Some Days I'd Rather Be A Woman

My son is very friendly, even for a four-year-old. In combination with his moss-green eyes and eyelashes so long that some women would be willing to buy a prescription in order to get them, this is going to serve him very well in life. I've been dreading the day that he discovers girls (although I'm also sure that there will be some typical male ego/pride "stuff" going on, especially given my own teenage mishaps in that department). In light of my poor past performance in judging how soon something in his life was likely to become a problem, I suppose I should have known that I was in for trouble long before he hit his teens.

I first realized that I might have a situation on my hands when our neighbor told us that she was going away for the weekend and asked if LR and I would like to take care of her animals for her while she was away. She probably knew that we were an easy mark because my son loves anything which moves while I'm not a big dog fan and my wife is badly allergic to cats and refuses to even discuss reptiles, amphibians, or anything with less than two or more than four legs as a potential pet. I believe that we're permitted to have fish but I suspect that the first time we found snails in the tank would also be the time that we found the tank in the trashcan. As no dogs were involved, I quickly agreed.

After our neighbor had left, LR began tugging harder and harder on my pants leg. I asked him what was up and he said "I have something to tell Miss Chrissy. I have to tell her something!" "Well, she's right there," and I pointed across the street. "Just go ahead." I then hear my darling son scream at the top of his lungs "Miss Chrissy! Will you come over to my house later? You can sleep in my bed!!" This was definitely one of those times when I wished that I was, in fact, a stay at home mother. I suspect that this is the kind of thing that two women can laugh off a lot more easily. After a moment or two of very uncomfortable silence, we both quickly turned it into a joke about keeping him away from her daughter.

Note: For anyone unfamiliar with the "Miss Chrissy" custom, it is apparently appropriate for a child living in "the South" to address any woman over the age of eighteen or so as Miss First-Name, regardless of marital status. It's basically a middle-ground between the highly formal Miss/Mrs./Ms. Last-Name and the highly familiar usage of just the adult's first name. Given that I am a Philly boy who arrived in North Carolina about two years ago by way of Boston, if you'd like to know the details of this custom or the precise areas in which it is used you are quite definitely asking the wrong person. I've adapted simply by having him call any and all female acquaintances Miss Whoever and hoping that I get it right more than half of the time.

Luckily for me "Miss Chrissy" is a good sport.

Then came the library incident. LR and I were having a grand old time picking up some books and videos. As we started to make our way to the door, I got into a rather odd conversation with a boy of about five or six who came over and asked me how old my son was. I suggested that perhaps he should simply ask him seeing as how he's been speaking for himself since he turned one. (In actuality I simply suggested that he ask for himself, I just wanted to say all of that). The boy gave me an odd look and tried again. "He told me he was six" he said, and this time he pointed at another young boy who had been next to me at the bookshelf. I politely explained that I had no idea how old that little boy was because he wasn't my son. At this point, I got a rather long look from the boy who then decided that he really didn't want to be talking to anyone who was this unhelpful and he walked away.

My son, however, wasn't finished. Apparently, he felt that he'd been bilked out of the chance to tell someone his age as he immediately began following the boy in a vain attempt to convince him that he had, in fact, recently turned four. For a minute, LR looked a bit nonplussed at the other child's complete indifference to his age but then decided to bravely plow ahead with someone that he considered a new friend. I didn't hear all of what he said, but what I did hear was along the lines of "Would you like to come over to my house and play?" I quickly scooped up my child and headed for the door while explaining to my son that "I'm very sorry but, no, the boy we don't know won't be coming over to play later. I promise I'll call one of your friends and try to set up a playdate."

Why was I in such a hurry? Simple, I'm a guy. What was I afraid of?

"Mommy! That man over there wants to know if I can play at his house. Can I go?!!"

I can hear the 911 call already.

Storytime

About two weeks back, I wrote an entry about my son's latest foray into the wide world of telling jokes. Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, it turns out that he's developed a new interest. I now proudly present My Son the Storyteller!

A while ago, our son had begun asking for (and then demanding) original stories made up on the spot. Despite any pretense I might have of one day being a fiction writer, making up stories out of whole cloth and without warning is simply not something I make any claim to being good at. My wife, however, while not really any better at it is always willing to give it a shot.

