Discipline, etc.

When I got home from work today, I was told by our trusty babysitter that apparently Playette showed her entire behind both at school all day and during her PT session.

My guess is that she was expressing her pisstivity that her dad has been away again. He's on his way home now (take that, crazies who may be lurking), but that didn't seem to be enough to keep her content throughout the day.

So. What to do. I was mad, sure, but how do I address this with her so long after it took place?

I mean, in my day, I would have been spanked from here to eternity for such behavior. My approach has been a little different. We do time outs. We have conversations. It feels strange since this isn't how I was raised, but I have been trying. Actually, we have been trying. BD is definitely a full partner in this entire endeavor.

In all honesty, Ds is not even a factor. We just do what we think is best to do. We certainly don't give her any leeway because of her diagnosis. This girl understands right from wrong and we hold her accountable for her actions. Typically, it pays off because she's a pretty well-behaved and ultra-polite kid most of the time.

Today, I asked her to join me on the bottom step and we had a little chat. I kept my voice even and calm and tried to recall tidbits I've learned from watching experts on TV. I told her that I was disappointed in her behavior and that she promised me that she would be a good girl at school. What she exhibited was the opposite of what we had agreed to and that made me angry.

She started baaawwwwling.

"Well," I thought, "It seems like she gets the point."

So I told her to stay on the step until I told her otherwise.

She lost it some more.

I called BD, who was sitting in an airport in NY. He chatted with her for a while.

In all, she might have sat on that step for slightly more than the customary four minutes.

But, trust me, this is progress in my world. I never expected to even entertain an approach like this.

So. Gold star for me.

=====

In other news, I hit the Dirty 30s today. I wish I meant my age, but I mean weeks of pregnancy.

=====

Also, we got the boot in gymnastics. Her last class will be next week. Apparently, I had the nerve to approach the teacher about her allowing another class to disrupt our class and she didn't like that. I'll have to elaborate more on that later. It really is a crop of crap, but I'd rather it be over than have to deal with the angst I was feeling each week. I could not have been nicer when I spoke with her, but she still decided to be offended for whatever reason. Why am I surrounded by wack-a-loons?

What sucks the most is that my conversation also impacts another child/family since the teacher didn't just cancel for Playette, she cancelled the class. Period. So now we have two cuties in hot pants and leotards with no plans for Wednesday nights.

We'll find them something better. Hmph.

But Wait, There's More

First, let me thank you all for your comments and support. If anything can make a crappy situation a little better, it's knowing that you have an army of peeps behind you.

**insert sanity break to Google images of fighting marshmallow chicks here**

Ok, I'm back.

In all seriousness, I am very grateful. I know for a fact that BD and I were not the only ones mulling over Friday's situation ad nauseum this past weekend. So many people wish the best for us and our little girl and knowing that you're out there makes such a difference.

All that said, you'll dig this.

Playette usually gets picked up at about 10:45 am.

At 9:15 this morning, the phone rang.

It was her bus driver.

I think my eyes rolled out of my head.

She started out by telling me that they wouldn't be able to pick up Playette anymore.

Wow! She's calling to tell me that she got fired! Bless those other parents that complained, and rightly so. Here I am thinking-thinking and they took immediate action. Good on...

"Yeah, we're not allowed to drive the bus in your neighborhood."

...them.

Wait. What?

"Someone complained about the bus coming into your neighborhood, so now you need to bring her to the main road to get picked up."

They can't be serious.

Instead of just about anything else I could have said, I heard myself ask, "So, just when do you expect to pick her up, exactly? On that main road?"

The reason I asked is because, well, I kinda never know when they're going to show up. It could be 10:30, maybe 11:05. Good thing we can stay inside, out of the elements, while we wait.

Oh. Not anymore, huh?

So, the SUPER MEGA ironic thing that hit me is that they are now trying to make me work harder for piss-poor service.

Hm.

Interesting.

This set into motion a chain of events that basically told the school, the transportation department, and my neighborhood to go eff themselves. They won't have me or my kid to mess around with anymore.

But, while that feels right, it also leaves me feeling like it's not enough.

I want someone to suffer.

For their incompetence, for their ineptitude, for their ridiculous lack of overall professionalism and common decency, someone should be made to look like the asses they're all behaving like.

