« July 2005 | Main | September 2005 »

August 29, 2005

Brother Karianna

I read Mother GooseMouse’s post from last night which referenced Meghan’s from a couple months ago. Both discussed regrettable experiences in Sororities. Rather than clog up their comments with a long missive, I’ll write my thoughts here:

I was part of a Greek organization in college. It wasn't Pepto-Bismol pink, nor were there guilt trips for not attending every single social event or not participating in competition with other Greek houses. Admission wasn’t “exclusive” in the must-have-the-right-fashions sort of way. Rather, it was a self-selecting group: if people enjoyed the rush events, they would probably enjoy the house as a whole; if they didn’t mesh with people at Rush, then they wouldn’t show up to other events, and therefore would take themselves out of the process.

I got lucky and found a group of writers, scientists, and musicians who had their social moments and their study moments. Oh, and we were a co-ed house. So the things one would expect on extreme ends of the gender spectrum from a stereotypical Greek house were lessened.

Although there were certainly some rich folks, there were modified dues for people who were on financial aid. Nobody but the Treasurer knew who was paying what.

We didn't look down on people for skipping events to study (although the saying was, "When you look back at this night, will you remember being with your friends, or being in the library?") Sometimes I chose the event, sometimes I chose studying.

If anything, knowing an event was coming would make me better prepared in my study habits so that I could get a "break" when the social time happened. It was a nice balance.

In my experiences, being a part of that group allowed me social and academic support that I don't think that I would have received otherwise.

No, not everyone was happy. No, we didn't get along all the time. (There were some impressive yelling fights!) But the majority of the members got "something" out of it. Sure, we have our jokes about people who pledged, then “disappeared,” but I think people figured those had joined only to get housing, or found out the house wasn’t what they expected.

Members of the house also had friends outside of the house: through band, religious organizations, a cappella groups, and other extra-curricular activities. Frequently, some of these friends of friends would later Rush, but even if they didn’t, the friendships remained.

When I see publicity surrounding movies and books that go "undercover" at Greek organizations and "reveal" horrific pledging activities, I am saddened that some people who may have otherwise considered a fraternity or sorority may pass out of fear that all organizations are like that.

On the other hand, our society was filled with people who didn’t think they would ever pledge a Greek House, and that may have been why it was so successful.

Still, when I reveal that I am an adult Governor of the Society and that many of my best friends are people who were in my organization, the eyes roll and the assumptions fly.

I assure you that not all organizations are like Mother Goosemouse or Meghan describe. I guess I got lucky! I wish they had, because they seem like down-to-earth, fun people who may have really enjoyed the place I joined.

No house can be “perfect” for everyone. Fortunately, the house I found ended up being exactly what I needed. (And I met my husband through it!)

I will now go sacrifice a chicken in penance for discussing the Society in public. Oooba-Doooba!

Posted by karianna at 08:12 AM | Comments (7)

August 28, 2005

Effortless

Now that I have admitted my weakness for musicals, I will admit another little tidbit: I watch “So You Think You Can Dance?”

It is a silly name. When I first heard of the show, I doubted that it would be any good. Sure, I am an “American Idol” fan, but I didn’t think they could do it with dance.

I have been very surprised. There is a level of respect present that I didn’t anticipate. The attention to different dance styles and recognition that to be a good dancer, one must be flexible in method has impressed me. The dancers themselves have blown me away.

I expected a bunch of fast-moving, tricked out kids who were talented but not necessarily “trained.” Although some of the contestants did start from a less traditional background, their talent has proved them to be exceptional. (For example, Ryan the amazing breakdancer has proven himself to be more than tricks.)

Instead of being a show about “club dancing” as I had anticipated, this is a show about “real” dancers: those who have rhythm, can learn choreography, can freestyle, and can rein in technique. Just as “American Idol” was looking for a “triple threat,” this dance show is looking for a true dancer, not just someone who has a few terrific moves.

Typically, I am quite critical of other dancers. I know what good technique looks like, at least for lyrical jazz and tap. I remember I was a bit put off during Fosse when I saw that one dancer didn’t quite “get it,” but the Playbill had said that she had done a tremendous amount of research on Bob Fosse. Too bad the research didn’t translate to her movements. But on SYTYCD, many of the kids are phenomenal.

I have my favorites, and they are those who truly make dancing seem effortless. They have fluidity and weightlessness, jumping to enormous heights without straining, then landing without a sound. They can twirl in uniform time without bobbing. For example, Blake might have been cocky during the initial audition process, but his dancing makes me catch my breath. Melody and Ashle have the beautiful strength and flexibility that I wish I had at my peak. I sometimes felt weightless and able to command my body to move without thinking about each step, but I never attained perfection as some of these contestants seem to have. Once in awhile, I felt as though I could fly. These contestants appear to do it every day.

Posted by karianna at 09:28 PM | Comments (0)

Wicked Magic

I am a big sucker for sappy serenades, tippy-toes tapping, and cheesy courtships. My eyes brim with tears on cue at the pinnacle of a swell. My chest fills as I forget to breathe, I clutch my Playbill, and I am empowered. I sit a bit taller. I sing in my head the lyrics I know so well, occasionally moving my lips, but not making a sound. I am manipulated exactly as the director and composer wish me to be as an audience member.

Musicals are my magic. I am transported into the fantasy world portrayed by lights, fancy costumes, and the score that will forever conjure my mind’s snapshots of the stage.

Today’s treat was Wicked. It was the first time I had seen it, though my iPod had told me the story many times before. I read Gregory Maguire’s book upon which the musical was based, so I understood what was going on from a slightly different perspective than guests who hadn’t read the book. There are obvious changes in the plot and execution of the musical as compared to the book, but the new twists were welcomed. I anticipate reading the book again, as well as the sequel coming out October 1st: “Son of a Witch.”

I arrived exactly when the doors opened to the theater and was in my seat plenty of time before the curtain rose. The lady in back of me was talking loudly about how she had no clue about what was going to happen, and why don’t they print a “Sigh-nop-SIS” like they do in L.A.? And who is this character “E-la-FAB-la?” Thankfully, she was quiet during the actual performance.

Cameras are forbidden, of course, but as people were taking photos during intermission of each other, I figured it was OK to quickly take a shot of the curtain with my camera-phone. The curtain is the map that starts Maguire’s novel.

At times, I found myself fighting back tears of excitation. Surprisingly, the gentleman next to me was frequently wiping the corners of his eyes. Was he as moved as I was?

Musicals are cheesy. Lame. Stupid. That’s what a lot of people think. But I really get into them!

I think part of my love of musicals is a wistfulness in which I picture myself on the stage. I don’t want the cheers or adoration, per se. But I would like to immerse myself in the fantasy land. For 15 years, I took dance lessons. For 10 of those years, I was a member of at least one “performing division,” and usually two. I competed at Dance Masters of America and other contests, and performed at places like the 1988 World Expo in Brisbane, Australia. My favorite experiences were at our local theater, a beautiful art-deco space of dark blue walls painted with sparkly astrological signs. That theater felt like “home” to me. Performing gave me a warm feeling. One of my favorite authors as a teenager, Karen Strickler Dean, had described this feeling in one of her dancing protagonists as “my summer wind.” I identified with that description. Something stirs within me when I dance.

During the dark post-partum period after the Cat was born, my husband sent me to Rent and Fosse as a break from nursing woes and our inconsolable crier. I remember being simultaneously moved and scared. I was guilty to be enjoying myself when I knew I had such a huge responsibility waiting for me at home, but I was grateful for the break. At a time when it seemed as though nothing could cheer me up, being present at those musicals stirred hope within me. I could remember my days as a dancer. I realized that becoming a mother didn’t mean that I couldn’t experience the joy of the theater. For those brief moments, I could immerse myself in fantasy and let the music stir my memories.

I miss New York. I miss being able to simply walk down to Broadway and see a show. The moments that I have caught touring companies out here in California have been purely delicious.

This afternoon, I turned up the soundtrack and danced around the house. I attempted pirouettes that were a bit off balance, and performed high kicks that I will probably feel in the morning. But my performance for my cat made me smile and cry all at once.

Sure, I am an old sap, but I am surely a happy one tonight!

(Yeah, I am looking forward to Rent: The Movie! Although nothing compares to an in-person experience, of course.)

Posted by karianna at 09:04 PM | Comments (5)

August 27, 2005

A Fine Day for Croquet

We are taking advantage of the last days of summer by remaining outside into the evening. Tonight we visited my parents, where the Cat learned (sort of) to play croquet. Spliggle watched and ate.

Click on the photograph to go to Flickr to see more...

Posted by karianna at 09:28 PM | Comments (0)

August 26, 2005

Fishy Stories

They are back safely!

I have posted on Flickr the wonderful photographs that my husband and father took during the boys' trip to the aquarium whilst I had my day of relaxation.

Apparently, they all had a blast. Spliggle really enjoyed the fish, of course wanting to touch them. The Cat appreciated the park nearby, which contained a train and some "tracks" to follow.

For my husband, however, a favorite moment came during the trip to the Ghiradelli ice cream shop. Everyone but my mother ordered vanilla ice cream with hot fudge. She selected mint chocolate chip.

Husband likes to tease me when I do things identically to my mother. So he gleefully told me that he now understood why my favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip.

Posted by karianna at 09:48 PM | Comments (2)

Bleachin' My Way to the Eighties

I am not a crafty person. In some ways, I would like to be. I make my kids birthday party invitations myself and do little cutsey favors and such. But I am not one of those heavy-hitters who goes to Michael's every weekend.

I just learned to knit last year and have enjoyed making lots of scarves. Of course, I live in California, where nobody needs scarves. I am about a quarter of the way through a sweater project. For Winter 2007, maybe?

But I have gotten inspired by The Cut, Wickedly Perfect, Project Runway, and other shows where contestants pull things out of their asses. So I decided to bleach mine!

I've seen those amazing Rock & Republic and other designer denim brands with the rips and the bleach and the crystals. But $275.00?

I had a pair of boring dark blue jeans that had acquired holes in the knees from working at the Cat's cooperative preschool (the one he got kicked out of; not the one he attends now.) They used to be "prim and proper" type denim, so the holes made them look "off." As a result, they have been set aside for a few years.

But I decided that I wanted to try an experiment in tie-dye bleach. I had nothing to lose.

Plus, it made a terrific project to do with the Cat while Spliggle took a nap yesterday. The Cat was angry at me for defacing the jeans. He saw me bundling them up with rubber bands and complained: “Not acceptable. That is why Daddy is going to get really, really mean.” He insisted that I call Daddy to ask permission. (Since when does he believe that Daddy is the ultimate authority? Pout.)

Click on the photograph for more pictures of the result:

It is definitely reminiscent of the whole acid-washed 80’s. I am not a rock star grrrl, and I do not wear tie-dye. But I thought that having a blend of blues and white on the bottom might end up being kinda cool. I figure I’ll pair them with a really conservative cable knit sweater or something so that I don’t look too “out there.” I searched for some slouchy-ankle boots, because I think that might work with this “look.”

Either that, or I will resign myself to the fact that they look eighties and maybe I shouldn’t be wearing something that was in fashion when my hair resembled a satellite dish.

But it was a fun project!

Posted by karianna at 07:38 PM | Comments (0)

Day of Relaxation

All summer our family has intended to take an excursion with my parents to an aquarium three hours away. Finally, we coordinated our schedules, and a date was set!

Two days ago, my mom suggested that perhaps I skip the trip, and instead have an entire day without kid-responsibilities.

I thought about it for a bit. After all, I was looking forward to going to the aquarium. It would be a nice family activity, and the photo-taking opportunities would be fantastic. But having some “me” time won out!

Today was that day!

Of course, no day of relaxation can begin in a relaxing mood. That just wouldn’t be right! I was awakened to Spliggle’s orations from the other room. He smelled a bit off, so I bathed him. Mmmm. Yummy Johnson’s Baby Shampoo smell.

I brought him downstairs and started to make the kids’ lunches. Less than a minute later, Spliggle was covered in my husband’s Diet Coke. Ooops!

Back upstairs. Another quick bath. New clothes.

Back to the kitchen, I continued making the lunches and ensuring each boy had enough milk to get them through the day. The camera was charged and packed. Extra diapers and wipes were stowed. Random particles in the van were cleaned. Stroller – check. The Cat’s shoes – check.

Meanwhile, the Cat was being nasty. Spliggle was getting into his trains. Spliggle was walking the wrong way. Spliggle had to go play with something that wasn’t green. I took Spliggle upstairs. No! Spliggle has to be downstairs, or the Cat has to be upstairs. The Cat just couldn’t stop pestering his little brother. He said he didn’t want to get his clothes on. He didn’t want to go to the aquarium, even though it was with his favorite people in the world – Grandma and Grandpa.

We realized he was nervous that I wouldn’t be with him. This was a surprise to me, since he constantly complains that Daddy isn’t around, and Go Away Mommy! On occasion, he’ll snuggle with me, but typically Daddy is the one who gets the attention. Daddy reads the bedtime story every night.

Last night, the Cat requested that Mommy read the bedtime story. We had told him earlier about today’s plans, so he apparently was already mulling over the concept that I wouldn’t be with him. Husband told me that he had mentioned something about someone getting lost. Maybe he thought he was losing me.

It is flattering, but surprising, too.

We knew that once he saw his grandparents, he would probably forget about my absence, but in the meantime, we had a scared misbehaving boy.

Time for them to go!

He poured milk on Spliggle’s head.

Back upstairs. This time, I just sponged off his head. I told Husband to tell my mother that even though he has a sticky head, he was bathed and I attempt to keep my son clean.

Time for them to go!

“Oh, where are Spliggle’s shoes?” my husband asked.

Um. Yeah. That. Hmm. The whole purchasing-shoes-for-Spliggle is an errand that had been pushed around a lot. It is hard enough to purchase shoes for the Cat, much less have the Cat in that environment while Spliggle gets some. (On the other hand, maybe if the younger brother gets it, the older brother will want it. Hmmm. Maybe I will try that.)

My husband was stunned that our youngest son didn’t own shoes.

“Um. I will go upstairs and see if I can find something that will work.” I stuffed some of the Cat’s old sandals onto Spliggle’s large feet. He toddled around, falling every few steps.

Well it is a start. We’ll go get some “real” shoes in time for school starting in a couple weeks.

Time for them to go!

Husband came back a few minutes later – he forgot the directions to the place. But he had the membership cards. So that is good.

Time for them to go!

I had scheduled a pedicure and brow-waxing appointment for 10:30. I didn’t have quite as much time as I would have liked to get ready. (What was I thinking with a 10:30 appointment? I should have done it for the afternoon so I could have gone back to bed!) Nonetheless, I threw something together (got to look semi-hot for going to the spa, but not impede the services being done.)

Darn. I forgot to get cash earlier.

I headed towards the only drive-through ATM in the area, which is a bit out of the way. I forgot that I could do a walk-up because I don’t have kids in the car to be fried or stolen. That ATM was broken. I realized I was free to do a walk-up, so drove to another bank across the street. A strange guy was there, but he had a bank uniform so I guess he was a security guard. I got my money and ran.

Yesterday I had a doctor’s appointment* about the left-side pain / cyst, so Daddy took the kids to the park using the van. When I had Husband’s car, I thought about filling it up since I saw it had only about a quarter-tank left. But, I decided that he would probably want me to come get the kids so he could go to work, so I instead went straight to the park to meet up with him. He’ll fill it up on his way home, I figured.

But it was at a quarter of a tank when I started it this morning. After going down the street to the end of our neighborhood, it had jumped down to an eighth of a tank. I started to panic a little bit, but figured there would be enough there to get me to the spa. Nonetheless, I turned the A/C down and tried to coast as much as possible. I am sure these actions had a negligible effect.

The last stoplight before the spa was very long. I could hear the gas being eaten. I approached the parking garage to discover that men on ladders were blocking the entrance. Painting. So I drove around to the back entrance. Is that a monthly-pass entrance only? No, but the sun was hitting the area in such a way that I found it difficult to descend into the garage (it looped downwards). I hoped I wouldn’t hit the wall. I didn’t.

Whew! I arrived to my appointment 10 minutes late, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Eyebrow lady indicated I had waited a bit too long between appointments. Bad me.

Pedicure lady was thankfully quiet today. Sometimes I like the chit-chat, but today I wanted to just relax. It was nice. I thought about ordering some champagne or something, but decided in the end to just sip some lemon-water.

