Fall Round-Up, Before It Becomes Winter

First day of school, September 2016.

It has happened. They are all in full day school.

Intellectually, I knew the day would come (and to be honest, it's what got me through the summer). But the reality of adding another four hours of kid-free time to my work day (and my non-work days) cannot pass without notation, reflection and yes, celebration.

For the last year, we've had ridiculous mornings that involved all of us waiting outside for Leo's bus, then hurriedly packing into the van to dash to Lucy's school, then racing home to (on a good day) meet Harry's bus (on a bad day, Harry would be late to school because I'd have to drive him AFTER I dropped Ellie off). On a good day, Ellie and I would have a "leisurely" ten minutes to get ready to drive down the street to her school, where I would drop her off (no walking big girls down to the black top necessary).

The twins have adjusted unbelievably well to full-day kindergarten, which in my mind, speaks to how ready they were for it. In the mornings, Lucy, perhaps the world's Most Social Person Ever (she did not get it from me, I assure you) leaps from the car and bounds down the hill toward her little row of squirmy friends as though she's just been informed they'll be taking a field trip to the Magic Kingdom. Nope, just kindergarten. She's FINE with that. The other day I casually hung her (and Harry's class picture) up in her bedroom. Well. There went a good thirty minutes after she discovered this little gem. "I can't believe there's a picture of ALL my friends! MOMMY? Do you want to hear me say all their names?"




Harry is less forthcoming with details of his day though it's clear by the way he greets his little posse of buddies (full body hugs, let's just say) that he's also bonded. He is quick to tell me who sat out at recess and who got a "red square" (for bad behavior). They are learning Spanish: "Uno, dos, tres, tacos cincos, seis." They are both starting to write more, asking how to spell words and copying letters independently to make up their own words. I had forgotten how magical it is to watch young children learn to read, as their little worlds burst wide open.

And Ellie in fourth grade, Leo in seventh. It's exciting and terrifying. Yes, the little ones still make me nuts (though with less frequency) and yet I want to stop time because I know this is the Last Time they'll go to the kindergarten pumpkin patch and the last time they will experience elementary school for the first time ("MOMMY! I got to walk to the office and be a messenger! With Devon as my partner!!") and their enthusiasm is adorable and heartwarming. And yes, even when they follow me into the bathroom ("It's because I LIKE you!" Harry explains) I remind myself they're not always going to like me this much. Also. I love having big kids. With election season, it's been such fun talking politics. Ellie begs to stay up late to watch the debates and of course falls asleep next to me on the couch, but still.


Lucy's depiction of Donald Trump: "He's crying because he lost the election."


Halloween has come and gone--in our house it actually begins around late August ("MOMMY? Can we put up the Halloween decorations?" is literally a daily question). This year we had a cowgirl, a last minute Spiderman (I really thought he'd be Batman for a third year in a row but no such luck) and of course, Elphaba, from "Wicked." And for the second year in a row, Ellie trick or treated with friends instead of us. How quickly they become "too cool?" Perhaps, but in this case I really think it's more practical reasons that has her looking elsewhere for trick or treating options: Let's face it. We aren't the fastest candy fetching crew. Five year olds get tired quickly AND they're afraid of the dark. You do the math.


One of my favorite pictures of Halloween night. Darkness fell. The whining began. Too dark. Too cold. I'm tired. Uppy! One wanted to go one way, one wanted to go another. If this picture doesn't sum up the experience of parenting twins, I don't know what does.

Broadway Bound

Saturday night the four of us braved (another) winter storm and headed into the City. It was cold and snowy and blustery and the streets were treacherous and oddly unplowed--in short, leaving the house was about the last thing I wanted to do.


Our local train station always looks so romantic at night.

But we had a very, VERY important destination.

BROADWAY. For Leo and Ellie's first show: (Aladdin)!


Photo courtesy The Washington Post

I was twenty six when I saw my first Broadway show, on a trip to New York a few month before moving there (it was "Rent" of course). What lucky kids these guys are!


Terrible picture, wonderful time.


The excitement was palpable. "How many more minutes, Mommy?" I must have heard that about fifteen times. I can't say I blamed her. It IS a big deal.

The show was wonderful. Like all great Broadway musicals it had fabulous music, wonderful dancing and stunning special effects.

As the lights went up at intermission I leaned forward to gauge Leo's reaction. "Mommy, I love it!" he announced, grinning from ear to ear.



But of course it wasn't just about the play--it was about being able to share this experience with the kids. I've been playing them Broadway show tunes since they were infants and they know that Broadway is a big deal to me (I'm a self-professed Musical Theater Nerd, as you know). So now they know what all the fuss is about, and they have first hand proof that their Mommy isn't too crazy after all--that Broadway IS pretty amazing.

Full Circle or "I Want to Help People"

It took years--YEARS for me to feel safe letting Leo walk in a parking lot without holding my hand, to leave the front door unlocked with him playing in the living room or mudroom or better yet--the FRONT YARD (fence-less) unattended.

I didn't think the day would ever come that I would go to a birthday party with him and not worry the whole time about where all the entrances and exits were, or that I wouldn't wait for the call to come from school saying he had vanished, walked out of a classroom and down the street, never to be heard from again.



And now, he's helping children cross the street. Of course with some supervision. But still! Talk about Full Circle.

