I bow to the list. In no particular order:
Fish Oil: Dare I say that it’s doing something? Leo’s just been…lighter lately. Not so angry. More reasonable. Honestly, he’s been a sweet little pleasure. There have been no “Too Loud” incidents in the last week (at least at home and as far as I’m concerned when it comes to school, no news is good news). We even went out to lunch on Sunday and he marched right in without argument. True, it was one of his favorite places. Sadly, the Great Rice Incident of 2008, in which he managed to sneeze a half a cup of rice all over our table was not replicated, however he was kind enough to spill a good portion of the rice on the floor as he was attempting to throw it in the garbage. Yeah, sorry about that.
Three: It is becoming painfully obvious that Ellie is close to turning three. There’s been a real amping up of “I do it myself” and “No I don’t want that” and perhaps my own personal favorite, "Mommy you hurt me! Don't touch my Band-Aid!" And the emotions. Oh, the emotions. It must be exhausting to feel things as intensely as an almost three-year-old. A few mornings ago as she sat happily in the car eating her fruit bar while I carted the garbage and recycling to the curb, I had the nerve to open her door. I thought maybe she needed some fresh air. As I passed by on my way back to the car from the curb, I found a sobbing Ellie. “Mommy I want my door closed!” she wailed, giant crocodile tears coating her cheeks and neck.
File This Under It Was Bound To Happen Eventually: Speaking of things that are being “amped up,” I have one word: Princesses. Dear me. Suddenly, everything is Princess This and Princess That. And this morning, I think I met the culprit. A little girl at Ellie’s school has a lot of Princess accessories (I’m talking the fairly nauseating although guess ultimately benign Disney variety)—clothes, hair accoutrement, lunch box. I know I sound like a huge snob here, I guess I just wasn’t quite ready. I know we can’t all grow up in a bubble and you could do worse than Princesses, but, well. Yeah. Like I said, I wasn’t ready yet. (And I know what happens when you “ban” something).
Attitude: Last night as I was singing to Ellie and telling her a story, I started to giggle, as I watched her grind her pacifier nipple into her eye (she does this when she’s especially tired). “Mommy, why are you laughing at me?” Ellie asked, with all the exasperation of a thirteen year old.
The Reader: Leo is now reading books to us at bedtime. He does it with fervor and intensity and such purpose. I understand some of the words, and he’s definitely making a lot of it up from memory, but one thing is obvious. That boy is reading. Video to come (If he lets me. It could be tricky).
Milestone: Leo is bringing new meaning to the term “lost tooth.” Yup, another one "bit" (sorry, couldn't help it) the dust, another bottom one. He’s now missing two bottom teeth and by missing I mean just that. It was there and it was gone and the Tooth Fairy never even got a chance.
Shoes, Again: My obsession with finding Leo yellow Crocs for the summer has come to a happy end (I paid to much for used ones on eBay but Hey. I got them. I should have bought them from crocs.com when I had the chance last week but I was being cheap and I waited too long and now they are out of stock. I know that I’m enabling his yellow obsession but I seriously can’t think of anything more fun than yellow shoes (let’s face it, you don’t come across them often nor, as evident in my experience, easily). Leo and Ellie are so vocal about their favorite colors that I just can’t resist (because you know that of course I’m getting Ellie the pink ones). Whenever they are presented with a color option, then comes the chorus of Ellie: “I want a pink one!” and Leo: “Yellow!”
Smarty: This happened a month or so ago but I forgot to mention it. A friend recently taught me a new sign—“share” and I thought, wow I need to use that with Leo. I asked him if he knew the sign for share (because he knows way more signs than I do so I figured I should check to see if he already knew it). He looked at me blankly, so I said, Leo, do you know how to say share? (Sometimes I also forget that he now talks way more than he signs.)
Leo smiled and said “Ellie.”
Don't Like Football But I Like a Good Soap Opera: "Friday Night Lights" starts again tonight (for those of us without DirectTV). Best. Show. Ever.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Hold My Hand
In the last month, I’ve seen on three separate occasions, young men with Down syndrome walking with their families through the streets of midtown New York.
I know what you're thinking. Big deal, right?
Well, I’m a total gawker. I admit it. I see them and I full-on stare. I drink them up. Sometimes I eavesdrop. I want to know everything. How old are they? Are they talking? If so, what are they saying? I’ve always felt we (families of people with Down syndrome) should have a special code word or handshake or wink so that people know we’re not being rude, that there is a legitimate reason for our curiosity.