I went for blue toes!

The next part of my day was a series of errands, the first of which was filling the gas tank. I wanted to combine “relaxation” with “productivity” so that I could feel good about the day as a whole.

One errand involved going to my parents’ house. I thought about grabbing a deli sandwich, then eating it at my parents’ house, as I usually do when I have the kids. They play, I eat. No, I decided. One of Noah’s Bagels' incredibly yummy Portobello mushroom bagel dogs would be a good lunch. That would be nice.

Wait. I could eat it there!

Oh.

I realized something Much Better.

I could eat sushi!

Husband dislikes sushi. The kids aren’t yet ready for in-restaurant dining. This was my Big Chance.

It was a little odd being a single-diner. But I enjoyed my food wholeheartedly. Food critics use terms like “symphony of flavors,” and this was that. I had one roll that was spicy, but had a honey sauce on it. I hate honey, but in this context, the sweet juxtaposed the spicy perfectly. It truly was a “symphony” as a single ingredient could not be pulled out of the incredible mesh of flavors. The balance was exquisite. Nothing overpowered anything else.

The presentation was phenomenal, too. Alas, I had only my camera phone with me, and I didn’t think to take a photo until I was halfway done with my first roll. Plus, I didn’t want to seem so conspicuous, so I whipped out the camera, snapped, and threw it in my purse.

When I was almost done, a mom and her two girls aged around 3 and 5 came into the restaurant. The girls immediately knew the types of sushi they wanted. I was stunned. The Cat eats crackers and peanut butter. There is no way he would willingly eat sushi. But these gals ordered up a storm. Meanwhile, their mother educated them about their choices: squid, octopus, and spicy tuna. Be sure to order edamame, she reminded them! They come in their own little carrying cases. Did they know that miso soup was made of fermented soy beans? I did not. Thankfully, I had finished my delicious miso soup prior to this revelation. Did they know that tofu was also soybeans? No, you may not order Sprite; get sparkling water!

After my amazing meal, I ran my errands. I popped into a store to try on some clothes, but nothing was quite right. The shoe selection was modest. I saw a gorgeous dark leather satchel that was $200 more than I wanted to spend, so I left it on its hook, but I picked it up several times to sniff it. I decided to wait until the inevitable Labor Day sales before actually purchasing anything or tempting myself by going into other stores.

So I am back at home! I have done a little cleaning, a little email, a little web-surfing. I must admit that I thought of my family frequently throughout the day. Husband had told the Cat that if he missed me, he could call me. He hasn’t called. I understand why, because I am sure that the day’s adventure has been too exciting to remember what had concerned him earlier.

I cried when I heard Alanis Morrissette’s “Ironic” because of all the death. Just the other day, I had been admitting to my mommy friends that I get nervous when my husband takes my boys and I am not in the car. If we are all together, fine, I die too. But today was particularly tough because my parents are in the van too. Parents. Husband. Kids. Just about everyone I care about most on this earth. So yeah: I had my irrational moments today of missing them and hoping that they remain safe all day.

But all in all, this day has been fantastic. I have definitely had panic moments: “Oh, was I supposed to pick up the Cat from preschool?” “Is that Spliggle crying?” but I have enjoyed the silence, too.

I can do anything. I am FREE.

At least for another couple hours!

*Results of that appointment:
The cyst they had seen two weeks ago was gone. The doctor has put in a referral for a full ultrasound with X-ray to investigate the left-side pain. He gave me a prescription for new birth control pills in an attempt to even out the hormonal issues I’ve had in the last month and a half. So that is progress!

Posted by karianna at 06:34 PM | Comments (2)

August 25, 2005

Parolee, Reporting for Duty

First, a piece of terrific news: the CA Legislature is taking ASD and the rise of cases in CA seriously. The Senate is about to give final consideration to a bill (SCR 51) to establish the "Legislative Blue Ribbon Commission on Autism … to study and investigate issues, including, but not limited to, the early identification and intervention of autism spectrum disorders (ASD)."

I do not know what will come of this Commission and their eventual findings, but it is good to have caught the attention of our state government.

And now for the rant-mode:

I have mentioned before how it feels as though we are under observation and must adhere to strict “protocol” as we search for answers to the Cat’s “ASD.” I have never heard of a home-study of someone with diabetes (Look! They are eating too many cookies! That must be “The Reason” why they have diabetes!) or telling someone with arthritis that they have to report to a “caseworker” to obtain the latest information on arthritis research. I feel as though I have done something wrong and must “report” to someone for their approval. I also feel as though the behavior of other members of our family is under scrutiny, as though we have lost the ability to think for ourselves or are “causing” the behavior in question.

Someone with only a broken wrist doesn’t also have their leg put in a cast. (But it says here that patients with a broken bone in an extremity must have a cast put on their extremity! Oh, sorry. Only the one extremity that is broken. My bad.) So why is it that the Cat can present with his unique group of symptoms, but “they” insist that he be treated for the exact list of difficulties that someone with his same “diagnosis” must have? Neat little label. Neat little box. It is very narrow-minded.

I must admit that our caseworker at our HMO is a lovely woman. She diligently copies inches worth of articles off websites (it would be okay just to give me the url!) and gives me brochures on expensive conferences and camps for kids older than the Cat, but with similar symptoms. She tells me about meetings for parents of kids in the same boat as the Cat. She encourages me to start my own organizations. (In part, I started posting about ASD as a hope to join the online community of parents facing the same difficulties, though I don’t have the time to invite everyone over for tea in a spotless house with no children to be seen.)

The problem with appointments with the caseworker is that I feel as though I have to make progress to “report” at our (you guessed it) “Monthly Progress Report” sessions. The resources she provides are all external. Nothing can be done within the HMO. Nothing will be paid for by the HMO if I receive therapy or services from one of those shiny brochures, even though the HMO cannot itself provide such services. So really, the “progress” is for me “How much did you read? Do you still oppose medication?” and for her “what other brochures will you produce, as though I have time to read them all?” Frankly, I don’t understand the purpose of these meetings in their isolated-selves. From what I gather, I have to continue a presence:

a) to keep my son’s “case” open, in case we decide to medicate him or if he needs future services when he is some lonely drug dealer who couldn’t graduate from high-school as they suggest he will be.

b) for our case worker to be an “advocate” for us in obtaining the “proper” special-education services for him when/if that is beneficial

c) to remain “in the system” so that when the planned “social skills” group and any other ASD-specific resources become available in the future at the HMO, I will be informed.

At our last meeting, I again explained that the Cat was deemed not eligible for “special services” from the school district. Our caseworker takes her role as “advocate” seriously, so wanted to pursue the matter further, even though I had been satisfied with the school district’s findings.

Their recommendation was that I pursue special education only if the Cat’s difficulties really did hamper the way he behaved in school. Since Kindergarten is still a year off, it seemed reasonable to allow my son to mature a bit before attempting therapy that they think he didn’t need. I agree that “early intervention” is important, but the only “special services” they offer was in speech therapy, and he tested completely normal in that area.

But my HMO caseworker told me flat out that kids with the Cat’s diagnosis need help in speech. She further said that his diagnosis report clearly stated that he was deficient in speech. She made a big deal about how the school district’s findings must have been faulty.

I countered that I knew that Arik was “himself” during the school’s speech evaluation, whereas he had been bullied and was scared during the long evaluation from Poopyhead several months prior.

But the caseworker insisted that the school’s method of testing had not been thorough enough, and that she knew that kids with PDD have speech delays.

I don’t know my own kid? He by definition of diagnosis must have difficulties that others do?

Yes, he may be speech-delayed in certain areas, but he is learning. He isn’t so delayed as to warrant a time-exhaustive series of therapy appointments. If there is still a problem in six months to a year, then I will be open to ideas. But the Cat can spell and write better than many kids his age, and can use vocabulary that I don’t hear out of others’ mouths. The categorization and social talk are things that will become easier for him as he continues attending preschool. And if not, then we will intervene.

My concern about the Cat is not the speech, it is the crawling on the floor, being a cat. It is social convention. It is following instructions (which happen after a routine is set.) It is the difficulty with new situations. These are issues that group social therapy or behavior therapy would address, not speech therapy. (There is something called “social speech therapy” which might be a good option for him, but that is a private clinic not affiliated with the school district or our HMO.)

The other issue that our HMO caseworker is pressing is getting the Cat into a government funded center for disabled individuals. Autism apparently fits within their bounds (although I am not certain if “high functioning” autism does.) The types of therapy and services haven’t been elucidated to me, so I do not know of what benefit this center could be for our particular situation. When I ask, they respond that the services are dependent upon how the child tests. Well, what type of services are available? And that caseworker tells me there are too many to list. My HMO caseworker had mentioned that this center pays for “respite” for the primary caregiver, but that they don’t actually provide the sitting services nor do they have recommended places where such a child could be cared for appropriately. The “Government Sponsored” (GS) caseworker said there are behavioral interventions, but not social interventions.

Frankly, I don’t know why I am bothering trying to get “services” if I don’t think they have services that will help the Cat. But I continue in the hopes that something may lead to something else, and so forth.

So I have gone through the mountains of paperwork for the GS Center and had an in-home evaluation with the GS caseworker. (That was a story in itself. She could not spell "tot" and frequently asked me to repeat English words she did not understand.) They set up a set of evaluations for the first week in September with a psychologist. They wrote me a letter saying that he would be evaluated in the GS Center on Wed Sept 7th, and then would be observed in his school environment on Thursday, September 8th.

There are two problems (and perhaps more) with this approach:

1) The first day of preschool is Sept 7th. He cannot be at the GS Center. Along the same lines, he is NOT in school Thursday, Sept 8th.

2) Even if he were in school that Thursday, I do not want him being evaluated at the start of the school year. This unfairly sets him apart from the other children off the bat. Although his behavior when confronted with new situations is problematic and therefore in need of attention, I feel that his initial in-classroom evaluation should reflect his “normal” behavior, not his scared-to-death behavior.

So I called the GS caseworker, attempted to explain the situation, and asked to postpone the evaluation until October or November, allowing the Cat to acclimate to his classroom, peers, and teacher.

She told me I wasn’t being cooperative and stated that we would have to close the case and reopen it “when he is ready.” Stunned, I agreed, fearful that reopening the case would entail another mountain of paperwork, or at least a delay. Getting an appointment for 6 weeks from now would probably take an additional 6 weeks to set up, so why not set up the appointment now instead of tacking on the time at the end?

I tearfully explained the situation to my husband. To help, he sent an email to the GS caseworker asking for clarification of why an appointment for October or November could not be made at this time and why my request had been viewed as uncooperative.

She responded with a poorly written missive containing multiple grammatical errors and misspellings, which highlighted the difficulty I had in trying to communicate with her. If she cannot understand me, and I cannot understand her, how can we work together to help my son? I have been guilty of needing the grammar police, and my misspelling of “shirt” the other day is evidence that my spelling is not always up to par, but on a whole, I believe that I can make myself understood.

Nonetheless, a “situation” had been created. (And we all know how email tone can sometimes be misunderstood!)

She explained to my husband that there is a 120 day window in which the center must obtain resolution of a case. My request for a November appointment would put the “resolution” outside of that window. She hadn’t mentioned this to me.

She suggested having the in-office appointment only within the window. Okay, that sounds like a good compromise. Too bad she hadn’t suggested it to me this morning.

She also made a big deal about how it is unwise to delay the evaluation because by doing so, we were doing a disservice to our child because helping him would be more difficult the more time passes. I am offended when people lecture me about “getting help” for my child.

Here are some of the statements from her email to my husband, and my rebuttal: (I did not send an email to her stating what I list here; rather, these are my thoughts as I read her email.)

At first she ask me to change the school visit for friday instead of Thrusday and it would not be a problem, I would like that you consider the amount of people that we have waiting for an evaluation and that they deserve to be notify with ahead of time to come for it.

This makes it sound as though I had requested an appointment in September and then changed my mind and asked for Oct/Nov.

I told her that the appointment would have to be cancelled for two reasons. I explicitly said, “TWO REASONS.” I gave the first reason, which was that he wasn’t in school on Thursdays. I then gave the second reason, which was that I wished for him to have time to acclimate. But after I gave the first reason, she started looking up a new appointment on the computer; I had to interrupt her to finish my sentence. So I don’t think she understood. She makes it appear that I was making a demand, and then reneging on it to make a different demand.

According to First Steps program the first 3 years of life are extremely important to take all the steps to help a child with disabilities.

Yes, and that ship has sailed. He is 4.5 years old. Don’t preach to the choir. We are attempting to help him.

As soon as the child turns 6 years old his development could plateau and it is more difficult to help him out. Do not delay to know what is going on with him.

Yes, again. We are doing what we can. My delay is not out of laziness; it is out of a desire to not “blow” the evaluation on a time where we already know the Cat will be at his worst. I am concerned that the impact of starting off “on the wrong foot” for the school year could be large. I think singling him out initially is not a good idea. Don’t try to scare us into action.

I think also it is very important to observe him in a new environment and see how he reacts. You know that typical children and a child with disabilities will behave different. On the other hand his teacher will have information even if [the Cat] is new at school.

My impression – and he is MY child, not hers – is that an evaluation would be more useful after he has had time to acclimate to the new situation. Although his behavior in new situations is problematic, I don’t think that addressing it at the start of a school year in front of a new teacher, new classmates, and new classmates’ parents is a good idea. The “new information” that a teacher could obtain during this evaluation is more of a psychological framing issue (Oh, he is the “special” kid) than information of true value. We know that he will be fairly comfortable within a couple weeks. It is the behavior from the third week to the end of school that we want to make sure is okay. That is why an evaluation at his “best” might be more helpful than at his “worst.” If we can identify how he is different from the other kids when he has already become comfortable, then we can better know how to proceed. If he is “normal” but just a little “quirky” at his best, then we don’t have to worry so much. That is when we can identify ways to help with the new situations and transitions. Why hear what we already know will happen on the first day of school and have that haunt us the rest of the school year?

you can call me to talk about this matter and only thinking in [the Cat’s] welfare

This makes it sound as if I am being confrontational and pigheaded simply out of spite! Up to this point she had been a friendly woman. I don’t wish her any harm or trouble. But I feel misunderstood. Clearly she doesn’t understand the rationale for delaying the appointment. My husband and I are not stirring up trouble because we like stirring up trouble. Of course we are “only thinking [of] [the Cat’s] welfare.” Just because we don’t agree with having an evaluation the first week of school doesn’t mean we do not have his best interests at heart.

Disagreement of method does not indicate disagreement of purpose.

I realize she has to follow a set of guidelines, but I am frustrated that she didn’t mention the 120 day deadline to me. I would have easily agreed to an in-office appointment in September had that option been presented. The letter I received with the appointment information implied that the dual-appointment schedule must be kept on consecutive dates. The option of delaying the educational evaluation was not presented.

I don’t feel it is appropriate to make a point of lecturing us about receiving timely help for our child.

We are requesting something that will fit within the personality of our child such that the information we receive can be of the most value. (We don’t need to be told that he screeches and crawls around on the floor the first day of school. We do need to know if he does that after the first month of school, and if so, in what context, etc.)

I find it insulting that she seems to think she “knows” how best to help our child, and implies that by delaying we are doing him a disservice.

Sorry for the rant. But if others find themselves in the same boat, know you aren’t alone! It is tough to push forward when there are rules, regulations, and expectations (or lack thereof) for a particular patient with a particular “diagnosis.”

The Cat is a person. He is not a diagnosis. Don’t lecture us just because we question the most effective way to approach his needs.

Posted by karianna at 08:58 PM | Comments (5)

August 24, 2005

A Tale of Two Parks

Amidst the chores of biter biscuit stained laundry, cleaning off pee from the sofa, discovering old Spliggle bottles at the bottom of the toy bucket, and doing web-work for a client in a non-English character-set (in a language that I don’t speak,)* I took a break to take my boys to some parks:

Yesterday, we went to a magical park that includes a swimming pool that is 4 feet at its deepest and only inches at its shallowest. The majority of the pool is covered in sand. It is a beach without the risk of accidentally touching a fish or being swept out to sea! Alas, there is a $5 parking fee, plus $2 for each kid and $3 for each adult. But Husband says maybe we can get some sort of season pass for next year. This park closes in two weeks; I am disappointed I didn’t discover it earlier.

To be fair, others discovered it for us and told us to get our butts there, but I was lazy and didn’t go until yesterday. Typically, things aren’t as good as promised, but this was an amazing exception. It is magic.