Up until recently, we've always had a number of cats sharing our home and they had all been rescued from either the street or from a shelter. This provided my wife with a fairly wide array of arguably interesting material from which to attempt to make up stories. Our son absolutely loves them, although I have no clue why, and is currently demanding that we tell him as many of these stories at bedtime as he thinks we'll put up with. At the risk of insulting my wife, these "cat stories" are without exception completely inane and insipid but they do keep our son happy. (I also readily admit that no matter how bad they might be, they are still better than the ones that I come up with).

Yesterday, however, I had a new treat. LR decided that it was time for him to begin telling his own "cat stories." As I explained with his joke telling: "I applaud his creativity. I do. But I also have to sit through them." I now present, for the first time anywhere, the story-stylings of my son. [Note: one of the cats we had was named Mishuganah (pronounced mi-SHUG-ana), which means "crazy" in Yiddish].

1) "Once upon a time, there was a cat. And there was also a crazy cat named Mishuganah. The End."

2) "Once upon a time, there was a cat. And there was another cat. And there was another cat. And there was another thing that was also a cat. And they lived happily ever after. The End."

It's going to be an even longer year than I thought.

It's The Little Things

One of the things which LR's teachers brought to our attention was that he seemed to have some difficulty respecting other people's personal space; he tended to put his face very close to another child's face and then didn't understand when the other child got upset. While this is hardly the most dire problem a child could have, it's also not the best way to win friends.

Being a good father, I naturally blamed myself. I have severe myopia and if you look in the dictionary under "coke-bottle glasses" there's my picture. With my glasses off, I'm able to focus on things which are close up very well - okay, my focal point is about two inches in front of my face. Starting when LR was a baby, and continuing all the way up until last year, I used to take off my glasses and come in close to his face where I could see him clearly and kiss him and talk to him and generally be affectionate. I was convinced (and still am to a large extent) that this is why he has a problem understanding personal space; for as long as he can remember, he's been taught to associate having his face very close to someone else's as being affectionate.

Whatever the cause, we felt that this was something we could work on. As with everything else, the best approach to take with him was a verbal one. We began an intensive campaign of "LR, I love you but you're standing too close." We would then stretch out his arm as far as we could and explain "If you can touch me, then you're standing too close." Not perfect, and not true under all circumstances certainly, but overall it works as a pretty good rule of thumb; mostly, it's fairly easy to learn. Over time, he began to get the hang of it. We noticed that we had to tell him this less and less often. He may never truly understand why he needs to do this. But he doesn't have to understand, he just has to do it.

Yesterday, I slipped up a bit. I started to lean over to kiss him and without thinking, took off my glasses, leaned in really close, kissed him on the nose and then looked at him for about two seconds without backing up first.

"Daddy. You're too close!"

Wow. I never thought I would hear him say that.

Four-year-old: 1
Daddy: 0

The Potty Wars

Well, at the risk of putting a jinx on the whole affair, it finally looks as if LR is well on his way to being potty-trained. At the ripe old age of four (almost) we are finally getting him to the bathroom on a fairly regular basis. While I really am well-aware that his age hardly qualifies him for the Guinness Book of World Records, neither can I boast about his potty-going skills.

As with virtually anything that one tries to get a four-year-old to do, toilet training is all about control. In this case, he has it and he knows it. No matter what I do or say, no matter how much I cajole or threaten, no matter how many Chocolate Chery Cordial Hershey's Kisses I bribe with or how many hours of television he doesn't get to watch there is no possible way for me to force him to go potty. And yes, those Hershey's Kisses formed an integral part of our not-so-well thought out bribery plan a while back; the only thing they accomplished that I'm aware of is that he got extra desserts whenever he wanted them for about a month.

We tried absolutely everything we could think of. We asked everyone we knew for suggestions and, by the end, we had pretty much tried all of them no matter how bad an idea we had originally thought them to be. (As witnessed by The Great Cherry Cordial Debacle of 2009). The end result was a four-year-old boy who knew precisely how to go potty but who categorically refused to do so no matter what.

We had known all along, at least in theory, that the trick was making him want to use the bathroom. This was, however, far easier said than done. (Please don't make me mention the Kisses again). Someone finally suggested that the way to go (pun intended) was to simply make him as uncomfortable as we possibly could whenever he didn't go to the potty. In hindsight, this seems incredibly obvious but therein also lies the genius.

