Playing Catch Up: First Day, Last Days, Birthdays and Big News (NOT PREGNANT)

It seems silly to start a post with a recap of Harry's first day of school when the last day of school happened two weeks ago. But. Harry started preschool! And now he's in summer school (which is basically a continuation of the school he started two weeks ago). I think it's safe to say that he is absolutely thrilled with his new student status. He pants in front of the door in the morning waiting for the bus and bounds outside when he sees it pull up. Another bonus? He and Leo get to ride to the same bus (they're attending summer school at the same location). I KNOW. Leo basically explodes every morning he's so thrilled.



Leo finished up fourth grade (meaning next year will be his last year in elementary school, did you hear my heart stopping?) with an end of year choral concert which Lucy and I were lucky enough to attend.



Ellie transformed from a Daisy into a Brownie (see above for the "Bridge" ceremony) and finished first grade. Didn't I just take a half day from work so I could bring her to the kindergarten orientation? GAH. Time, you are a sneaky, sneaky one.



Ellie also had her seventh birthday party (notice how I didn't say she turned seven-yet). That will come next month.



I finally got my act together and planned her party for before the end of the school year (well, technically it was the weekend of the last week of school). People in our town seem to just disappear on the summer weekends, making summer birthdays very sparsely attended.


As you can see the only problem with the party is there just weren't enough baked goods.



Ellie with her "beach" themed goodie bags (they held a shell bracelet, sunglasses, a mini-beach ball and of course, cookies). I tried really hard to not go all junky with the goodie bags. I HATE the crap that so often comes home from parties: trinkets that break before they even leave the car on the ride home, that I end up finding sprinkled all over the back of the mini van. Also, candy that no one needs (but we all need chocolate chip cookies, of course!).


Harry, (who apparently knows how to break dance-who knew?) made good use of his sunglasses.

For some reason I was very nervous about having a party at home (well, a party in general but an at-home one raises the stakes a bit). I wanted to make it very simple and of course it got more complicated than I set out for it to be, (there may have been some last minute ridiculous amounts of money spent at Oriental Trading) Let's just not talk about the "express mail" fees, ok? But all in all I'm very happy without how it went. It organically turned into a "mermaid" themed party when I randomly chose an Evite with a mermaid on it while Ellie was at school (I thought it befit a backyard pool party). (She "hand wrote" all of her invites but I wanted to follow-up with something a little more concrete). Ellie ran with the mermaid idea (she LOVED the Evite) and before we knew it I'd ordered mermaid plates, napkins and cups (as an aside I have to pause and extoll the virtues of the Target debit card (they aren't paying me to say this but they can if they'd like to)--anyway, free shipping on all Target items. Seriously the best.


Making their shell frame "craft." I thought this was cute and it went with our "beach/pool/mermaid" theme but I really bought it in case it rained and we were stuck inside.



The girls were semi-into it but it's hard for gluing tiny shells on frames to compete with pools and water sprayers and a playground and Cheeto balls (Ellie asks for these probably every time we see them at Costco and I always say no but for a birthday party? I finally said, YES).





The weather was A-MAZING which, when you're having a backyard "pool" party, that's really half the battle.

Did you know six and seven year old girls scream a lot? And when I say "scream" I mean "OMG THIS IS SO MUCH FUN I JUST HAVE TO SCREAM!!" screams.


Of course Spidey had to make an appearance.

At the end of the party, Ellie announced that it was "probably one of the best days of her life." So. Really can't argue with that one.


Speaking of birthdays, these two actually had their birthday, earlier this month.

Three.





This momentous occasion, this third birthday surviving another year with twins, really warrants its own post (which it will get, preferably before the fourth birthday) but I will interrupt this broadcast with some important breaking news. Lucy and Harry are officially potty trained. And say what you will, but I'm fairly certain that potty training twins will go down as one of my greatest life achievements. Let's just say it wasn't for the faint of heart!

The Village: It Never Gets Old

Leo, on a recent stint as a pastry chef. The "Village" helped him do that too.

Something wonderful happened over winter break. While dashing out for a quick (solo!) errand that included a stop for coffee, I ran into Leo's teacher from last year. She wanted to know how he was doing.

The funny thing was, I'd been thinking about this teacher (whom we all loved). When we were going back and forth about Leo's placement late last year, I'd even thought about getting in touch with her, but wasn't sure if that was "kosher." Mainly, I'd wanted to ask her why he could do so well in one class (hers, third grade) and struggle so much in another, just a year later (fourth grade).

I was going to call you, I told her. But I didn't. I didn't know if it would be weird.

That's when she playfully chided me for not getting in touch, kissed me on the cheek, hugged me, and told me that next time, I should call her. Call her ANY time. Because she was a "Forever Friend." 

I'd be lying if I said I didn't have tears in my eyes as I walked back to my car with my hazelnut coffee.

The Village. The people we've met over the years who have helped us, helped Leo. From his very first speech therapist, who brushed his little toothless, eight week old gums in our Park Slope, Brooklyn apartment, to our infinitely patient family dentist, who worked with Leo for three years, to get him to sit for an actual cleaning at the age of seven, who thought nothing of practically doing a headstand in order to pull a little rotten tooth. (This is the same dentist, you'll recall, who, when I saw him weeks later at a Halloween parade, called to me from across the street, "How's Leo?!")