Then today, we went to a local favorite. Our Mothers’ Club had been contacted by the paper because they wanted to get photographs of mothers playing with their children in a social setting. Some highlights:

• Spliggle enjoyed the parking lot more than the plethora of winding sidewalks amongst ample running grass.


• The Cat decided that it was uncool that a photographer was there and kept yelling, “No, Picture Man! No picturlers!”


• Spliggle adopted a pinecone. He snuggled it until it started to fall apart, then decided to eat it.


• The Cat chose to respond to people only by growling (he had a tough morning which reversed itself in the afternoon after an accidental nap.) My friend Stacy asked if he was mad at her because of what happened at her son’s party. Poor gal.


• Spliggle hugged every black metal bike pole thingy in turn. Pause. Hug. Move to the next one. Pause. Hug. Move on…until he found a wooden one (a hitching post?) and tried to eat it.


• When Spliggle fell during one of his many attempted escapes dashing towards the parking lot, a friend of mine righted him only to be confronted by the Cat. He looked at her nervously, stammering, “No. No. That’s. That’s” and he looked my way, “That’s Spliggie!” as if to indicate that he belonged to me. Adorably protective!

The newspaper photographer ended up getting a fantastic shot of two of my friends with their tiny ones on a blanket. Darn that Cat for running away! Spliggle, why did you have to fall the instant the camera clicked when you were posed so beautifully with that gorgeous one-year-old-chickie? Where is my fame?

But one of the best moments came when my friend Stacy suddenly sucked in some air with an audible gulp, “Kari. You know how people talk about looking like their kids? Well, I just got it. I looked over at Richie and realized that I was seeing myself in a spiked hairdo with a green shovel.”

I laughed. She continued, “Damn. I mean, I don’t think I’d look good in a spiked hairdo, but…” She kept shaking her head in disbelief.

“I can go get you a green shovel!” I offered helpfully.

*= I would have added “cleaning up the flour explosion,” but my husband did that! Yay Husband!

Posted by karianna at 09:32 PM | Comments (1)

August 23, 2005

Mortifying Moments

The Cat has a treasured rainbow blanket that he calls, “Fphlanket,” “Fphlankie,” and sometimes “Cat.” When the Cat is in public, we ask that he not be a cat. So he transfers this property on to his blanket, a tactic that works fairly well, particularly when “Fphlankie” guards the car such that we have a boy without a blanket in public.

But the list of his affectionate terms goes on to include “Dark” and (shudder) “Darkie.” His explanation is that his fphlanket is “Darkie the cat,” so all terms apply. My husband and I have tried to explain that while he can call his blanket most of those terms, “Darkie” should be off-limits. But he doesn’t understand, and of course asking a four year old not to say something solidifies that they will use that term preferentially. We have tried substituting other names, like “Rainbow,” but without success.

During a shopping trip, the Cat insisted on bringing his blanket with us to the store. He sat in the cart, cuddling with the blanket. When we went to check out, he snuggled lovingly into the unraveling knit, moaning, “Oh, Darkie!” while looking straight at our African-American Check-Out-Lady.

I could only mumble a feeble, “Please don’t call your blanket Darkie,” while my face turned crimson.

On another occasion, he had looked directly at the African-American Check-Out-Lady saying, “His face is dirty!”

Again, I was essentially speechless, stating quietly but firmly, “No. Her skin is darker than yours, but she isn’t dirty.” By that point, I was a very dark red.

When the Cat is excited, he tends to exclaim, “Darkie! Dark! Heheheheh!” even if the blanket is not around. Perhaps he is transferring the blanket’s “catness” back on himself and therefore he gives himself the same name.

I must admit that I am on edge when he starts these proclamations in public.

Posted by karianna at 02:59 PM | Comments (8)

August 21, 2005

Crazy House or Retreat Center?

In today’s Contra Costa Times, the front-page above the fold article debated whether a local mental hospital should hire uniformed security guards to be stationed in the hallway. The title of the article is "Psychiatric ward confronts assaults: Nurses, doctors debate security versus a caring environment." (free subscription required to view article.)

It is difficult to weigh the need to respect those who happen to have a psychiatric illness against the recognition that some have the potential to hurt the staff or other patients. There is a line between being a voluntary client versus being held against one’s will, and both types of patients need to be treated justly.

Ideally, psychiatric hospitals should be a safe place for individuals who need the rest, 24-hour counsel, and monitoring of their situation. Transitions from one medication to another, or determination of initial treatment can cause an “instability” that is best watched by professionals so the patient does not hurt himself (or others.) I dislike the word “instability,” because it implies a lack of rationality or will, but in some cases, this may be exactly the right term. And unfortunately for some patients, their stay at a psychiatric hospital may be extended or enduring.

Frankly, I stumble over words when I attempt to describe my thoughts about mental illness. On one hand, I want to be P.C. by implying that there is nothing wrong with the “person” inside of the individual exhibiting symptoms of mental illness. But the problem is that the “strength of character” of the person is exactly what is being affected in many cases. But there are layers. I don’t want to pass judgment on someone based on something out of their control. But when my safety or my own emotions are in jeopardy, then some bias is necessary.

When I went through a period of depression and hypomania towards the end of college, what affected me the most was a division of my intellectual side versus my emotional side. I knew intellectually that I was depressed, and as such, my reaction to things was greater than “normal.” But my emotional side hurt. I felt overwhelmed, frustrated, and sad. It was the fear of the stigma of being “depressed,” and the inability for my intellectual side to convince my emotional side to stop hurting that caused the greatest frustration. I cared what people thought of me, and figured an “admission” of being depressed would be damning. But I feared for what would happen if I lost the perspective of my “intellectual” side.

That is why I care so much about how individuals with mental illness are treated. I don’t like the idea of someone “looking down” on a patient because their thoughts and actions may be “irrational” as defined by the DSM. I could launch into a whole tirade of “what is normal?” but for the purposes of this discussion, I define the need to obtain help as being because one’s thoughts, feelings, or actions are disruptive to themselves or to others.

I would tell my therapist, “It is so frustrating that someone who takes an antidepressant is labeled one way, whereas someone with diabetes taking an insulin shot is thought of as simply having a medical condition.” My therapist would look at me, nodding condescendingly. I didn’t like that my credibility was shot simply because my perspective on certain issues was skewed. That in itself was cause for irrationality and rumination, because I would wonder which of my thoughts were “normal” and which were “exaggerated.” And the more I wondered, the more frustrated I became. So the cycle would continue: “I am depressed because I am depressed…”

If I worked in a psychiatric hospital, I would probably be in favor of the armed security guards because I would be frightened for my safety. For the patients whose illness is severe, their reactions may be extreme. They don’t want help! They want to get out! But they are instead restrained. They may be a prisoner of their thoughts. Or they may be frightened. They lash out in fear, anger, and defiance. It is these types of patients from which the “stereotype” of mental illness is derived: irrational, inconsolable, “lock ‘em up now!”

But then these same patients would view the security guards as being “proof” that the staff is out to get them. Or in the case of someone completely lucid, the presence of guards would be thought demeaning.

The staff wants to nurture their patients in the most effective way, but they also have to watch their own backs.

One argument against posting the guards was that they would not have training in mental illness. This is a mistake. If anything, those who would be “guards” should be acutely aware of different types of mental illness and the symptoms that could affect the way to handle various patients. Ideally, such guards could be plain-clothed, roaming the halls instead of being at rigid posts, dressed in uniforms. The psychological impact between the two scenarios is vast. Unfortunately, the ideal training for such staff is hindered by budgetary restraints.

Until California provides adequate funding for mental health and drug-treatment services, many patients will remain mired in their illnesses. Psychiatric wards will continue to face an uphill battle to ensure safety - Jeffrey Smith, Hospital Executive Director, as quoted in the Contra Costa Times article

I dated a man with bipolar disorder. Was I sometimes nervous about his condition? Yes. I was. And that angered me. I wanted to treat him “fairly.” I wanted to respect him 100% of the time and not question his thoughts. But because of his diagnosis, I knew that he had the potential to not be thinking clearly. Most of the time, I didn’t think about the pills he kept in a square leather case in his pocket. But when he would great me extra-enthusiastically with some grand idea, I would be lying if I said it didn’t occur to me that maybe he was having some mania. As much as I didn’t want to be prejudiced, I know I was.

And that is why my own vulnerabilities frustrated me, because I didn’t like being the one in the psychiatrist’s office. I didn’t want to be the object of the same prejudice that I knew I had. I knew it wasn’t fair to say, “Well, I just have mild depression and hypomania, whereas he is full-blown bipolar!”

He was 99.9% fine on medication. It was rare that anything would happen that would be cause for concern.

Quite the opposite, I have a friend whose adult step-son has not found the right cocktail. His behavior hurts his family. He overspends. He cannot hold a job. He gets in the car and drives for days on end without telling anyone where he is going. He is sexually inappropriate. She is a kind soul who wants to help him, but doesn’t want to be an “enabler” by giving him money; neither does she want him living with her toddler daughter. For years, he was under her roof, but it caused the rest of the family great pain. I believe he has been in a mental hospital before, but I am not certain of the duration or the reason he left.

My Maid of Honor has had short stays in a psychiatric hospital for depression, primarily during college. Shortly after my wedding, she disappeared to me and our mutual friends. I wonder where she is and how she is doing, but my attempts to track her down have failed. I hope that wherever she is, she is happy and getting any treatment that she needs.

I haven’t had personal contact with someone who has schizophrenia or a similar more serious disorder. Within the categorization of “schizophrenia,” there are multiple levels of lucidity versus hallucination, such that many patients are aware of exactly how they are being treated and how their “rational” self and “irrational” self are battling. But there are also those who are locked within themselves.

When my grandfather started declining from Alzheimer’s Disease, he lived at my parents’ house. I still lived at home, as did my brother. One evening, he approached my brother and didn’t know who he was. My proud grandpa was scared of my computer and frequently didn’t recognize us. He wondered where his deceased spouse was, and why he shouldn’t wake up if it were dark outside. The witty man I had known was replaced by a frightened, angry man who would have been insulted and scared by a uniformed security guard.

I wonder how the patients would feel about uniformed guards: scared, punished, untrustworthy? Or would some feel more protected from their peers or from themselves and the actions that they feel are out of their control?

I think I would be insulted. I would feel marginalized and further depressed that I couldn’t be trusted. But if I were a nurse at a mental hospital, I would want “back up” for the times that a patient became violent.

My initial reaction to the article was one of concern that this would perpetuate the stereotype of people with mental illness as being completely out of control and/or violent. I have mentioned before in my discussions of the Cat’s ASD how I hate labels and assumptions. But at the same time, I can understand why in “extreme” cases, safety is an issue. I am a “flip-flopper” between wanting to say, “Hey, don’t treat people as though they have no control over their thoughts and actions!” and yet admitting that is exactly why the patients are in the hospital.

These are people that have very serious and limiting disabilities at times, but that recover to the point where they can have very functional lives, if we do our jobs - Miles Kramer, County Director of Psychiatry and Detention Health, as quoted in the article

Even the term “functional lives” hits me the wrong way; but maybe I am just oversensitive. ;-)

Several people who I care about tremendously happen to have one form of mental illness or another. I could probably go on and on rationalizing my thoughts about how each are valued while fearing that my comments about such issues could be taken as condescension. I have felt helpless, but my pride is such that while wanting help, I didn't want to be rescued. I imagine that my peers who have had more serious concerns than mine have at their core felt the same way. As a result, I am sensitive about anything in the media relating to mental illness, and pray for an understanding that benefits patients and staff alike.

Posted by karianna at 08:29 PM | Comments (2)

August 20, 2005

The Magic of Fussy

There have been many tales about the magic of the Fussy T-shirt and I am happy to report that mine arrived today!

Of course, I wanted to join in on the posting-of-photos:

I snapped a few of myself in the mirror. In my dorkatude, I did not remember that the letters would be backwards in the photo. And when I moved to the bathroom for better light, the toothpaste on the mirror got top billing. The magic of Photoshop has realigned the words, but I decided to keep the toothpaste for character.

Then I put the shirt on Spliggle. It made a wonderful off-the-shoulder dress. He thought the whole thing was a riot: "Dress me up and take my picture!"

No strange stories yet. I wore the shirt to the movies (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory) and saw a few people reading it, but nobody asked about it.

Posted by karianna at 11:42 PM | Comments (6)

August 18, 2005

While the Cat is Away, Spliggle Will Play

Spliggle enjoyed the opportunity to climb into the drawer of the Cat's train table. Fun stuff in there!

Posted by karianna at 08:26 PM | Comments (2)

August 17, 2005

Mine Head is Confused

For the last few days, I’ve had a very long “to-do” list filled with “priority” items. Although many remain, I’ve gotten enough done to have a little breathing room. I can tell clients what I have done for them, so they know I’ve been working on their projects, even though I still have work to do. And although the house isn’t spotless, there are clean dishes and the Cat’s bed doesn’t have pee in it. The newspapers are no longer strewn throughout the kitchen, and the dining room chair with unidentified white marks on its seat inexplicably tipped over in the family room has now been righted and brought to its proper location. I even bathed Spliggle this morning.

I felt good. I had made progress, and was confident that today would be productive.

There is one project that I still need to work on, and my boss (my younger brother) invited me to be on a conference call that would elucidate some of the tasks that I need to do. I emailed him this morning, saying that I could find a way to be on the call: Spliggle would be taking a nap, and I could persuade the Cat to play with chalk outside to give me some privacy.

Two minutes later, the Cat came up to me holding his right wrist: “Mommy. Mine arm hurts. Mine arm hurts and we have to go to the doctor to make it all better. I want to see egg yolks upstairs and downstairs and then go to the doctor and make mine arm all better.”

My child just asked to go to the doctor?

He had hurt his wrist two Saturdays ago, and then last Sunday, he fell in a bounce-house and another child pounded on it while he was trying to rest it. We had been instructed to bring him in if it still hurt in 5 days, and this was the eleventh day.

I dashed off a second email to my brother telling him that I had to take the Cat to get his wrist X-rayed. I apologized, but asked him to please let me know what went on during the call.

Driving to the Minor Injury Clinic, I learned what “egg yolks upstairs and downstairs” meant: Exit signs. When we had been to the MIC two weeks ago, he had looked at the green exit signs with his dad. He loves arrows. And he loves green. He was eager to see them.

We arrived at the parking garage around 11:30am, just in time for the lunchtime rush. I let in a car that was attempting to cut in an awkward way. Of course that car took the first parking space. Never mind, I found one shortly thereafter, and I stopped and signaled in such a way to give the person backing out plenty of room. As I pulled in, the car behind me honked and the elderly man driver gave me the finger. Apparently he thought it was rude of me to take that parking space. Or perhaps he was angry that I prevented him from driving around me (that would have meant the person backing out would have hit him.)

Surprised, I started to unload the stroller, diaper bag, lunch bag, and my purse. Spliggle was asleep, and I was hoping for a clean transfer into the stroller. But HONK! HONK! I continued to unload the car into the stroller’s pocket. HONK! HONK! I looked up and there was an older woman looking at me with fiery eyes. She gestured towards my stroller. I was so flustered by the honking and that Spliggle was now awake and crying that I didn’t know how to pantomime that I had just parked, so I grabbed Spliggle and held him up as I put him in the stroller to indicate that I was getting everyone out of the car. She rolled her eyes at me, exasperated, and hit the gas hard. Two seconds later, I heard another HONK! HONK! as she was no doubt interregating another person as to their parking or driving intentions.

The check-in at the MIC went fairly smoothly, as did the triage appointment. He carefully articulated that his wrist hurt and pointed to the spot. He did not want to be weighed, though. The Cat was nervous about getting another X-ray, but did fairly well under the circumstances. I had to remain outside the room with Spliggle, so I know he was nervous about being in there without a parent. He kept yelling for Daddy. But the X-ray tech was a friendly young woman who said she had a son his age. She talked trains with the Cat. I was impressed with how quickly the appointment had gone thus far, and how cordial and pleasant the staff had been in dealing with my scared son.

We returned to the MIC to turn in the paperwork that indicated that the digital X-rays had been taken. We sat down. The Cat started racing around, looking at the green arrows on the EXIT signs. “Mine arm is better!” he yelled. “I see the green arrows and mine arm is better. Now we go home!”