What strikes me about these young men is how calm and mature they all look. And all three times, they’ve been “spotted,” never once were they hovered over. There was no nervous mother holding a hand with a death grip. Perhaps most notably though, the young men were not charging ahead, glancing back over their shoulders with a cackle and a teasing look as if to say Try and stop me, lady.
Leo is much, much better than he used to be, when it comes to listening and not running off in public places. But he’s still a definite flight risk. At Trader Joe’s and Costco and Target, it’s still cart city for him. When it’s just the two of us (or just Erin and him), he’s almost always a little jewel and I will sometimes (OK, probably not often enough, I'll admit) let him walk independently. But still, the thought of him “free range” through New York City, of not having him strapped to my body? I shudder.
But obviously, right? I mean, he’s five. I’m sure many parents of typical five-year olds would be nervous in New York too (or any city or for that matter, public place). But let’s be honest. It’s a different kind of nervousness. With Leo, there’s a lack of predictability that makes me jumpy (to put it mildly). And I know it’s crazy but there’s a part of me that thinks Leo is always going to be the way he is now. But then I look at those young men and I’m just…hopeful.
And I’m fairly sure there will come a time when I want to hold Leo’s hand, and he won’t want to hold mine, only in that instance, it won’t be a safety issue-it won’t be because I have to hold his hand Or Else. It will be an I’m your Mommy and I want to hold your hand because I love you! issue.
And who knows if he’ll indulge me.
I know what you're thinking. Big deal, right?
Well, I’m a total gawker. I admit it. I see them and I full-on stare. I drink them up. Sometimes I eavesdrop. I want to know everything. How old are they? Are they talking? If so, what are they saying? I’ve always felt we (families of people with Down syndrome) should have a special code word or handshake or wink so that people know we’re not being rude, that there is a legitimate reason for our curiosity.
What strikes me about these young men is how calm and mature they all look. And all three times, they’ve been “spotted,” never once were they hovered over. There was no nervous mother holding a hand with a death grip. Perhaps most notably though, the young men were not charging ahead, glancing back over their shoulders with a cackle and a teasing look as if to say Try and stop me, lady.
Leo is much, much better than he used to be, when it comes to listening and not running off in public places. But he’s still a definite flight risk. At Trader Joe’s and Costco and Target, it’s still cart city for him. When it’s just the two of us (or just Erin and him), he’s almost always a little jewel and I will sometimes (OK, probably not often enough, I'll admit) let him walk independently. But still, the thought of him “free range” through New York City, of not having him strapped to my body? I shudder.
But obviously, right? I mean, he’s five. I’m sure many parents of typical five-year olds would be nervous in New York too (or any city or for that matter, public place). But let’s be honest. It’s a different kind of nervousness. With Leo, there’s a lack of predictability that makes me jumpy (to put it mildly). And I know it’s crazy but there’s a part of me that thinks Leo is always going to be the way he is now. But then I look at those young men and I’m just…hopeful.
And I’m fairly sure there will come a time when I want to hold Leo’s hand, and he won’t want to hold mine, only in that instance, it won’t be a safety issue-it won’t be because I have to hold his hand Or Else. It will be an I’m your Mommy and I want to hold your hand because I love you! issue.
And who knows if he’ll indulge me.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
The Environmentalist
Friday night, amidst the chaos that is dinner preparation and hand washing for said dinner, I let the kitchen sink faucet run a little too long. Leo was standing on the stool in front of the sink, looking all over for a dish towel (he accepts only cloth, no paper towels).
He then pointed to the running water and said to me, clear as a bell: “Earth Day.”
At first I couldn’t quite believe what I’d heard. I made him repeat it several times. I was so impressed by the connection he’d made. I know they recently completed an extensive unit on Earth Day and the environment at school. Looks like he’s buying all the propaganda they’re selling (KIDDING!).
Here's a worksheet where I'm guessing Leo learned his "lesson." Note the heavy use of yellow (which you'll recall is his favorite color/obsession). Shall we consider this Leo's "yellow period?"