Leo first mentioned safety patrol back in the fall. I admit, I dropped the ball. I don't recall seeing a form or application about it come home school, but it may have. I meant to ask his teacher about it but I forgot. Last week the application arrived in his homework folder, front and center, along with a note from Mrs. W: "Leo wants to be on Safety Patrol. Please have him fill out this application and return on Monday."

OK then.

This afternoon, Leo pulled the the neon yellow Safety Patrol sash out of his backpack as though it was a gold medal from the summer games. "My dream came true!" he exclaimed, practically vibrating with joy and pride.

It's no secret Leo loves to help people. If you have as much as a hang-nail he will lovingly prepare an ice pack (he prefers ice cubes wrapped in paper towels--don't ask) and present you with an assortment of Hello Kitty, Buzz Lightyear and Tinkerbell Band-Aids. He will rub your back and prop you up on pillows and announce, "I want to help people."

Erin and I were talking this weekend about how the perfect job would be something in a nurturing field--who knows-maybe a hospital or nursing home. As long as he's happy, and fulfilled--that's all we care about.

Safety Patrol seems like a pretty great start.

Birthdaypalooza and Summer Status

Summer is birthday season around here.

And just like that:


Three.


Seven.


Ten.

Clearly there has been some mix-up because, I have twin toddlers, not preschoolers. And there's just no way I'm old enough to have a TEN YEAR OLD. I mean, really.


They play nicely like this ALL the time, I assure you.

It's amazing that summer is more than half over. In fact, I think school starts a week from tomorrow. Crazy.

Leo and Harry finished up their stints at summer school. Ellie has been enjoying various camps (town camp, gymnastics and to come are science and art). Leo started at his amazing camp last week and comes home every night flushed, smiling and exhausted, so clearly that camp is doing something right. This week Lucy finally gets her turn as she embarks on a mini ballet camp (a whole two hours a day). Speaking of Lucy's camp, you know you've had a couple of kids when, upon emailing your three year old's camp to find out if the TWO HOUR program is drop off and they reply: "If you'd be more comfortable staying that's fine but it is drop-off," your reaction is all YIPPEE!! See you in two hours, Cutie! 

February Notes (So Far)

Yes, Harry. That's a lot of freaking snow.



Ellie, on Harry: "Mommy, I don't want Harry to grow up. He's too cute."

She may be a bit biased.


And Harry may have a slightly unorthodox approach to watercolors. Ahem.

It's been snow day, school day, snow day around here lately.

The kids even had school on President's Day, which is usually a school holiday. But we are evidently way out of snow days.


Somewhere in there, is our driveway.

But March is on the horizon and with it, spring will come. Or so I've heard.


Two weeks ago, I swear we woke up in Colorado.


Watching big sister build a snow man.


It is pretty.


"Mommy! I like eating!" Lucy announced the other day. I have NO idea where she gets that from.


Leo came home from school last week with music homework. He had to sing several verses from blues songs. He decided to illustrate his favorite (see above). Naturally it was "Hound Dog."


Ellie has introduced Lucy to the art of dress-up. These girls can entertain each other for a long while. Not going to lie. It's pretty awesome. And based on the garb and styling of these two, it probably comes as no surprise that the other day as Lucy (and Harry) and I strolled the aisles of our local Target, Lucy leaned over to me and said "Mommy, let's buy something fabulous!"

Mr. Independent

Leo in Times Square a few weeks ago, when he came to work with me for the day. 

I still remember my first thought three years ago this month, laying on the exam table and hearing the words "You have twins."

OK, maybe my first thought was Holy Crap.

But for sure my second thought was Leo: How would we ever be able to give Leo all the attention he needed with our energies further dispersed amongst two more children?

And since their arrival almost two and half years ago, there have certainly been times I've felt overwhelmed (HELLO, understatement) and had moments when I would have liked to have been a bit more, how shall I put it? Present for Leo, to have been able to give him a little more undivided attention with homework or I would have preferred to keep a firmer grip on his hand in a busy parking lot, as opposed to a giant double stroller.

But if there have been blessings in all of this, in the way things have turned out for our little family (there have certainly been many of them), it's that having many small children and having my attention, yes, often diverted and divided has forced everyone to take just a little more responsibility, and in turn, for me to trust my bigger kids to step up to the plate, to rise to the occasion, if you will.

And that's just what happened at Costco on Saturday morning. Leo stepped forward, and I stepped back.

There was our checker, dutifully ringing up our items, there was Harry, thirty minutes late for his nap and flirting with crankiness and there was Leo, asking for a smoothie.

A quick assessment of the situation led me to the following realizations:

A) We were in line (having our items rung up) directly across from the Costco food court.
B) There was NO LINE at said food court. (Costco regulars will recognize the enormity of this).

That's when I handed Leo a $5 bill and sent him on his way. If it had just been Leo there, I have no doubt that I wouldn't not have allowed him to go off on his "own." But Harry would not have enjoyed waiting in yet another line and I still had to get everyone out to the car and the groceries loaded up, to say nothing of the fifteen minute drive home.