He was using his wrist. He was crawling on the floor, bending it upward without pain.

“Does your wrist hurt?”

“No! Mine arm is better!”

“Why did we come here, then?”

“Green arrows! Exit!”

I sighed, begging him to lower his voice and get up off the floor.

A well-dressed lady on a cell phone ran by towards the door.

Meanwhile, one of the patients approached the reception area begging to know how much longer it would be before he would be seen. He had been there 1.75 hours by his count, and needed to return to work in twenty minutes. He was polite but desperate. The receptionist said it was unlikely he would be seen by then. The patient left, dejected.

Last time we were in the MIC, a man had demanded the same thing in a hostile tone. When the receptionist said that another patient was in triage, the man became enraged, yelling at her that she was of no help and that he wanted to see the nurse. After a couple minutes of angry exchange with the polite but firm receptionist, he barged his way into triage, much to the surprise of the nurse and patient she was seeing.

Ironically and sadly for today’s gentleman, there is a good possibility that he would have been seen in his time frame. By the time 20 minutes had passed, everyone who had been before him in the waiting room had come and gone.

The quick service didn’t last long.

At around 12:40, patients were no longer being called into triage or to see the practitioner. The receptionist left her desk. No formal announcement was made, nor was an “away for lunch” sign visible anywhere. The EKG reception across the hallway had shut its metal partition. I saw a sign by the MIC stating the hours were 8am-11pm, 7 days a week, even on holidays. The Occupational Medicine sign read 9am-12:00pm, 1:30pm-5pm. Hmmm. Well, the Occupational Medicine sign had lunch hour specifically noted, but not the MIC.

The cell phone lady walked back into the room, but five minutes later, ran back outside. “Please don’t run!” the Cat called after her, loudly.

A lady in a U.S. Postal Service uniform sat across from me and my boys. There were many seats available in the waiting room, so I was perplexed by her choice. Soon I heard her speaking in hushed tones, slowly enunciating words as though practicing: “I need to see the doctor.” She continued describing her concern, but would pause to say, “No.” and “Uh-huh.” I finally noticed the earpiece; she was on a cell phone.

The Cat started practicing himself: “Mine arm is all better. I want to go home. Mine arm was hurting. And take a picture of mine arm. And see green arrows and now all better!”

I shook my head and asked him again if his arm hurt. Nope. Why are we here? Green arrows. Huh. Should we leave? I touched his wrist and he recoiled.

Still, I worried that the doctors would think I was lying if he came in holding his milk in his right hand as he was that moment, proclaiming that his hand didn’t hurt. Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy is that condition where parents make their children ill or instruct their children to act hurt in order to garner attention for themselves by the medical community. I hoped the practitioner wouldn’t suspect I was being dishonest.

After twenty minutes of juggling food, juice and milk, retrieving round crackers that were rolling under the seats, and wiping off the chocolate from the Cat’s face after eating a Balance bar, we played several rounds of “Pat-a-Cake.” Spliggle would exclaim, “Ah-oh! Ah-oh!” while clapping his hands, then would roll his arms saying, “Weeeeeee” while the Cat sang the song.

After ten minutes, the food and drink came out again. We looked at fake plants, at the green arrows again, and the Cat examined the seats. Spliggle ate and threw food, threw food and ate. The Cat threw away our trash, shuttling one piece at a time to the trash can 30 feet from our seats.

The Post Office woman changed her seat to be even closer to us.

At about 1:10, the receptionist came back. A couple minutes later, a new patient was called into triage. Whew! The unannounced lunch was over! I wish we would have known for certain that at least a half hour would pass without anyone going in or out; perhaps we could have gone to the cafeteria without fear that we’d be called in our absence. I was feeling lightheaded and my stomach was rumbling. I had a muddy brain where some sounds were amplified while others were muffled; quick speech and slow speech mixed. I yawned. Surely it wouldn’t be much longer.

At 1:20, the fire alarm went off. White and blue lights. A loudspeaker announcement that a fire was reported on the third floor.

“Aw, it is just a drill,” I heard one weary patient proclaim, shifting in his seat as though he were just going to remain on his bum.

I took the Cat’s good arm and pushed Spliggle’s stroller towards the door. We were the first out. Slowly, people followed reluctantly, accompanied by a security guard. Several minutes later, the staff came outside. Then the doctors. Fifteen minutes later, a straggling physician emerged, eyes rolling.

In junior high, we had a fire “drill” where my teacher told us “Aw, I am sure it is just a drill. We have work to do.” Twenty minutes later, a fireman barged into our classroom, angry that we hadn’t evacuated. An actual fire had been in the building next to us.

The hospital fire drill lasted 27 minutes.

A few minutes later, we were ushered into an examination room. Shortly thereafter, a diminutive woman came in to examine the Cat. She interrupted every other word I spoke with a loud, clipped, “Uh huh. Yes.” I was already flustered and exhausted, so was losing my train of thought as her sharp words punctuated the middle of my sentences.

“I see him moving his wrist!” she accused when I told her where he had indicated the pain.

“Yes, he has mobility,” I admitted, but continued explaining that he had been complaining about it every day for the past eleven days.

“Did you even see him fall?” She asked, annoyed. My fears of being accused of being deceitful grew.

She asked him where the pain was. He pointed to the same spot that he had shown the triage nurse. She pointed to other areas, and he answered, “No,” but then when she touched the trouble-spot, he yelped.

He yelled, “I need a kissie.” I kissed him. “Okay. Now mine arm is all better!”

“He just needed a kiss?” the nurse practitioner snorted, and touched the trouble spot again. The Cat pulled his arm away, crying.

When she went to the other side of the room to look at the X-ray, the Cat walked over to a diagram of an arm and hand pointing downward. Wanting to be helpful, he reached up in an attempt to reach the spot that hurt. He was too short. He pointed at a finger just below the wrist. “Mine arm hurts here!” he said. The nurse practitioner looked over and mocked, “That is a finger. You had said your wrist hurt” and turned back to the X-ray just as he propelled himself on his tippy-toes to reach the exact spot on the wrist where he had indicated soreness multiple times throughout the day.

She compared the earlier X-ray from two Saturdays ago with the one taken that morning. She saw what she called a “little chip” which looked kind of like a bump to me. She kept saying, “But that could be a normal growth variation. He has mobility! He is bending his wrist!” she scoffed.

She examined the Cat’s wrist again, point by point, until he shrieked when she hit the sensitive part. She tsked, and clipped that she would speak to the radiologist.

The verdict was that there could be a tiny fracture across the wrist, culminating in the trouble-spot area that wouldn’t have been visible on the X-ray. As she explained that the Cat would be put in a splint, he walked over to the computer and pointed on the X-ray to the exact trouble spot: “Mine arm hurt here. Don’t touch mine arm here.”

He was nervous and angry about going to the cast room to be fitted for a splint. He screamed and squirmed and cried. The nurse making the splint was surprised at the Cat’s behavior. She couldn’t get him to calm down. I held his arm tightly while she bandaged the wrist. The Cat protested loudly and didn’t stop crying until we were in the car.

As we walked past the other patients, I heard the murmurs, mainly sympathetic. I was nearly in tears as I held on to the Cat. Anytime I let go of his left arm, he’d try to rip off the splint, which hadn’t yet hardened. He screamed at the top of his lungs, the sound reverberating off of the beautiful skylights in the four-story building. He fell to the ground several times in agony. His anger was pouring out loudly.

A nurse passing us in the hallway tried to be helpful by suggesting that I make him hold his arm upwards so that the blood wouldn’t pool in the splint, increasing the swelling, and therefore the pressure and pain he was experiencing. I knew she was being friendly, but I was in the mood to bite someone’s head off. I didn’t want to be rude, so I just looked exasperated and gestured towards the uncooperative Cat. She nodded, understanding, saying, “Well, you do what you can!” I would have smiled under normal circumstances, but I don’t think I was able to even manage that.

We waited for the parking lot elevator. I was holding on to Spliggle’s stroller with one hand, and the Cat with my other hand. The elevator opened and many people streamed out. One person remained in the elevator, a teenager lounging against the back wall. I expected her to get out, so didn’t immediately board, but she didn’t move. The elevator doors closed. I quickly pushed the button again to open the door. I moved in and the teenager slowly moved over to accommodate the stroller. Many people quickly piled behind, shoving the Cat towards the back. He yelped in fear. His arm bumped against another passenger. He choked on his tears. The two passengers next to the Cat tried to make polite conversation. I nearly gagged because they smelled heavily of smoke and were very close to me. They were friendly to the Cat, but he was screaming and clearly afraid. “Tell your Daddy you rode in an elevator!” one suggested enthusiastically as we left the elevator.

The Cat was so worked up that he tore away from me and headed into the middle of the road where a car was approaching. Thankfully, the car was moving very slowly to scout out parking spots. The same car followed us to our car. I was having trouble juggling everything and hated having someone waiting for us. I didn’t want to be too hasty in jamming everything into the car, and I certainly wanted to handle the Cat with care as I bucked him into his seat. But I could hear the silent tapping of the waiting driver’s foot.

Both boys fell asleep in the car. I wish I could have.

Husband had my van today to take interns to a meeting, so I had his car. It was down to a quarter-tank, so I thought I’d be nice by filling up the tank. When I got out, I thought I heard and felt something fall out of the door brushing my leg as it fell, but I didn’t see anything on the ground. As I pulled away from the gas station, I saw a white rectangle on the ground. A car was already in back of me. I was committed to turning onto the main road. In case the white triangle was an important booklet, reimbursable receipt, or vital note, I traveled 1.1 miles back to the gas station (too many “no U-turn” signs!) only to discover the fallen paper was a dry-cleaning receipt.

Upon reaching home, I transferred both boys successfully: Spliggle to his crib, the Cat to the couch, so both could sleep. I then checked my email expecting to find something about the conference call that I had missed. Instead, I saw that there was an “error” and my messages from this morning hadn’t even been sent! I restarted my computer and sent my brother a third message telling him that the other two had meant to go out earlier this morning. Ack!

Today has been just crazy. I must be in a funhouse. I am going to go do the hoedown. Yee-haw!

Posted by karianna at 08:38 PM | Comments (10)

Miracle Worker

Back when "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" came out, my dad was tickled by the father's use of Windex for just about everything.

He started using Windex for everything. "Kari, just squirt some Windex on that and it will go right away!" he'd tell me upon seeing a spill somewhere in my car or on the wall, or wherever. It remains his favorite cleaning product, especially as it relates to cars: "It cleans up leather beautifully!" he annouces gleefully.

Meanwhile, I have collected an impressive collection of products for purposes such as: son peed in his freight car (cargo!); pregnant me vomited Taco Bell on the carpet; son dropped chocolate milk down the side of the bed against the wall (not to be discovered until much, much later); husband* spilled Diet Coke on the bed (and the carpet, and the computer, and the couch); son smeared poo on crib, walls, and carpet; son dropped play-doh on the floor which became wet and mashed into the carpet fibers; son gave other son various food products that when pulverized and sat-upon create an interesting rainbow on the floor.

* = frequently more accurately: "Spliggle spilled Husband's Diet Coke..."

Most of my cleaning products work pretty well. The one "sticking point" has been the carpet. Different products work better on different stains: Poo, Play-doh, Diet Coke, and Taco Bell each require different products. A new carpet cleaner (after two bowls and a new set of brushes) and a new carpet (with stain-repellant fibers and a super-wicking carpet pad) have worked wonders.

When I first got my new van a couple months ago, I was careful to inspect it every day to clean up any spills. Then the inspection was once a week. Now it is "whenever I see a glaring stain." Doing a full inside and outside wash was something on my "to do if I have time" list that kept being pushed into the future.

But on Monday, Husband told me he would like to borrow the van to take some interns to a meeting Wednesday. So suddenly, Operation Clean Van became a top priority.

I spent yesterday vaccuming, wiping, and scrubbing. I used Windex on the seats, and sure enough, the thin shiny coat of formula is gone. And of course, the windows, dash, and various cupholders became clean in no time.

But the carpet was going to be a challenge. Spliggle's bottles thrown and leaking would roll under the seats. The Cat's rice milk, juice, and other liquidy products would end up in splotches beneath his seat. One particular hardened reddish shiny disk completely encompassing the fibers below the second row had unknown origins.

I thought I was going to have to figure out how to use the attachment on the carpet cleaner. I didn't particularly want to haul out the machine to the front yard, but I'd do it if necessary!

But then the Cat got squirt-crazy with the Windex and saturated one of the carpet stains. Meanwhile, I was scrubbing a stain with a clothes stain remover. The Cat's stain went away! Mine didn't.

Soon, the Cat and I had "splirted" all the stains in the car. For removable rugs, I gave them an extra rinse with water and laid them out in the sun to dry. Amazingly, the Windex even cleaned up the hardened red stain.

The result: a nice clean van! Windex can save the world!

UPDATE: Erika's spider story reminded me that I kill spiders with Windex! I spray them off the ceiling or wall, then smoosh 'em. Take that!

UPDATE #2: I just read on Millie's blog that spraying Windex on a phone can cause interior corrosion. Eeek! So I hope I am not disintegrating my van's seats and carpet (and everything else I tend to spray!) I guess it is the disintegrating action that works wonders on the stains.

Posted by karianna at 09:18 AM | Comments (2)

Irresistible Button

Spliggle's second hobby behind eating is pushing buttons: TV, remote control, and... sadly... the computer.

So I just lost a post because of his button-pushing antics.

Sadly, I did not SAVE.

(And one of the remotes is still missing.)

Posted by karianna at 09:13 AM | Comments (2)

August 16, 2005

The Spliggle Show

Since I have written so much about the Cat, I figured Spliggle needed a little love. Poor second child!

So here are a couple pictures (click on them to go to the set at Flickr).

He is 13 months old.
He loves to eat.
He likes running around.
He loves to eat.
He is in a biting phase.
He loves to eat.
He giggles a lot.
He loves to eat.

And his main hobby is eating.

Posted by karianna at 10:51 PM | Comments (3)

Party Poopers

Put kids that range in age from 2 to 7 in a bouncy-hut and you are bound to have problems. Invite a disproportionate number of people who know the set of birthday brothers better than the other birthday boy at a triple-party and you are bound to have problems.

Quick Quiz!
Answers at the end of the post!
Sort these names into gender:
Bailey
Cricket
Quincy
Aidan
Kashmir
Jaden
McKinley

I arrived with the Cat exactly at 10:30. Yes, I know it is better to be fashionably late, but for a kids’ birthday party, I wanted to get there on the dot. I remember eagerly awaiting my guests’ arrival and in many cases dissolving into tears when my parents would tell me my party wasn’t for another hour or two. (Plus, I know that when I am throwing a party for the kids, there is a relief when the guests start to arrive because any mess that results is part of the party-fun instead of something I have to clean up ahead of time to have a pristine house for the two seconds when people first arrive!)

The hostess I knew (Stacy) wasn’t there. The birthday boy I knew (Richie) wasn’t there. It was awhile before they and the people that I knew would show up.

The hostess with the two birthday boys (Blanche) greeted me skeptically but friendly, asking me and the Cat who we were. She introduced me to the first of the many people who I wouldn’t recognize. Never mind, I’ll meet new people!

Within minutes of our arrival, Birthday Boy aged 3 (Chris) had grabbed the Cat’s shirt and pulled hard. The Cat was surprised, but didn’t retaliate. Instead, he stumbled back a bit and started to cry.

Blanche went up to the Cat. “What’s this!?” she asked me, pointing to my crying son accusingly. One of her friends tossed her hand, waving off the concern: “Oh, Chris touched him a little bit.”

Throughout the day, Chris “touched” other kids, screamed at them when they tried to play with his toys, and complained. I can understand why he was overwhelmed since there were close to twenty kids in attendance, but I was surprised at the rationalizations going on: “Chris doesn’t want to share today, so please play with something else.” Then later “So-and-so, Chris wants to play with that toy, so please share.” Um, can you say, “double standard?”

Birthday boy aged 6 (Howie,) also Blanche’s, had his own set of problems. He collided with another child in the Jolly Jumper and hurt his head, so had to have it iced. Around the same time, the Cat fell funny while bouncing and landed on his sprained wrist. The Cat went to the staircase, crying, and rested his hurt arm on a stair. He bravely explained, “Mommy. This makes it feel better. Makes it feel better and then I stop crying, okay?”

Howie sat next to the Cat. He said, “Why is your arm on the stair?” The Cat explained “Mine arm is hurt. This makes me feel better.”

