Procrastination, with Frappuccino

No cute baby pictures today, no musings on parenting, no mention of therapies or doctors.  Just a photo of my frappuccino at my favorite outdoor patio get-away-and-write spot.

I really enjoy curriculum writing assignments with strict boundaries.  They combine all the best parts of ministry with children and all the best things about filling out tax forms.  Yes, I'm serious, I enjoy both of those.  I’ve spent two summers writing church curriculum, and I’ve learned that I really love projects where I have to fit my ideas and theology and creativity into someone else’s format.  Last summer, however, the project I had been working for wrapped up, and I was pregnant, and we were moving, and no writing happened.  So now, as I am stretching out of the newborn hibernation, I’m ready to write again.

This afternoon I’m completing/starting several sample assignments in hopes of landing another curriculum job.  It’s a long shot—I’m confident in my writing, but I know that the economy is tight and these writing jobs are going to go first to people who already have more experience.  And even if I don’t get the job I am having fun trying to think of little exercises that will fit into the curriculum’s structure.  Writing “max 30 words” is way harder than writing a whole page.

But, as you’ll notice, I haven’t finished writing my samples yet.  I have, however, procrastinated away a few minutes of my precious no-kid time in order to add a little something to the blog. 

Until the day I can say I’m an employed writer I can at least sit at my laptop at Starbucks, with a laptop bag instead of a diaper bag, and call myself a freelancer.

At the Doctor

Max is a noisy little baby.  He sputters and honks as he breathes, and generally sounds like he’s got a terrible cold.  Two times doctors looked at him when he was little (ha!  I love saying “when he was little” about a 4 month old baby!) and agreed that he did have a cold and that was the cause of the noise.  But as we took him to Down syndrome support group playtimes and therapy appointments, folks who knew kids with Down syndrome all said they’d heard this noise before, it’s called tracheomalacia.  It’s caused by a mix of low muscle tone and small pipes, and it’s harmless, if somewhat alarming sounding, and should go away sometime in his first year or two.

So, today was a well baby check, and I was hoping to get this diagnosis (especially the “harmless” part) verified by a real doctor.  I told her how it got worse when he was excited or after he ate and better when he was relaxed.  The noise disappears when he’s asleep altogether.  She spent a long time listening to his lungs.  She agreed that it was probably okay, but wanted to check his oxygen saturation and get a chest X-ray just in case.  And I’ll admit that I kind of smiled and nodded, because I’m not thrilled about giving a kid an X-ray if it’s not necessary, but I don’t want to miss anything, either.

So the nurse came in to check his oxygen.  And she couldn’t get the machine to work.  And we tried another sensor, and another, and then another machine, and then another nurse gave it a try.  And then the nurses tried the sensors on their own fingers and couldn’t get a reading.  Max was getting hungry, because I had it all timed out, of course, so that he’d be hungry right at the time he’d be getting his shots.  So they gave up for the time being, gave him his shots, and let us nurse.  Poor kiddo—there was screaming, but soon enough he was sucking away, and then sleeping.

The doctor returned to try to get an oxygen reading one more time.  She had about as much luck with the sensors as the nurses had.  So, although this was presented as just-to-make-sure, I’m now getting anxious awaiting some sort of a number.  We never did get a good reading.  As Max slept in my arms, the doctor watched his quiet, peaceful breathing.  “You know,” she said, “a chest X-ray is probably overkill.  If you don’t want to, you don’t need to mess with it.”  I don’t mind the messing with, but I’d rather not shoot my baby up with X-rays.  So, no reading, no X-ray, everything’s fine, go home now.

I’m left a bit confused.  For the most part I’m fine with how this all turned out—I didn’t think there was anything wrong with him and we seem to have convinced the doctor of that, too.  On this particular issue I’m feeling good and settled, I’m not thinking we need a second opinion or anything.  But I’m left feeling uneasy because I know there are going to be so many more doctor visits like this.  And I’m feeling completely unprepared to be a medical advocate.