I could see Leo the whole time-he never left my line of vision. He marched up to the counter and placed his order. Did the server pause to clarify the order? Have a hard time understanding Leo? Perhaps. I couldn't really tell. All I know is a few moments later, Leo was presented with one of his beloved "very berry" smoothies and a small cup full of change (the thoughtful server had given it to him in a little cup to prevent Leo from spilling it). I grew a little worried when I watched Leo move over to the straw/napkins/flatware area-he seemed to be struggling a bit with the straw dispenser. But he  rallied and the next thing I knew he stuck the straw in his smoothie, took a contented sip and was on his way, gliding back to me with an enormous grin, practically vibrating with pride.

It was a little thing, but I was so very proud of him.

Chance Encounters

Saturday morning I was out with the boys (have I mentioned how much I like saying "the boys" or "the girls?") I'm not sure if it's because I still can't believe I have boy(s) and girl(s) or because it means if I'm saying one of those words it means I only have two children with me. Practically a spa day!

On our way to speech therapy, we stopped at a light and I noticed the car in front of us was carrying two beautiful golden retrievers. It was a station wagon, and the two dogs were all the way in the back, sitting by the large rear window. When we stopped at the light, I pointed them out to Leo. Then, because I am me, I waved at the dogs. Yes, waved. As if they were going to wave back. Well I could swear they at least smiled at me.

I also found myself tearing up. Because the older one (one was, yes, a puppy) looked so much like our Ruby.

You won't believe what happened next. We pulled into the complex where the therapist is located. Guess who pulled up next to us in the parking lot? Well. I couldn't resist. And since I've yet to meet a rude or mean or even unfriendly golden retriever owner, I jumped out of the car and announced that I'd admired the dogs from the road (!) and would it be ok if my son(s) and I said hello?







I think it's safe to say they didn't mind.

Stop It. And Some Wonderful Things (After Some Not So Wonderful).

An assortment, from years gone by. It doesn't get much better than that feather turkey wreath from Leo's (I think) first grade.


This weekend, down came the Halloween decor and up went theThanksgiving paraphernalia.

Then Amy pointed out to me that if it was time to decorate for Thanksgiving, then it was also time to acknowledge Hanukkah (which, for the first time in our lifetime happens to fall on the same day).

Hannuskiving?

Thanksgivingmacka?

I don't know what to call it or what to say except Stop This Year. Just Stop It. You are going by too fast. And Stop My Favorite Season From Rolling By.

I know that time is one of the most boring subjects but it's all so true, every single word of what "they" say about it. This is all just whizzing right by. This weekend I sat in the backyard with the twins while they burned off some late afternoon/time change crabbiness and we watched the planes fly overhead from the Newark airport. Harry flapped his little arms and ran around the driveway like a miniature 747, because really there is nothing more interesting than watching the planes fly overhead and then pretending to be a plane. These little people. Two years ago they were sitting on the deck strapped in infant seats and buried in little winter suits. And now?

Now I manage to get Harry to sleep a full hour later than Lucy (Hello, 5:15 a.m. on time change Sunday!). Lucy and I have a rare hour to ourselves as the house remains quiet with everyone else still asleep. And when I hear Harry stirring, go upstairs to get him and present him to Lucy, Look who I found! I joke to Lucy, who is drinking her morning milk and grazing on cheerios and pumpkin bread.

Oh thank you! I like Harry! Hi Harry! Lucy says, her face, an explosion of happiness and glee.

Of course, the irony is not lost on me that "Stop It" is also a phrase that has been coming out of my mouth quite a lot these days (and yes, it's pretty much always directed at the twins). Stop It! Stop stealing Harry's toys! Stop it! Stop screaming! Stop it! Stop throwing open the refrigerator doors and stealing apples and packages of string cheese and then running, celebratory through the house (Yes, this is my life).


I found this oldie but goodie this weekend. From last year: "A Turkey, in the Rain," by Leo.

***

A few weeks ago Leo had to get a tooth pulled. It was his first time (thank goodness!) and it was also a baby tooth (another thank goodness!). It was just a rotten little tooth that the dentist said hadn't been worth filling but it was finally in bad enough shape to pull. We all know Leo has finally overcome his dental issues, which is why it was perhaps even more traumatic to have to hold him down while he had that little tooth pulled (a parenting first that I hope to never repeat).

Oh he was medicated and numbed and even nitroused up. But he saw the tools and even without pain, I guess there is no mistaking the "force" of having a tooth extracted. Bless our dear Dr. F who was cool as a cucumber as he had to do some serious acrobatics during the procedure, practically turning himself upside to accomplish the task. But he could not have been more patient with Leo (or me). Did I mention his daughter has Down syndrome? He gets it.

And when it was all over, I felt teary, for Leo and for the fact that we are so fortunate to have some wonderful people in our little village, including our dentist.

As he always does, Leo recovered very quickly. There were no hard feelings toward Dr. F, only fist bumps and high fives. A hug may have been attempted too.


After the trauma (for both of us), I did what any guilt-ridden mother would do. I took Leo out for the biggest donut I could find.* And I bought myself the largest pumpkin flavored coffee available (I also may or may not have quickly eaten ten pumpkin Munchkins in the car).

I ran into Dr. F at Ellie's school Halloween parade (his kids go to the same school). There he was, in his Stay Puft Marshmallow Man costume. It was two weeks after the tooth pulling ordeal but all he could ask me was "How's Leo?"

It doesn't get much better than that.

*Don't worry. Leo brushed his teeth when we got home. :)

Nine and Milestones, Good and Bad

Leo had his nine year "well" visit today. NINE! Gulp and also, yikes. Oh time. You do have a way of marching on, don't you?

