Thursday Thirteen #5

Thirteen Things about living in the South that a Northern Girl was not expecting, aka "The Mason-Dixon Learning Curve" 1. FIRE ANTS!! Saints preserve us, these things are diabolical! And they cannot be destroyed, so don't let anyone tell you that they have a fool-proof way to get rid of them, because it is a LIE. On my first day in Florida, with stars still in my eyes from my lovely wedding, I was brought back to reality by a burning and stinging sensation on my leg. I looked down and saw my entire foot and ankle covered in a seething reddish, brown mass. Ever see that episode of MacGyver where he is in South America and these heinous ants are taking over an entire town and killing people and MacGyver had to make his own rubber suit from indigenous trees (naturally) and set them on fire? No? I'm the only MacGyver freak out here? Well, anyway, that episode came rushing back as I stripped my sock and shoe off and just threw them away because there were so many, many ants. How I loathe them . . . 2. Anyone who's ever lived in PA, or tried to buy booze in PA, knows that we have state stores, meaning you cannot just pick up a bottle of wine (or a 40, whatever your pleasure) at your local grocery store and be on your merry way. Nope, you've got to haul it over to ye olde wine and spirits shoppe and lay your money down there. (It drives Rob insane.) Having grown up with this system, it took a little while for me to get used to walking past all the wine on my way to the milk. What took even more time to get used to was the "drive-thru" liquor store in Pensacola, where you didn't even have to leave the comfort of your car, and where, in the not too distant past, you could have even gotten a little sumpin'-sumpin' for the drive home. Because why save the libations for home, right? . . . 3. Boiled peanuts. Didn't even know you could boil peanuts, but you can, and if you have a kettle and a pickup truck with a bed to display your wares, you are in business, my friend. 4. Language in the South is so lyrical - poetic even- and they have a way of making things sound so much better than they really are. Like "palmetto bugs" -- doesn't sound so bad, right? It kind of reminds you of softly swaying palm trees, so that you don't mind the "bug" part that comes next. But guess what -- palmetto bugs are ROACHES, people! Ginormous roaches, with WINGS, that must be lassoed before you can vanquish them. 5. In a similar vein, Rob encountered new terminology for certain medical conditions. "The Blood" = High Blood Pressure, and "The Sugar" = Diabetes. I kind of like these names better, makes it sound less clinical. 6. You may have heard this before, but in the South, they. love. football. I'm not saying this is necessarily a Southern phenomenon, but I haven't experienced the same level of devotion up North (ok, there are a few people leaping to mind as I type this . . . ) While I might be a true fan of a particular team (We Are . . . Penn State!), it might not occur to me to trick out my minivan in team colors. We noticed the ferocity of football devotion more in Florida than in North Carolina, so to preserve myself from being accused of favoritism if I ever make it back to Florida for a visit, I'm covering all my bases: Go Gators! Go 'Noles! Roll Tide! (for all you U of A folks living in the panhandle) 7. Growing up, we always went "down the shore" in the summer -- which for us was Sea Isle City, NJ. I have beautiful, glowing memories of that town and that beach, and I spent many happy hours in the Atlantic surf. Then I moved to the Gulf Coast and I was spoiled forever. You stand on the white sugar sand and look out over the Gulf of Mexico and you are mesmerized by the striations of blue and green stretching out as far as you can see. From there, we moved to the North Carolina coast, and enjoyed those lovely beaches as well. There are advantages to being in the Navy, after all . . . 8. Of course, the flip side to living on any coast in the southern US is the threat of hurricanes. I've found that it's pretty difficult to explain a hurricane. It's not enough to say "it's the hardest rain you've ever seen" because it's so much more than rain. There is the beautiful, breezy calm day that comes 24 hours prior to the storm, making you think that nothing is churning out there in the Gulf; there is the rain, the driving, thrumming horizontal rain that lessens and intensifies as the successive bands of the storm come through; there is the wind, the crazy wind that takes a 15 foot pine tree and bends it so that the top is sweeping the ground, or shears the metal canopy of a gas station right off of its foundation; there is the noise, the rushing and howling of the wind and the eerie, screaming whine the power lines make under the strain; there is the silence that comes when the eye passes; and then there is the noise that begins all over again, only from the opposite direction, like a record in reverse. Add to this the constant threat of flooding and/or tornadoes and you've got one nerve-wracking situation, especially if you decided not to evacuate and you are laying in bed with your baby between you and your husband, just listening and waiting. (Numbers 9-11 are all about food. If you've ever read my blog, you had to know it would come to this . . .) 9. BARBEQUE!!! Rob and I have eaten A LOT of barbeque, and I'm telling you, no one does it better than the South. (Believe me, we have looked!) We've been lucky enough to have eaten at some fantastic barbeque places in Texas (The "Big Daddy" platter ring any bells, Rob?), Virginia, South Carolina, and North Carolina, and sometimes, when the craving is hitting us hard, we think about a summer vacation to tour the great rib joints of our past. If you are ever near Kinston, NC, you should check out Kings BBQ, Home of the Pig in a Puppy. What? Never heard of a "Pig in a Puppy?" Suffice it to say that it involves hush puppies, which may be one of the world's most perfect foods . . . 10. If I'm really feeling like some greezy, fast food, then I'm probably in the mood for Bojangles. They have a sausage biscuit that I wanted more than anything when I was pregnant with The Boy, and I just found out they have a franchise about an hour away. Sounds like a road trip to me. 11. If you want a chicken fried steak as big as your head, or a steaming hot roll thrown at you from across the dining room, then I've got the place for you. The staff at Lambert's Cafe tosses hot rolls from a cart as they walk through the dining room -- it's up to you to catch them. Or duck. But it's a ton of fun, especially for kids. A word of advice: go hungry, as in a 36 hour fast kind of hungry, because the portions are HUGE. 12. In Pensacola, people decorate their homes as much for Mardi Gras as they do for Christmas. (Yeah, I'm looking at you, Rick and Joanne.) And they have King Cakes and moon pies for Mardi Gras, so anything that includes multiple cake products ranks pretty high with me. 13. A state with no vehicle inspection laws makes for some pretty interesting cars on the road. One of my favorites was the car with the hood that was held on by a man's belt. You got to give it to the person who can rig that up well enough to actually stay on while cruising down the I-10. **You know, it just occurred to me that, to some, this might seem like a rant. But no, no! We have so many sweet memories of living below the Mason-Dixon line, a land of kind and loving people who we are blessed to call friends. I've just always thought it was funny how you can stay in one country, but be in a totally different world. Links to other Thursday Thirteens! 1. ChupieandJ'sMama 2. Christie 3. Smurf 4. Melissa 5. Annamary 6. huberama 7. gette 8. Carrie 9. jenny ryan 10. kelli

