Boy Out of Context

How this past weekend attempted to destroy my will to live

I think it really started the Tuesday before. 

That particular day is being considered one of our worst at work, collectively, ever.  The general idea of it is this: I walked into a a walk-in huge emergency.  A dog that had been in a fight the night before and had mostly bled to death over night.  The dog's blood loss and shock were severe; the rest of the injuries I suspected were also severe but I wasn't even sure I could get the dog through the next half hour because of the blood loss.  I wasn't even sure I could find a vein anymore.  Anyway, while I was dealing with this, a client called and became abusive to the staff, and while they, first politely and then more firmly, told her she would have to wait with her non-emergency, she kept calling.  For an hour this went on, using up staff time, until eventually she threatened to sue because we wouldn't talk to her on the phone (this was the threatened lawsuit and later fired client).  Ten minutes after I got the first dog as stable as possible under the circumstances, he died. 

The rest of the morning was a fog.  People kept wanting X-rays and such and we were so behind and so drained that while I'm usually thrilled to run some tests without a fight, this time I was like, really?  Are you sure you don't want to wait a few days and see if that lameness doesn't just resolve?  REALLYPLEASE?  

But the day ended and by Thursday I was feeling more myself.  I saw another new client with a sick geriatic dog.  The situation was frustrating because the dog stayed out in the yard and she didn't know some key information I really needed.  On the physical exam I narrowed things down to general area - abdomen - and recommended and X-ray.  I could see a mass and gave the owner an option of referral for ultrasound or going right to surgery.  And this is the problem.  If she had known one. important. fact. about the dog I would have said surgery.  But she had no idea, so I said ultrasound.  This comes back later.  Oh, and the fact that finances were limited and she came to our clinic because she thought we wouldn't require her to pay her bill upfront.  Sigh.

I had Friday off, but I heard late Friday that surgery was needed for that dog, and I went surly.  I don't even know why, because my recommendation was totally reasonable either way.  I was just pissed because if she had paid any attention to what was going on with her dog I could have saved her some money.  Why that irritated me so much, I'm not sure, but I was really mad about it.  It was with that attitude that I went into work on Saturday.

And here's the thing.  Saturday was my birthday.  My 40th birthday. 

And in the five hours I worked on Saturday morning, not one person I worked with remembered to say anything. 

I actually don't like a big deal made about my birthday.  I would have killed Paul had he planned a surprise party or something, but simple good wishes from people I've known for five to ten years would have been nice.  Or at least might have kept me from coming home from work and bursting into tears. 

The day was somewhat tense anyway.  One of favorite patients came in, the owner thought with just pain, but it was far more severe.  I thought originally we could treat it conservatively but changed my mind after he left and called him, urging him to go to emergency (along the lines of, "I will die if anything happens to your dog because I didn't tell you to go,"  what can I say, I was fairly emotional by then).  But it was the right call and the dog was in surgery within a few hours. 

Finally released from work, I came home and had lunch and salted caramel brownies with three candles and opened cake pans from Paul and cookie cutters from Max and Julia (I have simple tastes and everyone else who knows me already covered the yarn).  I thought things were looking up.  And then came dinner. 

I picked a restaurant downtown that we love and hadn't been to in a while.  They were busy, as it was Dillinger Days in Tucson but they said they could seat us if we could be out by a certain time.  No problem; small children so we don't linger.  And then they just left us there.  Waiting.  For about 20 minutes.  The server was apologetic and we did get free ice cream at the end (they make it homemade).  It all would have been great.  Except for the screaming toddler at the next table. 

But Sunday's another day.  Right? 

We had plans with one of Max's friends.  They have two boys, one Max's age and one just a few months older than Julia.  We were having all of them over for some play time and dinner and then hopefully more play time while the adults got some adult time.  Paul and I made eggplant parmesan and spaghetti and a salad and garlic bread and pound cake with strawberries.  Enough food for eight.  Plus our house was even clean!

The appointed time came.

And went. 

And really, really went. 

I was torn.  I felt horrible for Max, who was just devastated.  On the other hand, Julia had been complaining that her stomach hurt and I was a little tense about that situation turning sour. 

Forty-five minutes after they were supposed to come, Julia threw up.  As I was scrubbing it up and gathering things for the washer, I heard car doors slam outside our house.

Mother. Fucker. 