I've said this before and I'll say it again, after so many years of struggling with Leo at doctor's visits, what a pleasure it is now, to take Leo to these appointments. Watching him agreeably have his ears checked and heart listened to, it's almost eerie, it's like he's not even the same person he was at age three, and four and five, when it sometimes took two people to hold Leo down just so the doctor could look in his throat or listen to his heart.

Now? Leo is Mr. Cool. Today, even though he told me he didn't want to have his blood pressure taken, he conceded, and while the arm band pumped away, he politely told Dr. J about fourth grade and his beloved planets and basketball and how he likes to go the doctor now but "NOT with Ellie."

Leo's doctor even commented on it, right after he remarked on "What a nice young boy Leo is turning into." (Yes, he sees Leo maybe three times a year, but no matter, and so cue my heart, swelling).

"For years I only saw Leo when he was upset and febrile, so I never got to know him. What a pleasure he is," said Dr. J.

Dr. J also told me how impressed he was by how our family juggles everything and launched into the whole "God only gives you what you can handle" speech which I sort of roll my eyes at, but I also know that people mean well when they mention it. He made me laugh though, because he went on to say how he'll see a mom with a lot of kids and various issues or special needs and they are doing just fine, and then he sees a mom with one kid, perfectly healthy and no issues, and they are just freaking out and not handling it at all. I don't know, I don't mean to sound boastful in any way, it just made me smile. How everyone "handles" things? It's all relative I guess.

***
Ellie has soccer on Sunday afternoons and Leo usually comes too. During Ellie's game, he goes to the playground and often strikes up a pick-up basketball game at one of the nearby courts.


Last week Leo played with this nice young man. I watched them from afar and thought it was great how they just played together and didn't even need to speak to each other. I guess that's just how dudes are.

Of course I keep an eye on Leo, the playground is not in my direct line of sight by the soccer field, so I check on him throughout the game. Again, it does not go unnoticed how far we've come. Just a few years ago I would never have dreamed of taking Leo to a playground and not watching him like a hawk, fearing that he'd run off into the street or just, run off altogether.

Two weeks ago, during one of my "checks," I noticed Leo was sitting atop the monkey bars. Sobbing. I walked over to him and asked him what was wrong. He told me that a boy had pushed him. He pointed to a group of young boys several hundred yards away, paying no attention to Leo.

It's always a little touchy, being the mom at the playground with older kids. I wasn't about to bust in and reprimand anyone: I didn't see what happened. So I told Leo that the next time something like that happened, he should come and get me.

Then yesterday, after Ellie's game, I let her join Leo at the playground for a few minutes. Ellie had ordered me to "guard her Oreos," and I was happy to oblige at the bench in front of the slides. A short while later, a little girl from Ellie's soccer team approached a dad who was standing next to me, talking to a mom.

"Excuse me! Excuse me!" the little girl was quite persistent.

I thought maybe someone was hurt.

"That boy over there, he's talking funny. And...he's older. He's not a baby or a little kid but he kind of sounds like one. He's not talking right." 

Now my ears were really perked up: I realized she was talking about Leo.

"Is anyone hurt?" the dad asked. "Is someone fighting?"

"Well, um, no," the girl answered.

"OK, so..." the dad just looked at her and she slowly walked away.

It was just so ODD. She didn't even seem to know the dad. So she was tattling on Leo...for "not talking right?"

I couldn't help myself. I slowly followed the little girl. There was Leo once again, sitting atop the monkey bars and looking very upset, his lip curled over into a pout, his face, red.

The little girl was back at it.

"Well why does he talk like that? What is he saying?" She was talking to a small group of children, one of whom was Ellie. No one was saying anything, except Ellie. Sweet Ellie. Thank goodness for Ellie.

"He goes to speech school (that's what we've nicknamed Leo's private speech therapy, which he goes to on Saturday mornings. Ellie likes to come along because it means she gets a lollipop). And he just talks how he talks. Not everyone talks the same you know."

Ellie wasn't letting this little girl (who happened to be Ellie's teammate, I realized) get away with anything. She was very matter of fact about Leo's speech: He just talks that way. What's your point?
And to be fair, none of the other kids in the group seemed to know what to say to her either, nor understand what her problem was.

It was an odd situation. I didn't want to intervene and be the pushy helicopter mom.  The girl wasn't being outwardly cruel, just kind of insensitive. I told Leo it was time to go (which it was), but I watched as Ellie's teammate actually climbed down from the monkey bars and actually followed Ellie, continuing to ask her about "Why he talks that way?"

In hindsight, I wonder if it was a "teachable moment." Maybe I should have said something to the girl about diversity and how not everyone speaks in the same way, looks the same, etcetera (though I feel like Ellie had covered that already). Unless someone is in harm's way, I really like to let kids try and work things out (especially kids I don't know!).

And now, a new reason to keep an eye on Leo at the playground.

Ways of Seeing

One of the things I've always been fascinated by is the way Leo looks at things in his world. I'll never forget the time he was about four years old, when he leaned over and showed me his half-eaten cheese quesadilla. "Steps!" he declared. At first I didn't know what he was talking about. But I looked at his quesadilla and sure enough, the little bites he'd taken had created a pattern that looked indeed, like steps.