Taking our bat and ball and moving to another field seems somewhat wimpy.

But don't get me wrong, what works for us is what works for us right now. And I'll surely find a way to get up on my soapbox. Trust.

There's just something about picking your battles.

How much time and energy do you choose to invest in each situation?

It truly has to happen before you can know.

I do want to say this though...

Bless the afternoon driver who was all, "No one told me not to drive in here. I'm bringing this baby right to her door!"

and

Bless my landlord, the complete antithesis to our former wack-a-loon in CA, who called me tonight all riled up and ready to defend our rights to her homeowner's association. She could not (unnecessarily) apologize enough and plans to embarrass them at the next meeting. She made me smile.

As do all of you.

This story isn't over.

By a long shot.

I drove my daughter to school today.

My daughter that loves riding the bus so very, very much.

And I'll keep doing it, ensuring that she never has to be tainted by those people ever again.

I can't protect her from everyone, but, dammit, that won't keep me from trying.

Dear Diary

Friday, 2 July 2010
Daycare says that Playette has been dry on multiple days. Please bring panties on Monday along with multiple changes of clothes in case of accidents.

Monday, 5 July 2010
Converted crib to toddler bed. Playette hates it because it is made of poison and spikes. We get lots less sleep. Slightly comical at times, but still.

Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Picked Playette up from daycare. Accident total = 3. Sigh. But it's only Day 1!
Playette refuses to go to bed. We try to wait her out. At over an hour past bedtime, she stops fighting enough to allow herself to have her back rubbed and patted until she falls asleep. Success!

Wednesday, 7 July 2010
Playette wakes at 0530 and comes into our room all, "Cockadoodledoo! It's time to get up!". Hey, wait. That's new and Not Cool.
Drop Playette off at daycare. Apparently, 3 accidents is 3 too many for Day 1. Teacher wants to go back to Pull-Ups. That, along with a couple of other irritating things, leads to me storming out of classroom like a toddler. Except I think the toddlers were embarrassed for me.

Stay tuned...

A Little Celebratory Therapy

On Thursday, I brought cupcakes to daycare for Playette's class.

No, wait.

Actually, what I brought was a box of cake mix and some frosting from the pantry.

Well, no, not quite.

I put that stuff on the counter and BD took it in when he dropped Playette off that morning.

Yay, me!

So as not to ruin my bid for Mother of the Year, we're not allowed to take in homemade items. We can only bring in pre-packaged things and then everything gets made at the daycare. Something about protection from allergies. Which is totally ok with me because they use that as an opportunity to have the kids participate. And it's So Stinkin' Cute. Check out how awesome they make cupcake making sound.


You totally want to make that an IEP goal now, don't you?

I went up to the daycare at snack time and got to see it all unfold. When I left, the teacher handed me this poster. Much appreciated.


The funniest part, well aside from being tagged by one of the teachers as being a kid stalker and being chased down by the director before she realized it was me because I was walking around the courtyard in my work clothes with a camera around my neck while waiting for the cupcakes to be ready, was seeing how they plated the treats for the kids. Everyone got a cupcake...aaaaand a spoonful of icing.


Awesome. They are totally on to something with that.

(Un)fortunately, I had to head back to work and Playette stayed behind a little while longer. Fourteen 2-3 year-olds on spoonfuls of frosting?


Bless them.

And ha!

The Other PT

Or do you prefer TL? Playette's daycare does.

They're all, "We don't say 'potty training' because we feel that it gives the wrong impression. 'Toilet learning' is preferred."

Well, alrighty then. Whatever gets my kid outta dipes.

So.

Lisa was talking about it.

Ds New Mama wass talking about it.

Figured I'd jump on the bandwagon.

I've been learning quite a bit from reading about other people's experiences. In fact, Lisa gave me the term that I think best describes where Playette is currently: schedule trained. And the way we got her there is not too unlike what Ds New Mama is doing with her daughter. Except all I really know about Elimination Communication is that when Playette stops what she's doing and makes the silent grunt face, we know she's eliminatin'. I'm not sure how people catch a child pre-urine. We just seem to get lucky (sometimes) with that part.