I wrote a note to Mrs. L about Leo’s observation—I thought she’d like to know that her lessons are being taken to heart. Here is her reply:
“He is keeping all of us on our toes. He's been complaining to me that the faucet in one of the bathrooms we use has usually been left dripping when we come in to use it. He takes it very seriously! I have to remember to tell the custodian that it needs to be fixed. We have been talking about turning off the lights when we leave a room as well so be prepared!”
Well, we've been warned.
He then pointed to the running water and said to me, clear as a bell: “Earth Day.”
At first I couldn’t quite believe what I’d heard. I made him repeat it several times. I was so impressed by the connection he’d made. I know they recently completed an extensive unit on Earth Day and the environment at school. Looks like he’s buying all the propaganda they’re selling (KIDDING!).
Here's a worksheet where I'm guessing Leo learned his "lesson." Note the heavy use of yellow (which you'll recall is his favorite color/obsession). Shall we consider this Leo's "yellow period?"
I wrote a note to Mrs. L about Leo’s observation—I thought she’d like to know that her lessons are being taken to heart. Here is her reply:
“He is keeping all of us on our toes. He's been complaining to me that the faucet in one of the bathrooms we use has usually been left dripping when we come in to use it. He takes it very seriously! I have to remember to tell the custodian that it needs to be fixed. We have been talking about turning off the lights when we leave a room as well so be prepared!”
Well, we've been warned.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
These Fickle Little Creatures
We all ate the same thing for dinner on Tuesday night. I know. Cue the trumpets.
I’ll step back a minute. This is a rare, rare thing in our house. It’s an incredibly long and boring story, related to the late hour in which we get home and the even later hour that Erin returns. Sufficed it to say and much to my bruised mom ego, many nights our dinners revolve around Trader Joe’s soy chicken nuggets or scrambled eggs or some kind of “healthy” frozen stir fry bag heated up and served over (ideally) brown rice (and no, the kids don’t touch that with a ten foot pole, they’re scrambled eggs/soy nuggets all the way).
I’d love to be the mom that makes the nightly homemade, whole grain fill-in-the blank, but I’m not. We’ve started trying to make whole wheat pasta and brown rice and quinoa in the refrigerator to make mix or match dinners but it’s not been met with tons of enthusiasm. And most nights it’s an accomplishment if both kids are even sitting down at the same time. Am I the only one with children who stand in front of an open refrigerator door like it’s a Las Vegas buffet?
And don't even get me started on how famished they are when I pick them up at daycare/aftercare. They aren't even strapped into their carseats before the cacophony of pleas for "puffs" (Pirate Booty), or grapes or apples or juice begins (all of this is leftover in their lunch boxes). Seriously, do they starve the children all day? I'm beginning to think they do. And I wonder why they often barely touch their dinners, but that's a whole other post.
The unexpected success was Burrito Night. Erin brought home a surprisingly scrumptious, ready-made pico de gallo from a bodega in SoHo (which she and I inhaled). I put small bowls of the “ingredients” out: black beans, cheese, brown rice and presented each child with a whole wheat tortilla. They were able to add their own ingredients and Erin and I helped with the actual burrito assembly.
They LOVED it. And Ellie only spilled half of her beans on the floor (she hasn’t quite mastered the Burrito Hold yet). I’m not going to get too proud of myself here since I know how kids are and the next time I attempt this I’m sure they’ll look at me like I just served them Nails On Fire. But hey, Tuesday night was fun.
I’ll step back a minute. This is a rare, rare thing in our house. It’s an incredibly long and boring story, related to the late hour in which we get home and the even later hour that Erin returns. Sufficed it to say and much to my bruised mom ego, many nights our dinners revolve around Trader Joe’s soy chicken nuggets or scrambled eggs or some kind of “healthy” frozen stir fry bag heated up and served over (ideally) brown rice (and no, the kids don’t touch that with a ten foot pole, they’re scrambled eggs/soy nuggets all the way).
I’d love to be the mom that makes the nightly homemade, whole grain fill-in-the blank, but I’m not. We’ve started trying to make whole wheat pasta and brown rice and quinoa in the refrigerator to make mix or match dinners but it’s not been met with tons of enthusiasm. And most nights it’s an accomplishment if both kids are even sitting down at the same time. Am I the only one with children who stand in front of an open refrigerator door like it’s a Las Vegas buffet?
And don't even get me started on how famished they are when I pick them up at daycare/aftercare. They aren't even strapped into their carseats before the cacophony of pleas for "puffs" (Pirate Booty), or grapes or apples or juice begins (all of this is leftover in their lunch boxes). Seriously, do they starve the children all day? I'm beginning to think they do. And I wonder why they often barely touch their dinners, but that's a whole other post.