Last night before bedtime, Leo was standing in front of the open refrigerator, getting ready for his nightly pre-bed glass of seltzer (what is it with my boys and their seltzer fixations?).

"MOMMY! The seltzer! It looks like Mickey Mouse!"


The three bottles of seltzer are to the right of Leo, with the silver caps. I don't know about you, but I can definitely see Mickey Mouse there. Of course, I needed Leo to point it out.

The other day I set out a package of juice boxes for Leo to put away in the refrigerator--it's one of his "jobs."

"Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune," Leo chanted.

There are eight juice boxes, in a package, just like there are eight planets in the solar system. Leo had lined up all the juice boxes on the shelf inside the refrigerator perfectly. Planets.

"NOT Pluto!" (Leo is very adamant about reminding us this whenever he gets a chance.)



Granted, this example of juice boxes as planets was a little harder for me to "see."

There was a time when I would have given anything to know what was going on inside Leo's head. As Leo's language has exploded over the last few years, I don't have to long to know what' he's thinking, the way I used to (now, the struggle isn't to get him to speak, it's often, to the frustration of everyone involved, to figure out what he's saying).

But it's still evident to me, through Mickey Mouse seltzer bottles and solar system juice boxes, that Leo's mind works in a very unique way and he sees his world in a way unlike others do. Unlike anyone I've known before, really.

Heroes

In the elevator on the way to speech therapy. Don't ask me why everyone decided to sit.

Leo knows how to push every single one of my buttons, can drive me ten different kinds of crazy, and is hands down, the most stubborn person I've ever met. 

But Leo is also the only person I've ever known whose response to my replacing a light bulb is: "MOMMY!!! You're my hero!"

He exclaims this with his whole body, without an ounce hyperbole.

Leo gazed at the new light bulb above the upstairs bathroom mirror, basking in the improvement and then at me and announced, "I have to hug you Mommy."

No problem, buddy. No problem.

Unruffled

Leo, get dressed please.

Leo, it's time to get dressed.

Leo, I made your eggs. After you're dressed you can eat breakfast.

That's my script, almost every morning. In other news, isn't that one of the most frustrating things about being a mom? The nagging. The feeling that no one is listening to you. I swear I get tired of the sound of my own voice and I get on my own nerves sometimes, so I can only imagine what my children must think of me.

Back to mornings. Fourth grade seems to be going fine for Leo, but the early morning hours of his day can be less than stellar. Leo hasn't been moving very, shall we say, efficiently lately. This has led to a lot of cajoling and repetition of the same request.

Imagine my frustration yesterday morning, when, a few minutes after my twelfth request to him to get dressed, Leo appeared in the kitchen finally out of pajamas but wearing considerably less than what is customarily expected of a nine year old boy. That's when he started trying to open the back door.

"Outside! I want to go outside!" he demanded.

That's fine, I said. But you have to get dressed first.

See what I mean? I get on my own nerves, seriously.

Leo groaned at me as he's apt to do when I irritate him to new levels, and stormed back to his room.

I drank some coffee. I wiped some crumbs off the kitchen counter. I helped Ellie find a show on television. I changed a diaper and dressed a baby or two.

That's when it occurred to me. Where was Leo? And what was he doing? And why wasn't he standing in front of me, dressed?

I went to his room, knocked on his door, and then opened it.

There was Leo. Except he wasn't exactly in his room. No, he was standing at one of the the windows of his bedroom. Outside the window. Yes, he had climbed out the window. LEO CLIMBED OUT OF THE WINDOW? Because, of course.

Well, he did say he wanted to go outside, I thought to myself. Ahem.

I have to say, I've seen a lot in my days as a mom of four, but a kid climbing out the window is [thankfully] a first for me. Keep in mind it's not quite as dramatic as it sounds. Leo's room is on the ground floor, so when he climbed out of said window, he literally just stepped onto the deck. But still. Leo climbed out of the window. The window!

The look on Leo's face when I opened that bedroom door will stick with me for a long time. It was part horror/part Oh Crap/part What the Heck Do I Do Now? He immediately started scrambling to climb back inside. That's when I turned around, walked into the living room, and said to Erin, He's all yours. I think I had more coffee. And probably changed another diaper.

Erin handled Leo with aplomb as she always does. He was immediately, unabashedly contrite, bursting into tears the second she started talking to him (a sure sign that he knew he'd screwed up royally). Leo is not a crier.

It wasn't until halfway through the day that I realized I'd forgotten to mention what happened to anyone. I didn't text my usual friends about it or tell any of my co-workers (the likes of whom I often share parenting war stories anecdotes).

That's when it dawned on me. My life has reached such a stage of (wonderful) ridiculousness lately that a kid climbing out of a window--and landing safely, thank goodness--did not even phase me or give me pause. That speaks volumes. It was just another morning. I've (almost) seen it all.

And yes, we'll be heading to Home Depot this weekend, for the "better" window locks.

In Our Own Backyard

A few weeks ago when the kids and I were home enjoying our little end of summer togetherness, we took a walk over to a new park near our house.

If you look closely, you'll see a rainbow in the fountain in this shot. That pretty much blew Leo and Ellie's minds. That was a good ten minute conversation right there.

For years, this waterfront area--which is also a reservoir--lay dormant and inaccessible (with barbed wire and angry "Keep Out" signs). I always thought it was such a wasted space and would make such a perfect walkway or park or something. Well, developers must have heard my complaining because this summer, they finally turned this little corner of New Jersey into a perfectly lovely little oasis complete with a delightful walkway/path, park and paddle boats.