My Rolodex of support is bulging, from doctors and specialists who know just how to talk to and treat Leo, to friends who "get it," to teachers who want me to call them a Forever Friend. It makes my heart burst with joy and gratefulness.

What a contrast, I sometimes think, from the way I felt when Leo was first born, to the way I feel now.

It struck me too, as I took one last look at the wall of holiday cards before we took them down, last weekend. So many cards from people who I would never know, if not for an extra chromosome. Preschool friends, blog friends (some of whom I've never even met!). So. Much. Love. In our life, because of something that "went wrong."

And for the ten-thousandth time, I am reminded of what it feels like when you realize something you thought was a curse is really just a giant blessing.

Report Card

I've been pretty quiet about Leo's academic life this year. Not because it's been bad or anything to be ashamed of, more that it's been a little uncertain. That, and he's getting older and I'm feeling a bit more self-conscious about blabbing all the details of his life all over the Internet. But allow me to blab a little, because I think there's something important here.

Earlier in the year there was some concern on the part of some of the members of Leo's "Team" (service coordinator (school psychologist) and teacher), about his placement and whether it was appropriate. Emails were exchanged, phone calls were made.

For the first time in his academic career, I dreaded Leo's IEP meeting. When the day finally arrived, a few days before Thanksgiving, it felt looong and tense. I fought back unhappy, uncomfortable tears a few times, scanning the stuffy, overheated room for a tissue box--don't all IEP meeting rooms contain tissue boxes?--with none to be found. In the past, all my IEP tears had been happy, choked-up-with-pride, emotional ones.

I'll be the first to admit it: We've been very lucky to this point. Leo's IEP meetings have been veritable love-fests. Leo is so wonderful. Leo is such a hard worker. He's always clicked with his teachers, who've never had anything but good things to say about him (believe me, I've pestered them for the bad stuff: Behavior? Backtalk? Nope. Lucky us he seems to have always saved all the not so fun stuff for home--to be fair, as many kids do).

The gist of it was, there were grumblings about moving him "back" to an old placement, to a classroom neither Erin or I felt was appropriate. His teacher was concerned that he was getting "frustrated" and she questioned whether it was the right setting for him.

Luckily, I was not completely blindsided by the Team's concerns, since Leo's teacher and I had spoken over the phone and via email a few weeks prior to the IEP meeting. But of course, since I'm me, I immediately panicked and shared what was going on with several friends of mine, experienced moms in the Down syndrome community.

And the words of one of my favorite "Down syndrome moms" rang true, and were exactly what I needed to hear:

"If I eliminated everything in my life that was frustrating, there wouldn't be much left."

Right? I mean, OK. He's frustrated. What kid isn't frustrated in school sometimes? What person isn't frustrated in the world sometimes? Welcome to me in third, fourth and fifth grade math (well, pretty much my entire math career, but that's another post). The key is figuring out ways to help him. Put supports in place. Investigate where he's struggling and what can be done to assist him (without of course helping him too much). To immediately send him to another class just felt way too easy. It's not that I don't want him to succeed, of course I do. But I also want him to be challenged and not immediately freak out if, for the first time in his life, he's not doing everything he's supposed to be doing at every single moment.

So that's what I told the Team.

"If I eliminated everything in my life that was frustrating, there wouldn't be much left. It needs to be OK for him to get a little frustrated. But let's try to help him succeed."

I just feel like there is this rampant tendency to put kids with special needs under this incredibly unfair microscope. If they don't quickly and quietly conform to exactly what's expected of them, they're apt to get a One Way ticket to Plan B or C or just Something Else, something that tends to also be easier for the Team. Meanwhile, a typical kid would be given the room to screw up a little, to find their way.

And you know what? I feel like the Team heard me. And I think they came around to agreeing with me. One person noted the importance of the social component in Leo's current placement. Another pointed out that the "other" placement would be a huge step backwards for Leo in several subjects.

Don't get me wrong. I am not in denial that Leo needs extra help. I am not about putting him in a certain class for "appearances." And if the time comes, I'll be happy to acknowledge he's in the wrong place. But in my heart of hearts, I do not believe that was the case here.

Things weren't (and aren't) perfect over night. There were several notes back and forth about missing homework (Leo needs someone to help him remember to pack all of his homework at the end of the day). I'm still worried about how hard it can be for him to focus and how easily distracted he is. A big concern has been math and how he's had a difficult time retaining information (he'll learn it and then seems to forget it a few weeks later). 

But this came home the week after Thanksgiving:

And you can imagine my relief when I opened Leo's report card last week and read this, from his teacher:

"Leo is adjusting well to the rigorous academic demands of fourth grade…He is a happy boy, never complains and tries his best at all times. You should be very proud of him. I know I am!"



Who knows what tomorrow, or next month or next year will bring (although we did determine his placement for fifth grade--GULP--and I feel good about it).