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The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
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I Guess We'll Keep Her

A conversation overheard this morning, after Rob came downstairs in his scrubs:

Older Girl: "Dad, why are you wearing scrubs? Do you have to go to the hospital?"

Rob: "Yep. I have to help deliver a baby."

The Boy (in alarm): "Dad, I don't want you to deliver another baby. I want to keep the one we have!"


He likes her . . . he really, really likes her . . .

BOO to the YAH, baby!!!! Can I tell you how immoderately excited I am about this stupid grade from a blog quiz site?!?!? Anyone who knows me at all, especially those who knew me at "dear old Central High," will know that I thought I would always be a math dunce. Now I know that taking an extra math class in my senior year was not a complete waste of brain space.

You Passed 8th Grade Math

Congratulations, you got 9/10 correct!

Could You Pass 8th Grade Math?

Post-Prandial Bliss

Kudos to the person who first thought of elastic-waisted pants because they have truly been my friend these past few days. Too much pie and not enough treadmill has been a lethal combo here in the Langan house -- we are just lolling around like walruses. (And when I say "we", I mean "me" since Rob is out right now at the Turkey Trot, a 5K in Bethlehem. Who does a 5K right after Thanksgiving?! Not I, said the Mama Walrus.) But all the "distress due to over- indulgence" was worth it because we had a blast. The cousins were playing, the turkey was browning, the wine was flowing, God was in His heaven and all was right with the world.
Even though I did get a little harried right at serving time (the big question: is all the food ready and hot at the same time?), I had a ton of help for which I am thankful. My brother, JB, took care of the turkey and the trimmings, Alton Brown-style, and he also made a pumpkin gingerbread trifle that was a big hit.
My heart is so full that I can hardly express it, and I just want to say thank you, thank you, thank you, and I love you all.

A Thanksgiving Prayer

Samuel F. Pugh

O God, when I have food,

Help me to remember the hungry;

When I have work,

Help me to remember the jobless;

When I have a home,

Help me to remember those who have no home at all;

When I am without pain,

Help me to remember those who suffer,

And remembering,

help me to destroy my complacency,

bestir my compassion,

and be concerned enough to help,

by word and deed,

those who cry out for what we take for granted.