It reminded me a little of some parks of my youth: Laurelhurst, the Rhododendron Gardens.


It may not shock you to learn that in spite of my spirited sense of adventure, I did not brave paddle boats with four small children by myself. Of course Ellie was quite disappointed and couldn't figure out why we couldn't take a spin (check out the sweet swan boats!).

 It was hot. Leo, in spite of the smoothie we picked up on the way to the park, was thirsty and tired. In fact, after our walk along the water, he sat down right by the boat dock for a rest. But I have to give him credit. He was a trooper. I know he tends to tire easily and he walked the whole way (round trip was over a mile I'd bet) without too much grumbling.



We didn't stay too long at the park once we'd completed the walk along the water. Lucy started to get restless. I've taken to calling her Defcon Seven (not to her face of course). Because when she needs something? She needs it RIGHT NOW! And she repeats herself. Over and over and over: MOMMY! I want out of the stroller! I want out of the stroller Mommy! Mommy I want out of the stroller! It may not shock you to learn that she's growing more and more anti-stroller by the day, but still can't be trusted near large bodies of water. But I see many more outings in the future at this glorious park, which will be even more fun when we're out of the Two Toddlers Running In Opposite Directions Stage of Life that we're currently in.

Camp, Leo

Last Friday I had the day off from work and so I had the pleasure of doing both camp pick-up and drop-off.

And this is what I heard as I walked from the car to the gymnasium, where campers are signed in:

"Hi Leo!"

"Leo!"

"Hey Leo!"

I felt like a minor celebrity. I must have met fifteen little boys, all eager to say hi to their friend Leo.

Then there were the girls. There were at least nineteen (OK, seven. But they were so enthusiastic it felt like nineteen). Leo was very eager to introduce me to them. Each one, I was told, was his "girlfriend." I was requisitely shocked when I met each one, of course.

This is an inclusive camp, but it is predominantly typical children (Ellie also attended). He does have a "shadow" or "one-to-one" (whom he shared with two other boys), someone who makes sure he's on task and transitioning from activity to activity. But Leo did what all the other kids did at camp: swim, play basketball, go bowling (his first time!), arts and crafts. You know, camp.

I left Leo at camp that day feeling teary (of course!) and happy and just brimming with pride. If a heart can indeed feel full? Mine did. And does. Because this is how I always wanted it to be for Leo, for him to be "one of the guys." And he is.


Fast forward to this week. Leo started another (inclusive) camp.




His first day at camp happened to also be on his birthday, which meant he got to "skip around the room" (see above) which, if you know Leo, you know that is pretty much his dream come true.

The camp has a website that posts pictures throughout the day. So I'm basically getting no work done because I'm constantly checking the site for more pictures.







I think it's fair to say that Leo is having a good summer.

I couldn't ask for more.

What I Wish I Knew. Again.

End of year teacher gifts: (Erin's) homemade pepper jelly transformed (by my last minute aka the night before attempt at craftiness) into "Leo's Famous Red Pepper Jelly". Met with great enthusiasm by one of Leo's teachers, whose thank you card read: "Leo's gorgeous self on a jar of red pepper jelly? Must keep forever! He was so happy to give me this and I am so tickled by it...Leo is one in a million!"

As of last Tuesday, Leo is officially finished with third grade. Not sure how that happened. By all accounts, it's been a wonderful school year for Leo. This year marked his move to a new "placement" that has challenged him and enriched him. I don't think there is any question that he rose to the occasion, as we all hoped he would. He had a busy schedule, moving from a self-contained class for learning disabilities (he's the only student with Down syndrome in the class, a first for him) to general ed, and across the hall to yet another classroom for math. For the most part he was in charge of tracking his own schedule, knowing that, for example, at 10 a.m. he had music, at 11:30, P.E., and so on.

Hard to believe that when he started at this school back in kindergarten, this is the kid I feared would bolt from the school.

Last week, Ellie, Harry, Lucy and I were lucky enough to catch Leo in the school talent show where he was part of a dance routine, performed to Shakira's "Waka Waka," and yes, you heard that right. On my end, it was a bit of a disaster in that it happened to be in the middle of the twins' nap time, in other words: Babies Meltdown Central. And did I mention there was a thunder and lightening storm as I unloaded everyone from the car and I managed to temporarily lose my car keys when it was time to leave?. All in a day's work, my friends. Well, Leo could have cared less about all of this. What mattered to him is that we were there, in the front row, squirmy, whiney Harry and all, to see him in all his Shakira glory. 


"Leo had a wonderful year," Mrs. F, Leo's third grade teacher, wrote to me in an email early  last week. "Please keep in touch. I have been going to high school and college graduation parties of my former students-Invite me and I will come to Leo's!" 



How Leo keeps busy when I'm putting Ellie to bed: "Planets."



I am so grateful for Leo's cheerleaders, like Ms. F. For the teachers and therapists and "team members" who have always had faith in him, who have held my hand and reassured me when his route changed course. I get so attached to these teachers, I actually cry as I sit down to write the year end thank you cards. 