Instead of all the other nonsense we had been going through we finally told him he had two choices: He could either put on his brand-new "big boy underwear" and begin going to the potty every hour on the hour in an attempt to stay dry (he simply had to try) or he could sit in the kitchen in his birthday suit until the next time he went. He was not sent to the kitchen by himself, nor was he there on a "time out;" he was still allowed to play. He was simply not going to be permitted to pee on the carpet, but neither was he going to be allowed to pee in a diaper or a pull-up and thus avoid the necessity of using the bathroom.

Within twenty-four hours he was using the potty on a semi-regular basis and had gone poopy in the potty for the first time ever. Now, six days later, he has only wet himself once or twice in the last two days and he has gone poopy in the potty four times in the last five days. Not bad for a child who had never done this before, not even once. While every hour still brings its own battle, it's definitely getting better. It's still very much a matter of control, but it's largely devolved into a matter of when, not if. Using his own very special grasp of the intricacies of the English language, of course.

"Okay, it's four o'clock! Time to go potty!"
"Not quite....!!"

Who Wants A Dead Animal For Lunch?

I think I traumatized my son the other day. I was eating a corned beef sandwich when he came over, watched me for a minute, and then decided he wanted some. As I am always happy to get food into him, I quickly handed some over. After eating for a minute or two he turned to me and asked "Where does corned beef come from?" Without even thinking about it, I answered "From a cow, sweetheart." He looked confused for a minute and then said "Oh. How does a cow make it?"

After I finished choking on my half of the sandwich I tried to explain to him, delicately, that it wasn't so much made by a cow as it was made from a cow. Once again, I got that confused look and a noncommittal "Oh." He then put the sandwich down and walked away. When asked, he told me in no uncertain terms that he was finished with his lunch.

Any day now he's going to join PETA and tell me he's going Vegan.

Knock, Knock! Who's There?

Well, it finally happened. LR's two weeks' shy of turning four and he's discovered Knock, Knock jokes. We had a Knock, Knock scare about six or eight months ago, but it never really went anywhere. At the time, he didn't really understand what he was doing and all we got was the punchline: "Knock, Knock!" "Who's There?" "Orange you glad I didn't say banana?" He would then giggle a lot and walk away. Okay, we could live with that; at least he wasn't making us go through that particularly endless joke. (For anyone not familiar with this joke, just consider yourself lucky and move on with your life).

Now, he still doesn't entirely understand what he's doing, but he knows that it's supposed to follow a specific formula and that it's supposed to be funny. The problem, of course, is that he still has a four-year-old's sense of what is, and is not, funny. Now, I absolutely appreciate the fact that he's actually making these jokes (and I use the term loosely) up on his own and I applaud his creativity. I do. But I also have to sit through them. So far, they are all variations on a single theme and he's repeating them endlessly with all the tirelessness that you'd expect from any preschooler who's discovered a new interest.

"Knock, Knock!" "Who's there?" "Daddy." "Daddy who?" "Daddy YOU!" [followed by hysterical giggling].
"Knock, Knock!" "Who's there?" "Mommy." "[Sigh]Mommy who?" "Mommy YOU!" [more hysterical giggling].
[Repeat the above ad nauseum.]

It's going to be a very long year.

Bad Parent Syndrome

I was catching up on my Daddy Blog reading today and I came across a recent post on Mommy With a Penis. As is often the case with this blog, he had me thinking "Damn straight!" while simultaneously trying to keep myself from collapsing on the floor, giggling uncontrollably. This particular post was the latest installment in a series of posts called Bad Mommy.

Specifically, it was about Bristol Palin and her baby appearing on a recent cover of People Magazine. I strongly recommend that you go read it for yourself, but suffice it to say that you can have a great game of "How Many Conflicting Messages Can You Find in This Picture?" There's also an extremely amusing note regarding color choices, but I'm not going to repeat it here as I've already compromised this blog's wholesome image by using the word "damn." (Uh, oh. Now I've used it twice).

The name "Bristol" reminded me of a website I found a few years back that also never fails to make me laugh: Baby's Named a Bad, Bad Thing (A Primer on Parent Cruelty). This hilarious site is a critique of recent trends in baby-naming, including the use of androgynous names, creating a name by melding together pieces of the parents' names, and the creation of baby names out of whole cloth in an attempt to give the child a "unique" name. Basically, the author went to a number of baby-naming sites and collected the worst (best?) examples of child cruelty which parents have engaged in via the process of naming their child. Among my favorites are:

1) We aren't having kids for another year or two, but we like Kellyna Nychole, Taryn Mykah and Mykenzie Kathryn for girls.
This woman was indicted under the Flagrant Over-Use of the Letters K and Y Act of 1983.