The unexpected success was Burrito Night. Erin brought home a surprisingly scrumptious, ready-made pico de gallo from a bodega in SoHo (which she and I inhaled). I put small bowls of the “ingredients” out: black beans, cheese, brown rice and presented each child with a whole wheat tortilla. They were able to add their own ingredients and Erin and I helped with the actual burrito assembly.
They LOVED it. And Ellie only spilled half of her beans on the floor (she hasn’t quite mastered the Burrito Hold yet). I’m not going to get too proud of myself here since I know how kids are and the next time I attempt this I’m sure they’ll look at me like I just served them Nails On Fire. But hey, Tuesday night was fun.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
"Mommy, Are You Happy?"
Ellie has a new favorite question.
“Mommy, are you happy?”
She mostly says this when (I can only assume) she senses I’m losing patience (this is an especially common inquiry during the bedtime routine, after the tenth request for water and the fourteenth request for a fallen “bobby” (pacifier) or for “cream for her bottom” or another bandaid for another invisible boo-boo.
And I want to scream, No! I’m exhausted! And hormonal! And hungry! And most of all tired! It’s so, so scary. That she knows me that well and can tell. She’s not even three yet. I can’t get over how sensitive and intuitive she can be at such a young age. Frankly, it terrifies me. If this is three, what will thirteen look like?
And of course I feel guilty. Like, is it that obvious that I’m frustrated? I mean, I think I keep it together pretty well and I actually pride myself on being quite patient (most of the time). Most of the time (there it is again), I master the art of Keep The Voice Calm And Monotone and Don’t Yell Unless Someone Is In Real Danger.
Yesterday morning on the drive to school, Ellie and I were jamming out to the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse soundtrack (don’t ask). It was a glorious spring morning with ample sunshine, just a touch of chill to the air, and the promise that it would reach the precisely right temperature without ever getting uncomfortably warm (that’s coming this weekend, apparently).
Ellie was kicking her legs to the music and nibbling happily on a strawberry fruit bar (her fave), one chubby hand wrapped around her apple juice cup.
It never ceases to amaze and delight me how little it takes to make children happy sometimes, how they delight in the simplest little pleasures.
“Mommy I like this song!” she announced.
“I like this song too Ellie,” I said. “It makes me happy.”
“Oh,” said Ellie, flashing me a huge grin. “And it makes me happy too. Mommy are you happy?”
This is when I got a little teary. I blame the children. It’s uncanny and I admit, often ridiculous. I’ve always been a little prone to the waterworks but since having babies, I know that the amount of crying (OK, tearing up) at the littlest, most mundane things, borders on the absurd. I tear at Leo “reading” a picture book. I tear when Ellie twirls around like a drunken sailor in her little pink cordoroy skirt, announcing “I’m a ballerina!” I tear at those fleeting moments when Leo and Ellie are sitting, hip to hip in the giant Costco cart, giggling and shrieking with delight at some hilarious exchange said in their secret language.
And I tear at the sight of my happy little girl, kicking the seat in the car, eating a fruit bar and listening to Mickey Mouse.
Don’t let the tears fool you. I am happy.
“Mommy, are you happy?”
She mostly says this when (I can only assume) she senses I’m losing patience (this is an especially common inquiry during the bedtime routine, after the tenth request for water and the fourteenth request for a fallen “bobby” (pacifier) or for “cream for her bottom” or another bandaid for another invisible boo-boo.
And I want to scream, No! I’m exhausted! And hormonal! And hungry! And most of all tired! It’s so, so scary. That she knows me that well and can tell. She’s not even three yet. I can’t get over how sensitive and intuitive she can be at such a young age. Frankly, it terrifies me. If this is three, what will thirteen look like?
And of course I feel guilty. Like, is it that obvious that I’m frustrated? I mean, I think I keep it together pretty well and I actually pride myself on being quite patient (most of the time). Most of the time (there it is again), I master the art of Keep The Voice Calm And Monotone and Don’t Yell Unless Someone Is In Real Danger.
Yesterday morning on the drive to school, Ellie and I were jamming out to the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse soundtrack (don’t ask). It was a glorious spring morning with ample sunshine, just a touch of chill to the air, and the promise that it would reach the precisely right temperature without ever getting uncomfortably warm (that’s coming this weekend, apparently).