In a flash of fists that was simultaneously slow-motion, Howie repeatedly pounded on the Cat’s hurt wrist in time with protests, “No! It isn’t hurt! You aren’t hurt! I am the one that is hurt! I hurt my head!”

The Cat shrieked at the top of his lungs. The tears of pain and betrayal ran hot down his cheeks.

Blanche ran to the stairs at the sound of the Cat’s shrieks. Meanwhile, Howie was crying, apparently because he was still angry that the Cat was hurt, too, so he couldn’t be exclusively The Hurt One. Plus, the force of the Cat’s scream probably frightened him.

When Blanche asked me what happened, I will admit that I wimped out.

I wanted to say, “Your child totally beat up on my child! He had sprained his wrist and now it is worse because Howie pounded on his wrist purposefully!” I wanted to grab the Cat and whisk him away, proclaiming my own anger that I had come to a party that was predominantly Blanche, Howie, and Chris’ friends instead of Stacy and Richie’s. That her friends were “policing” the children they didn’t know in favor of the kids they did know. I was angry for Richie that he received four presents while Howie and Chris had received nine each. (People, when you come to a triple party, bring three presents!) I wanted to scream that I was sick of the double-standards and watching both of her kids melt all day. And chastise that it wasn’t appropriate to have the kids open their presents before the cake for a number of reasons:
1) The party had already gone on close to three hours; do the cake already!
2) Kids at ages 3, 4, and 6 aren’t “PC” enough to respond “appropriately” to presents. Instead, they are brutally honest: “This isn’t nice!” “I don’t like that color” “Why isn’t it bigger?” “Why don’t I have more presents?” and so forth. Not a good idea in front of the guests. (Irony: the “I want more presents” came from one of the boys who had gotten more presents. Poor Richie was polite and didn’t seem to notice his dearth, thankfully!)
3) Showcasing the inequality in the number of presents was inappropriate.

But I knew that my knee-jerk reaction would have been inaccurate as well, since we have all been in Blanche’s position at one time or another. I knew her kids were overwhelmed by the activity and having other kids on “their turf.” I knew Howie’s head felt bad and he probably wanted to be alone at that moment, and certainly alone in having the “injured” designation. I knew that her boys had pressured her into opening the presents in their excitement and she probably didn’t think of the implications of doing that, and certainly didn’t notice that her boys had more gifts. Plus, she had no control over whether her friends would also purchase presents for Richie.

So I don’t remember what I said. I probably mumbled something about how the Cat had hurt his wrist previously and that Howie had just hit it, so that is why it was ailing the Cat so much. I didn’t want to rock the boat. And yet I should have found a way to politely explain that her son was at fault and that the Cat's screams were actually justified given the amount of pain he must have been in. (Heck, I'd be crying!)

Blanche shrugged her shoulders and walked away. I was angry and defeated.

After the cake and ice-cream, I was able to tell the Cat that it was time to go! I said our goodbyes (equally to both hostesses and all three birthday boys), and wrestled the Cat to the van. As we left, it was clear the Cat was upset to be leaving, and he had melted from exhaustion and over stimulation, so was crying, shrieking, and protesting. So we left a horrible impression.

All in all, I was proud of the Cat. Although he had his “moments” during the party, he didn’t hurt other kids, even when they hurt him. All too frequently, I am the one whose child is exhibiting the “problem behavior” so it was a welcome relief to not be that mother!

But when I am “that mother” I own up to the Cat’s behavior. I admit that what he did was wrong. I don’t just mutter, “Go say you’re sorry,” nor do I pretend that it didn’t happen or over-rationalize the situation. (Well, I am guilty of sometimes making excuses, but usually not directly to the injured party’s mother.)

I am frustrated by the “my child can do no wrong” attitude I see frequently at the park and at parties. I accept that we raise our children differently, but if you adhere to one standard for other people’s children, you must be willing to set the same standard for your children.

I once called someone’s bluff. The Cat was playing in a fountain with other kids. The kids would run through the sprinkler part with glee, sometimes accidentally bumping into each other. Over and over, I heard parents saying, “Don’t run into so-and-so, or we’ll go home” and “I am going to count to 3 and if you don’t yak-yak-yak, we are going home.” Then they count to 3 and 4 and 5 with no results. Empty threats! Empty threats! Empty threats! and the kids know it. I was watching the Cat have loads of fun running back and forth.

Suddenly, a mom bellowed accusingly to the Cat, “Where is your mother!?” I raised my hand, asked what the problem was. “He continues to push down my children and they aren’t having any fun anymore!” Her eyebrows were raised, nose in the air, arms on her hips.

I looked at her smiling, laughing children. I hadn’t seen the Cat touch them at all.

I approached the Cat. “Well, I am disappointed that you have hurt the other children. You know the rules. We are going home.” and I started to march him to the car.

The mother stammered, “Um… Well, we are leaving in a little bit. Maybe he can come back?”

“No. Rules are rules. If he hurt your children,” and I raised my eyebrows towards the clearly unhurt, cheerful kids, “then we need to go home.”

I would like to think the other mother realized that she was unfair by accusing my son while simultaneously not making good on her threats to her own children. But I suspect that she continued on her "my kids are angels" way. However, by backing up a bit on her disapproval of the Cat, I think it shows she was made aware of the double-standard at least a little bit. Or, she thought I was an unfair hard-ass for actually adhering to the rules I had set.

When we got to the car, I asked the Cat if he had pushed them down. Confused, he said he hadn’t. I told him that I didn’t see him push anyone down, but that if he had, he shouldn’t do it again. We talked a bit, and I hope he understood that hitting other kids is bad, but that I wasn’t angry with him because I didn’t know whether he had hit them or not. We went to my parents’ house so that he could run around outside, playing with the hose and not be “punished” per se by leaving the park.

It is tricky. I want to take responsibility when appropriate, but I don’t want to punish the Cat for other kids’ problems, either, especially when they are not being rebuked themselves.

Answers to Quiz: All but “Cricket” are female, at least via the kids I have met recently. This is interesting to me as I have known males with all the other names, and believe “Cricket” was the name of a female soap opera character a long time ago. I knew “Quinn” was female (thanks Daria!) but “Quincy” I thought was male, until I met the daughter of one of my husband’s coworkers. Seems like people should be taking Sweetney’s suggestions any minute now.

Awhile ago, when I was “working” at a drop-in preschool, I did some of the scheduling. A woman called in requesting an appointment for her daughter and son, “Holly” and “McKinley.” When they arrived, I put the “Holly” name tag on the girl, and the “McKinley” name tag on the boy. The woman glared at me, mouth agape. “Holly is my son!” she sputtered, as though it were obvious. “She’s McKinley!” Turns out the guy’s name was spelled “Hawley.” Oh, okay.

I am all for unusual names (to a point), but I must admit that it can be perplexing sometimes, so for people to get angry at those who are confused is a bit ridiculous.

Posted by karianna at 12:20 PM | Comments (6)

August 13, 2005

100 Things About Me

Here is the "requisite" 100 Things About Me:

1) I grew up in Northern California
2) I don’t surf (that’s So Cal, yo!)
3) I can ski and snowboard, but not exceptionally well
4) I spent nine years on the east coast, but then moved back to CA
5) I did competitive dance from age 2.5 to 17
6) I performed in the 1988 World Expo as a dancer
7) I played piano for several years.
8) I can still play a few pieces and can pseudo-sight-read (easy pieces, that is)
9) I wish I could play the violin
10) I was on the swim team when I was little, but wasn’t a particularly good swimmer
11) In 1990, I had an “extra” role in an Argentine Soap Opera
12) I earned Girl Scout’s equivalent of the Eagle, called the Gold Award
13) At age 18, I took up recreational ice-hockey
14) My husband is from Maine, but cannot ice-skate
15) I met my husband through a co-ed Greek Society
16) The majority of our dating was online, which is good because for our first in-person date, I ended up with salsa on my butt since he set our nachos down on my seat when I got up to cheer at a hockey game.
17) We were engaged two months after we started dating
18) We have been married 5 years (May 2000)
19) We have two sons (The Cat was born Jan 2001, Spliggle in July 2004)
20) My extended family has 15 boys and 3 girls (and another boy is on the way)
21) As a result, my aunt as offered to pay for any of us to “spin” for a girl
22) I am undecided as to whether to take my aunt up on her offer
23) I love sushi, naan, Swiss cheese with baguette, salmon w/ cream cheese & caviar, and anything spicy
24) I prefer appetizers to entrees, and am a carb-o-holic. I could definitely live on bread, cheese, and wine.
25) On the dessert side, I like maple donuts, custard, and mint-chocolate-chip ice-cream
26) In my college cafeteria, I used to put soft-serve chocolate ice-cream in a glass, then fill it with orange juice and mix it up. Cheers!
27) I also used to take alfredo sauce and tomato sauce and mix those together to pour over my pasta
28) My favorite pizza in college was walnut-cheese sauce instead of tomato sauce, with asparagus and shrimp on top.
29) I am a Presbyterian, believe in God, pray every night, and go to a women’s group at Church
30) But I am liberal, pro-choice, pro-gay-rights, and respect the major world religions to the point where I have considered conversion.
31) When I was in high-school, I thought that I would be a novelist when I grew up
32) But then I had a fabulous biology teacher that encouraged me to go into science
33) I waffled among medicine, psychology, and research science
34) I have been published in scientific journals
35) I attended graduate school in neuroscience
36) I should have done something else
37) Now I do accounting for my younger brother’s company and do web-design for some of his clients. (My younger brother is my boss! Ack!)
38) I am shy initially, but when given the opportunity, will talk too much.
39) I used to be afraid of roller-coasters, but now I cannot get enough!
40) I have been to New Zealand, Australia, Peru, Mexico, Argentina, Brazil, Canada, and Fiji
41) I want to go to Europe, especially Norway, as I have ancestry there.
42) I used to be able to speak Spanish, but I was so nervous about practicing in front of others that I forgot most of it
43) One of my best friends in high school was my Spanish teacher
44) I am a big reality show junkie
45) I love musicals (Rent and Wicked top my favorites right now, but Guys & Dolls, Fosse, Phantom of the Opera, and Chicago also hold a place in my heart.)
46) Celebrities I’ve met (meaning shook hands, talked to, or other close contact): Bart Conner, Hannah Storm, the late Alan Cranston, Matt Biondi, Natalie Coughlin, the late Jean Pierre Rampal (got a kiss from him!), Isaac Stern, Peter Coyote, Kate Kelly, Danny from NKOTB (back in the day!), Thora Birch (but I didn’t know it was she when I was actually talking to her. Duh.), Joe Montana, Jerry Rice, Peter Lindbergh (the photographer: because he shot a Reebok ad that I was in with my hockey teammates.) Babysat for Art Thoms’ kids.
47) Celebrities I’ve been in the same room with (excluding concert halls and other super-large venues): Colin Powell, Gorbachev, Queen Noor, Barbara Boxer, Danny DeVito & Rhea Perlman (sat in back of them during a movie), Jeannine Garofolo, (same movie = Mystery, Alaska premiere), everyone in Mystery, Alaska like Russell Crowe & Scott Grimes, Gary Bettman (invited to Mystery, Alaska premiere.)
48) Concerts I’ve attended: NKOTB (dare I even admit it?), Bobby McFerrin, Vangelis, MC Lyte, George Michael, Eddie from Ohio, Dave Matthews, R.E.M., U-2 (with No Doubt as opener), Jimmy Buffet, Duran Duran, James Taylor, Peter Gabriel
49) I know there are more in the above 3 categories, but have to keep thinking!
50) Favorite perfume = Ralph Lauren’s Lauren Style
51) Favorite restaurants in NYC: Jackson Hole, Fire & Ice, Patsy’s Pizzeria. And I only went to it once – but Petrossian (featured on The Apprentice!) was amazing. Too bad I was pregnant at the time, so couldn’t have (much) caviar.
52) Favorite restaurants in Providence, RI : Adesso’s, Agora, Geoffrey’s sandwiches, Capital Grille
53) Favorite restaurants in San Francisco, CA: Macho Man Burgers (in the Castro), Patio Café, Boulevard, some random unnamed sushi place
54) Favorite restaurants in Ft. Lauderdale, FL: H2O, ZanZbar, Hooters
55) Favorite restaurants in Boston, MA: Elephant Walk, Rosebud Diner, Gargoyles
56) I have one cat
57) I used to have two; the other (my favorite: mellow, soft, black one) ran away one evening when the Cat had a night terror and was being screechy
58) We have two fish. Used to have four
59) The Cat wants a dog.
60) Husband wants a dog
61) I do not want a dog
62) Favorite color = dark bluish purple
63) Favorite color to wear = light pink (used to be black, but I’ve flipped a bit)
64) Eye color = brown and green
65) Hair color = um. Used to be (naturally) strawberry-blonde. Now a combination of dark brown and light blonde.
66) I have dyed my hair dark red before, but never darker.
67) Skin color = pasty white, with a bunt farmer’s tan (shudder!)
68) Two ex-boyfriends are on my BlogRoll
69) One doesn't know it yet
70) My least-favorite question is “What do you want for dinner?”
71) I want a Caspian Blue Metallic Mercedes SLK 350 Roadster with black leather
72) I drive a Desert Rock Metallic Honda Odyssey minivan with tan leather. I absolutely love it (despite dreaming of a convertible)
73) I tried hard to justify buying an SUV to be cool, but I couldn’t. The new Lexus Hybrid (400h), for example, doesn’t seat enough (I wanted to have kids, parents, and grandparents all in one vehicle) and the DVD player screen is smaller than in the Odyssey.
74) My cousins – who all have SUVs – tease me about the minivan
75) My cousins bought me a “cooler” diaper bag because I was embarrassing them with my “got it from the hospital free pastel bag”
76) I like golf polos (no checked pants, please!) but don’t play golf… yet.
77) I like the patterns on men’s shirts more than women’s, but am petite so cannot wear men’s sizes.
78) I look dopey in baseball caps when I have long hair, but they look pretty cute when I have short hair.
79) I thought calculus was really interesting in high school, but I was horrific at actually doing the problems

80) I like sunsets better than sunrises
81) I like campfires, but not camping
82) I love hockey, but don’t really have a die-hard team that I root for. I currently support the Sharks.
83) I enjoy baseball, but usually only in person
84) I have only been to one NFL game, though I watch many on TV, play fantasy football, and have gone to lunch in the players’ cafeteria at a football training camp (49ers, long long time ago, when they were actually good.) I was invited to go to a SuperBowl with the Niners, but my dad said I had to stay home to study for finals. My dad went. (His brother worked for the Niners.)
85) I like McDonalds for burgers, In N Out for shakes, Jack in the Box for their Monster Taco and onion rings, Del Taco for fish tacos, Round Table for pizza, and KFC for chicken littles (when they have them) and biscuits.
86) I have had four surgeries under GA, four more under Local, all for varying and unrelated reasons, none of them serious.

87) Three local surgeries were within 2 months of each other. So I ended up with a cast on my arm (from digital nerve repair after slicing my finger while cooking) and walking funny (from two surgeries to remove abnormal moles on my upper legs, one of which later became very infected.)
88) One of my scariest moments was holding the Cat while he went under GA for some dental work. It was frightening to see him start to hallucinate, then his body collapse.
89) Labor with the Cat was hellacious




90) Labor with Spliggle was significantly better
91) I don’t have any tattoos
92) I don’t have piercings other than my ears
93) I wish I were skinny enough to have a bellybutton ring
94) And a small-of-the-back tattoo
95) But am not sure what the tattoo would be of (which is why I have none!)
96) My first kiss was with a boy from whom I got chicken pox
97) My junior prom date turned out to be gay
98) I was the first to call the fire department when the hill behind our house caught fire when I was small
99) I once awakened to a cow at my window with others grazing on our front yard. We do not live on or near a farm.
100) I convinced a friend to poop in our backyard because we were having so much fun playing that to go inside to use the restroom would have ruined everything. (We were probably around 7.)

Posted by karianna at 04:37 PM | Comments (0)

They are all Monkeys

In preparation for my trip to the zoo with my boys and my parents:

• I remembered to charge the camera battery


• I remembered to dump the photos on the computer

... however, I did not remember to actually take my camera.

The first thing we did when we got to the zoo was eat. We are bad. But while eating, I remembered that my snazzy new phone takes photos AND has a camcorder.