P.S.

Regarding my previous post about the DSM-V and SPD: if you know someone who you think would support this petition, please feel free to direct them to this blog. (If you tell one person, and they tell one person, . . .) The more the merrier!!

Let's Win One for The Boy

I've never thought of myself as the "activist" type, but I am quickly morphing into an activist on behalf of my dear Boy. I'm not Erin Brockovich-ing it yet, but I have found that dealing with The Boy's SPD has changed me. I have always been very protective of my children, but The Boy has made me want to make people understand him, instead of just write him off as weird, obsessive, or just plain misbehaved. And I have found a little extra grace with other children as well. I used to always sigh a little breath of relief when the breakdown in the grocery store was not coming from one of my kids. Now I hear that same screaming and I wonder if the child is tired, hungry, or maybe so overwhelmed by the loud humming of the freezer cases that he just can't cope with anything else. Of course, it could just be a good, old-fashioned tantrum, but I've learned that not everything is what it seems.
I've also learned that we all need a little extra help, and so that is why I am turning to you lovely folks. I need your help to get SPD classified as an actual disorder in the newest version of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM), which will be coming out in 2011. It is the DSM-V, and it is THE manual for the diagnosis and treatment of emotional and developmental disorders for people of all ages. Go here for an in-depth explanation of the DSM, or go here for a list of the disorders that are included in the current edition, the DSM-IV. Many SPD kids fit into some of the categories listed in the DSM due to some of the symptoms and behaviors of SPD, but the ultimate goal is to get the actual diagnosis of Sensory Processing Disorder and a list of criteria defined in the DSM so that kids can get help as early as possible. Most experts agree that starting therapy before age 7 is ideal, but a lot of kids don't get that lucky. It is very hard to get the right kind of therapy, and to get insurance to pay for that therapy, when SPD is not classified as a disorder in and of itself. I consider it a blessing that The Boy had a speech delay, because it was his speech therapist who first noticed that maybe his "quirks" were something more than personality traits. And I also thank God that we live in Pennsylvania, where The Boy qualifies for state medical assistance based on disability and that the therapy he needs is covered, because not every state has as comprehensive a plan. Our health insurance only covers 30 speech therapy visits for The Boy's entire life, and his monthly speech therapy visits total almost $700, so you can see how grateful we are for the state aid (and that doesn't even take into account his occupational therapy costs).
So what am I asking you to do? I am asking you to go here and to sign the Individual Support Petition for the inclusion of SPD in the DSM-V. You have to print it out and mail it in, and time is of the essence. All of the proposals for inclusion are due in January of 2007 (even though it doesn't come out until 2011), and if we miss this deadline, we have to wait 25 years for the next revision. Since I don't want you to feel uninformed about something you are considering advocating, I've found a place where you can check out the latest SPD research, studies, abstracts, or other SPD sites. (There is also a group petition that I have printed out, and if I happen to see any of you in my daily orbit I may ask you to sign that, so please let me know if you have already visited the site and filled out a petition.)
If you decide this is something you want to do, I want you to know that I thank you so deeply from the bottom of my heart. The Boy would thank you too.

Stress Relief

I am procrastinating. Big time. I should be cleaning my bathrooms in preparation for the tide of relatives that will begin to swell tomorrow. Instead, I am sitting here blogging, still in my pj's, cramming blueberry muffin in my mouth, listening to Loretta Lynn extol the virtues of scrubbing clothes on a "washboard evr'y day" and feeling so grateful that I have a washer and dryer. (Because if I had to scrub clothes on a washboard every day, my kids would be wrapping themselves in dishtowels and bark by now.)
Thanksgiving is Rob's favorite holiday, because it's all about sharing the warmth of love and gratitude, and not about getting gifts. So we like to have everyone here for the big meal, but with 20+ people coming, I have to bring my A-game. (with me it's more like my Type-A game, but you knew that) And when it comes to organizing, I got mad skillz -- my office supply fetish ensures that I have copious amounts of paper for all my lists -- and I enjoy cooking, so that is the fun part for me.
But this year, I am kind of feeling a little slow on the uptake. I know that this will lead to what we call "the entertaining blitzkrieg," in which we run around like we are unhinged doing all kinds of things right before people walk in the door - like scrubbing baby spit-up off the sofa cushions. And not fresh baby spit-up, either, the old really stained spots that I would be tempted to hide by flipping the cushion over, except that there is a bigger and even more stubborn, mysterious stain on the other side. (Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about . . .)
But I know things will all work out, and even if they don't go perfectly, I don't think people will mind (ok, they might be a little miffed if there is no turkey, but I"ve got that covered). And besides, The Boy just came upstairs to inform me that he is planning on wearing his new stripey underwear for Thanksgiving because he wants to "dress up" -- apparently, the power of festive undergarments cannot be denied.
So, my dear, lovely folks, if I am not back here until after the turkey carcass has gone into the freezer, have a wonderful Thanksgiving, wherever you are. May we all have full bellies and full hearts, and thank God that we have been blessed to have them.