I'm trying to remember that we're not alone in this, there's a lot of help for us along the way.  Sometime this summer we're planning a trip to a Down syndrome clinic, to learn more about Max's health.  We've got a network of therapists and other families that can share their stories along the way.  And right now we have a healthy, if noisy, little boy who now weights 14 lbs 7 oz and is 25 inches long.  We do make big babies around here!

Weekending at Home

Whew, what a weekend!  In the past three days all or part of our family have finished up preschool for the year, attended three local festivals (Fiber, Cherry Blossoms, and YMCA, in that order), shopped at our farmer's market, stocked up on clothes & games for little boys at a dozen yard sales, grilled out on the porch, worshiped and celebrated at church, attended a graduation ceremony, and finished it all off with a picnic with Christer's friends from work.

Last year Christer, Toby and I had the chance to pack everything up and try something new.  While Christer was on sabbatical, we headed off to Washington, DC, so that we could try out living in a big city and he could try out some science policy work.  It was a great year--worth the craziness of uprooting and finding a renter for our house and having the credit card company call us up for a month after each move to make sure that yes, really, we were buying groceries in a new town.  We toured embassies and had playdates at the Smithsonian and there was an endless supply of new restaurants to try.

When we left, more than a few friends quizzed us on our intentions.  What if we liked it better there?  Sure, we said it was for a year, but how could we come back to Indiana after all that?  Easily, it turns out.

I knew that I didn't want to have a baby in DC.  I wanted to be home, in my own house, around my own friends and support network when I was dealing with those first crazy newborn days.  (Also, morning sickness and public transportation do not mix well.)

When we returned, I was four months pregnant.  I was past the worst of the morning sickness, but I was glad to finish off the pregnancy at home, among friends.  As Max's arrival grew closer, I couldn't imagine getting ready for a baby anywhere else.  Friends offered to watch Toby, arranged meals, and generally showered our family with love and excitement.  When Max ended up in the NICU, their support became essential.  As we worried about our baby, alone in his hospital bed, and waited for test results, our friends rallied.  My church mama friends showed up at the hospital to pray with us and share in parts of the journey that we weren't ready to make public yet.  E-mails, facebook messages, and notecards flooded in.  Friends, and friends-of-friends, contacted us with stories of their brother, their sister, their aunt, their child, who had Down syndrome.  I didn't reply to everyone at the time--and I'll never be able to say enough thank yous to everyone who held us in their thoughts in those first few days.

All this to say that although I wouldn't say no to a Moroccan restaurant, or at the very least a bakery that makes pop-tarts, I love weekends like this when there are more events going on in Fort Wayne than we have time to check out.  Even better, here we aren't just sight-seeing.  We're running into friends, watching our kids play together, and watching Max get passed around by the folks who will be loving him and looking out for him for years.

Max approves.

We Skipped Spring...

...and jumped right into summer. 

This is how we've spent the past couple afternoons.

Toby splashing, always with a running commentary.  Max and I happily sitting in the shade and watching the show.  I'm kind of caught off guard by how independent Toby can be sometimes.  He filled the pool by himself while I was feeding Max, and even did some trouble shooting to figure out to put the chairs up against the side when it was falling down.  (He still needed me to carry the chairs over, though.)

Water from the hose is cold, even when it's nearly 90 degrees out.  So Toby never sat down in the pool, he just put his feet in.  He still managed to entertain himself for an hour and a half, and get soaking wet.

Max even got to dip his toes in for a first swim.  He likes baths, but this water was too, too cold.  But I'm looking forward to seeing his reaction to the (slightly warmer) pool in just a few weeks.

And tonight I washed dirt, not just dried spit-up but real dirt, out of the creases under my chubby baby's neck.

Parenting is way easier outside.

Baby Sit-Ups

Max started every-other-week physical therapy about a month ago.  He also sees a speech therapist once a month.  It sounds like he’ll have a full schedule of weekly physical therapy, speech therapy, and occupational therapy by the time he turns one.  Most of this comes to us through First Steps—a federally mandated, state run early intervention service.  First Steps therapists come to our home for sessions, and the service is free for us.  It’s really an incredible set up, I am thankful for the help we’re getting from folks who know the challenges ahead of Max, and I have found our sessions so far to be fun and fascinating.  Child development really is amazing.  But I’m still processing how to be the parent I want to be in the middle of this systematic approach to development.