2) i have a 20-year old son named case mitchell and an 18-year old daughter named cheyenne autumn. my daughter has some of the most beautiful red hair in the world so her name fits her to a tee.
Not only does she have beautiful red hair, Cheyenne Autumn stars James Stewart and Richard Widmark and is regarded by many critics to be John Ford's most cynical of his later Westerns. She runs 2 hours, 35 minutes and is available on VHS.

3) This is for my niece, Dawn. She is expecting a baby girl in September. I suggested that they name her Dusk. What does everyone think?
I think her grand-daughter Nighttime would not approve. Or her grand-nieces Afterhours and Graveyardshift.

4) I've suggested to my sister that she name her little girl to be - Manchester. She's not sure about it but she's considering. What do you think?
Clever. Like being named Pittsburg or Schenectady. Kid'll grow up to be beaten to death by Liverpool fans.

There are many, many others. Go take a break from your kids and enjoy!

(And revel in the knowledge that no matter how sure you are that you've failed your child in some major, life-altering fashion you couldn't possibly have done anything as bad to them as the damage that these parents inflicted on their poor, unsuspecting children).

A Changing Perspective

Last Friday, I wrote a piece about my son's seemingly endless imaginary friends. Afterward, I realized that I hadn't included the story about his first imaginary friend. Yes, the piece is already fairly long as is, but still. This used to be one of my favorite stories about him. That's when it hit me. I really don't tell this story anymore.

LR discovered imaginative play later than his friends. Despite an extremely active curiosity about absolutely everything, his interest never ventured into the realm of "What if?" We were therefore both very happy when, one morning seemingly out of nowhere, he told us that he had a friend named Goldy. Knowing full well that he knew no one with that name, we quickly asked about her. He explained that she was a goldfish and that she was invisible. We said "Cool! Where is she?" and he gave us a look that I hadn't expected (hoped?) to see until his teens. Any parent would recognize it instantly. It's the one where he doesn't say a word but is thinking so loudly that he can be heard down the block. "Could these people really be this stupid?" This was immediately followed by a verbal response in such an incredibly condescending tone that, once again, I would have sworn that he was fifteen. "I don't know where she is. I can't see her. She's invisible."

Frankly, that makes pretty good sense and we quickly forgave him for the attitude. At the time, this was pretty much the cutest thing we had ever heard. We knew that he had an excellent vocabulary, but we were particularly impressed by his understanding of the precise meaning of the word "invisible." After all, if something's truly invisible then he wouldn't be able to see it.

Once I began reading more about Asperger's, however, my perception changed. Rather than indicating a superb command of the language, this little exchange began to seem more like a symptom. As the National Institute of health explains: "[C]hildren with Asperger syndrome tend to have good vocabularies and grammar skills. But they usually have other language problems, such as being very literal..." That pretty much sums up the whole thing, doesn't it? It certainly appears to provide the best explanation for his "superb understanding of vocabulary."

Somehow, this story just doesn't seem so funny anymore.

You Know They're Watching Too Much T.V. When...

LR has been trying to figure out "time" for a while now. Our bragging about his intelligence not withstanding, he just hasn't been getting it. Not that this is surprising from a child who tells me about the petting zoo he was at yesterday when, in reality, it was two months ago. I don't have a problem with that; it's the age. His failures have not kept him from trying, however. And this kind of stick-to-itiveness (would you believe that word is actually in the dictionary?) will certainly serve him well in life. It may not be too much fun for me when he's trying to convince me that chocolate is a perfectly good lunch, but overall it's a good thing.

Now, on what would appear to be an unrelated topic, I know that the television is on far too much in our household, but I didn't realize quite how bad it had gotten. In general, it has never been a problem. LR has never been one of those kids who will just sit in front of the screen and zone out whenever the t.v. is on. Frankly, there have been many, many occasions when I've wished that he was one of those kids, if only for an hour here and there; it would have helped with my sanity (not to mention the cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc.). But for him, it was almost always just background. He'd be playing with his cars, for example, and he'd look up and watch the show for a minute or two and then go right back to his cars for the next ten minutes.