My dad laughed at the camcorder part. My mom wondered how much such a device would cost. My dad immediately decided he wanted a cell phone. My mom said he could have hers. My dad said maybe he needs his own.

But anyway - no flashy photos from my "real" camera, but there are some posted on Flickr from my cameraphone:

Here is the Cat and Spliggle looking at some bats

Posted by karianna at 02:52 PM | Comments (2)

August 11, 2005

ASD-like Book Recommendations

Here are a few books that don’t use the term “autism” or “autistic spectrum disorders” per se, but that address kids with different needs, especially those on the spectrum and related things like ADD:

1)“Raising your Spirited Child: a guide for parents whose child is more intense, sensitive, perceptive, persistent, energetic” by Mary Sheedy Kurcinka

2)“Quirky Kids : Understanding and Helping Your Child Who Doesn't Fit In- When to Worry and When Not to Worry” by Perri Klass, Eileen Costello

3)“The Out-of-Sync Child: Recognizing and Coping with Sensory Integration Dysfunction” by Carol Stock Kranowitz ("revised" edition here)

The last one calls it a “dysfunction,” but the other two books address some of the spectrum-like behaviors as simple personality differences, rather than some scary, clinical “problem” with the child. Sometimes language is everything!

I recommend these books to anyone who has easily excitable kids, whatever their "diagnosis" or non-diagnosis: ADD, ADHD, some sort of ASD, or any other combination of initials that you can put together that are used to describe kids who don't quite "fit in."

I like that these books don't address the kids' difficulties as being something absolutely defiant that makes them a "bad kid" or their parents "bad parents." Instead, it looks at the different coping mechanisms these kids may have, and how to approach them in the most effective manner.

On the fiction front, I am reading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, which is written from an autistic (really Asperger's) 15 year old's point of view. I am really impressed with the author who has mimicked the Asperger's voice really well. I see pieces of the Cat in the protagonist, which is interesting. I haven't read much yet, but am eagerly anticipating picking it up again!

Posted by karianna at 04:28 PM | Comments (0)

Just perish, okay?

The flies are so big out here that I can hear them struggling as they die.

It takes about 5 minutes after I shoot them with Raid.

Posted by karianna at 07:56 AM | Comments (0)

August 10, 2005

Brooklyn Blades

Since "hockey" was the only category on the right side for which I hadn't posted any entries, here is something to tide you over until the season starts. (Thank you NHL for finally reaching a deal!)

Me playing for the Brooklyn Blades when I lived in NYC.

Posted by karianna at 08:24 PM | Comments (2)

Amish and Autism

Husband sent me the link to the Huffington Post yesterday in which RFK Jr. states:

A recent survey by United Press found that autism is virtually unknown among Pennsylvania's large Amish populations -- a strong indication that vaccines are indeed a principal culprit of the epidemic.

As expected, his comments were flooded by people on either "side" of the issue. One thought many people had was "Why is autism virtually unknown amongst the Amish, why not completely unknown?"

Here is what I wrote in his comments:

For those who have indicated that because there are some autistic Amish individuals that the vaccine link is automatically invalid, I urge you to consider autism as a group of behaviors that can be "caused" by different things.

The "genetic" link to autism can be a susceptibility to mercury, a sensitivity to food additives (see www.feingold.org), or a genetic predisposition to a certain personality type that includes symptoms that are on the autistic spectrum. It can be one of these, all three, or something else not yet discovered.

For the Amish, an individual may be autistic because of a certain behavior trait that is independent of something like mercury. Or, it may be because they eat tomatoes (tomatoes are a salicylate, which can be problematic for susceptible individuals.)

Vaccines to the child are not the only source of mercury. I am Rh-negative, so was given a RhoGAM shot during pregnancy. I was shocked to learn that "RhoGAM Moms" are approximately 15% of the general population but 49% of the population of mothers of autistic children. (statistic from www.generationrescue.org)

I am uncertain as to the validity of certain claims, but I keep an open mind because I have seen the difference in my son before and after eliminating food additives and salicylates. If I am willing to make this connection, why not mercury poisoning as well?

After all, “mainstream medicine” uses drugs to “treat” autism, ADD, and so forth, why not acknowledge that other chemicals can also be considered “drugs” in their own right in altering behavior?

Posted by karianna at 07:23 PM | Comments (0)

Triple the fun?

Got an invite for a "joint party" (no, not that type of joint!) for three small boys.

One of the hostesses is a friend of mine that I know from Book Club, and other Moms' Club activities. The other hostess I have met twice. She is also in the Moms' Club, but we just haven't crossed paths much. Once was the Oscar Party of the first hostess, the second was at a craft day in which the moms huddled on one side of the room while the kids did their own thing. The second hostess is a great gal as far as I know, but I just don't know her well.

The former has one son celebrating his birthday, the latter has two.

Of course, the big thing is: Golly, I am going to be bringing three presents to this party, two for boys that I am not sure I've ever seen!

I am not cheap. In fact, I love buying presents for other people, and go shopping for "Adopt A Family" in December. So I am not upset that I have to buy three presents, but it got me thinking.

I know my friend's son. I know his interests. His gift will be appropriate for him. But I don't know the other boys: likes, dislikes, etc. I can go generic, but it just seems so odd. Plus, I would like to be able to give my friend's son a "nicer" gift because we actually know him, but to do so in front of the other two boys would be awkward. And they are all different ages, so I can't just get them the same thing.

This isn't the first time I have gone to a joint party. It can be tons of fun, but inevitably one friend is "more" of a friend than the other, and this is the most extreme case I've had yet.

Thank goodness the hostesses put the ages and names on the invite! Otherwise, it would have looked really bad to be like, "Um, this is for your older child, this is for your younger child, who are they again?"

My kids don't know the difference, and my guess is the Birthday Boys won't either. Parties are parties - bring on the love!

Posted by karianna at 05:32 PM | Comments (0)

Purple Polka-Dot Parasol People

Last week, I saw two women identically dressed, both with purple polka-dotted parasols, both with the same hair, body-type, and tote bag.

They were approaching my court as I drove towards my house. They had been walking slowly, but seemed to pick up speed.

Twins, for certain, but what were they doing? Solicitations? Religious proselytizing? Was that a clipboard in one woman's hand?

I hurried my kids into the house. They were fast approaching. They knew I was home!

I went back outside to get the groceries, but they were gone.

My guess is that they live two houses down, across the street, in the house that was for sale a couple months ago. I must have imagined the clipboard.

I feel bad for panicking when it was probably just my neighbors out for a stroll.

Today, I saw the same two women strolling nearby our neighborhood. Still wearing the same outfit (both same in relation to each other, and what they were wearing last week.) Still with purple polka-dotted parasols.

Posted by karianna at 03:34 PM | Comments (0)

Never Forget

It isn't a good sign when you have a sink full of dishes ready for loading, so you go to the dishwasher to empty it only to discover it was never turned on.

That reminds me of one night when I was pregnant and therefore completely incapable of getting near anything dirty. I wanted to get something to drink, but would gag when I entered the kitchen because the dishes hadn't yet been done. I mentioned this to my husband, expecting him to clean the dishes. Instead, he lit a fragrant candle right next to the pile.

(Husband will kill me for mentioning this. Sorry, Hon. It is funny.)

Posted by karianna at 07:50 AM | Comments (0)

August 09, 2005

Bad News, Good News

Spliggle ate my phone. He ruined the charger. Luckily it can sync to the computer, so nothing is lost.

Bad news = dead phone, can't be saved
Good news = I get a brand new phone
Bad news = They don't make Treo 600 anymore
Good news = I get a nice Treo 650 instead

Posted by karianna at 11:22 PM | Comments (0)

Darn Teletubbies

Words I wouldn't have expected to utter: "Your penis is not a Noo-Noo"

Posted by karianna at 05:59 PM | Comments (0)

Maple Donuts

The Cat -- trying to be helpful, I am sure -- just filled up Spliggle's crib with blankets, burp cloths, stuffed animals, and a whole tray of maple teething biscuits.

The Cat was only up there about 5 minutes before I came to get Spliggle from his nap, but Spliggle is filled with mapley goodness. He smells like a maple donut. I don't want to bathe him because he is so delicious.

I am a huge maple fan. I love Canada. In fact, when I first had a website in college, I was a bit link-crazy. When I was discussing my interests, I intended to say, "I play hockey, which is surprising since I am from California, but I wish I were from Canada." and I was linking both "California" and "Canada" but I didn't code it correctly, so it read "I play hockey, which is surprising because I am from Canada."

I didn't notice the error. But my mom did. She asked me weeks after the website had been put up, "Um, so you say you are from Canada?"

I was mortified! I wasn't intending to lie about where I was from. Plus, there is nothing "surprising" at all about being from Canada and loving hockey, so the sentence didn't even make sense.

My mom said she had noticed it much earlier, but thought that I was trying to create some sort of new persona. Ugh! I wish she had told me right away about it, especially because I was dating a Canadian and didn't want him to think I had suddenly "claimed" his history.

Years later, I was in Brampton for a hockey tournament but couldn't find any maple donuts. I actually wrote in my cell phone that I should write a story about running all over Canada and not finding any maple.

I think I'll go sniff my son.

UPDATE: Husband saw this post and brought me home maple donuts!

Posted by karianna at 04:41 PM | Comments (2)

Preaching to the Choir

I have been asked some questions based on my previous ASD posts. Little by little, I will post more “back story” with respect to the Cat’s situation.

I won’t bore the Internet with the detail in the number of steps it has taken to get appointments at my HMO to address the Cat’s behavioral difficulties. But it has been two pediatricians, two medical social workers, and then finally a case worker. We were referred to incorrect places (adult psychiatry?) and more than one person simply did nothing. And in a world where one must be referred to the proper place, a dead paper trail was problematic.

We fought hard. And finally got an appointment that seemed like it would provide The Golden Answer: an evaluation at an Autistic Disorders Clinic! I was told by the referee that the clinic was supportive of all different approaches (she knew I was using the Feingold Diet). She said they used a multidisciplinary approach to treatment. That resonated well with me! Classes, support groups, individual and group therapy! It all sounded like exactly the right place for the Cat.

I first had to fill out a large pile of paperwork. Once that was approved, I was to have a phone interview. I dropped the Cat off at preschool and started walking Spliggle in the Baby Bjorn in an area with good cell phone coverage. I was ready to go. But the doctor didn’t call.

Perplexed, I called the clinic about an hour later and told them I hadn’t received the call. I didn’t want to wait another several weeks to be screened. Luckily, they had an opening with another doctor, but on a day when the Cat was not in preschool.

Thankfully, locking myself in my bedroom worked. Usually, there are pounds and protests at the door. The interviewing physician was wonderful, and seemed to respect my decision to try diet modification. I was encouraged and hopeful about the in-person appointment.

When we arrived at the clinic, we were told that the physician who had interviewed me was out ill, so the doctor that had neglected to call me originally would be filling in.

Three hours of “tests” for the Cat and questions for me. The in-person parental interview was supposed to be for both parents, but the Cat was having so much difficulty following instructions in the testing room that Husband went to be with him. I was left in the parental interview with the condescending, neglectful, rude doctor.

He told me the Feingold Diet was a bunch of hogwash and implied that people who believed it were stupid. He emphasized that unless we treated my son now, he would grow up to be a criminal and on drugs. He asked me questions about my personal history (I realize to link any genetic patterns), but they were demeaning. When I admitted (and it was an “admission” rather than just a piece of information, given how he was questioning) that I had ADHD tendencies as a child, he began to speak even more slowly to me than he had before. He asked about my treatment (Feingold Diet) and then asked me if I was “able to attend college.” I simply told him that yes, I had attended college. I don’t like to toot my own horn. “So was it a community college?” “Did you graduate?” he sneered.

Now, community colleges are wonderful, and I don’t want to slight people who have attended them, but for him to automatically assume that was the limit of my capability was insulting. I responded with the name of my Ivy League alma mater. But I neglected to tell him that I had also attended an Ivy League medical school (for a PhD program, not an MD) since I felt so condescended, small, and useless that it would have actually been an admission of stupidity to announce that I had gone to medical school and yet was unable to hold my own against this doctor. He didn’t bother asking what I did after the four-year college. I imagine he assumed I got pregnant. (Again, not that there is anything wrong with that, especially since that is exactly what I did after graduate school!)

He told me that “obviously” we would have to medicate the Cat because otherwise he wouldn’t be able to function in society. He would live at home forever. He would get into legal trouble. He would be angry and unloving. As the horrible scenarios poured from the doctor’s mouth, I grew even angrier. He hadn’t met the Cat yet. How could he suggest medication without seeing the patient? Did he not understand any of my reservations about medication? Did he recognize that I was concerned about the Cat’s behavior; that is why I was there – so why spew forth fatalistic futures?

The preaching to the choir had been a common theme in the attempts to get appointments, “You really need to get him checked out, or else.” Well, that is precisely why I am jumping through all these hoops! Yippee!

When Defeatist Doctor actually met the Cat and gave him some tests, he patterned his responses after what would produce the most negative result. So if the Cat didn’t attend to something, it was “He can’t pay attention!” But then if the Cat was interested in something, it was “He is overly fixated!”

The truth is that the Cat does have times of hyper-vigilance and times of inattentiveness, but there is a pattern. The tests the doctors gave didn’t take into consideration cues. It was an all-or-nothing scenario.

The “other doctor” doing the tests was fine. She was patient. She addressed the Cat with as much respect as one can for a 3.5 year old. She seemed bright, but was frequently cut off mid-sentence by Evil Doctor Boy.

When they announced their diagnosis of PDD-NOS, they both sadly told us that the Cat was way, way below average on just about everything. When they talked about medication, Nice Doctor said, “Well, some people take their children off medication on the weekends,” and Shithead Doctor immediately jumped in, “That is not relevant in this case! This is an EXTREME case! He must be medicated always!”

They told me to contact the mental health clinic closer to our house for treatment. The treatment, support groups, and classes that my pediatrician had mentioned were all a myth. The ASD Clinic was for evaluation purposes only!

So that is when we jumped into the shuffle-game again: back to mental health, to a medical social worker, to a case worker, briefly to a psychiatrist who wanted to give the Cat medicine, but then back to the case worker when I decided to wait on the drugs. And that is where we stand. No support groups. No treatment programs. No classes. Just “checking in” with a case worker every month to report on our “progress.”

A few notes:

1) I am not against medication in psychiatric cases. I’ve been on antidepressants before. I have a cousin whose life was saved by a variety of psychiatric medications. I have seen medication work miracles. But for a 4 year old child, using medications that haven’t been tested on children (and which have actually been admitted to cause suicidal tendancies in minors, such that I know someone who lost a teenaged relative to such a reaction), I am hesitant. I may medicate the Cat at some point. I may not. But I am looking at all options. I don’t think it is right to just “medicate and forget.” (as I mention in my little summary of beliefs regarding this)

2) Evil-Ick-Stupid-PoopyHead Doctor is no longer at the ASD Clinic. (He went into private practice. shudder.) Apparently, there had been other complaints about him. The people who remain are those with whom I had positive interaction. I think the clinic is a good start. I really think they should not just evaluate – but also have the classes, support groups, and other resources available to parents and children that I expected from them.

Posted by karianna at 04:27 PM | Comments (3)

Just Plain Wrong

Guy works for Company. Neglects to pay taxes for that company for several years. Neglects to do pretty much anything that he is supposed to do for the company. Gives himself a generous salary. Makes long distance personal calls on Company phones. Views porn on Company computers. You name it.

Company is sold. Guy is supposed to help with transition to new management before leaving Company with commission to be paid later. Tries to sabotage transition. Guy not actually fired because Company figured it would be better to just wait until his natural termination in the hopes that the transition would be smoother (and because of pro-worker laws that require a 5 step process prior to being fired.)

Given Guy's gross misconduct, Company decides that Guy shouldn't be paid commission (which was not promised in a legally binding way, as it was phrased to elicit a helpful transition from Guy, which he did not deliver.)

Guy doesn't pay his COBRA on time. Legally, Company can terminate health insurance, but doesn't because Guy threatens to sue company for not paying commission. Given previous shady dealings by Guy, Company figures Guy would file an insurance claim just as insurance is terminated, and use that to sue as well.

Guy has an attorney friend well versed in the loopholes of employment law. Commission is binding, says he. Doesn't matter if Guy didn't pay COBRA; Company should, or they will sue for not paying commission earlier!