Anyway, going back to the beginning, BD started putting Playette on the potty 1x/day (right after dinner) last year. I think I was away on reserve duty so it was May and she was about 22 months old. Since then, she's done awesome and will sometimes alert us to her needs by signing potty/toilet (we say potty with her). She is becoming more and more routine-oriented in many facets of her life, so it's no surprise to us that her post-dinner trip to the potty is the most reliable. Some people have a mint. Playette chooses to cleanse her palette a little differently.

When we addressed what we were doing at home with regard to making the transition from diapers to underwear at Playette's IFSP meeting in July, we got a lot of this:


Ah, blank stares to the sounds of crickets chirping.

Gotta love a good IFSP meeting.

If you've never been to one, feel free to join one of mine any time you want. If you're not stressed out at the end, you're bored to tears. Awesome.

So. Once our "team" came to, there was a lot of stammering which essentially resulted in zero support outside of the home (she's in daycare full-time) until about 6 weeks ago.

In the meantime, we continued with the post-dinner trips and then, one day a few months ago after a trip to Ikea, we upped the ante.

Not able to resist a deal, we bought 2 of these colorful pots at $0.99 each. One for the trunk of the car and one for the upstairs bathroom right next to her room. So with those and the cushy one we'd been using downstairs and the cute little mini-toilets at daycare (I don't know what I said differently one day, but they finally caught on and started offering her the toilet), we started seeing some more progress.

While this has been a long road, it really hasn't been a stressful one. We've taken it verrrry slowly. No pressure.

Sure, we get frustrated when she doesn't ask to go and instead we're alerted by a strange smell in the room. Who wouldn't?

But we enjoy the heck out of the successes. Two weeks ago, when we were out to brunch on Easter, she signed potty at the table and actually meant it. I'm telling you, this little girl is better than me with the whole using a public bathroom thing.

Do I think that she'd be rocking some Dora drawers by now if she were typically developing? I sure do. But she's not and it's just going to take longer. We're ok with that. In fact, good or bad, I never really expected her to be out of diapers by age 3. I mean, when we moved to CA, I learned that diaper reimbursement was available essentially once a child was out of the early intervention program and I figured that's just the way things were. It was going to happen later and that was that. I've seen some really bright kids make the transition later for varying reasons. They all get it eventually and it's so not a race.

Honestly, now what I fear is that we've simply given her options. Diaper, pull-up, or potty? I don't think she minds where she pees so eventually we just need to bite the bullet and give panties a try. Scary thought.

But, our weather isn't very conducive to the run around nekkid approach, so I can't say that we really know how to take the next step anyway.

So we wait. And cheer when there's #1 and #2 in the pot. We dance (our own unique dances). We wash hands and then we play. Until the next time we see the silent grunt face. At which time we grab her and run.

We're totally winging it.

I welcome any and all feedback.

Words

I've been posting a lot of pictures lately, but not doing a lot of writing. I actually enjoy writing so I figured I'd give it a try today.

Things have been going fine at our house. We keep busy, which is good for the most part. The next few weeks will be more of the same, with a few special surprises thrown in that I'm looking forward to sharing soon.

For today, though, I feel like exploring Playette's Daycare Experience.

Someone asked me the other day about her classroom setting and how she relates to her peers. It's a very interesting topic, apparently, to people who don't have children with special needs. Those of us that do, well, sure, it's interesting, but it's also a major PITA sometimes because we're the ones working diligently behind-the-scenes to make our children's placement look effortless. There's a lot of thought and consideration put into trying to figure out where and when and who and why and, most of all, how.

Currently, Playette is "fully included" in a typical toddler room setting. Her peers are other 2-3 year-olds, most of whom do not have Individualized Family Service Plans (IFSPs). I think one other kid in there gets speech services, but I don't really have a need to know that information so no one has come out and told me that, which is fine by me. That tells me that they're not going out and telling other parents stuff about my kid either. And I like that.

So.

In her classroom, Playette, well, she plays. She reads, she sings, she dances. She takes things down, she puts things up. She pretends and she communicates.

She goes into the room each day, takes off her coat (with some assistance), walks over to the sink, and washes her hands. That's what all of the children are required to do and she is no exception. This routine started back when she was in the baby room and we had to hold her above the sink and wash her hands for her. That was two years ago. Now, she turns the water on, pumps the soap foam into her hands from the container on the wall, rubs her hands together, rinses, pulls the lever on the towel dispenser, rips off what she needs, dries her hands, and throws away the used paper towel.