LR has now invented a new use for our television set. You guessed it, telling time. While he remains completely unable to properly read a clock, even our digital ones, he is now able to confidently tell me "Dora the Explorer is on. It's seven o'clock."

I have no clue if I should turn off the t.v. completely, or buy him one for his room.

It's Great to Have Friends -- I Think

LR was still home today. But the monotony was occasionally broken because he had a friend with him. No, we did not recklessly expose another child to an ear infection and week-long diarrhea. This friend was an invisible baby bird. This particular choice seems to have been inspired by our not-so-exciting encounter with a baby mockingbird on Wednesday. (I'm still kicking myself that it didn't occur to me to take pictures until three hours after I let her go).

I know it's completely normal to have an imaginary friend; our son has an invisible menagerie. Today, it was a baby bird. Earlier in the week it was several animal friends from the t.v. show Little Bear. Another day it was a number of animal friends from the t.v. show Ni Hao, Kai-Lan. The rest of the time it is usually invisible incarnations of his friends from school; I'm sure they'd all be amazed to find out how often they're "visiting" LR.

I have no problem with any of this, although it can get a bit confusing as to exactly who is here on which day and my getting such things wrong is treated as a mortal sin. My problem arises from the way in which he interacts with them. While he is generally able to tell me where they are, he categorically refuses to speak to them directly. In fact, he insists that he cannot hear them at all and he therefore relies on me to provide a running commentary from them about different things he may be doing or watching. I cannot begin to describe just how quickly these "conversations" wear thin. "What's the bird think about this picture?" "Does he like my super bouncy ball?" "How does he feel if I lose it?"

Now, my understanding of imaginary friends, while admittedly very limited, is that they are most often used to work out some fear or problem in their lives. As one psychologist explains:

Imaginary companions are an integral part of many children's lives. They provide comfort in times of stress, companionship when they're lonely, someone to boss around when they feel powerless, and someone to blame for the broken lamp in the living room. Most important, an imaginary companion is a tool young children use to help them make sense of the adult world.

In my case, this actually provides me with a fair amount of insight. The vast majority of the questions my son asks about his imaginary friends are about emotions. "How does my friend think that boy in the book feels?" "What does my friend think about that girl who accidentally spilled her paint?" LR is trying desperately to comprehend emotions. Exactly which feelings make up which emotions; when do people feel certain emotions; what body language and/or facial expressions convey specific emotions. It's not that he doesn't experience these emotions, he has a great deal of empathy and gets very upset if someone else is sad, but he is having difficulty in reading other people's emotions.

And that would appear to be why he insists that only I can hear them, that I have to tell him what they think/feel. He is constantly trying to monitor his own emotions and reactions to things, and to understand the emotions he sees displayed by others. When his friends "comment" on these things he is able to compare their answer to his internal thoughts/feelings and he can use them as a learning guide when he truly does not know how someone is feeling.

It is extremely difficult for any child to fully understand the concept of "putting ones self in another's place" until they have gown through the five to seven year shift. They simply don't possess that cognitive ability. For children with Asperger's this problem is significantly worse. Pretty much by definition, they have a problem learning and understanding the non-verbal cues in social relationships; this includes those cues, such as facial expression and body language, that help one to determine another person's emotional state.

As annoying as these seemingly endless, one-way conversations with invisible people and animals can be, I am astounded that LR seems to have come up with what I think is a rather ingenious method of trying to learn these cues.

I should probably consider myself lucky that, at least for the moment, he does not expect me to have his Chinese friends (e.g., the ones from Ni Hao, Kai-Lan) speak to him exclusively in Mandarin Chinese. I suspect that day is coming.

To Save a Mockingbird

High adventure at home today. LR is still home sick from school. His ear infection was followed by the antibiotic giving him severe diarrhea. I haven't had this much fun since he was a three-month-old poop machine. He's now been home for more than a week, but he's handling it just fine. He's not at all stir-crazy. Not a bit. Nope. Me neither.

So the highlight of our day was the attempted rescue of a baby mockingbird. I found him sitting on the ground near our front steps, occasionally making a highly motivated, but ineffectual, attempt at flying. His mommy or daddy (sorry, I can't tell which) was hopping from bush to bush screaming loudly and incessantly. Needless to say, this accomplished nothing other than drawing attention to the baby's predicament.