And there went the next two hours, with three boys rampaging and screaming (a shout-out to my son, who took down two plates of everything, salad included), Julia quivering on the couch and asking when they were going to leave, and me sort of slowly wanting to die. 

By the next day, Julia was better, but I kept both of them home with me.  A fresh start.  A do-over.  It's no damn fun to play Groovy Girls battle Lego jetfighters by yourself anyway. 

 

"I'm going to hug you now. It's going to hurt."

I've been very stuck.  I was going to post about January 8th, a topic I refused to discuss last year, but the day came, with the memorials, and I found that I still didn't really want to talk about it.  I would, however, recommend A Safeway in Arizona for anyone interested.  I warn you that the very beginning is hard to get through; I sort of hyperventilated and finally just sat down and finished that part so it would be done.  The author is a friend of Giffords and certainly carries a bias, but I thought his coverage of Tucson's history and laws and just the general tenor of our city (along with some of our more colorful characters) was interesting. 

Anyway.  It was last night, when Julia laid that line on me that I have turned into the title that I realized she had managed to sum up the past couple of weeks perfectly.  Everything has been on huge ebbs of incredible highs and unbelievable lows.  Loving my clients and enjoying medicine one day.  Dying animals, fired clients, threatened lawsuits the next.  A seemingly smooth transition back to school.  Then Julia starting to sob every day at drop off.  One of my cats became desperately ill and I prepared the children for her euthanasia; then she started to eat on her own again. 

I'm a middle of the road kind of person.  I like happy things, but I tend to do best sort of cruising along in the middle rather than weaving back and forth.  What I have been left with is a rather crippling case of insomnia, which ended up leading to an amusing conversation with a dog owner who needed to give his lab 100mg of diphenhydramine.  The tech was telling him to give 4 25mg tablets.  "Oh," I interrupted, "You can find 50mg capsules in the sleep aid aisle."  And everyone in the lobby stopped and stared at me. It's not like I told him to have his dog pound a few shots of vodka.  Hrmph.  That was bonafide medical advice, as far as I was concerned. 

I remain hopeful, though.  I feel like this year has lots of potential once things settle down.  I know it has some samples of a real-from-my-doctor sleep aid, and that, along with some super-squeezy hugs, just has to be good.

 

New Year, New Yarn

I mentioned that 2011 was a difficult knitting year for me.  How does one have a difficult knitting year?  Here's what happens: you're sitting at your work Christmas party (2010), and people have given you yarn, because they know you love yarn, and then suddenly there's a pattern book for mittens in your hand along with some not-so-subtle hints.  Or threats. 

It was ten pairs of mittens, and the whole thing started off enjoyably.  I love matching people with patterns and yarns and colors.  By February I had patterns picked and yarn purchased and here is where I made my first giant mistake.  I had this cool wool that I had never used before so I started with that to make a pair of fingerless gloves.  I pounded them out in a weekend.  Thick wool, size seven needles, and nothing but a bit of cabling for details.  I got cocky. 

Of course, when I started the second pair, with a beautiful self-striping yarn, rather unfortunately knit on size two needles, I realized I was probably in a lot of trouble. 

The ten pairs took me a year.  I finished five days before the 2011 Christmas party.  In between, I took some time to knit Max and Julia something for their birthdays and I made one blanket, a couple pairs of mittens, a hat, a toddler toy, and some cat toys.  And that was it. 

That's all of them piled on there. 

These got the biggest reaction, obviously.

They were a special request, because I never would have chosen them myself.  This technique, stranded colorwork I think is the technical name, is my absolute least favorite.

The big surprise for me was that the pattern I was least sure about, the last one I chose and the one I was ready to replace if I found something I liked more, ended up being my favorite pair when they were done.  I plan on making a pair for myself.

So, the Mitten Project is done, and I'm free to knit what I want.  I decided to do something brand new in 2012.  Something I have never, ever done in all the years I've been knitting: I'm going to make something for myself. 

A few years back I was poking around to find a pattern for twin babies.  I wanted to make two blankets where the pattern was identical but I could use different colors.  When I started I didn't know the sexes of the babies, so colors had to be flexible (and I rarely knit baby blankets in pastels, regardless).  I came across a pattern called "Baby Shane."  I loved the blanket and there were a lot of color choices, and I was amused that the father's name was Shane.  It seemed perfect.