Awesome.

It only takes a minute to complete, but when you lay out all of the steps like that, it's hard not to feel proud.

One goal, I think, of having her where she is right now is to get certain things to become second-nature, to expend less effort on certain behaviors.

One day a few months ago (woo, time flies!), I was there in the classroom for lunch. I was able to witness how when the children were done eating, everyone got up with their plates, took them to the trash, dumped the waste items, put the plates in a bin, washed their hands, and went to lay down on their cots for a nap.

Wow.

I mean. Wow.

I was so impressed. There was my little girl, doing the same things as everyone else. No hesitation and full of confidence.

Now, of course I realize that she still exhibits delays in her development. I know that now and always will. But I think there's something to be said for keeping expectations appropriately high. I mean, even with me, I notice that I sometimes get a little too excited about things she does. And when I stop to think about it, I realize that maybe I thought she wouldn't be able to do such things.

*gasp*

Me? Her mother? Underestimating her?

Well, shoot, I'm not perfect. Nor have I ever claimed to be. Enlightened by force, maybe, but I still have a long way to go. I get just as irritated with myself for such behaviors as I do with other people I meet, especially therapists and medical professionals.

But you know I have less grace with them, right? They should know better. Me? I'm just a newbie.

I just want my kid to be given chances to prove people wrong.

This girl is smart, y'all. Really.

She doesn't speak, but she signs more than I can understand. She picks things up quickly. She constantly has conversations through babbling that utilize inflection and even humor.

You gotta appreciate a two-year-old with a fake laugh.

More than anything she tries. Very hard.

And that's why me and my fellow parent peeps work equally as hard to give our kids the opportunities they deserve.

It's all about having options, y'know?

So, anyway, when you put Playette up against her classmates, what differences might an outsider notice?

- Well, she still wears a bib (hate!) because she's the only one still actively teething and, thus, is a drool monster, which doesn't work well when it's cold and her two shirts are soaked through. So, yeah, a bib. (that issue deserves its own post)

- She's tied for last place in the height department.

- She's a slower runner.

Aside from the bib thing? Well, that's pretty much me, too, so whatever.

RISE

Early this year, I read a book by Gene Stallings, famed former football coach of the University of Alabama.

It was through that book that I learned about the RISE program, started in 1974 to offer services like PT, OT, ST, and music therapy to young children with varying diagnoses or suspected disabilities.

I thought it was pretty cool and recall, at the time, wishing that we had a program like that for Playette to thrive in.

Fast forward to our last IFSP meeting. There I was, shocked that so many people were in attendance at our little ole meeting about a not-even-two-year-old. The Service Blocker, her boss, the person in charge of local Special Education issues, the OT, PT, a random ST I'd never met before, the Psychologist and...wait. Who invited the daycare director and this other lady who looks vaguely familiar?

Oh, I was angry to say the least. Before it actually took place, I joked about needing the Staples Center to hold everyone, but I didn't realize then how right I was. It reminded me of our 30 guest wedding that somehow more than double in size. Neither was our choice.

Anyway, so there was one good thing that came of that meeting. As we went around the table for introductions, I was introduced to the vaguely familiar Ms. K. She was to be Playette's new teacher in the toddler room.

She told me then that she used to work at RISE in Alabama.

And I was thrilled.

Since then, Playette has, in fact, thrived in her new environment. Sure, I sometimes have thoughts of checking the IDs of some of the two-year-olds because they just tower over my baby, but it's working out great. She's holding her own.

And I just felt like sharing.

The Culprit

After forcing the daycare to peruse photos of our child's excrement, we now know the origin of NotLarvae.

It's been banned from the classroom since some kids ate it and others preferred to shove it up their noses.

So much for a cool art project.

Ok, now it's funny.

That completely crazy, totally "these kinds of things always happen to me" kind of story...

Yeesh. I need to type this out, huh?

Leave it to me to dangle a story and not get around to wrapping it up for over a week.

Picture it: Our house, late July, 2009.

I'm feeling pretty good about things. BD has been gone for several days and Playette is still in one piece.