After ten minutes of this I decided to step in. I was able to catch and pick up the baby within thirty seconds, which gave me a pretty good idea how well he would fare with the neighborhood cat. I had LR get me a box, which I lined with a towel and the baby didn't seem all that upset, given his condition and the fact that he was now in a house with a small child. I then spent the next thirty minutes online trying to find someplace safe to bring him or at least for someone to give me some good advice.

I finally gave up and did what I should have done at the beginning. I called the local SPCA and simply asked them who I should call. I called all three numbers they gave me and sat down to wait. An hour and a half later, I decided that I should try and feed him if he was going to be a guest in my home for this long a period of time; baby birds should be eating once an hour or sometimes more.

This time, I quickly found some useful info although it wasn't what I had started out looking for. I checked with five different sites regarding the care of wild baby birds and all of them said the same thing: the bird that I had was a fledgling rather than a nestling (he was fully feathered and could hop) and the correct thing to do was to bring him back outside and leave him in a bush if his parents were still alive. Apparently, that thing we've always been told about birds not caring for their young if they smell like humans is simply untrue.

So I took the poor thing back out and tried my best. All of my attempts to put him into two different small trees and a large bush ended the same way. He clung to the branch I put him on and then very deliberately jumped to the ground, no matter how high up he was. I decided to stop trying this before he injured himself. In the end, I left him outside near a bush and hoped for the best. The one call-back I've since received (six hours later) told me that this was essentially the right thing to do and either his parents will get him back up into a tree or they won't. Such is life in the big cruel world.

And our life is currently such that this constituted major excitement for the day. I think we both need to get out of the house. Now.

What Type of Parent Are You?

I recently found this test at a mommy blog. I did, however, feel compelled to try and re-brand it as a Prent Test. Yeah, I know;It didn't work. And, yes, I also know it's a corporate gimmick from Verizon. I thought it was cute anyway. (Probably because it said I was a "Terrific Teach" type).

So what do the rest of you get?


T-Mobile Mom to Mom Quiz: "

Take the fun, Mom to Mom quiz and discover your parenting style.

A Parent's Perspective

LR has always had a great ear (naming instruments used in a song, getting word pronunciations in English and in other languages exactly right, etc.), and he's always enjoyed making music. But up until very recently he refused to sing or play music in unison with anyone else, nor did he ever show any real interest in trying to play a tune with any of his instruments. Now, I never expected anything elaborate nor do I even know that other three-year-olds like to do so; I'm just saying he never did it.

So, I was very pleasantly surprised the other day when he began playing Frère Jacques the other day on his rhythm sticks. I was particularly impressed that I recognized it without him having to tell me what it was. We played it together for a while and he just kept improving. Of course, once Mommy got home he was no longer interested in showing off. At least, not right then.

The next morning, a weekend, my wife was awakened by the lovely sound of our son playing a recognizable version of Frère Jacques.....on his cymbals. Once she calmed down from her three-foot jump into the air, she told him what a great job he was doing (what a trooper). Like any good mother, she promptly told a number of friends about his accomplishment. One of these friends, obviously a parent of young ones herself, quickly wrote back and got right to the heart of the matter:

"What in the world could you possibly have done to someone that ticked them off enough that they gave your son cymbals?!?"

The Things We Do

Well, the poor Munchkin's sick. I've had a cold since the end of last week and apparently he caught it. (Although it probably came home with him in that petri dish they call a preschool). Last night he began tugging at his ear and told me it was hurting. Of course, this was about two minutes after the doctor's office closes. He was up most of the night crying on and off despite some attempts on our part to help with Tylenol. At least he got to sleep in Mommy & Daddy's bed.

Went to the doctor yesterday. Normally, this would be ample cause for major anxiety on the part of both parent and child. Luckily, our pediatrician is so incredibly good with him that he actually likes going to see her. No really! As far as he's concerned, a trip to the doctor means pushing elevator buttons, playing with a cool toy in the waiting room, getting read a story and playing with nifty crinkly-paper on the examining table before the doctor comes in, and then getting to play with the doctor. Granted, he hasn't gotten a shot from this doctor's office yet and his viewpoint may change quickly and drastically when he does, but in the meantime I'm definitely counting my blessings.