I was happy with the blankets, but even more so, I fell completely in love with the yarn.  It's from here, and it lovely, lovely yarn.  The colors were great, and I was so excited each time I got to start working with a new one, but also the yarn was so nice to work with.  Now.  As much as this yarn holds my heart, it's not, let's say, something I'd use to make toys for the kids.  However, my first project, just for me?

My photography stinks, so I'm not really doing it justice, but the color (or, colour, the...yarn-person? yarn-maker? Tanis is her name...is Canadian) is called Stormy and there are slight variations from greys to dark bluish/black.  It's beautiful.  And that's the bottom 2 1/2 inches of the back of a sweater.  For me. 

The front of the sweater is complicated, so this isn't a project I'm likely to want to carry around with me, so I've got something easier going on a crochet hook.  I rarely show people works in progress, but I really love the colors here.  After I finish the stripe of green, the four colors will repeat and this is a blanket for a baby born on Thanksgiving. 

2012 is not all about me.  I've got something in mind for my nephews and I think I'm finally going to bite the bullet and try my hand at designing my own patterns this year.  Probably not for mittens, though.

Cookies and candy canes

I ended up almost wishing that we had traveled, just so I wasn't at work this past week.  It was largely unpleasant; full of emergencies, as the week before a holiday will be.  But the emergencies weren't turning out particularly well.  On Friday, our last day open before a lengthy closure, my first appointment of the day derailed almost immediately.  Before I could begin to assess the problem with the cat, the owner stated that she was about ready to get rid of her, that despite owning that cat for eleven years she really didn't care much for her and she liked her younger cat better.  At some point, after I tried to explain that whatever was wrong with her cat was probably not going to be easily fixed but would probably take some testing and might end up being expensive and would probably be something managed rather than cured, the woman began to yell at me and I began to cry. 

She misunderstood immediately.  She thought I was crying because I was so protective of her relationship with her cat and I wanted to keep the two of them together, but really I was crying at the hell I see people dump on animals every day.  Frustration is understandable.  Considering an animal you've shared your life with for over a decade to be utterly disposable boggles my mind. 

We gave her the out, of couse, and said that she could relinquish the cat to us and we'd make sure the medical things were taken care of before she was placed in a home.  She said she'd rather go through Craigslist.  Again, boggles the mind. 

The rest of the day was busy, but less emotional.  Someone had picked up a stray dog the day before and one of the dog's legs was fractured.  It's the kind of work that is rewarding.  I anesthetized the puppy and splinted the leg, prescribed pain medication post-op.  I laughed when I saw the post-splint Xrays, because realistically this break should have had a surgical fix, but this is a stray and there's no one to pay for that kind of treatment.  But I remembered Julia's doctor - baby animals, like baby children, have bones that like to heal.  Puppy will in all likelihood be fine. 

Max and Julia were just the right age for all the magical aspects of this season and we really enjoyed ourselves.  We went to Winterhaven to see the lights and we went to a friend's house for a wonderful party and then to a parade downtown.  We went to Zoo Lights.  I took them to see "snow." 

Christmas Eve was exactly what I wanted after what had been a very stressful fall with Max.  We let them each choose a present to open in the morning - Julia chose a gift from one of my sisters that was a full set of Disney princesses (note to self: make a mental note about who is wearing what crown in the future), and Max chose an extremely heavy gift from my other sister that ended up being an erector set. 

I guess Christmas Eve didn't go exactly as planned, since I didn't anticipate spending most of the day building a forklift.  But mostly it was low-key and pleasant and filled with my three favorite people and appetizers for dinner and Santa Tracker and later some wine and Glee. 

Max bolted awake at 5 a.m.  He held himself in a slightly quivery state until Julia got up at about 8.  They are a hilarious team at present opening, taking turns, but Max wants to rush through everything, and Julia is content to play with things a bit.  I'm making a concerted effort to get her away from all things Barbie, so I have been trying to move her to Groovy Girls, and one of my sisters found her some really special dolls, too.  The dolls all took a little sleigh ride together, while Cady celebrated Christmas in typical Cady-fashion in the background.