Ellie was kicking her legs to the music and nibbling happily on a strawberry fruit bar (her fave), one chubby hand wrapped around her apple juice cup.
It never ceases to amaze and delight me how little it takes to make children happy sometimes, how they delight in the simplest little pleasures.
“Mommy I like this song!” she announced.
“I like this song too Ellie,” I said. “It makes me happy.”
“Oh,” said Ellie, flashing me a huge grin. “And it makes me happy too. Mommy are you happy?”
This is when I got a little teary. I blame the children. It’s uncanny and I admit, often ridiculous. I’ve always been a little prone to the waterworks but since having babies, I know that the amount of crying (OK, tearing up) at the littlest, most mundane things, borders on the absurd. I tear at Leo “reading” a picture book. I tear when Ellie twirls around like a drunken sailor in her little pink cordoroy skirt, announcing “I’m a ballerina!” I tear at those fleeting moments when Leo and Ellie are sitting, hip to hip in the giant Costco cart, giggling and shrieking with delight at some hilarious exchange said in their secret language.
And I tear at the sight of my happy little girl, kicking the seat in the car, eating a fruit bar and listening to Mickey Mouse.
Don’t let the tears fool you. I am happy.
Friday, April 30, 2010
When the Weekend Can't Come Fast Enough
Allow me to set the scene. Our house, this morning (you totally know where this is going, right? What is it about this week’s mornings?).
Leo ate a good breakfast of French toast (frozen from TJ’s, before you get all impressed with me) and got dressed without too much argument. Then he decided he wanted cereal with milk, so he did what he is apt to do, “put his order in.” He goes into the refrigerator and/or cupboards and places what he’d like to eat on the kitchen counter.
That was all fine and swell and I would have been agreeable to Leo having “second breakfast,” except that it was about 7:40, the bus was imminent and by no means did I want a repeat of yesterday. I told Leo this and so my little mule and I had a quiet war. I put the carton of milk back in the refrigerator and the cereal back in the cupboard and he trailed behind me and took both items back out and placed them on the counter. We did little dance about ten times.
That. Boy. Is. Stubborn.
Seriously, sometimes the number of times I have to say something to him (such as, Leo, there is no time for cereal, the bus is coming and you don’t want them to leave you like they did yesterday do you?), well, I get on my own damn nerves.
The bus came. I panicked briefly when it appeared briefly that Leo was not going to go outside. But I cheerfully “redirected” him with clapping! and exclamation about his lizard! (Remember, the famous rubber lizard). And how exciting would it be to show the bus driver his gecko! (Because really, can you think of anything better?).
I should pause here to add that while all this was going on, Ellie was sitting on the little potty that we glamorously keep in the living room (no bathroom on our main floor—I know, I know, don’t even get me started).
Every morning we go to the bus as threesome. Usually Leo makes the dash across the lawn while I hold Ellie and she does her usual coy wave and sometimes even deigns a smile with the bus driver and aide.
Today though, with Ellie on the potty and the clock ticking and the bus waiting, I called to Ellie over my shoulder as I led Leo outside that we’d be right back. Clearly this was SO not OK with her. Because the next thing I knew, Leo was frozen on the lawn, refusing to get on the bus because Ellie was standing on the front porch with her pants around her ankles and the tears flowing. Between the volume of her cries and the fact that she was clearly unhappy (Leo is very empathetic, especially to Ellie), well that was it. Leo was going no where.
This was one of those Classic Parenthood Moments where I really did wonder where the Candid Camera was hidden. I mean, what a sight. The half naked, hysterically crying toddler, the trying-to-remain calm mother, carrying her kicking and protesting kindergartner across the grass.
Sometimes, all you can really do is laugh.
And take deep breathes. Deep, deep breaths.
Leo ate a good breakfast of French toast (frozen from TJ’s, before you get all impressed with me) and got dressed without too much argument. Then he decided he wanted cereal with milk, so he did what he is apt to do, “put his order in.” He goes into the refrigerator and/or cupboards and places what he’d like to eat on the kitchen counter.
That was all fine and swell and I would have been agreeable to Leo having “second breakfast,” except that it was about 7:40, the bus was imminent and by no means did I want a repeat of yesterday. I told Leo this and so my little mule and I had a quiet war. I put the carton of milk back in the refrigerator and the cereal back in the cupboard and he trailed behind me and took both items back out and placed them on the counter. We did little dance about ten times.
