped himself to a gob of peanut butter bigger than his head.

I packed in more bait, covered the hole with aluminum foil, and duck taped over it. (Why yes, we are rednecks. Why do you ask?) We haven't seen any evidence of the intruder since, and it's been weeks. This isn't to say that he's not laying low somewhere, just waiting for our defenses to lower. Or slowly chewing through wires up in the dash. Or wreaking havoc on the brake line.

Every time Becky calls shotgun I ask her to check the traps. I do this myself every time I'm in the van, but it's more fun to ask her. She's deathly afraid that something the size of a roll of tape will terrorize her into loss of bladder control. She stiffens up, her eyes get round, and she tentatively reaches toward the glove box door.

I stealthily reach over and tap her leg. She jumps and screams while we laugh hysterically.

She finds the ice scraper and holds it up like a weapon of mass destruction. She ever so quietly opens the door and pokes around in the box trying to get the trap out.

I remind her that the mouse is way more afraid of her than she is of it. Sneaking up on it quietly is the quickest way to catch a glimpse of it. She starts banging around and yelling loudly. I roll my eyes.

I yell, "BOO!" And then nearly run off the road for laughing so hard. She's so easy to make fun of.

I am a shameless mother for preying on my children's fears. Worst Parent of the Year will bypass me because they'll simply call Children and Youth. And we may or may not still have a mouse in the van.

(Photographed by Micah. The kid is a natural.)

Privileged to Work With the Special Ones

Micah turned 6, and that means that new worlds have opened up to him. Specifically, the world of Special Olympics. Not being one to waste time dawdling around (sometimes) I found the contact for our county and got the low-down. Saturday morning we were ready to go swimming.

Micah loves swimming. He's semi-fish, I'm pretty sure. I haven't checked for gills, but they may or may not be there. He was thrilled nigh unto death when Daddy presented him with his swimmy floaty suit. He wasted no time stripping down to don that thing. He also attempted to go outside to find the pool that we apparently constructed overnight while he slept.

We arrived at the pool (after a pit stop at the grocery store for swim diapers, which leaked and left a very obvious wet spot, by the way) only to realize that it was populated with swimmers over 20. Micah was not really fitting in. Turns out the lady in charge needed to leave early and apologized for having me there at the wrong time, but she wanted to talk to me. Those nearer Micah's age show up later, but unfortunately I had somewhere else to be at that time. Next week will be so much fun. Micah is already eyeballing the diving boards. A lot. It worries me.

Sunday is track and field practice. Micah is a runner. Not a fast runner, mind you, but he loves to run. He runs non-stop. Track is perfect. All the same Olympists were at the track that were at the pool the day before. Micah was the youngest by a good 25 years, easy. He was a bit daunted by that fact, but walked on the orange line like a trooper. He's all about following lines. It's his thing. He demonstrated this early on while driving his dump truck up the yellow lines of the road. Yeh, that was a fun, fun summer. NOT.

Micah got to practice the standing jump (he was second place in his group) and speed walking. He didn't grasp the need to speed walk, but walking backwards was all kinds of fun. He did enjoy running. He's a natural. Kinda. I think he'll do well in that when he's in competition.

But you know what's incredibly fun? Helping. Working with those special athletes is the most fun I've had in a while. I've never suffered from a competitive spirit and have always taken a "how fun is all this?" attitude toward sports, so it's just perfect for me. A lot of the athletes will never, ever grasp the idea of competing to win, and that's okay. One athlete didn't grasp the standing jump idea. She translated it into "jump, jump!" as on a trampoline rather than actually propelling yourself forward. We worked on "let's try jumping one time" and she said "one time!" as she hopped up and down repeatedly. It was so fun. She laughed and I laughed and we had a great time.

Once the athletes that take competition seriously took over the gym, the rest of us headed into the hallway to do some laps. This was fun. There were water fountains, tables to sit at, and vending machines. The distractions proved too much for our group and we quit early. It was a good thing because once Micah spotted the vending machines he was done. He's all about food, all the time.

I don't know about Micah, but I'm really looking forward to weekends. Working with the special athletes will be the highlight of my week. Although, next week I'm wearing a maxipad. My weak bladder does not support running and jumping without making the panties moist. I'm just saying.