While I'm relieved and reassured by how well Leo is doing at school, at home, lately, things have been a little more complicated. OF COURSE if there is going to be any problem with Leo's behavior I want to have the "problem" that we have, which is that he seems to reserve all of his antics for home and for me, rather than school. Better of course, that he's the pride of Mrs. F's class (Yes, his teachers still look at me like I've lost the plot when I describe some of Leo's behavior at home. They see NONE of it). Wonderful! But it sure doesn't make life at home unchallenging lot of the time.

Lately and all too often I feel like I have absolutely no control over him. He never used to have a temper and he suddenly does. He frequently shows little regard to house rules and I find myself muttering to myself (out of his earshot, of course) "You just do whatever you want, don't you?" He wants to watch TV? He turns it on, even though he knows TV time is over. He knows the twins are not allowed in his room unless I'm in there with them and yet, he opens the door and in they scamper. He refuses to close the door and in a moment of frustration I hold it closed. He's so strong that I think in a moment of frustration he could break it down. 




A few times over the last couple of months, Leo has demonstrated a behavior unseen in him for years: refusal to leave a place. About a month ago it was the park, where he was having fun (which sort of made sense). A few weeks ago it was the community center where Ellie takes swimming lessons. He shut himself in a locker and wouldn't leave. That...made no sense. At age five, I could throw him (though not easily) into a stroller and call it a day. Now? He's almost nine years old and close to seventy pounds and his stroller days are long gone.

And yet. This is the boy that throws his arms around Erin and me when Erin returns home after working late and exclaims "Group Huz!" (Group Hug.) A few nights ago after an ugly altercation between Leo and me about his refusal to leave the twins' room at their bedtime, Leo took a particularly long time selecting a book for me to read. "Just pick one!" I pleaded, weary and beaten down by the power struggle and so eager to be finished with the seemingly never ending bedtime routine.

He handed me a picture book version of Charlotte's Web. 

"Just like you read when you were a little girl," he announced. Leo knows I'm a sucker for Charlotte's Web. While it didn't occur to me at the time,  I really think that was his peace offering to me (in all the commotion of bedtime we had not resolved the argument he and I had in the twins' room). Leo has his own unique way of apologizing and he always does when he knows he's done something wrong.

The guilt gnaws away at me. If our house were less busy, if things were calmer, if there wasn't always a toddler whining in the background or Ellie needing something, would I have more patience? More time to stop and discipline Leo properly, to pay attention to his needs at that moment?

I think so much of his behavior, his anger and frustration at home, is attention seeking. We make every effort to give him as much as one on time as possible on the weekends. And as guilty as I feel? I firmly believe that in terms of Leo coming from a big family, the advantages (social, language, the list goes on...) far outweigh the disadvantages. Not to mention, this IS our life now. This is his life-he is one of four.

Enroute to visit Grandma Jerry in New Orleans last week.

Refusing to turn off the TV, not leaving a room or a place when asked, it's clear to me that it's all about power. I can only speculate that he feels he has none, or very little (I know the feeling, buddy). 

I know what my sweet boy is capable of. I see it on the mornings that he gets dressed without being asked and proudly waits for me at the bottom of the stairs in his favorite tshirt: Super Grover, declaring: "The World Is Mine." I see Leo's overwhelming capacity for empathy when he races to get Lucy's beloved stuffed Barney after she falls and skins her knee on the driveway. 

Only Leo would throw his sturdy arms around me after I place a steaming plate of scrambled eggs in front of him at dinner time, declaring me, "Best Mommy EVER!" 

When I consider how far Leo has come...how far I have come, well, I can only hope that someday I'll look back on all of this with a lot more wisdom than I have now. I know the answers will arrive. They always seem to. I still think of those early, befuddled, grief-filled days with newborn Leo, where I, still numb with the surprise diagnosis would stare at him with so many questions: What do  I do? Why did this happen?

All I can think is, if only I'd known then, that someday a teacher would write me a note declaring Leo, "One in a million." 

Because he certainly is.

The Luck We Get

Sometimes Leo and Ellie will disappear into Ellie's room (where much of the dress-up garb is housed) for a looong time. They emerge, and something like this is the result (styling by Ellie).

"Some luck lies in not getting what you thought you wanted but getting what you have, which once you have got it you may be smart enough to see is what you would have wanted had you known."--Garrison Keillor, Lake Wobegon Days

When I was pregnant with Leo, I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't "right" with the pregnancy. It was just three years after the death of my beloved mother, the person who was my touchstone, to whom I looked to for virtually everything. To say that my faith in the universe was shaken would be an understatement. If she could up and die? Then why couldn't there be something wrong with the baby? Anything could happen. Anything was possible. (In my mind, at that point, the "Anything" would inevitably be bad.)

I tried to reassure myself about "the baby." I tried to tell myself that Everything Was Going to Be Fine. After a lot of soul searching, we declined prenatal testing. But then some suspicious markers showed up at the 20-week ultrasound and I was terrified. Of course, I remember thinking, as I stared up at the ceiling in the tiny exam room at the maternal fetal medicine center at Mt. Sinai Hospital. Of course there is something wrong with the baby.

But then then the doctor did a bit more investigating and another doctor peered at the screen. There was blood work. Actually, everything looked fine. Screen negative: Your baby does not have down syndrome.

Bullet: Dodged. Relief.
***
About a week before my due date, Erin and I both read an article in a magazine that mentioned a baby with Down syndrome. It was quite a story, about a couple whose baby had died when the father had inadvertently left him in the car. They went on to have another child--who was born with Down syndrome.