That. Boy. Is. Stubborn.
Seriously, sometimes the number of times I have to say something to him (such as, Leo, there is no time for cereal, the bus is coming and you don’t want them to leave you like they did yesterday do you?), well, I get on my own damn nerves.
The bus came. I panicked briefly when it appeared briefly that Leo was not going to go outside. But I cheerfully “redirected” him with clapping! and exclamation about his lizard! (Remember, the famous rubber lizard). And how exciting would it be to show the bus driver his gecko! (Because really, can you think of anything better?).
I should pause here to add that while all this was going on, Ellie was sitting on the little potty that we glamorously keep in the living room (no bathroom on our main floor—I know, I know, don’t even get me started).
Every morning we go to the bus as threesome. Usually Leo makes the dash across the lawn while I hold Ellie and she does her usual coy wave and sometimes even deigns a smile with the bus driver and aide.
Today though, with Ellie on the potty and the clock ticking and the bus waiting, I called to Ellie over my shoulder as I led Leo outside that we’d be right back. Clearly this was SO not OK with her. Because the next thing I knew, Leo was frozen on the lawn, refusing to get on the bus because Ellie was standing on the front porch with her pants around her ankles and the tears flowing. Between the volume of her cries and the fact that she was clearly unhappy (Leo is very empathetic, especially to Ellie), well that was it. Leo was going no where.
This was one of those Classic Parenthood Moments where I really did wonder where the Candid Camera was hidden. I mean, what a sight. The half naked, hysterically crying toddler, the trying-to-remain calm mother, carrying her kicking and protesting kindergartner across the grass.
Sometimes, all you can really do is laugh.
And take deep breathes. Deep, deep breaths.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
A First, With a Side of Lizard
Some mornings, Leo springs out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a celebratory spark plug. He jumps up and down for scrambled eggs! He gleefully picks out his own clothes (a yellow shirt, if available, always). He cheers when I find a new episode of "Dora" for him to watch while I make lunches for him and his sister.
But many mornings are not so easy. Leo will not get out of bed. When he does finally get out of bed, Leo moves downstairs at a mind numbing, glacial pace. When asked what he wants for breakfast, the only answer is a furious and incredulous “No!” Even the beloved eggs are met with fury.
Luckily, Leo has always been fairly resilient. I believe his teacher would refer to him as "easily redirected." I wouldn’t exactly call Leo moody, but if there is an upside to his sometime mood swings, it’s that as quickly as he moves from incredulousness to be being asked what he wants for breakfast, that’s how swiftly he becomes cheerful. He’s only human. When he's angry he's very, very angry. And when he's happy? He's a sweetheart. No big news here.
So this morning it was a relief when Leo had successfully shaken the grouchiness and was finally dressed in his underwear and socks and settled comfortably on the couch and in front of the coffee table with his plate of scrambled eggs (the final shirt and pants go on after breakfast is completed—trust me, I’m a veteran ketchup stain remover). Have no doubt though, there was certainly a battle to get just that minimal amount of clothing on and just to do so there were plenty of threats to turn off the TV, to take away the eggs. He comes around. Eventually.
But today, I just knew. When I looked at the clock and it was 7:40 and Leo was still just wearing socks and underwear and Leo’s bus can come anywhere between 7:45 and 8:00 a.m. Well I knew. For the first time this year, I would be driving Leo to school myself. Certainly not the end of the world but not the most convenient turn of events either.
Sure enough, Leo’s bus pulled up at about 7:47. I did my best to wrestle the clothes quickly on him. Today he was to wear a new, quite adorable button down shirt decorated with gecko lizards. I thought the fact that some of these lizards happened to be yellow might entice Leo to get dressed quicker (maybe we would make the bus that was pulling up outside the house at this-very-moment?).
But Leo started arguing with me and stomping his feet and saying something I couldn’t understand. At first I thought he just wanted to wear a yellow shirt (an almost daily request). The next thing I knew he was running upstairs. Awesome. Keep in mind the bus was, a this very moment, outside our house. The reminder honk was imminent.
I dashed outside and across the lawn and asked the driver in the sweetest possible voice I could muster, if he could come back in five or ten minutes, maybe pick up a few more kids and swing back to get Leo (knowing full well this was totally not going to happen).