Like today at the YMCA playground.  It’s a great little space for Toby to get out some of that nonstop-four-year-old-energy, and the floor is padded with mats, so it’s a good place for Max to hang out and get in some tummy time on his blanket.  Today we were the only ones there, so Max and I had the ground level to ourselves, and we started practicing his PT exercises.  Some baby sit ups, some rolling over, and a whole lot of kisses and tickles.

And then another mom and her son show up.

And I realize how silly I look.

“Aw,” says other-mom, “How cute.  How old is he?”  Three months old.  Three months old, and I am coaching my baby on how to turn over.  He’s not even old enough to be “behind,” and yet here I am helping his body do something it’s not quite ready to do, correcting the way he holds his head, and getting all excited when he flexes his itty-bitty neck muscles.  Heck, why don’t we start teaching him to play the violin while we’re at it?

This is when I’m not sure what to say.  I don’t want to introduce my kid with a diagnosis.  Today I went with “He’s in physical therapy, and this is something we’re working on.”  That seemed a way to explain what I was doing and put some sort of medical weight behind it

But really, thinking about it, I’m fairly certain the other-mom didn’t care.  My explanation was all about me.  “I’m not the kind of mom who keeps track of whose baby rolls over first,” I wanted to say, “I’m only doing this because the doctor said we must.”

And when I get beyond myself, there's a deeper worry--about what it will be like for Max, growing up, to be constantly prodded to be someone he isn’t quite yet.

I understand that these early intervention steps are useful and necessary.  I’m just still working out a way of thinking about them.

More Family Photos

And since we're talking about family resemblance, here are a few more photos for your entertainment.  Max has some crazy hair, but when it's wet in the bath it disappears, and I'm reminded of my bald baby Toby.  The top photo is Toby, the middle is wet Max, and the last picture is dry Max.

Family Resemblance

Toby on left, Christer at the same age on the right.

At the 20 week ultrasound, the tech snuck us a fancy 4D picture.  Instead of the outline of baby’s silhouette, we saw his little face, waving his hand at us.  I immediately remembered my older son’s baby face.  I told anyone who would look at the little printout, “He looks just like his brother.”

At birth the doctor lifted Max up over the curtain, and I got the same quick view of him that I got of his newborn brother.  Red and wiggly, face scrunched up, and then he was gone.  I was curious to meet this new little life, but also reminded of that other birth four years earlier.  “He looks just like his brother,” I said proudly, “but he has more hair.”

In the days following Max’s birth and diagnosis, we had such wonderful support.  Afterwards, several friends confided that they didn’t know what to say, that they were worried they would say the wrong thing.  Quite honestly, at that point, my emotions were all over the place, and nearly every comment we got—from “Congratulations, he’s adorable” to “I’m so sorry”—spoke to something I was feeling.

But if you want to know the best thing anyone said, it was the early intervention evaluators who came to the house a month later.  They looked at Max, looked at Toby’s picture on the wall, and declared, “This must be his brother, I can see the resemblance.”

Max shares physical characteristics with the other people out there with 47 chromosomes.  But he is also ours.  He is a part of our family, and he shares characteristics with us.  He’s got blue eyes, like the rest of us, and the same sandy hair that will probably get darker as he ages.  He’ll pick up Christer’s grin or my wrinkled brow, and just the other day he gave me a grimace that he certainly learned from his brother.  I don’t want to erase the evidence of Down syndrome from Max’s face, but I do want for him to be seen for all of the other things that he is and will be—starting with being seen as a member of our family.

Before Max was born, Christer posted the picture above on Facebook.  It generated lots of chatter.  The resemblance is striking, and amusing.  I look at the picture now with some trepidation – I wonder if we’ll ever be able to put Max’s pictures up to ours, or to others in our family, and comment on the resemblance.  And so I spent some time with Toby’s baby photos.  I was proud (and yes, a bit relieved) to see that my babies look an awful lot alike.  Max is many things, but first of all, he is ours.

Toby on the left, Max on the right.