So Guy screws over company, but gets in return:
1) generous unemployment check (based on the inflated salary he had paid himself prior to the Company's sale.)
2) free health insurance (which shouldn't be free!)
3) a large commissions check which is very much unearned.

Meanwhile, the Company is still trying to get the back-taxes cleared up, and the people doing the hard work are getting paid about 10% of what Guy had been paying himself to watch porn.

I know it isn't my money, but I am having a heart-attack writing the check to Guy, presenting him with what essentially amounts to an "apology" saying, "Oh, please don't sue, so here is some money so you won't."

It is like an arsonist being paid money by his victim because he burned his finger while setting the fire.

I understand why laws have to be pro-worker: there are plenty of corporations out there trying to earn a dollar at the expense of their labor. But there are some cases where the worker can completely break the company by taking advantage of said rules.

I wish the Company would have fired Guy while they could. The Company may have gotten sued for that, but I think the Company lost more in the end.

The Company made an assumption of decency from someone who should have been immediately canned. By trying to act civilly, politely, and properly, the Company was hurt severely.

And to be completely juvenile about it: "It just isn't fair!"

Posted by karianna at 03:11 PM | Comments (0)

August 07, 2005

Stock in Orajel

Not to be outdone by yesterday's medical drama, Spliggle has decided to cut some teeth and scream all day. Baby Orajel is a lifesaver usually, but today hasn't made much of an impact.

Ah well. Tylenol and Hyland's Teething Tablets along with the Orajel will have to do for now.

Posted by karianna at 06:26 PM | Comments (2)

K-I-D-S Yeah!

I was tickled to learn that Fergie of the Black-Eyed Peas, is Stacy Ferguson, formerly of Kids Incorporated, and later Wild Orchid. (Yeah, I know, everyone else knew this long, long ago!)

I was a huge KI fan. I rose early Sunday mornings to record each episode on my parents' VCR, carefully pausing out the commercials and freaking out when I was a second too late. I dreamed about being a dancer on that show, or at least being in the studio audience.

I was thrilled when I learned of Wild Orchid, and got both their albums. It was so fun to think of how the gals had "grown up."

Well, looks like Stacy has really grown up now!

Posted by karianna at 06:09 PM | Comments (0)

Proximity through BlogRoll

I just put up my blogroll from Bloglines and saw something rather interesting: the links to Multidimensional.Me and Nykola.com are right next to each other because of the alphabetical nature of the list.

For those of you who have read either blog, you know that there has been some controversy over a post from one about the other (I won't bother linking because I don't want to get in the midst of it!)

I read both blogs. This may surprise some!

When I went to the Political Blogging session at BlogHer, I was impressed by Ambra's presentation. She is an articulate woman, and although I may not agree with everything she says, I took what she mentioned at the panel to heart. She is definitely more "conservative" than I am, but I appreciate that she speaks her mind and is not just blindly towing a party line. There was quite a lot of discussion surrounding the "echochambers" that each "side" has in the political blogosphere and how counter-productive this is. I added her to my Bloglines because I am interested in hearing what she has to say.

Koan of Multidimensional.Me is a woman I heard speak at the "Getting Naked" panel at the same BlogHer Conference. I commend Koan for her honesty and willingness to put herself in a potentially vulnerable position by revealing her thoughts and journey regarding gender dysphoria. I read Koan's blog because I was impressed with her during the panel.

Both women are articulate. Both have convinctions. Both put their thoughts out there for us to read. I am glad that they are listed next to each other, even if many of their perspectives are far away from each other.

(Of course, if I happen to add a blog that is between "MU" and "NY" then this "effect" will no longer exist, but my thoughts remain - that it is possible to read a variety of different opinions, even if some may resonate, others may anger, and some may confuse.)

UPDATE: Upon much thought, I have removed Nykola from my list. I may pop in from time to time to read some of her posts, but I have discovered to my dismay that the posts that anger me outnumber those which I feel have been written in a thoughtful and respectful tone. A little contraversy is fine, but not when it is presented in an inflammatory manner. As a result, I don't want to publically endorse her blog by having it on my blogroll.

I considered just removing her without any sort of annoucement, but for those who may find this post in the future, I wanted to explain. I do not wish to "bash" Ambra Nykol by listing the reasons that I ultimately found her blog hurtful rather than helpful. However, I will simply say that the tone of her posts contributes to the "echochambers" that she had (I thought!) rallied against during the panel discussion in which I had been impressed with her.

I will continue to search for someone who can articulately and respectfully pose "conservative" or other points of view that differ from mine. I wish intelligent discussion of various issues lest I make the wide-sweeping assumptions about "Christians," "Republicans," and "Conservatives," that have been made about "Liberals," and "Democrats."

Posted by karianna at 05:56 PM | Comments (4)

Double Whammy

Yesterday I attended a brunch sponsored by Planned Parenthood, giving more information about Proposition 73, a parental notification initiative on the CA Special Election ballot this November, and PP’s reasons for wanting to defeat it.

I had been invited by my cousin and a friend of mine. I was excited to meet other politically active women in the area and get a little time munching and schmoozing. I dressed the part: Citizens of Humanity pencil skirt with a nearly-naughty slit and a black sleeveless turtleneck. Sitting down in the skirt is a challenge, but it looks perfect when I am just standing around socializing.

Midway through the event, I felt a twinge in my left side. This wasn’t the first time I had felt pain in that area, and as it progressed I realized I would have to lie down a bit. I stretched out on a lawn chair attempting to look casual, carefully closing the two halves of my skirt together as best as possible.

As I became nauseated, I realized now is the time to get this checked out. In the midst of all the political talk, I asked my cousin to drive me to the minor injury clinic. Two days prior, a classmate of ours had died of a brain tumor, and I had heard reports on ovarian cancer recently, so I was in a paranoid state. I knew it probably was “nothing,” but had been having pain and pressure in that area off and on for five years.

“Round muscles of the uterus” one doctor had announced when I complained during pregnancy of a sharp knifing pain that took my breath away (and that was more intense than labor contractions.) “After Pains! Breastfeeding Cramps! Menstrual Cramps! Mittelschmerz!” another doctor proclaimed in succession after I had given birth, depending when and how I had described the sensation. The timing and “quality” of pain varied, and didn’t track with my menstrual cycle, eating habits, exercise, or anything obvious.

I was nervous about bringing up my concern. The check-in lady at the minor injury clinic eyed me skeptically and immediately grabbed a paper from a large pile, and sighed. The paper read “You have been evaluated and found to have a complaint which can be addressed at a later date” and went on to provide the phone number for Adult Medicine. She wrote my complaint on that paper, pointed to the waiting area, mumbled hoarsely, “The nurse will call you to be evaluated,” and coughed loudly.

I sat. I watched the check-in lady blow her nose, hobble over to a cabinet drunkenly, hork into a Kleenex, and return to her desk.

Thank goodness my cousin stayed with me. She chatted about all her experiences at the minor injury clinic. She made fun of the system. She assured me everything would be fine. She told me to be the squeaky wheel so I could get the ultrasound I wanted to ensure “nothing” was there.

The evaluation nurse was amazing. She explained that she had an ovarian cyst removed several years ago, and that it wasn’t just “nothing.” She assured me to be more confident about voicing my concerns and referred me to the ER.

Now I had a slip of paper with my vitals, the information about “your concern is wimpy” and a note saying “go to ER.”

“Give them this” and “Good luck!” the evaluation nurse told me cheerfully.

When we arrived at the ER, there were perhaps ten people in the waiting room, but a box with about twenty registration slips. My cousin and I sat down against the window.

Suddenly the loudspeaker announced, “Code Blue in ER Parking Lot” and medical personnel began to stream out of every door.

“This is like ER!” My cousin smiled excitedly and cautiously.

We turned around to witness a bunch of people attempting to get a man out of the front passenger’s seat of his car. They started CPR on the ground. 70% of the personnel were watching, but most had equipment ready or were pounding his chest. Several had a gurney waiting. A couple had an oxygen tank. He started breathing again!

A woman sitting next to us announced, “I’ve been here since 3:00am!” My cousin looked at her watch: 12:48pm. “I am filled with coffee” and then she paused. “heeheeheeheehee” she laughed shrilly.

She pointed at my ring. “How long you been married?”

“Five years”

“Oh, I win!” pause. “heeheeheeheehee” pause. “I’ve been married for eight!”

We learned that she was younger than us. Had a cat and two dogs. Had a sister with several kids, but not by her husband. She had no kids. Didn’t plan on it. Her husband had some blood disorder. He weighed 450 pounds. She had a tattoo, did we? She wanted to know everything about us, but my cousin and I weren’t too willing to share. We wanted to be polite, but the shrill laughter and probing questions were uncomfortable.

“You guys are skinny and pretty.” pause. “heeheeheeheehee” pause. “I am really fat.”

Awkward silence. Weak smiles all around.

Bless her for making conversation, but my cousin and I were discomfited by our coffee-enhanced company. When I got up for triage, she changed her seat to sit next to my cousin. She immediately moved to her original seat when I came back, but when I was called for the second evaluation, I told my cousin she could leave to get home to her family. The pleading eyes had said it all.

I bid goodbye to my cousin, and “good luck” to the dear woman who desperately wanted to talk and had waited far too long for word on her hubby.

After another evaluation, I was lead through a labyrinth of colored wings and rooms to reach “Green 6,” my home for the next several hours. I played Solitaire on my phone for most of the day, regretting that I had taken the book out of my purse before leaving for the event that morning.

Bathroom break. Paperwork to charge me $50 for the admit. Bathroom break. Talk to doctor. Bathroom break. Blood drawn. Bathroom Break.

“Oh, you are going to have an ultrasound; it needs to be on a full bladder!”

I wish they had caught me right before going to the bathroom instead of announcing my mistake as I was passing by the nurse’s station on the way back to my room. The nurse gave me a full pitcher of ice water. A half hour later, I had a full-bladder and was shaking from the cold.

The tech who wheeled me to the ultrasound was paged to bring someone down to the morgue. He told me it was the guy who had coded in the parking lot. “They told him to take an ambulance, but he insisted on driving himself,” the tech explained. It was a heart attack.

I sat in the hallway waiting for the ultrasound. I had on the requisite dowdy hospital gown, plus a blanket on my lap. I was shivering and my hair that had been perfectly coiffed was now sticking up all over.

The ultrasound was both comforting and perplexing: no tumors or anything scary on the left side, but also no cyst or easily explainable cause for the pain. More puzzling was that a very large cyst was visible on the right side. I had no pain on the right side.

So I was discharged with orders to get an appointment with my ob/gyn.

I phoned Husband to come pick me up. “Ummmm. We have issues,” was his response. The Cat had jumped off the back of the sofa and hurt his arm.

Back to the Minor Injury Clinic!

In Husband’s haste, he hadn’t brought Spliggle’s diaper bag, a bottle, or toys. Fortunately, I had some supplies in the van, but no milk. I used some of the Cat’s soy milk and put it in a sippy cup for Spliggle.

My cousin called to check in. She was stunned to hear about the Cat and that we were back in the clinic. “No way” she repeated between horrified giggles.

The same evaluation nurse was there, clearly surprised to see me again, this time with the whole family. A few hours, X-rays, and evaluations later, the Cat was deemed to have a sprained wrist.

The Cat was very scared, but tried hard to be cooperative. He was reluctant to have anyone touch his arm and refused to point out the location of the most pain. But he let the X-ray tech position him and was happily examining the “Exit” signs, arrows, and plastic plants around the waiting room. He was nervous and panicked when asked questions, but all in all did very well.

Finally, two hours past Spliggle’s bedtime, one hour past the Cat’s, we had collected food from three different fast food restaurants to satisfy our appetites. Del Taco fish tacos for me (with lime, of course,) In N Out “burgler” and fries for the Cat, and KFC for Husband. (Spliggle got my fries.)

It was the first food I had tasted in nearly twelve hours, and boy it felt good. It felt even better to take off the skirt and high-heels!

Posted by karianna at 05:36 PM | Comments (3)

August 05, 2005

The Sun Will Come Out... Tomorrow!

The Cat is sleeping. He has had a fabulous day. The boy of today is nothing like the boy of yesterday.

I just wanted to note that he has been sweet, polite, and affectionate, lest any readers believe that the previous scenerios I've described are the entirety of the Cat's temperament.

Days like this, I think everything will be fine. Amazing the difference a day makes.

Posted by karianna at 04:55 PM | Comments (1)

BlogHer Recap Roundup

Here are some of the witty women I met and their impressions of the conference:

• Donna
• Dooce
• finslippy
• Fussy
• Java Diva
• jenandtonic (and here)
• Jenny
• Maggie
• Mandajuice
• Meghan
• Melissa (and this)
• Mindy (and here)
• Sweetney (she did several)

Technorati: dailyblogher , BlogHer , Bloghercon

Posted by karianna at 10:26 AM | Comments (0)

The Mercury People

One afternoon picking up the Cat from preschool, his teacher motioned me over. She excitedly gave me a piece of paper, upon which a lady’s name and phone number had been written. The paper was a printout from a website touting the link between mercury and autism.

I had seen an article about this woman’s family. I read it. I thought about it. But I thought it went “too far” to put her son through a rigorous and expensive chelation process designed to suck the mercury out of his system. They lived in an affluent area. The photos showed a gorgeous family frolicking about on a well-manicured lawn. They could afford it.

But I was excited that this woman had made a personal connection. My son’s teacher explained that she also had a son at the same preschool. I felt elated. Finally! Someone I could talk to! As the Cat’s teacher explained how she had mentioned my son to this lady and how the lady had teared up, wanting to help me, I felt amazing.

I envisioned us meeting on that gorgeous lawn so that our boys could romp around while she and I bitched about the mainstream medical profession and how difficult it is to go out in public because other people just don’t “get it.” I thought I could voice my concerns about my own parenting style and the impression that I give to other parents. About my fears that I would be considered some wack-o for insisting that my son not be given artificial flavors and colors. I wanted to cry about how I was afraid my son wouldn’t have friends. I would admit that I was afraid of not having friends myself, because after all, I have a quirky kid. How do you find babysitters willing to watch your son? I wanted to ask.

I emailed the address on the paper and called the telephone number. I left an upbeat hopeful message, trying to sound perky, likeable, and fashionable the way the women who live in her area are.

At 10:00pm that evening, I received a call. It was the father of the boy. He was friendly, but forceful. He drilled me about my situation: Did I have a difficult pregnancy? Did I eat fish while pregnant? Am I Rh-negative? Is my son Rh-positive? How was the delivery?

He lectured me about the causes of mercury poisoning and how it was imperative that I start the Cat on chelation as soon as possible. He warned me about not vaccinating Spliggle, lest he “become” autistic. He told me to read his website about vaccinations, and he told me the name of a physician who would work with us to un-poison our son.

He told me I was lucky, since the Cat has only some autistic tendencies, whereas his son is completely non-verbal and was non-social until the chelation has improved his situation.

It stung.

I know that I am “lucky” that the Cat can occasionally act like a normal boy. It is a double-edged sword: since he is frequently capable of being completely “normal,” more is expected of him. When he becomes non-verbal and non-responsive, the implication is that it is completely under his control and that he is simply being naughty. (And that I am an enabler for defending him even in the least.) It doesn’t occur to others that certain triggers can be overwhelming for the Cat. Think I am in denial? When the Cat misbehaves, he is punished like any other “normal” kid would be. I don’t just make excuses and let the behavior continue.

Yes, I know the guy’s kid is worse off that ours. Buck up, Baby. But I needed someone willing to let me complain about my situation. Let me be selfish for a little bit.

Every night, I pray for the safety of my children. I am thankful that they don’t have cancer, haven’t been run over by a car, or kidnapped. I know that having a child with autistic-like tendencies is a small challenge compared to what burdens others must shoulder.

The Mercury Man was glad that I had tried the Feingold Program, but said that it didn’t go far enough. He told me that many of the foods the Program allows should actually be stricken. I had gone from being told by doctors that the Feingold Diet was a sham and that I was restricting my son too much, to being told that I wasn’t far enough into alternative medicine. Am I too radical, or not radical enough?

After I got off the phone, I was sad, angry, and confused.

I still hadn’t found my place. And I didn’t know what to pursue. I cried to my husband that night, saying that Mercury Man had essentially staged an intervention, and that his assertions seemed almost cult-like. Husband gently suggested that in a way it was a cult – a group of people who have found hope in something that they are eager to share with others. I agreed, but still felt horrible.