I woke up on Monday morning and took her in to daycare. My plan was to have her there for a few hours so that I could finish packing and also make sure that the house was in decent shape for BD's return the next night. Admittedly, we have different standards, so there were a few things to pick up. Just a few.

The dishes were clean and put away. The laundry was dry. Some was folded. None was put away.

What kind of superhero do you take me for?!

Goal: Leave the house at 11, pick up Playette at 11:15, flight departs at 12:24.

I was on time and so proud of myself.

I should have known it was too good to last.

See, when I picked Playette up, she was in summer attire for here - long pants and one of those waffle-longjohn shirts. Apparently, in the few hours since I'd dropped her off, she had warranted a change of clothes. For one, this wouldn't work because, well, it wasn't cute and we were going to see family. Second, Phoenix was twice the temperature of home, so I didn't want the poor baby to pass out.

"Never mind," I thought, "there's plenty of time on our direct flight to get her changed and gussied up."

So, I put her in the car seat. *click click click*

What was that?

Hm, nothing.

I tossed the keys in the front seat.

Closed the door.

Walked around to the driver's side.

Lifted the handle.

And nothing happened.

I lifted the handle again. And again. And again. And again.

Nothing.

I ran around the truck and tried them all, including the trunk and the hood. (Why the hood? Who knows.)

Nothing.

Well, crap.

And then it hit me.

The *click click click* was the sound of me hitting the LOCK DOOR button as I struggled to get a wiggling Playette into her carseat.

*click click click*
*click click click*
*click click click*

I just kept hearing it.

But I kept cool. I mean, it's a daycare center. People must do this all the time, right?

Some of the time, then?

At least one other time?!

They'll get a chuckle out of it, but the problem will be resolved immediately.

Not so much.

They wanted to call 911.

Really?

I mean, I'm from a place where you just don't call 911. That's for blood and stuff. Not for Playette locked in a car when it's 60 degrees out.

But, apparently no one had a better solution so 911 it was.

Now I'm embarrassed.

I was assured that the town's emergency service would respond, not the military's.

WRONG.

The MPs came and immediately wanted to bust out the windows.

Really? Right away?

Well, they didn't have a slim jim, but they did have a window breaker that they were itching to use.

Hm. I would have brought a slim jim. Just saying.

Plus, when I gave them approval to wait on the window busting, they gave me the "threat of calling CPS look" and then sought supervisor approval. Then they asked me if I had a hanger. Or a spare key.

Finally, I ask if they wouldn't mind just busting out one of the smaller triangle-shaped windows. I then got the look again. And the supervisor got another call because this time I was putting my child in harms way due to the potential flyaway glass situation.

I just couldn't win with these guys.

Thankfully, it was at this point that the firetruck came. WHEE!

At least it was the middle of the day and most people weren't dropping their kids off or picking them up because, wow, that thing blocked the entrance and the exit to the parking lot.

Luckily, the blocking wouldn't be for long because *du-du-du-duuuhhhh* they had a slim jim.

A few minutes later, Playette was "saved." Because really? She was fine. She was laughing at all of the commotion.

I'm kicking myself that I didn't take pictures, but, you know, my camera and cell phone were locked in the car.

Anyway, so I thanked my heros and rushed to leave. I still had a flight to catch!

One of the ladies at the center offered to drive us to the airport so that I wouldn't have to waste time parking and hauling everything back to the terminal. BD could come and pick up the truck when he got back. I accepted her kind offer and was ready to go until the original first responders decided that they needed to interview me.

Really?

Name. No, full name. Social. Husband's name, rank, social. Kid's name. Date of birth. Address. Place of birth. Explanation of what happened. Again. Sigh.

I'm irritated, but, at this point, I still think we'll be ok. The airport is pretty close.

We pull up and race inside. We made it. I exhaled. The lady behind the counter leaves. Hm, maybe she needed something from the back. We wait. And then I noticed the sign.

Counter closes at 11:54 am.
Personnel will return after flight departure.

It's 11:55.

We missed the flight.

Are you kidding me?

Now what?

Crying sounded good. So I did that. I also asked if security would ask if anyone at the gate would be willing to come back and help us. (It's a small airport. The gate was right-><-there.)

No luck.

