I met with my son's preschool teacher this week. She had some concerns about The Bug. She feels he's behind in his language skills, and mentioned some concern about motor skills, as well as his attention span and interest in things. I had to sign a consent form to have someone 'observe' him in class in a week.

My son has had twenty-two ear infections from August of 2004 until, well, just a few weeks ago. And I'm not sure the last round really went away, courtesy Bug refuses any medicine (I got a bunch of pink goo in my eye the last time). And because of those, it would make sense that his hearing his garbled. If you've been listening to someone talk and it sounds like you're underwater, it'd make sense.

Truthfully, it's the motor skills and attention span thing that scare me. And the fear that the person observing him will couple all of that together and make a jump to something.

(And here is probably a good place to say that yes, I know he's three-and-a-half. And yes, what three-year-old has a long attention span? I will say, though, that his teacher is VERY GOOD. And she wouldn't mention it without some real cause for concern. She works with three to five year-old children for a living, and has for some time.)

With all of that said, I sat in the library talking to her, and she kept saying, "Don't stress out over it; let's just figure out what the issue is! Maybe he just needs me to do something different for him in the classroom." And while she was smiling and talking and asking me the if I'd be attending the "Mom's Night Out" that week (and that's another post), all I could think of was my baby brother.

When my (now 28-year-old brother) was little, he was diagnosed with Sensory Integration Dysfunction and hyperactivity. My parents were tossed into this world of "What can we do to help him?" and they lost complete track of everything else. Our spare room became a library for the self-help books. Our downstairs basement because an "occupational therapy room" with a hammock attached to the ceiling and a big giant ball we were supposed to roll over him, I guess. All of the soda and candy got tossed from the house because "your brother has a reaction to it".



My mom was forcing Ritalin down his throat every day, and every day it was a battle from hell. Once when he was about twelve, she mixed up his Ritalin with her Estrogen supplement. He took her pill. My mom caught the mistake, had to explain to him what he'd just taken. My dad then told him he'd grow boobs. My brother yelled and cried and tried to make himself gag, while my dad and I were rolling on the floor, laughing.


We spent one summer in Denver so he could attend a 'special preschool' where one little boy wore a blue helmut and drooled. My brother just didn't like to be touched. That was it. If you didn't touch him, you were good. So, we'd come to Denver on Sunday night, stay through Friday, and come home on the weekends to see dad. I was forced into a pyschologist's office to talk about my 'feelings'. I had to show her how I felt with puppets, because my mom and dad started to realize they were giving my brother all the attention, and I was getting shoved aside. Kids at our Elementary School would taunt him for needing to go into the "Special Education Room". I once hit a girl on our school bus who said my brother was different and stupid, never mind the fact that she looked like she'd been born of a she-goat and a manatee on crack.

I realize I'm jumping ahead. But you see, all of this went through my mind last Tuesday. Probably before I left the school parking lot. I remembered all of this, and I got scared. I still am scared. And so I have talked to a few friends who have kept my head from head-tripping too far.

I realize all of this could be as simple as an assload of ear infections causing havoc. It could be that my child is three, but is as tall (or taller) than the five-year-old's in his class. And he just might still coming into his own body-wise.

And of course, I know if it's something else entirely, I'll handle that, too.

Children are the living messages we send to a time we will not see. ~John W. Whitehead, The Stealing of America, 1983

Labels: detours, preschool, the bug and mommy

I have forgotten what's important, that's what I've decided.

And I'm not entirely sure how I got from there to here, either. At some point, there was an exit I took in my head and heart and it landed me here, not there. And it isn't that I've become depressed or unhappy, if you will.

It's not that I'm opposed to detours. You happen upon unexpected things when you take the unanticipated route. I can say that this has happened to me - many times before in my life, and certainly now. I've encountered many things I hadn't planned on. When my dad died in '95, for instance, I was derailed from what I'd planned on and found myself in the company of friends I'd never known had it been for the bad. For instance, meeting my best friend, ElJefe.

This is a different kind of detour.

Best described, some of these moments equate to pulling into a little known diner and having the world's best apple pie you'd never known existed, had you not pulled into that lot and just gave the place a whirl. Other moments are more like getting stranded in a blizzard with a busted tire and no cell service.

I'm learning to appreciate both of those kinds of moments.

This time requires soul-searching. I'm challenging myself. I'm not sweeping away the questions this time; I want the answers. I'm finding myself picking up post cards a long the way and placing them in the boxes I keep in my heart. Tucking those moments away, keeping them safe. It's nice to have something to yourself now and then.

I'm sure I'll hit the main highway again and be better for having had said experiences. I'll talk about them someday with my girlfriends when we sit on the porch twenty years from now, sharing with each other the days that once challenged us most, the ones that made us stronger. We'll have our martini's and toast to the straight and narrow, to the detours and those danged bumps in the road, and knowing the latter was what shaped us more than the former.

Until then, I'm on that detour. I'm looking for a reason why I'm on this detour, and for the lessons I'm meant to learn.

There's a lesson in everything, I tell myself, even if it's one you have been taught before, but you have failed to learn.

Labels: detours, lessons, stronger