Language Arts

Thanks to Janeen at Our Story, for this fun one. (I guess all that collidge book learnin' done me some good.) Question to my high school peeps: Do you remember those orange vocab books that everyone did in their free's when they were skipping "office aide" duty? (Wait, I think I was the only one skipping office aide -- everyone else was legit!)

Your Vocabulary Score: A+

Congratulations on your multifarious vocabulary!You must be quite an erudite person.

How's" Your Vocabulary?

PS: I don't know what happened to my little title bar, but I been robbed! My grade was an A+ on this. I swear it! My friend, T, can vouch for me :)

Thursday Thirteen #4

Thirteen Completely Random Things about me and/or my family 1. When preparing a sandwich, I always take a bite out of it before I put away all the ingredients just in case it totally sucks and needs immediate remediation. Sandwiches are tricky, you can never be too careful. 2. Rob has a code language that I quickly learned to translate once we were married. My first lesson was this: When Rob says "We'll see . . .", it may sound like he wants time to think about a decision, carefully weighing any pros and cons. Wrong. "We'll see," actually means "No way in hell." 3. When I take a shower, I make sure any magazines with people on the cover are facing away from me. Rationally, I know that they can't really see me, but I still don't like to haul my jiggly butt out of the shower to be greeted by the hooded and glittering eyes of George Clooney. Sorry George, I don't even let Rob see my jiggly butt coming out of the shower. 4. Getting a drivers' license in Florida is insanely easy. I got my license in Pensacola shortly after I was married, and even before I took the permit test they were willing to let me just get out on the road for the license test and wing it because I was over 18. I think if you are breathing they'll let you take a stab at it. I even got a gift certificate for free pizza because I put my seatbelt on without being told to do it. Gotta love that. 5. Rob and I almost cooked ourselves once. Yep, you read that correctly. While living in Florida, we decided to take a road trip (in July) to Houston to see my aunt (and Rob's sister, who was there working at a theater for a few weeks). We started the trip at dawn, when it was just uncomfortably sticky, but not face-of-the-sun hot, and so we were relatively unconcerned about the fact that our truck had no air conditioning (Rob bought it in NY, where the summer heat doesn't even come close to FL or TX, and we were too poor to get A/C once we moved to FL). Our first inkling of peril should have been when we stopped for the first time at a rest stop in Louisiana, and the heat was so intense that it felt like someone wrapped us in a hot, wet, wool blanket. But we pressed on. Once we got to the belt way around Houston, we started to feel a little sleepy and light-headed, and then we hit the traffic. (Did I mention that we were going through Houston at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon?) As we were sitting there on the highway, I looked out and saw one of those big time/temperature boards on a bank sign. It was 110 degrees. We were sitting in a giant, dark green metal box on the highway with no air moving (cool or otherwise), just sweating out all the liquids in our bodies. We were roasting, literally. We can laugh about it now, but now we also have A/C, so that makes it easier. 6. But on the bright side, we got the cheapest gas of our married lives on that trip. 75 cents a gallon!! We still aren't convinced that it was pure gasoline. We called it Uncle Bob's Gasohol. But it still got us all the way home. 7. Rob is from NY and I am from PA, and we have a long running "discussion" about the correct way to wait for something. Rob insists that the proper way to describe this action is to "Wait on line, " while I maintain that you are not on the computer or standing on a line on the ground, you are simply lining up with other people, therefore you are "in line." It's almost as heated as the great Jimmies/Sprinkles debate. 8. Rob always says that in our house there is the wrong way and there is the Aimee way to do something. Guess which one we use? . . . . 9. I covet and hoard office supplies. I love a new, clean notebook, and school supply shopping makes me euphoric. My palms get a little itchy with excitement when I go into Staples or Office Depot, and I am always on the hunt for the perfect pen: smooth flowing ink, not too stubby, not too fine. This doesn't make me weird, does it? 10. I think there might be nicotine in Weight Watchers Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Sundae cups. That's the only way to explain why I am so freakishly addicted to them. I don't even think they are made with real ice cream, which would usually be a total non-starter for me, but I crave them nonetheless, plastic ice cream and all. 11. I swear like a longshoreman, and Rob never does. We always thought it was funny that Rob was the sailor in family, but I swore like one. Just picking up the slack. 12. I get annoyed when Rob comes home from work and falls asleep early on the couch. I don't know why, because God knows he works like a dog and deserves some sleep, but something about seeing him laying there on the couch while I am simultaneously running around after the kids, folding laundry, cooking dinner, paying bills, loading the dishwasher, etc, makes me want to pummel him. I usually just poke him and suggest that he take his nap in bed where I can't see him. I know, I'm totally insane. 13. And for #13, I'll leave you with some Famous Expressions from The Boy, by which we are Immoderately Amused: a) He calls Lightning McQueen, from the movie "Cars," Lightning the Queen. Maybe he knows something about Owen Wilson that we don't. b) When he is pretending to sleep, he lays down and says "Honk Shoo" very loudly. Tricky little thing. c) and perhaps my favorite of all, and the one that will send him straight to therapy when he is older and finds out that I put this on the web, he calls his scrotum his "hangs" -- ostensibly because they just hang there. Proper usage of the term is as follows: "I have to fix my underwear because my hangs are falling out." Links to other Thursday Thirteens! 1. Maggie 2. Mommabee 3. somethingblue 4. Dayngr 5. LoudLabRat 6. . . .my 2 cents 7. chupieandj'smama 8. Carrie 9. Jenny Ryan 10. 4andcounting 11. Incog & Nito 12. Amy