I have yet to take Spliggle to his one-year-old appointment because I know there are vaccines due, and I don’t know what to do.

I have been so bombarded with information from all the different “sides” that I have melted. I haven’t read most of the things on the mercury websites, or the handouts that my “case worker” (I hate how it sounds like I am a parolee, or some sort of derelict who requires constant monitoring) at my HMO has given me about medication and other types of therapies.

I am burnt out and lost.

Note: If the family I discuss happens to read this post, let me be clear that I know you mean well. I just expected something different. I was too optimistic in expecting companionship instead of a resource recommendation. I didn’t expect to be passed off. I appreciate the information, but still long for social interaction about this topic, which is why I have decided to discuss the situation here.

Posted by karianna at 08:43 AM | Comments (0)

August 04, 2005

Food, Mercury, What?

I know the Feingold Diet is controversial. Many people believe that it is all a placebo effect. “Didn’t the Cat have a difficult day yesterday, purchasing sandals?” someone might ask. “You don’t claim he ate anything forbidden before that!”

Well, yes. He had a difficult day yesterday. But the difference between yesterday’s performance in the shoe store and today’s rigid body, shrieks and grunts instead of words, wide frightened eyes, and complete overload is pretty dramatic.

What happened yesterday is an example of the Cat’s fearful behavior when he is in public, uncomfortable, and uncooperative. Some of it is normal 4 year old antics.

Today he was at home. Shrieking. Yelling. Grunting. Pushing. Racing. There was no trigger for the behavior, per se, aside from the ketchup. What the Cat produced today was a much different scenario than a regular temper tantrum.

I realize it sounds ridiculous to say that ketchup could cause the ball of energy and piercing sounds that I witnessed today. But think about if I had said he took some cocaine. Or drank some alcohol. Chemicals have the ability to change behavior.

I was on the Feingold Diet as a child. In college, I defended it to a bunch of my neuroscientist peers. First hand experience is dismissed, since even though I felt jittery after eating food with an artificial substance, the assumption was that I was modifying my expectation of behavior. It would be a self-fulfilling prophecy to eat a maraschino cherry and then claim that it made me uncomfortable. But in a blind situation, this can’t be explained away: there were plenty of times when I thought I was eating food that was “Feingold safe,” then later feel horrible; I would go back to the restaurant (or party), and probe deeper into what I had ate, only to find out there was something in there I couldn’t tolerate.

I have to be honest: writing about this makes me uncomfortable. I know it opens me up to all sorts of criticism. I am not a vegan hippie, but I do prefer organic. I am not a cultist, brainwashed by the Feingold Association. I seek answers for my family, and addressing the possibility of food sensitivity has been one of the steps in our journey.

Many professionals roll their eyes when talk of food and mercury-poisoning as contributors to autism or autistic-like behavior make the news. They dismiss “those who know no medicine” as being ignorant and easily persuaded, and physicians who support such efforts as being quacks.

It hurts.

But I’ve been to medical school. I have two Ivy League degrees. I am no dummy.

Here is a summary of what I think about links between food/chemicals and autism:

• Autism / ASDs are not all caused by the same thing. It is a label that encompasses similar behavior types, but these may not have similar causes.
• That said, there is no one “cure” for Autistic-like behaviors. I don’t believe that all autistic children have been poisoned by mercury. I don’t think that all ADHD children can be helped by diet modification.
• Any one approach will likely not be successful unless combined with another approach: medication alone or mercury chelation alone without behavioral therapy probably won’t work. And behavioral therapy for a child sensitive to artificial flavors probably won’t work until those additives are eliminated.
• I believe there is a genetic predisposition to be sensitive to certain chemicals. This may be a particular salycilate, or artificial colors. It may be a tendency to be unable to dispose of mercury effectively. For people with such a sensitivity, these substances are essentially drugs.
• I believe that there are many ADD, ADHD, ASD behaviors that are enhanced by ineffective parenting. Let me be clear: I am not saying “bad” parenting. There are different ways to handle certain behaviors, and some are better than others. Some parents are stuck in a rut, or perhaps use techniques that were perfect on an older kid, but are unknowingly creating a real problem in the quirky kid. There is a big difference between intent and effect.

Perhaps it appears wishy-washy to say what I have here, but I believe it whole-heartedly. I don’t think all kids in the Cat’s situation can be put in a neat little box. It is insulting to the parents and the kids to approach it that way.

Posted by karianna at 07:30 PM | Comments (0)

Ketchup Does More Than Stain Clothes

The Cat is in his room for the eighth or ninth time today. I’ve stopped counting. And one time lasted over an hour, and another time I forgot to set the timer so forgot he was even up there. It was the peace and quiet that reminded me he was upstairs. It has been a tricky day. It is 6pm and the first opportunity I have had to sit down “for fun.”

Last night, Husband made grilled hamburgers. We have a fabulous grill, the Weber Genesis Silver B. (I was going to get him the “C,” which has a side-burner, but they were out of stock and we wanted one immediately.) And what is a burger without fries? So Husband grilled some fries. When the Cat saw my husband dipping his fries in ketchup, he asked for some.

Husband looked at me. “When is preschool again?”

I looked at the calendar and determined that Monday was his next day at preschool, so we had four days.

I took a deep breath, and consented to let the Cat try some ketchup. If he had a problem, it would probably be over by Monday so that he would be okay to go to preschool.

One of the ways we have addressed the Cat’s behavioral abnormalities is through diet modification, the Feingold Program. It is something that worked for me as a child when I was overly hyperactive. Although the Cat is still very quirky, his behavior has improved dramatically after being put on the Program.

Ketchup is not on Stage One of the Program.

The Program eliminates artificial colors, artificial flavors, and preservatives such as BHA, BHT, and TBHQ. Stage One of the Program also eliminates salicylates, which can be found in things such as apples, oranges, berries, and tomatoes. Stage Two of the Program adds back the salicylates one at a time, since some people are able to tolerate some of them.

So we tried tomatoes through ketchup. But it wasn’t a pure test, because the ketchup we used also had peppers and cloves in it, both salicylates. But it was a brand listed on the Stage Two section of the Feingold list, so we knew there were no artificial ingredients with which to contend.

This morning, the Cat seemed fine. He was polite and didn’t appear overly stimulated. He soon grew more and more squeaky, loud, and restless. He zoomed around the house on all fours, meowing loudly and throwing away any obstacles in his path. He took tape, making a web across the kitchen as he was insisting that he was only going to use it to stick his blocks together.

I am looking at your bridges, Cat. I see what you are doing.

He grabbed Spliggle roughly and dragged him around the room. “I want Skiis, Mommy. Play with me, Ski-Wii.”

But soon he wasn’t using words at all: meows, shrieks, squeaks. His face contorted into a bug-eyed, tense wall, wailing “Dededede, dedededede, whodede. Huh huh woo dee. Wheeeeeeee!”

“Mrow.”

I chose to ignore the behavior, unless it was endangering Spliggle. He went to his room several times, each for longer periods of time, if he pushed down Spliggle or disobeyed me about such things like tape, or dumping crackers all over the floor. Each time, he would compose himself by the end. “Mommy. I feel better now. I am a better boy. The timer ring? Can I come down?”

But then the escalation would renew. While Spliggle had his nap, the Cat alternated amongst several activities: meowing while prowling the premises, drawing trains and Booh-bahs, and setting up new tracks for his extensive wooden train set.

Then Spliggle stirred, letting out a happy “uh, ba!”

The Cat happily announced, “Ski-Wii is awake! Yay!” and ran up the stairs. I heard him on the baby monitor making Spliggle laugh. Loud meowing and happy giggles seemed like safe sounds, even if the shrill meows were sending shivers down my back.

I let a few minutes pass while I picked up the house, checked email, and did other such things. When I went upstairs, I was greeted with the smell of Desitin. Oh brother. It was smeared all over the crib, walls, and changing table in Spliggle’s room. Both boys were laughing. Diapers strewn about the room, some stuck to the diaper cream, met my incredulous gaze.

It had been at least a year, and probably two, since the Cat had dared smear diaper cream. He knew better. He was stunned when I sent him next door to his room. “Why?” he whined. I knelt down, met his eyes, and started to explain why diaper cream is not paint and paint shouldn’t be in a bedroom anyway and boy you know you’ve been naughty, but he looked away after less than a second, twisting away from the arm I had laid on his shoulder.

And he screamed.

My head hurts several hours later from the force of that scream. I directed him into his room and shut the door. He started banging on the door. It sounds cliché, but I thought it would splinter through. I expected to see a hole appear a third of the way up from the ground.

Screams and bangs like I had never heard echoed throughout the upstairs hall. I grabbed Spliggle and we headed downstairs.

The pounding continued. I was confounded because the door wasn’t locked. Although many a time I had wished I could lock the door from the outside, it didn’t. The Cat knew this. He knew he was in control of whether the door was open or closed, locked or unlocked. But he banged and shrieked and screamed that his door had to be opened.

Apparently, the ketchup didn’t agree with him.

UPDATE:
I am sad to say it didn’t stop there. More pushing. More shrieking. And upon going upstairs just now, I saw that he had taken the piece of fabric-covered-Styrofoam that used to be above his window, ripped it in half, and was crumbling the pieces into the heater grate.

Posted by karianna at 06:25 PM | Comments (0)

Loving Lime

This has been the Summer of Lime. I love Mike’s Hard Lemonade, but this season it has been all about Mike’s Hard Lime. The Salmon I served at my youngest son’s birthday included lime zest, and I’ve been squeezing lime on food instead of lemon. Luna Bars’ Key Lime Pie? I’m gobbling those up as a breakfast treat! I have even found a preference in my disinfecting wipes, selecting the lime ones over the lemon. Minute Maid Limeade is terrific, especially when mixed with heavy cream in an ice-cream maker! Perrier Lime, Calistoga Lime, yummy. I am surprised I haven’t been putting lime in my beer.

Posted by karianna at 10:46 AM | Comments (2)

August 03, 2005

Screaming Shoes

My son loves the color green. He has green Chucks and has gone through two pairs of lime green sandals. Technically, they are green and white girls’ shoes, but he has turned them into green and dark grey paws for the boy who likes to be a cat. Unfortunately, girls’ summer shoes are no match for an active Cat (or sometimes Duck) who likes to run, crawl on all fours (thereby dragging the tops of the shoes along concrete,) and huddle in puddles of water (leather is not waterproof if completely soaked in water on a daily basis.)

So we had to buy him new sandals today.

Thankfully, Husband had Spliggle the baby (who the Cat calls “Skiis” for absolutely no good reason), so it was just me and the Cat. Usually, I have to juggle the stroller in addition to the Cat, which can be tricky. “I need carried in the elevator, right Mommy?”

The Cat was sidetracked by a tall water fountain. “The Cat wants to look at the fountain just a hiddle-while, okay Mommy?” He hasn’t understood yet that most cats don’t like water. But such is the mind of a boy who can be a Cat one moment and a Duck the next. After about 10 seconds, I corralled him towards the shoe store. He was so excited to be getting new sandals! “Green sandals, right Mommy?”

But when we went in the store, I didn’t see any sandals. And certainly not green ones. Turns out there were a couple sandals left, but definitely not the type the Cat wanted.

He was already melting. He saw the Thomas the Train toys on the wall, and the green umbrellas by the checkout counter. “I get a special treat, right Mommy?” After telling him that he had to cooperate to get a special treat, he started not cooperating. Wouldn’t sit down on the bench. Wouldn’t look at the shoes to pick out which ones he wanted. Wouldn’t even stand upright (he is a Cat, remember?) He started shrieking. Screaming. The other moms gave me the look that has become all too familiar to me.

The salesman kept clearing his throat, mumbling a low, “Ummm… okay?” every time I addressed the Cat. Keeping my voice soft, low, and even, I would say, “You need new shoes so that you can run outside.” “Ummm… okay?” “If you don’t get new shoes, you can’t play with Grandpa outside, you can’t go to preschool, you can’t take walks with Daddy, and so you have to get new sandals to do all those things.” “Ummm… okay?” “You need to cooperate to get a special treat.” “Ummm… okay?”

“I can’t have these sandals”
“I want green”
“The Cat needs carried”
“My shoulder, my shoulder!” (when I directed him back to the bench)
“Those are too big shoes”
“Those are too tight” (to the same pair as above)
And finally, just shrieks and screams as he huddled face-down on the rug in the store’s entrance.

The salesman awkwardly pressed a box of stickers towards the Cat. “Ummm… you want a sticker?” he asked.

I paid for the shoes ($60!) not even sure if they fit well, but having to take a chance. Meanwhile, the Cat paused from his screaming long enough to say, “Where’s my special treat?”

As always, I fought back tears as I held the screaming Cat’s hand as I marched him to the parking lot. I didn’t use a tremendous amount of force, but the looks I was receiving indicated that most people thought I was stomping away, squeezing his hand unnecessarily. Did they know that if I let go, he would dash away completely out of my sight?

One time at the park, the Cat was far away at a water fountain. I had told him it was time to come home, and he bolted to the water. I yelled after him that it was time to leave. One perky mom said, “Oh, just start walking to the car, he’ll follow you!” But I knew he wouldn’t. I had tried that time and again. “You need to wait longer before turning back; he is waiting for you to give in,” said a mom once. But 15 minutes is a long time.

I’ve heard many other moms talk about being able to watch their kids from afar at the park: “They won’t go far; they always check to see if we are there.” Um, not my son! He has gotten completely lost at the zoo, but wasn’t fazed at all. Meanwhile, I was about ready to break down. He can run faster than I can, and if there are forks in the road, he won’t hesitate to just go whichever direction he pleases.

While I was pregnant with Spliggle, we went to In N Out Burger to celebrate that the Cat had been such a good boy all day. It was his special treat to have a “burgler” and fries. But he was impatient, and started to dart around the restaurant. I was big and slow, and couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t hold him in front of me over my big tummy, and my side was hurting. He wouldn’t get on my back. He wanted down. He wanted to run. He wanted his fries.

An elderly woman watched us disapprovingly. “What a brat,” she hissed to her lunchtime companion. “Brat, brat, brat.” She gave the “tut tut” tight-lipped look to me. What a horrible mother I was, and how dare I bring another child into this world!
The shoe store bit was therefore not unexpected. Dentists, hair stylists, doctors, grocery stores, and even things that are meant to be fun for him can elicit shrieks and screams.

Some of it is “normal” 4 year old behavior.
Some of it is out of frustration and fear.
Some of it is because he likes to challenge my authority.
Some of it is because he is “different.”

The local “Autistic Spectrum Disorder (ASD) Clinic” diagnosed him with PDD-NOS, which essentially means, “Yeah, we want to medicate your kid, but his behavior and IQ don’t technically fit within the DSM parameters, so we’ll call it “NOS” (Not Otherwise Specified.)”

You want the whole story of that horrible day? It will come in due time. I also have plenty of stories of how our HMO isn’t helping matters at all. And how the Mercury People think we should do something totally different. Those stories are all to come.

But I wanted to introduce the Cat in the context of today.

Just to illustrate an important point about the Cat: He is now playing quietly with Spliggle. They are building trains together. (Well, Spliggle is eating the tracks, since he is only 13 months old.) The Cat is being polite, asking me for more milk. He is helping Spliggle when he falls (Spliggle toddles with his chest out, arms back, and then rushes into a crumpled heap several steps later, as is typical for new walkers.) “That’s okay, Spliggle. I will give you a kissy. You will be all better.” The Cat can be a very sweet little boy. He likes to snuggle (on his terms.) He cares if you cry (something which contributes to the “NOS” part of his “diagnosis” since a trait of autism is the inability to be sympathetic.)

I feel as though I have two four-year-old sons: The reasonable one, and the inconsolable one. The folks in favor of medication would like to medicate the inconsolable one, but tell me the reasonable one will be forever altered too. More thoughts about this debate later. And I will share my ideas about why even label his behavior as being “different” as though parenting style has absolutely no impact on behavior. (Yes, I am taking responsibility! I don’t assume that a poorly behaved kid is that way solely because of some diagnosis. But on the other hand, if I do everything “right” and things like today still happen, perhaps something else is going on, especially when this “abnormal behavior” is observed by other “professionals”)

So, lots more to come about the whole world of ASD.

Introducing: The Cat

Posted by karianna at 04:37 PM | Comments (0)