(those slippers she is wearing were my eleventh hour Mrs. Claus gift I was able to whip up after a very stressful knitting year)

Yesterday, Christmas Day, I stopped at the clinic to write up my charts from Friday.  I realized, once there, that no one had been able to cover the morning shift, so after finishing my charts I started caring for the cats.  We had no hospitalized patients so it was just a matter of caring for our own hospital cats, but it was nice.  My usual care for them involves examinations and notes and changes to orders and it has been years, literally, since I've gone to work and just gotten to feed and water and clean litter boxes and administer scratches behind the ears. 

Today I was in, briefly, because I was worried about a greyhound I had seen on Friday.  I got the owner, who is still out of town, but since she hadn't heard from the petsitter we're both assuming that the dog is improving.  We talked a bit about the long term implications of the dog's current problem; she's a nurse and we think we know where this is leading, although the bouts the dog is having are years apart so right now we're not going to over-worry.  I like most of my patients but this one is special to my heart. 

Putting last week aside, I'm trying to remember the patient and owner after the first one.  We'd never met the owner before and it was nothing but a free health exam we offer for a new pet adoption.  I ran through the basics.  Dog was adjusting well, owner was adjusting well.  I tweaked housebreaking and recommended a dietary supplement.  As I was walking out I remarked that it was unusual to find this breed in a shelter.  The woman told me she knew.  It took her eight years. 

Eight years to find her perfect puppy.  I hope they have years and years of happy memories together.  I hope I can help make that happen for them. 

Attempt at a silver lining

I wanted to take them to The Muppets. 

It seemed easy enough.  Next week they'll be off school and we'll have a lot of antsy pre-holiday hours to fill.  Movie and lunch sounded like fun. 

Julia was game immediately.  She hasn't seen much of the muppets, but she is a big fan of their rendition of Furry Happy Monsters (to "Shiny Happy People") and likes the story of how that was the only thing that would settle her down in her infancy witching hour.  But Max said he didn't want to go. 

I knew he was at least kind of interested in the movie, but when I asked why he said no he told me that the movie would be too loud and it would be too difficult for him. 

In the past we've had a mixed reaction from Max at movies.  He likes the movie part of the movie.  He loved Up and Toy Story 3 (featuring a garbage truck, huge hit).  He loves the pop corn and the experience of being in the theater.  But for a kid with sensory issues, a movie is a problem.  It's loud, the previews and ads are annoying and that's a lot of extra information flying at you before you even get to the real movie.  But he's never said no before. 

On one hand, I'm impressed that he recognized his own limitation on this.  I know that's an important step for him to be able to say that this situation is too much and to just keep himself out of it. 

On the other hand, I just want. to. take. my. child. to. a. movie.

It wasn't even so much the dumb Muppet movie I felt that strongly about.  Max would like it, but he would lovelovelove Hugo, and that's really why I'm disappointed that movies are something we'll be missing.  And of course we can see it later at home.  But it's not the same.  Not really. 

Yesterday Julia had a dentist appointment in the morning so I took her to the muppet movie afterwards so Max wouldn't even be particularly aware that we were going.  And we had a good time, although every time I looked to my left to see her reaction to the puppets, I automatically looked to my right, too. 

I planned to write this post yesterday, but I was descending into a spiral of everybody-has-it-easier type thoughts, which I generally try not to get into.  Partly because I know it's not true and partly because it's not overly useful.  You play the hand you're dealt.  No point in thinking about how things would be if the cards were different. 

The thing about Max is, the highs and the lows are at extremes.  Yesterday I could only think about what we were missing together.  Today at his dentist appointment, Max pointed to the various instruments and told the hygenist, correctly, what color they used to be, six months ago. 

She stared at him.  I was delighted.

murmur

I've started this post over and over with this long story about what happened, but here's the abbreviated version.  We made a decision in the best interest of our son, but it wasn't the decision that some people wanted and so they're angry with us. 

And so it goes. 

If you look at things on the surface here, they seem fine.  Improved.  Max appears to be doing better at school, but it feels to me like there's an undercurrent of...something. 

The problems at home continue.  We did what was suggested at our last meeting.  There's a chart for Max so that he can gauge how angry he is getting and then he and I came up with three options for him to calm himself rather than acting out. 

It's not really working. 

In the moment, he can't think ahead enough to get this far with it.  And the things he's reacting to just leave me puzzled.  Really?  This?  This is what you're screaming about?