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
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Remains of the Day

It's official - Baby Girl has joined the ranks of those who eat solid food. If, by solid food, you mean trying to use a miniscule rubberized spoon to hold a lick's worth of rice cereal that is only about a trillionth thicker than the formula in her bottle, then yes, she is definitely on solid food. (And no, that sound you hear in the background is not me whimpering about how fast her babyhood is going. Not me at all.) She is almost 5 months old, and I started realizing this week that maybe the bottle alone was just not doing it for her anymore. Once she was scarfing down 8 ounces in about 7 minutes, and then wanting another full bottle an hour and a half later, I was sure that it was time to break out the cereal. And call me lazy, but I really do not enjoy this part of childrearing -- the whole Introduction of Solids part. It would be so much easier if she just stayed on a liquid diet until she could ram a cheeseburger down her craw like the rest of the family. But she seemed to enjoy it, once she gave up giving me the hairy eyeball that seemed to say, Mother, what in God's name are you doing? Why are you . . . oh wait, wait, this is good. Me likey.
So now she can start practicing refusing foods at a moment's notice, throwing food on the floor, and smearing it into her hair and/or clothes. Thank goodness she has older siblings to model this behavior for her. Good times.

Thanks, Barb! Although I was born just outside of Philly, I didn't technically grow up there -- but my parents did and they taught me how to speak. My accent has been diluted by the "dutchiness" of the dialect in and around Reading, PA, where I grew up, but it still comes out when I'm around my extended family (all from near Philly).

What American accent do you have? Your Result: Philadelphia Your accent is as Philadelphian as a cheesesteak! If you're not from Philadelphia, then you're from someplace near there like south Jersey, Baltimore, or Wilmington. if you've ever journeyed to some far off place where people don't know that Philly has an accent, someone may have thought you talked a little weird even though they didn't have a clue what accent it was they heard.
The Midland
The Northeast
The South
The Inland North
Boston
The West
North Central
What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes

The Hand that Holds the Pencil

It's that time again -- report card time! Older Girl has done very well so far this year, and she is as proud of her work as we are (which makes me happy). As we were perusing her marks in each different subject, she happened to comment on the "-" she got in the box next to "Holds Pencil Correctly," which basically means that she needs improvement. Because instead of lightly resting the pencil on her finger, she gets a stranglehold on it like it might refuse to write what she wants.

She saw the "-" sign, and said: "I know that I don't hold my pencil the way I'm supposed to, but I think the way I hold it makes for nicer handwriting, so I guess I can live with the minus sign. They won't check our pencils forever."

Fantastic, Older Girl! Can I just say that I love, love, love the fact that she likes her own handwriting enough to accept the fact that she has to sacrifice a "+" sign for pencil posture? I am not trying to foster a cocky, disobedient vibe here, but come on -- she's going to hold the pencil the way she is going to hold the pencil and that's the way it is. Her penmanship is neat and legible, and that's what I care about the most.