Back to crying.

Eventually, I was able to rebook on another airline, with an additional stop. But at least it would get me there in time for work the next morning. Ugh.

That two hour flight turned into a 7.5 hour ordeal.

We made it there and back safe and sound though, so there's that. I always get those weird Final Destination kinds of feelings whenever we switch flights.

Anyway.

Next up: Conference recap.

Nah, but that's what lt I was thinking.

There was a comedian from back in the day who used that line in his act all the time. I was reminded of that the other day.

Let me set the scene:

It's school photo pickup day at daycare and I take a break from work and to run over to make my selections. BD was picking Playette up at around the same time so that he could take her to ST, but he politely declined from taking on the task of picking pictures. He's a smart man.

Anyway, so there's this long table in the room. The photo hustlers ask you your child's name and then bring a packet over to you filled with $8,794 worth of photos for you to choose from, along with a price sheet that is more confusing than it needs to be so that they can get you appropriately loopy and stick you for your papers.

I remembered when these photos were taken a few weeks ago and I was prepared to be unimpressed at at least and get a good laugh out of it at best. I had done Playette's hair up that morning and dressed her nicely, full well knowing that her outfit would be ruined by breakfast and her hair wouldn't be far behind. I packed a second nice outfit, but told her provider that I had low expectations and not to go out of her way to try and make my child look "perfect."

I remember being a kid and getting yelled at for my barrette not being turned the right way in my second grade picture, being forced to wear a horribly uncomfortable party dress in my third grade portrait that was taken at the end of the day (after recess) and getting in trouble for messing that one up, and then failing miserably at trying to recreate my seventh grade picture without my mother knowing because I knew she wouldn't like the way the original one turned out.

So, yeah, I was trying to be very relaxed about the whole thing because I know I'm prone to Picture Day Psychosis.

Gosh, I have a hard time telling a quick story, don't I?

Anyway...

I'm looking at the pictures that they displayed for me.

Aww, they're kinda cute! And I did laugh. In one, she's super posey and reminds me of something I've seen before.

As I'm going back and forth, trying to make a decision, keeping in mind that I really don't want to spend a fortune on this, another mother walks up. I know her face, but I can't remember from where. When her photos are brought over, I realize that she's the mom of the little boy that loves Playette. I mean loves.

He gets excited to see her every morning and gives her lots of hugs. I don't know what it is. He's bigger than Playette too, and I don't think he realizes that he's a lot stronger and more stable on his feet than she is. Regardless, I know he means no harm and it's cute so I let them have their moments even though...hm.

Well, so this nosey mom glances over at Playette's photos and goes:

"She's all tongue, isn't she?"

WHA?!

Who says that?

So, I'm all:

"Well, at least she doesn't have scabies."

...
...
...


Ok, so I didn't.

But that's what I was thinking.

What I really said was:

"Yup, tongue and drool."

And I was ok. Which is great. For me.

Sure I thought she was rude and classless, but I didn't take it to heart. I honestly have shed no tears over this incident. Yay, me!

So my daughter has a small mouth and therefore her tongue protrudes. We're working on it and one day it won't. Do I wish that people would shut up about it already? Sure, I do. But I can't control their lack of home training. Seriously? This comment comes up all the time. I think people think it's cute? Or something?

I give most folks the benefit of the doubt. They can't possibly know how much it bugs me.

Of course, when it came to this lady, I still had the option of breaking it down to her about Ds (I'm guessing, hoping, that she had no idea of Playette's dx when she said what she did) and making her feel really, really small. I would have been totally within my rights to do so, I think. I just didn't feel like it at that particular time.

One day, I hope to be one of those people that can educate and not just react in an emotional manner, whether it's actual or just in my head. But I never really know what I'm going to do until it happens these days. I'm a little stressed by life in general right now and taking the time to educate the masses in situations such as this is so not on my to-do list.

Sure I have my soapbox issues. But that's my choice, which is what I think is the difference. I can write a post or a letter on my time and I'm typically not being blindsided by ignorance in the midst of it.

...
...
...

And, yes, someone in that room did have scabies a few weeks ago. All I know for sure is it wasn't my kid. And I was disgusted.

I've narrowed the carrier down though, so let's just hope that mom doesn't mess with me again.