And sure enough it did not happen. The driver shook his head apologetically and shrugged his shoulders and I sped back to the house for Plan B.
When I returned inside, Leo was standing at the bottom of the stairs grinning proudly ear-to-ear, holding a tiny rubber gecko lizard. That’s what he’d run upstairs to get. He wanted to wear bring his lizard, in honor of his lizard shirt. Makes perfect sense, really. And why hadn't I thought of that?
Except for the fact that Leo tried to melt like a wet noodle into his car seat when one of the aides tried to extricate him from the car in the “kiss and go” lane at school, this story has a mostly happy ending. Leo got to school, eventually, rubber gecko and all. And I guess considering this is the first time we've ever "missed" the bus and it's almost May, well that's pretty good, right? RIGHT?
These are the days, when I finally do get to work, my first question is: Is it lunch time yet? Or better yet, happy hour?
No gecko here, just lunch bag turned silly hat. Leo is almost always game to make people laugh. And in Leo's eyes, almost anything can be a hat.
But many mornings are not so easy. Leo will not get out of bed. When he does finally get out of bed, Leo moves downstairs at a mind numbing, glacial pace. When asked what he wants for breakfast, the only answer is a furious and incredulous “No!” Even the beloved eggs are met with fury.
Luckily, Leo has always been fairly resilient. I believe his teacher would refer to him as "easily redirected." I wouldn’t exactly call Leo moody, but if there is an upside to his sometime mood swings, it’s that as quickly as he moves from incredulousness to be being asked what he wants for breakfast, that’s how swiftly he becomes cheerful. He’s only human. When he's angry he's very, very angry. And when he's happy? He's a sweetheart. No big news here.
So this morning it was a relief when Leo had successfully shaken the grouchiness and was finally dressed in his underwear and socks and settled comfortably on the couch and in front of the coffee table with his plate of scrambled eggs (the final shirt and pants go on after breakfast is completed—trust me, I’m a veteran ketchup stain remover). Have no doubt though, there was certainly a battle to get just that minimal amount of clothing on and just to do so there were plenty of threats to turn off the TV, to take away the eggs. He comes around. Eventually.
But today, I just knew. When I looked at the clock and it was 7:40 and Leo was still just wearing socks and underwear and Leo’s bus can come anywhere between 7:45 and 8:00 a.m. Well I knew. For the first time this year, I would be driving Leo to school myself. Certainly not the end of the world but not the most convenient turn of events either.
Sure enough, Leo’s bus pulled up at about 7:47. I did my best to wrestle the clothes quickly on him. Today he was to wear a new, quite adorable button down shirt decorated with gecko lizards. I thought the fact that some of these lizards happened to be yellow might entice Leo to get dressed quicker (maybe we would make the bus that was pulling up outside the house at this-very-moment?).
But Leo started arguing with me and stomping his feet and saying something I couldn’t understand. At first I thought he just wanted to wear a yellow shirt (an almost daily request). The next thing I knew he was running upstairs. Awesome. Keep in mind the bus was, a this very moment, outside our house. The reminder honk was imminent.
I dashed outside and across the lawn and asked the driver in the sweetest possible voice I could muster, if he could come back in five or ten minutes, maybe pick up a few more kids and swing back to get Leo (knowing full well this was totally not going to happen).
And sure enough it did not happen. The driver shook his head apologetically and shrugged his shoulders and I sped back to the house for Plan B.
When I returned inside, Leo was standing at the bottom of the stairs grinning proudly ear-to-ear, holding a tiny rubber gecko lizard. That’s what he’d run upstairs to get. He wanted to wear bring his lizard, in honor of his lizard shirt. Makes perfect sense, really. And why hadn't I thought of that?
Except for the fact that Leo tried to melt like a wet noodle into his car seat when one of the aides tried to extricate him from the car in the “kiss and go” lane at school, this story has a mostly happy ending. Leo got to school, eventually, rubber gecko and all. And I guess considering this is the first time we've ever "missed" the bus and it's almost May, well that's pretty good, right? RIGHT?
These are the days, when I finally do get to work, my first question is: Is it lunch time yet? Or better yet, happy hour?
No gecko here, just lunch bag turned silly hat. Leo is almost always game to make people laugh. And in Leo's eyes, almost anything can be a hat.
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