Besides, the little rebel in me (the one buried under all the layers of responsibility and people-pleasing), is yelling at the top of her lungs, Work it, little mama! You rock that pencil Older Girl-style!

Lost in Translation

I've been noticing lately that there are certain things that I just don't blog about. I seem to hold back, filter, make palatable, water-down ("what?!," you say, "this is palatable and watered-down?! egads!!) and I wonder why I do it (besides the fact that my Granny reads this and I am such a total dorky slob with a raging potty mouth that must be controlled).

Por ejemplo: not blogging about our life with The Boy and the things going on with him. Maybe I just get so "talked out" to friends, family, and therapists (his, not mine, although . . .) that I just have no energy to continue the conversation with my fingers. Or maybe I get frustrated because we really are still trying to get a handle on him and I seem to fail miserably some days. Whatever the reason, I find myself wanting to write about a breakthrough, or even just a good day, and then I realize that I haven't even hinted to you what I'm talking about and you might think that my evil twin had finally found me and taken over my blog. But I'll put these reasons aside and use this post to tell you a bit about my Boy:

The Boy has something called Sensory Processing Disorder, and if you've never heard of it, you're not alone. I had never heard of it either, and many physicians are also unaware of this condition. He hasn't been "officially" diagnosed, mostly because SPD is not recognized as a "real" diagnosis by the medical/insurance community. That makes it mighty hard to get the kind of help he needs, or even to just be taken seriously.

But what is SPD? In a nutshell, SPD is a neurological disorder characterized by poor detection, modulation, discrimination or responses to sensory stimuli. People with SPD have difficulty managing sensory information that is received and interpreted by the brain. Basically, his senses work just fine, but the wires carrying the information from his senses to his brain are crossed, so he doesn't correctly interpret the information. The messages really are lost in translation.
What's tricky about SPD is that some people are hyposensitive, meaning they crave tons of sensory stimulation in whatever way they can get it because their senses are not relaying the hey, enough is enough! message to the brain. And some people are hypersensitive, meaning their senses are so overstimulated that even the slightest touch or noise can seem like the hardest or loudest thing they've ever experienced. And to make it even more confusing, some people are hypo with some senses (like taste or smell) and hyper for others (like touch or sound). But wait, there's more!! In addition to the five "regular" senses, SPD also deals with the vestibular sense and the proprioceptive (pro-pree-oh-sept-iv) sense. Vestibular basically refers to balance, and proprioceptive refers to the network of joints and muscles and how they work to let us know how to move our bodies in space without being conscious of the fact that we are doing it (for example: sitting down in a chair without looking at the chair, or gauging when to step up onto a curb without looking at it or stopping at the curb before stepping up on it).
People with SPD can have problems in all of these areas, or just one or two. The Boy has the most difficulty with the auditory sense, tactile sense, and vestibular and proprioceptive issues. He is almost completely hypersensitive, meaning that his senses get completely flooded with even the slightest stimuli and are unable to relate information to his brain to make his reactions appropriate to what we would consider "normal" noises, touches, movements, etc. There are certain noises that he cannot tolerate, like the ocean, a gym where people are playing basketball, voices over the baby monitor, and he has vestibular and proprioceptive dysfunction that make even a short car ride feel like he is on an out-of-control roller coaster. This is a good description of what some people with SPD feel like, and I know much of it is true for The Boy. This is just the tip of the iceberg as far as SPD and how it affects my son. (And I won't even get into his stimming behaviors in this post.)

But, Aimee, you say, there are certain noises or fabrics that I can't stand, and there are certain foods that I won't eat, so what up with that, homegirl?
I'd say that you're correct because everyone has a shirt with a scratchy tag they've cut out, or a food that, under pain of death maybe, will not pass their lips. For me, pulling the solid styrofoam packing material out of a brown box makes me want to go all carnival freak crazy, that's how much I hate that noise. BUT, (and this is a biggie) if I hear that noise, it does not send my whole nervous system into a tail spin, thereby shutting down my ability to process any other information -- and that's what happens with The Boy.

And that brings us to the therapy -- SPD is not curable, but it is manageable, and the course of action for it is most often Occupational Therapy. The Boy goes to a combined speech/OT session once a week, and he may start an additional OT session per week in the future. OT teaches him how to cope, how to not lose it over a car ride or a sudden noise, how to arrange his body in space, how to just feel better.