Can you imagine? I asked Erin. Having a baby die, only to have another who is born with Down syndrome? I uttered  "Down syndrome" with such disgust, as if the word itself was contagious and that saying it alone would reach in and add a chromosome to our unborn baby.

"Oh I don't know," Erin replied. (Even back then she was a more highly evolved person than I am.) "All the people I've met with Down syndrome seem pretty happy. It doesn't seem like the end of the world to me. Not by a long shot. I think I can think of a lot worse things happening."

I shook my head in disgust and disagreement. Oh no, I remember thinking. That would be the end of my world, for sure.

But, you know how it goes: "People make plans, God laughs."
***

I named this blog in a rush one day--typing one of the the first things that came to my mind when I thought about what Down syndrome meant to me and before I realized I might actually write here and people might someday, you know, read what I wrote.

In reality, I don't exactly believe that everything happens for a reason. I actually think that life is really quite random.  The whole, "Special babies for special parents," (we heard that one when Leo was born, along with another favorite "God doesn't give you what you can't handle"--to which my favorite refrain is: If that's true then I wish he didn't think I could handle so much!) while being well-intentioned, is to me, merely a good wish. Down syndrome is random. Science has proven it. There is no reason why it happens or why one baby has perfect chromosomes and another has an extra one, or one missing. I've said it before and I'll say it again. If I've learned anything after three pregnancies and four babies and births? It's a miracle any of us are here at all.

You think you have things all figured out, you think you have a plan and then...Down syndrome. Or, I don't know...twins. "People make plans, God laughs," will truly always be one of my favorite quotes.  The lesson in all of this, to me, is not so much that what happens, happens for a reason, but rather to try and learn something from what did happen. To try and make the best of things, no matter how hard or scary that might be. Leo having Down syndrome? If that's not almost the complete opposite of what I thought I wanted, then I don't know what is.

But, look. Here we are. Having a pretty good time if I do say so. And here's Leo, enjoying his life as usual. He almost always knows how to have fun.

January, 2012

And we are so very lucky to have him.

Eight

With every birthday Leo has, I think, Now he's a big kid. But this time I think I mean it. Eight is a big kid.

We asked Leo what he wanted to do on his birthday (yesterday) and he replied: "Stay home." It's Leo's favorite place to be, among his people and his things. We pull up to the driveway every night and he says "I love my house."

Leo, you have grown up so much in the last year. You read and write paragraphs. You welcome haircuts and doctor visits (gone are the days of your hyperventilating fear of both). You've performed at a poetry slam and been part of a wax museum. And you're about to embark on a very exciting new school year, not to mention, third grade! How did that happen?

If I have any complaints about or challenges with you, it's that you know what you want to do and don't like to be told to stop doing it (hmm...sounds like...most eight year old boys?). Case in point: sometimes you love too much.

Especially these two. You simply cannot get enough of them.

It's comical to think there was a time that I actually worried about you and the babies, that you'd be jealous of them or that I wouldn't be able to give you enough because I'd be busy with them. I haven't fully reconciled that second part. I still think there have been times in the last year that you needed me and I wasn't there because of the simple fact that I am now spectacularly outnumbered. But it is what it is and I think it's safe to say that the advantages to our little crew far outweigh the negatives.

OK yes, you were feeding Lucy scrambled eggs here as if she was a begging dog.

You have the biggest heart of anyone I know and you are almost ridiculously easy to please.

I spent a good three weeks stressing about a birthday cake for you this year (your request was a "Buzz cake.") Well...this was the result (and goodness gracious I did NOT make that if you were wondering--also don't bother sending it off to Cakewrecks, I already have.)

I think it's safe to say you'd have been just as happy if I'd presented you with blue cupcakes replete with one of your Buzz "guys" on top. You're all about the frosting, anyway. Hey, you know what's good.

Waiting for "Pizza from the Man."

Yesterday afternoon you and I stole a minute where it was just us: we sat and watched the summer Olympics, just as I did the summer you were born--2004. As you stretched your tall, sturdy, lanky, eight year body over me, I marveled at how it was just a few summers ago that I held you, a little, floppy, terrifying (to me) baby. There were a lot of tears shed the day you were born Leo, and in the days after. Now? My tears in relation to you come from pride (I've yet to make it through an IEP meeting without tearing up, even when it's good news and if a teacher starts complimenting you? Forget it: I'm a puddle) and oh yes, laughter. You make me laugh like no one else I know. There is something about your birthday that always "gets" me in a way that the others' don't, maybe because your entrance into the world was so fraught, and it makes me realize just how far you (and I) have come.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, a thousand times or more: I wish I'd known then, what I know now, what a fabulous little boy you'd grow into, a boy who is fascinated by planets and the solar system. A boy who loves reading and drawing and constructing complicated Lego/train table structures, who loves his family more than anything (well, right now Buzz Lightyear is a close second, I think).

When you came downstairs yesterday morning, Erin and I greeted you with choruses of "Happy Birthday Leo!" and you jumped into our arms. "You're my hero," you said to Erin, and then to me. And we both received one of your trademark hugs (they are requested all over town, at the pharmacy, the dentist, the grocery store, much to my chagrin).

No Leo, you're mine. Happy, happy birthday, my dear, sweet, first boy.