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So our second diagnosis started in the doctor's office.  Lids was 18 months old, and had not "held onto" a single word.  She would play with a sound, apply a meaning to it for a couple of days, and then either sound, meaning or both would just disappear. 

Shortly before her 18 month appointment, she experimented with calling me Mama.  For two blissful days I was "Mama!" and then...one morning she looked through me rather than at me and said, "Ma...ma...ma-ma-ma" and that was it.  I was once more "that woman who feeds me", indicated by pointing or grunting.  I cried.

That behavior, combined with the fact that she had zero words at the time of the appointment, led the pediatrician to diagnose her as "speech delayed" and refer us to early intervention.  The formal evaluation took about 2 months, and then she started in speech therapy.

Watching a toddler in speech therapy is funny.  That is to say, watching an adult practice speech therapy on a toddler is funny.  A grown adult spendin 30 minutes chattering slowly and clearly to a toddler who responds with not one word is a real kick.  Sounds kind of like a cat lady talking to her grizzled old Tom.

Lids improved at home before she improved in therapy.  She would sit there refusing to say a word to poor Erica, and then imitate sounds all the way home.  Within a month of starting, she was once again calling me "Mama" and I generously allowed her to call every other person in her life Mama as well.  Even DH submitted to being another Mama, because at least she was admitting that she knew us.

After she had identified about 10 words and their meanings, she decided to take it to class.  She chose my favorite therapist, Candice, to open up to, and Candice was suitably impressed.  After the third word, she started writing them down, and counted 19 words (my babies go from 0-60!) used in that one session.

Two weeks ago, Lids showed us that she can learn directly from therapy.  She came home from a very pointed lesson, pointed to DH and said, "Da-Da!"  Then it was his turn to cry.

Tags: Speechdelay Earlyintervention

Rather than starting with my first child, I'll start with my first diagnosis.  Smarty Jones was a "late preemie" and only missed the NICU because his mother refused to let him go.  He was born small, and while he has lengthened, he has stayed just as skinny as can be.  He has also been croupy since he was a baby.  Every time he gets a cold, it turns into something worse.

Last year some time, we started having to take his breathing issues to the ER.  He would get a cold, then get croup, and then stop being able to breathe.  After our second trip to the ER, the pediatrician put him on albuterol inhalers.  For the next six months, it was cold-croup-albuterol-steroids-ER.

Finally, I got a call from my insurance company's telephone advice nurse.  She informed me that the "reactive airway disease" we'd been treating was asthma by any other name and that I needed to find a pediatrician who would put him on daily nebulizer treatments.

Well, I might not trust Google advice, but a stranger on the telephone has got to be right...right?  In fact, she was.  My own pediatrician, once questioned, agreed to put him on daily treatments, with a second medication and orders for twice daily any time he gets a cold.

So my first diagnosis was asthma, and my first therapy: respiratory therapy.  Every morning my 4 year old puts on his Darth Vader mask and breathes along to the theme from Zooboomafoo.  On the other hand, we haven't been back to the ER and that can only be a good thing!

Tags: Asthma Therapy ER Preemie

To begin with a little history, I have three children: 6 1/2 year old Yaya (boy), 4 1/2 year old Shorty Jones (boy), and 2 year old Lids (girl).  In 2007, each of them was diagnosed with a disorder requiring some form of therapy.  

I also have a wonderful DH who also carries a diagnosis, and agreed to start therapy in 2007.  He may even actually follow through with that before 2009!  He is currently a SAHD, although he picks up a little extra as a substitute teacher a few (3-5) days a month.

I used to be sane.  I really did.  I had a social life, playdates for my kids, and a weekly date with DH.  Now, sanity is more of a special treat than a way of life.  Every waking moment seems taken up with planning or carrying out some form of therapy.  Some moms are soccer moms.  Some moms are baseball moms.  Me...I'm a therapy mom.

Tags: Asperger's Autism Speechdelay Therapy Parenting

As DH and I have learned more and more about Asperger's syndrome, he's found an overwhelming number of similarities between himself and people who have been diagnosed.  He doesn't currently feel the need to pursue diagnosis or treatment for himself, but he does want father/son T-shirts that say, "I have Asperger's.  Leave me alone!"

So, I'm living with people who value things more than people...who feel terribly lonely and yet lack the skills to initiate friendships...who can talk about their hobbies until one wants to run screaming from the house.  I think they would both be perfectly happy if they could stay home all the time and play on the computer 16 hours a day, developing close digital friendships and completely avoiding the irl world.  Neither one transitions well (read, if it wasn't on the calender last month, it ain't goin' to happen).

I'm a little bit different.  For me, waking up is an opportunity to recreate myself, and I tend to look at the clock and think, "We could probably get to Knott's and back before dinner if we tried."   I'm the one who can always think of something fun and new to do.  My hobby is planning the future, since you can do it 3000 times and come up with a different ending for every one.

I'm starting to see why DH and I have difficulties sometimes.   I provide him with introductions to friends that he craves, and I bring the world to him.  On the other hand, I insist that he enjoy that world, and dive into new experiences with me more than he could wish (I prefer daily, he prefers once every couple of years). 

I think living with me must be very much like living on a roller coaster for the two of them.  I bring chaos: thrills and excitement, terror and discomfort.  It makes me feel ADD and tied down sometimes, but I love them both far too much to wish things were different.

I'm trying to learn to accept them as they are a little more, and to realize that forcing excitement on them isn't going to make them like it more. 

On the other hand, if anyone want sto know anything about Pokemon, Heroclix or Transformers, I can totally hook you up!

I don't know.  I forced myself to go for the third time today, just so I'd have given it the old college try.  All the way there, I was composing my letter to the coordinator asking that my membership be withdrawn and the money I'd paid be given to Operation Christmas Child. 

Well, it wasn't good, and the craft was still pointless (paint a block of wood, cover it with glue, and if that isnt' enough, take it home immediately afterward).  The problem was, it wasn't bad enough this time.  I didn't cry out of frustration, and no one directly insulted me.  Heck, they didn't even really ignore me.  I simply have no connection with these women, and I think that could be my fault as much as theirs.

The biggest problem with dropping out, especially in such a bridge-burning way, is that Lydia loves going.  She gets to the church and starts dancing, and hops up and down with a big grin on her face all the way to the classroom.  The teachers all tell me how good she is, and when we leave, she takes a 2 hour nap (signal that she's had a good morning).

So, do I stick it out because she loves it?  Do I find another playgroup that meets every Friday morning?  Do I quit and begin spending Fridays on house chores?  Ponder, ponder, ponder.

Lydia starts speech therapy next week, so I think I'll see if that can make up for MOPS in her world before I remove us completely.