I think the improvement at school is costing us at home and he's become more rigid than he's been in years.  He's almost tunnel-visioned sometimes in how he wants something to happen, and he explodes in frustration if it deviates from the expectation.  Paul and I can obviously work with this for the most part, but Julia doesn't understand why she should be required to play a certain way.  In the end, there's screaming and crying and stomping and door slamming and a general unease. 

I'm hoping that the break, which we've decided to spend just the four of us, quietly and low-key, with no real plans other than a few local events and time at the park and reading and playing will serve as a collective deep breath. 

Paul makes fun of the music that I like, calling it "jangly guitar" music.  True or not, I have liked REM since high school, and I bristled at the jokes made when they announced their split.  I wasn't surprised by the news; I disliked people panning the recent works that thay had not heard.  Accelerate is a good album.  Collapse Into Now is a great one. 

That's what I was listening to when I realized what I want Max to really understand right now.  This is a difficult time, but it isn't the sum of who he is or who he will be or what he will do with his life.  We all just have to keep going.  Deep breath.  We'll get to the next day.

Excuse the video quality.  I hate the official video for the song and the instrumentals here are even lovelier than those on the album.

 

 

I cannot tell a lie

It's not all cherry pie

But it's all there waiting for you.

The new occupant

Every day The Teacher remarks about all the hugs she gets from Max lately and how sweet it is and how glad she is that we all met and had those talks.  I'm a cynic, so of course, I'm mentally thinking...Syndrome, Stockholm...but we're on the tail end of this semester so I figure we'll just cruise along the next few weeks.  Max picked out what he'd like to get for The Teacher for a holiday gift.  Gift cards, since I told him that the only acceptable gifts are gift cards or alcohol and we don't know her well enough to buy her alcohol.  I left out the part about how I felt like she should be buying me a case of wine. 

About a week back I found myself at my own doctor's office for my annual appointment.  THAT doctor, not the general.  I like my OB quite a bit although I know a lot of people don't care for her rather straightforward manner.  She's not one to mince words. 

I discovered that last year when she finished up, sat me up, and told me she felt a mass and it was probably in my uterus but it might be on my ovary and I needed to schedule an ultrasound to see where and I should just go ahead and do that on the way out.

I was relatively calm to my doctor.  It was the scheduler I threatened. 

Five days later, we found the fibroid, neatly tucked into my uterus, with my ovaries innocently behaving themselves (knowing I got a little gaspy at the mention of "ovary" and "mass" in the same sentence she made a point of finding them both for me...I had forgotten how much that hurts). 

Fast forward a year, and riddle me this: last year I had to wait five days for the ultrasound; this year they just popped me over to the special room. 

I had been warned to expect the thing to grow.  It amused me really, because it was like a race.  The fibroid would grow a little until I hit menopause and then it will shrink.  How big will it get until then? 

The goddamn thing doubled in a year.  Doubled! 

It's not causing me any problems at the moment except that now I look suspiciously at my abdomen a lot because...doubled!  And it wasn't that small last year!  It's sort of softball-ish now and I'm afraid of what will happen by next year.  And I blanched when she told me I probably have a good eleven years until menopause. 

She can take it out, but she'll do a hysterectomy, and suddenly I'm feeling very protective of the parts.  I had such a love/hate relationship with everything during the infertility years.  I mean, everything always seemed to be in working order, both a blessing (hurrah, it works!) and a curse (why the hell am I not getting pregnant????), but when called to action, the uterus performed valiantly.  I feel like it has earned its anatomical  place. 

Still, doubled. 

Side note of interest: she told me about this new technique for the hysterectomy that will have me up and about in one to three weeks.  Have you ever tried to keep a dog quiet twelve hours after a spay?  Seriously.  Dogs are the superior species. 

The rest of the story

I loved Peter, Paul and Mary as a child.  I was especially fascinated with Puff the Magic Dragon.  Over and over I listened to that song and anytime we were at some sing along type occasion where someone had a guitar (this happened frequently; daughter of a friend), I always made her sing it.  

+++

Many, many years later, I was watching the documentary Refrigerator Mothers and one of the men in it, a severely affected autistic adult was shown watching that technicolor Puff the Magic Dragon movie while his mother was being interviewed. 

Jackie Draper, locked in his wordless body.  Jesus, how did I miss that? 