And for now, I'm back to happy tears.

 

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.

That Back to School Attitude and Explaining the Unexplainable

Number charts have always been a struggle for Leo, but take a look at the first assignment Leo brought home this school year. SO proud of my boy.

It's not yet noon on the Friday (the thirteenth! eep!) of the first week of school...would it be premature to say we're off to a good start? Having started a week late due to Rosh Hashana, coupled with an extra week of togetherness, I think it's fair to see everyone was ready to get back to routine.

For example: At one point last week, after an especially hot and sticky trip to Costco with all four kids, I finally had the not-always-agreeable-Lucy strapped into her carseat. But she was still squawking and whining (Leo, especially, hates being in the car when one--or--heaven forbid--both--of the babies start crying). And so there was Leo (and Ellie) sitting in the back of the mini van, looking beleaguered and flushed and generally Over It.

Are you guys ready for a little break from the babies? I asked. Figuring they were both longing for camp, or, gasp, school? Anything that did not involve an outing in the car with a fussing, disagreeable two year old.

No. They answered, and each pointed at the other. They were ready for a break from each other.


Now that the big kids are back at school, everyone has been a bit more agreeable. Pretty much. I mean, there's only so much adorable togetherness these people can take.

Since school has started, Ellie has seemed a little whinier (if that's possible, ahem) than usual, but I am chalking it up to tiredness and the fact that she's made the leap from kindergarten (plenty of playtime) to Big, Bad First Grade. Also, there's been a bit more attitude coming from her than usual lately. For example, I ask her to get her clothes for the day and she responds, "I don't want to."

Come again?

I know I'm about to sound about 10,000 years old right now, but I just don't remember saying things like that to my parents when I was that age. Then again I was the perfect child, so...

In any event, a little light bulb went off in my head this morning, as Ellie exclaimed "Mommy! Today I get to choose something from the treasure box!" She went on to explain that she'd been given tickets all week from Ms. K. for good behavior and today was the day she'd finally get to cash them in.

That's exciting! I said to Ellie. But did you know that the behavior tickets extend to home? That means if there is misbehavior at home, tickets will be taken away at school? (Believe it or not this was all completely improvised--yes, yes, I know, I'm a parenting genius. It's ok, I know...)

"You mean you can CALL Ms. K?" Ellie asked.

I nodded.

A perplexed and slightly nervous look fell over Ellie's face. And with that, she disappeared upstairs to get her clothes.



Leo came home with an "All About Me" book yesterday. It was filled with his likes (pizza and the color pink) and dislikes (math and homework). There was plenty of information about his beloved family too and as you can see, his dear Ruby is still a part of it. This makes me both happy and sad at the same time. Poor Leo. It's hard enough for me to grasp the concept of death (She's here. And then, she's...not? I don't get it either buddy, believe me). I can't imagine what's going through his mind about all of it.

Leo has taken to telling complete strangers about Ruby which can be...uncomfortable. The other day at Costco a woman approached me about the twins (she wanted to tell me that she had boy/girl twins too, but hers were thirty). Leo, who was standing right next to Lucy and a pile of track suits, blurted out "Ruby died!" Needless to say, the woman nodded and quickly scurried off.

I don't want to discourage Leo from talking about Ruby, but we are working on appropriateness (sort of like, it's not ok to hug strangers). It's definitely a work in progress.

And unlike most of the other lessons, this one often leaves me teary.


Harry and Ruby, fall 2012. I didn't think I had any pictures of Ruby with either of the twins but found a few the other day. That made me happy.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Did you hear the cheers of parents all over the country yesterday morning? Particularly two in New Jersey?


These two were ready. First and fourth grade, respectively. And as Erin noted, the above shot is the first time these two have not bickered in two weeks.

(More on life for the last two weeks in another post).


I realize I'm biased. But this?

Stick a fork in me. I'm done. That's it. Dead of the cuteness. (Also, J.C. Penney? I think you have a modeling contender if you care to recreate the catalog from 1982).

I am so proud of my girl who knows nothing about mini skirts or short shorts. She picked this out the night before, a gift from Grandma Jerry. You guys, it has smocking. Again. I'm done. (Sidenote: It's a little on the long side and when Lucy saw it on Ellie she pronounced it "Too big.").

Leo took the bus as he always does, but I was able to bring Ellie to school and meet her teacher (Leo's teacher actually tutored him over the summer so we're old friends by now).

And how's this for small world news (as well as Damn, I'm Old): Ellie's teacher is the older sister of one of Leo's former classmates (who also happens to have Down syndrome!). I thought that was pretty cool.

Ellie was excited to see a girl from camp in her class (who happened to be new to the school). I was so impressed by how friendly Ellie was to her. She may not have realized what she was doing, but the little girl seemed cheered by Ellie's presence and interest in her.

Ellie wasn't scared or nervous in the least (at least not that I could tell) but she still wanted me to stay with her until the very last minute, before the classes went inside. 

I hope it's a very long time before I'm waved off at the curb, before school. I'm relishing these years that they are still not ashamed to be seen with me, that they, gasp, even seem to like having me around!