Anyway, the Munchkin has a "moderate" ear infection (I guess that doesn't sound too bad). He got a panda sticker and an antibiotic. In the past, the couple of times he's needed an antibiotic it's always been Amoxicillin. This usually comes pre-made with what they claim is a cherry flavor but which tasted like used bubblegum to me. No matter, LR loves the stuff calling it "Yummy Amoxicillin." (Yes, he really can routinely get out five-syllable words perfectly clearly and without hesitation).

This time the doctor wanted him to have something a bit stronger. The fact that this new stuff was only one dose per day and didn't need to be refrigerated made it an instant hit with Mommy and Daddy. Unfortunately, this time it came pre-made in what was apparently a not-so-yummy berry flavor. It took a trip back to the pharmacy for a pseudo-cherry flavor, a few drops of food coloring from Mommy in order to match the color of Amoxicillin, and then two hours of coaxing in order to actually get the dose into the sick child. In fact, I was reduced to telling him that this really was Amoxicillin; "Can't you tell from the color and the taste, sweetheart?" This from the Daddy who is constantly reassuring his son with "LR, you know I don't tell you things that aren't true."

But I'm going to have to leave the angst and the guilt for another day. Right now, I haven't slept since Monday night and all I know is that between some judiciously-timed Tylenol and some fabricated Amoxicillin my son is out cold and he's even in his own bed. I intend to enjoy it.

Worst Father in the World

I know that LR is exactly the same person as he was two weeks ago. Our going to a psychologist and hearing from someone else that our son has strengths and weaknesses that fall into a pattern making it probable that he has Asperger's or something else included in the Autistic Spectrum Disorders (ASD) category changes nothing. As I said in my first post: "Our son is still the exact same wonderful little person that he's always been."

And I mean it. I know it in my head and I even know it in my heart. So why do I find myself analyzing his behavior trying to figure out if this or that little thing is related? Why do I suddenly care more than I did before what other people think of his behavior? I know it's a cliche to say that "Anyone who doesn't appreciate him for who he is isn't worth wasting our time on. It's their loss." But many times cliches are cliches simply because they're true.

I love every single part of whom with all my heart.

But I still can't stop worrying about his behavior and what it might mean. And I still can't stop worrying about what other people think. See? Worst father in the world. Maybe I'm just being human. I hope so.

Analyzing Myself to Death

I took a quick look at my last post and realized something. We always considered LR's hair-splitting legal arguments as very amusing and indicative of nothing more than a bit of a stubborn streak combined with one heck of a good vocabulary. (I may be wrong about the vocabulary, but the other three-year-olds I know don't have the word loveseat in their vocabulary and they certainly can't distinguish it from a sofa; half of my adult friends can't do that last part!)

But now I'm constantly over-analyzing every single thing my son says or does to see if he really does (or doesn't) meet some of the diagnostic criteria for anything on the Autism Spectrum of Disorders. So now, instead of simply enjoying his retorts I spend my nights worrying about whether or not the examples I gave are actually a "symptom." Many tests for ASD include questions asking whether your child is "overly literal." So which is it? Can anyone possibly know for sure? At the end of the day, does it really matter??

I'm trying to convince myself that it absolutely does not matter in the slightest. I'll keep trying that for the next few days and let you know how it turns out. Although I think we all the answer already.

As an aside, when your little one comes back with a great line (intended or otherwise), it does get more than a little difficult to reprimand them while you're trying to keep yourself from giggling. C'mon, don't try and give me that little superior look disparaging my parenting skills; you've all been there and you know it.

My Son the Lawyer

LR has a strong history of trying to get out of trouble by splitting hairs. After he repeatedly splashed his Daddy and his Nana while using a wading pool last summer, I asked him "What happens when you splash Mommy or Daddy on purpose when your in the bath tub?" I asked this question fully secure in the knowledge that he knew the answer was "I have to get out" because we went through this exchange at least twice a week. He looked up and replied, fairly indignantly, "Not in a bathtub. In a pool!"

Another easy example is the following exchange. LR knows very well that jumping on the sofa or his bed is very strictly Not Allowed. When I saw him doing just that on one of the sofas I asked him "Are you allowed to jump up and down on the sofa?" He quickly came back with "Not a sofa. It's a loveseat!"

And he's not simply preparing himself for law school with comebacks that rival every prosecutor I've ever met, he polishing up his bargaining skills as well.