We are blessed because The Boy's on the mild end of the spectrum, and he is responding very well to OT. Unfortunately, because SPD is not recognized as a real medical condition, lots of kids do not get the diagnosis and treatment they need. Often, they are just labeled as difficult kids, or as ADD/ADHD kids, when they are really SPD kids. I bet you've met a child with SPD, even if you (or maybe even they) are not aware of it.

So that is what I've been holding back. And now that the floodgates are open, we have passed the point of no return. You will just have to be swept along in the torrent of information, frustration, elation, and hesitation about our decisions for The Boy. What a sensation! (I had to get another -ation word in there. Had to. It's in the Former English Major Code of Conduct.)

More to follow -- you lucky, lucky people . . .

Late, as usual . . .

This is a post to say Happy Birthday to my dear friend, Amy, and to apologize for being such a disorganized loser that her birthday card is sitting here on my desk taunting me while I type. I have had it addressed for several days, it just needs a stamp (of which we have none, natch!)
So while my intentions were good, they didn't come to fruition . . . (wait, what paves the way to Hell again?)
But I am thinking of you and I promise you'll get your card (note, I did not say when you'll get your card). Happy Birthday, Ame!

Laissez le bon temps roulez!

I am not a huge partier in the sense of all night keggers, but a girl's got to get out once in a while, preferably without children draped on her. Which is why we begged my brother and his girlfriend to spring us from the booby-hatch while we went to a farewell party for Rob's former boss, our beloved Dr. Patti.

And boy howdy was it just what the doctor ordered! I can't even put into words how nice it was to talk with another adult without being interrupted by someone clutching the crotch of their pants in a desperate attempt not to pee on themselves. We ate real food (shrimp! not chicken nuggets), drank wine, sang karaoke after the wine, and stayed out until 11:00 . . . PM!!! That is almost 2 whole hours past my bedtime! Time, tide, and The Boy's early morning bathroom run and breakfast prep wait for no woman, so I am usually turning in early. I was just waiting for the truck to turn back into a pumpkin or something.

Rob has always been very conscientious in making sure that I get some time of my own during the week; time to fritter away in frivolous pursuits, preferably while drinking some kind of uber-caloric coffee concoction (how's that for alliteration, all my English peeps? boo-yah!) And as much as I count on and look forward to that time, there really is something to be said for going out alone with your spouse, the one you chose to team up with in the first place. (Excuse me, have we met? I'm Aimee, I'll be your wife.)

So we thoroughly enjoyed our time out (thank you JB and Johanna!!), except for the part where we had to actually say goodbye to "Dr. Patti," as the kids call her. She's been so good to our family, and I have a sort of girl-crush on her because she's so cool -- you know what I mean, someone who just has it going on and you try to be like them except you are a dyed-in-the-wool dork, a complete wanna-be. No? Just me?

At any rate, we'll miss her very much, and we wish her well. Our family has been blessed with such good doctors, who have also been good friends (Jenn, Jenn, we miss you so -- another doc who has it going on!), and both The Boy and Baby Girl were born into rooms full of love and laughter (well, not from me exactly). Good times . . . they were really good times.

So now Rob and I are looking forward to our next big date, which is my cousin's wedding next month. The kids are staying home, and I'm already dreaming about sitting through an entire hot meal with no interruption, dancing without holding someone in my arms in addition to Rob, and using a bathroom as God intended, with one person to each stall.
It's good to have a dream . . .

One for you, One for Me

Thought I needed to share a view of my kitchen with you -- I call this "Still Life with Baby Monitor."

Hangin' Around

I found this in the kitchen this morning. This is my son's interpretation of "playing babies" with his sisters. No cuddling, just extreme duress for the poor stuffed lamby, which is not even ours! But lamby just smiles through it all . . .

Terms of Endearment

Overheard on the baby monitor this morning:

The Boy (in a high-pitched, sing-song kind of voice): I love you Baby Girl. You are sweet and lovely . . . and a baby . . . and a girl.