+++

I saw the movie at a film festival with my older sister, who was friends with the woman who had made it.  This was a long time ago.  Long before Max.  Autism was just a word, a concept back then.  

I asked the filmmaker if she knew early on with her son.  Was everything fine at first and then her son regressed, like some of the mothers in the film?  Or did she know from the beginning?

She knew from the beginning, she said.  Her son would tense up and then he would scream. 

+++

"He screams."

Those were the words I first used out loud, in fact, thinking back to that conversation.  It was Max's four month appointment and I was already worried about something being just not right, so I said it to the pediatrician who was filling in while our regular doctor was on vacation.  The doctor paused briefly, repeated it back to me, and then moved on.  Despite the fact the behavior continued for almost two years, I never discussed that, specifically, again.  It was more than two years before I got angry enough to insist on a complete evaluation. 

+++

A couple of weeks ago, Max came home in a foul mood.  After stomping around and screaming at his sister and I, I sent him to his room to quiet his brain and told him he could rejoin us when he could speak calmly again.  A few minutes later I was putting some clothes away in Julia's room when I heard Max in his room, sobbing like I have seldom heard him sob before. 

No punishment has ever gotten that reaction out of him, and I wasn't even punishing him, just trying to get him to settle.  He's never even cried like that over the deaths of one of the animals.  I went to him. 

He was teased at school. 

It was minor, really.  These are six year olds and it was something dumb, but the kid hurt his feelings and he did it on purpose.  Max didn't need more than a hug, a reassurance from me and it was all better. 

+++

At the last meeting I related this story to the rest of the group.  The Teacher sort of threw up her hands and clucked and shook her head at the thought of Max's feelings getting hurt.  Everyone else waited for my response. 

I don't like my kid getting hurt in any way, physically or emotionally.  But...

...isn't this kind of the goal?

It's not the first time another kid has said something unkind to Max.  It was the first time he responded appropriately to it.  And maybe it's totally conjecture on my part, but it seems to me that if he understands that his feelings are hurt when others are unkind to him, then he can understand that he is capable of hurting others.  It's a step towards the elusive emotional connections I have been so worried about.  More Jackie Paper, less Jackie Draper. 

If I thought growing up was hard the first time around, I was wrong.  It's so much more painful to guide your kids through it. 

On both fronts

Here's how I gauge Max's day: by how chewed his shirt is at pick up.  I could use my statistical knowledge to chart this into a nice correlation.  More chewed = more stressed = more tantrums.  It's kind of fascinating, really.  Also, I should probably buy him some new shirts. 

This is where we are, after the most recent meeting.

Max has a fidget item that he keeps on The Teacher's desk.  He can use it when he needs it and she prompts him when she sees him going goat.  Sometimes he will take the item and sometimes just the prompting with extinguish the behavior.  Recently a boy in the class questioned Max about his shirt-chewing habits.  I was nearby and since the questions were friendly and curious, not mean, I stayed out of the conversation and let Max handle it.  But it seems the combination of having the item when needed plus the knowledge that we are all aware of his behavior has been enough to deal with the majority of the shirt chewing. 

Of course, that has done little for the tantrums.  I'm noticing less stimming.  Sometimes Max will stim on the walk home, but it's usually gone by the time we're home and I'm assuming that's related to the transition from school to home.  For the tantrums I've made Max a thermometer with colors, faces, and words to indicate his mood.  He can point to whatever he wants to indicate how he's feeling and then he chose three relaxation techniques.  We made a list of those nearby as a reminder so that when he's upset he can chose one of those he thinks would help and he can go to his room to calm down. 

He hit his sister today.  It's a work in progress. 

Drop off time is going significantly better.  I'm making an effort to get him there early enough to play for a bit before the bell rings and as long as that happens he's going into the classroom without a problem.  I'm making an effort?  I have no trouble getting out of the house on time.  I do not comprehend small creatures that hold up socks like they've never seen them before and stare at them for ten minutes.  And then bitch at me because we're not at the playground early enough. 

I've moved up my warning times for getting dressed, etc.  Let's say that.  We're mostly successful. 

....sock?....

Max is unoffically in a social skills group one morning a week and he has been enjoying it.  He's on task with all of the games they're playing, reaffirming that we were probably not wrong to drop the IEP, but he's enjoying the time with the smaller group of kids. 