My wife was at LR's school the other day. He was washing his hands at the sink and just as he finished his teacher asked him "How many paper towels do we use?" (Left to his own devices, LR will happily use at least 5 paper towels at a time and his teacher is well aware of this). LR shot her a grin and hopefully said "Three?" "Nice try. How many ?" He came back with an even more hopeful "Two?" "No. How many?" He looked down at the sink and, in a slow, drawn out tone of voice filled with such dejection and regret that it's typically reserved for a baseball player whose team has just lost 13 to 0, said "One."

As I sit here writing these stories I'm beginning to see a bit of a theme. Each of these exchanges occurred after one of us asked him a question. I suppose if we're going to keep on giving him openings like these we deserve whatever answer we get.

The Ups and Downs

Our son, LR, has always had incredible verbal skills. When you combine a "good ear" (for music, sounds, anything), with an ability to mimic sounds well enough to easily end up in the principal's office for doing teacher impressions, and attach them to an amazing memory you end up with a child who knows one heck of a lot of words. He had even begun learning how to read when he was about 3 1/4 with a natural ease that was just wonderful to watch. Words became just one more toy on his shelves that he wanted to take down and play with.

For some reason, about 5 or 6 months ago, he just stopped. Completely "cold turkey." He would sometimes still want his letter and word oriented videos, he would still, sometimes, be willing to tell me what sounds individual letters, but overall he was clearly just not interested. The number of books he wanted me to read to him also declined.

Then, the other night, my wife started to read a bedtime story to him and he took the and simply began reading it. Well. Very well. He certainly stumbled over the big words (like "especially;" heck, I know adults who would stumble over that one), but he just asked for help whenever he needed it and then went on. He ended up reading her the whole book!

While he definitely needs some help in some areas, it's nights like that that help me get through some of the other days. Thankfully, nights like that are definitely in the majority.

And So It Begins....

Well, it's official. We met with the psychologist yesterday and it seems that our 4 year old son almost definitely has Asperger Syndrome, Pervasive Developmental Disorder, or some other equally horrible sounding problem falling somewhere in the area of "Autistic Spectrum Disorders." What this basically boils down to is that our beautiful, brilliant, loving, and generally adorable child is going to have a more difficult life than he would otherwise.

It's funny. Up until recently, it would never have occurred to us that his being brilliant would count as a strike against him. While it's not something used to make a diagnosis, above-average intelligence tends to correlate fairly well with Asperger's. (And no, the intelligence assessment is not just the typical "my kid's the smartest one in his class!"; we had his IQ tested while he was being assessed and his verbal IQ is well over the 99th percentile).

I am well aware that this is not a death sentence and, unfortunately, far worse things happen to parents and children every day. But in no way can I think of this as a "good" thing.

At the same time, nothing has actually changed. Our son is still the exact same wonderful little person that he's always been. Even better, now that we have a better idea of what his strengths and weaknesses are (and we all have our own) we are in a much better position to try and help him. Working with the psychologist and his incredibly caring teacher, we can begin using those strengths (incredible memory, incredible language skills, and overall high cognitive ability) to help him work through his weaknesses. As an aside, if every teacher in the world was half as caring and passionate about their students as his is, the world would be a truly amazing place. Every day, I thank G-d for bringing her to us just as we're learning how badly we need someone like that right now).

So....He's having a problem understanding that his friends don't like him talking to them with his face only 6 inches away from theirs? Okay. We just have to get him to learn this. He may never truly understand why this is the case, but there's no reason at all that he can't be taught this just as easily as we all try and teach our children that there are "some things you just don't do." He's having a problem understanding how someone feels based on a subtle facial expression? Okay, we can help him to begin to simply memorize that "when someone's eyebrows are like "this," and their mouth is like "that," and their eyes are like "that," it usually means that they're feeling angry. (For example, I've been told that adults with Asperger Syndrome are sometimes sent to classes very similar to the ones that police officers are sent to in order to learn body-language, e.g., to help them know when someone is lying).

We know it's not going to be easy for any of us. But not only does he have good support from both his family and his teachers, he truly wants to learn these things. He's also engaging enough, and caring enough, that other children like to be with him, usually enjoy playing with him, and are almost always willing to cut him some slack when he's just "not getting it."

We're truly blessed to have him. And I sincerely believe that anyone else who allows him into their life is very definitely richer for having done so.