Thursday Thirteen #2

Thirteen Things about my childhood (that didn't seem as odd then as they do now) 1. In grade school, our playground was a parking lot surrounded by a rusty fence. We used to play "In the Furnace," in which a player would be captured and squeezed against the fence. Kind of like "Squeeze the Lemon," only way more macabre. 2. When I was younger, my secret career dreams included being a backup singer (you don't have the pressure of being the headliner) or a trucker (I really wanted a CB handle). 3. In order to pass swimming lessons at the community pool, you had to jump from the diving board into the 12 ft. end. and swim to the swim instructors. I made my instructors tread water for 20 minutes while I stood on the board thinking about jumping. They were not pleased, but I still passed. 4. When my younger brother was born, I pretended I was deaf. I'm not kidding. Instead of throwing a tantrum like most kids, I pretended that I couldn't hear. I got all the way to Hershey Medical Center before they found me out, and I'll never know how my parents remained so cool about the whole thing. 5. While doing my household chores, I used to pass the time by pretending that the house was a bed breakfast and I was the housekeeper. Sometimes I still do that to this day. 6. I went through a brief kleptomania phase in second grade, only my conscience would get the better of me and I would always get caught trying to put the stuff back a few minutes after I took it. Stealing erasers from my second grade teacher's desk was my last act of petty larceny. God bless Sister Helene Joseph wherever she is -- thanks to her gentleness I have never taken another thing that didn't belong to me. 7. I did, however, turn to forgery. In fifth grade I got such a low grade on a math test that I didn't want to show my parents, so I signed my dad's name. My fatal mistake was using eraseable pen and then signing it multiple times until it looked "right." My conscience really got the better of me then, because I confessed to my dad before the teacher even called me on it. After that, my life of crime was over -- my nerves couldn't handle it. 8. The only time I got detention in high school was for "forgetting" my gym clothes four weeks in a row. I "forgot" them because my gym teacher was a sadist who called everyone by their last names, which she made them WRITE on the fronts of their gym shirts with permanent markers. 9. In grade school, I knew a kid named Mark who liked to pretend he was Rainbow Brite. He was transferred to a school in New York, and ended up in the same class as my future sister-in-law, Marguerite. We discovered this years later after we met in college. 10. My mom made me call my grandmother when I got my first period. There is no way in hell I am making my girls do that. I'll just call my mom when they go to school and tell her myself. 11. I used to run home from school in time to watch Voltron. Activate interlock, dynotherms connected, megathrusters GO! . . . Is it weird that I had crushes on cartoons? 12. I thought that everybody's family served ravioli as well as turkey on Thanksgiving. Then I met people whose families didn't eat ravioli at all ! 13. In high school, I thought that if I worked at an ice cream parlor it might cure me of my immoderate love of ice cream -- like immersion therapy or something. It didn't work. The only thing I learned was that scooping ice cream all summer gives you carpal tunnel. Oh, and nobody ever picked rum raisin. Links to other Thursday Thirteens! 1. Dayngr 2. Caylynn 3. Amy 4. Debbie 5. Chupieandj'smama (leave your link in comments, I’ll add you here!)

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Siren Song

They are calling to me. The cookies in the breadbox know my name and I swear they are calling to me.

Come, Aimee, open the breadbox and see our lovely buttery faces so generously dotted with creamy morsels of chocolate. Aimee . . .

If I get up and go to them now, I will be ruined. A whole sleeve could disappear before I even knew what was happening, and then I would be forced to pay some serious sweat equity on the treadmill. So that is why I am here at the computer; it's my modern day equivalent of being lashed to the mast until the danger passes.

And, oh, what a dangerous danger those cookies are to all my best efforts. As I have mentioned before, I have a serious refined sugar habit that I need to kick. I always have my cake, and eat it too . . . usually with a side of ice cream. And let me tell you, that is doing me no favors in the junk in the trunk department (or flab in the ab, either).
Having lost weight after each of the first two babes, I know all the "tricks":

Put the cookies in a cabinet where they are out of sight and you won't even remember where they are. Ha! If they call out to you, then you'll know exactly where they are. I am like the human GPS for trans fat.

Remember portion control. Buy small, pre-packaged snacks to avoid eating too much. Well, aside from the fact that pre-packaged, portion controlled snacks are overpriced, it's probably not helping too much if I can rationalize eating two packets at a time "because the pieces are so small."

Buy cookies that the kids will eat, but that you don't enjoy. News flash: There is no such thing as a cookie I don't enjoy.

And the last resort of all: Don't buy it. If the snacks aren't in the house, then you won't eat them. Oh, believe me, we rarely have the "good snacks" at our house, and that is not an exaggeration. My kids go to other homes and fall upon any and all snack foods as if they have just recently been returned to society from a maximum security facility.

So now I am down to avoidance. I have discovered that if I can just do something, anything, in those few crucial minutes when I feel tempted to hurl myself into the sugary sea, then I can usually make it without stuffing something outrageously caloric in my pie-hole. I think the danger has passed for now, and being here at the computer has helped. You'll be hearing a lot from me.