Writing continues to be a major problem.  We came up with a few ideas and The Teacher has backed  way off a lot of her expectations (Max's spelling, though, is fantastic, which makes me very proud).  In the meantime, we're starting to work on touch typing with him with the expectation that we'll get him on a modified plan in a year or two so that he can predominently keyboard rather than write in the classroom. 

It was a mostly positive meeting.  I decided not to ask for another scheduled meeting, since I obviously will sound the alarm if I'm worried.  I'm looking forward to the end of the semester, though.  This has been a stressful one. 

As for the Goblin, I finally screwed up my courage and got on the phone with the school district about evaluating her for kindergarten.  To my tremendous delight I learned that the evaluation will take place next summer.  I was worried that it would be soon and she would bomb but then make all this progress, but apparently they have thought this all through.  We're on the list and will be contacted in May about setting up the evaluation.  The more time passes the more sure I am that kindergarten is going to be the right choice for her.  I'd forgotten until today that about a year ago, before the accident, Julia was evaluated for a longitudinal study and found at that time to be about a year ahead on all accounts.  She'll get there again. 

I'm feeling generally settled with everything.  We had a good Halloween.  Paul held us back to only three nights of trick-or-treating (my enthusiasm for this holiday knows no bounds; Paul is more measured).  Max was a diamondback rattlesnake.  Julia was a cat.  A particular cat from our clinic in fact, although I wasn't quite true to life (I wouldn't let her be a pregnant cat).  Paul's students dressed up as...Paul. 

It's been a pretty good couple of weeks. 

The Croup - Multiple Stories

The first time I heard about croup I was young.  Sitting upstairs in our TV room, watching Terms of Endearment on cable, and hearing Debra Winger tell the philandering husband that baby Melanie had "the croup."  Remember?  The older boy had it twice?  And the husband shrugged, and she said, "I guess you weren't alive then."  And it seemed like he was giving her points for a good, snappy comeback.  And then came the steam.  The steam seemed important so I filed that away.

^^^^

Years later, I was at a mom's group of some sort and a woman was talking about how her son kept getting croup even though they were supposed to stop getting it after about age five.  I hadn't known that, but I thought it was interesting.  Anyway, the whole experience sounded pretty miserable, and I was glad we had avoided it.

^^^^

About a year after that, we were at birthday party at a public park.  Paul and Max found a windchime hanging in a tree.  Twice a year a local group hangs the windchimes all over the city for people to find.  The group was started by the parents of a three year old boy who died.  Of croup. 

^^^^

Because of that, I ended up doing more research into croup (viral infection of larynx/trachea, can cause pronounced swelling of the airway, gets worse at night and frequently you end up in the ER getting steroids or epinephrine to reduce the airway swelling).  But by the age of about five or six the tissue is more mature and croup ends up just being a cold.  We had avoided the whole experience with Max and Julia had been pretty healthy since we had the ear tubes in last year.  If you ignore the broken leg, I mean. 

A couple of weeks ago we got a notice from her school that strep was going around.  Julia got a bit snuffly and I was just watching her.  You know when your kids are kind of like a ticking time bomb?  Either it's going to be a dud and it will pass quietly or it's going to explode in a mess of fevers and snot and you pretty much have to just wait it out to see what happens.  Eventually, Julia finally woke up with a bad cough and a sore throat.  I got her in to see the new pediatrician at our office.  I would have waited, but I thought it was strep. 

And no, it wasn't strep, she was pretty sure it was going to end up being croup based on how her larynx looked.  And then she tried to give her a flu vaccine, while she was sick, and since I think this new doctor is going to be the replacement for when my doctor retires, I'm now shopping pediatricians. 

The bad night came on Friday.  I don't know how to explain what stridor sounds like, but I could hear her struggling to get air into her chest (her chest, thankfully, was clear, and her color was good).  She was coughing so hard she was vomiting, which made her cry harder which made the whole thing worse. 

I took her into the bathroom and told her we'd stay in the steamy room until her throat cleared.  Or until I lost 20 pounds. 

She didn't get it, but she settled down, and her breathing calmed, and I relaxed enough to know that a day will come when we'll watch the movie together and she will finally get it.  Once she fell asleep, I lined up my shoes, wallet, keys, and phone just in case and then went to watch her breathe.  But by the next morning she was better. 

And good thing.  For a cat and a rattlesnake needed an adventure tonight.