First Words

Our son decompressing in his ball tent.

Our son said his first words.

We were out at dinner a few weeks ago, which typically involves our son eating quickly and then having no patience to sit at the table while the rest of us eat.  So dinners out usually mean that I wolf down my food and I take him outside for walks while my wife and daughter finish their meals a bit more leisurely.  I like this arrangement because then my wife pays the bill.

Clearly all done, our son turned to me in agitation.  He raised his arms to be picked up out of his high chair, and I wondered at which volume his distressed "AAAAH" would sound this time.   His mouth opened, and a moment later the sound followed.  "Mamamama UH!"

Mama up.

Time swirled around me as I lifted him to me and hugged him close, tears in my eyes, staring dumbfouded at my wife across the table to make sure I wasn't dreaming.  She nodded, smiling.  She had heard it, too.  Oh, what a moment!

I hugged him and squeezed him and wanted to celebrate right there but our son wasn't sharing this stop-time experience and wanted out.  Miraculously we were all ready to leave.  Our slowest eater was finger-painting her face with her condiments.  I put my son in the stroller and wiped ketchup off my daughter's hands and face, which clearly transferred to the wipe but didn't seem to be washing off her skin.  "Bath night," I thought.  I put her in the stroller, and pushed it outside, our family together, still rejoicing over this new development.  I couldn't stop smiling at our little boy.

Then my wife said, "Look at her."  I glanced at our daughter and touched her red cheek with alarm.  "That's not ketchup," I said. "Those are hives."  Her face had broken out in red, swollen welts, the rash on her face around her mouth, on her cheeks under her eyes, and down her legs.  We buckled the twins in their carseats and raced to urgent kids' care.  (Our cheerful little girl recovered over the next half hour and was sent home with a dose of children's Benedryl.  Turns out she is allergic to pineapple.)

Our son spoke his first words.  His sister, with her outgoing personality and, in this case, allergic reaction, forever steals his thunder.  But not this time.  He spoke.  He knows that words are used to communicate.  He understands that he can use words to get what he wants.  He accepts that he has to put his lips together to make the "m" sound (something that does not come easily or naturally for him) and he knows his mama's name and the meaning of "up."

He has been paying attention.

Ears

Playing with bubbles during a speech session

Our son has played with his ears since birth.  We chuckled about his quirky habit.  We had his ears checked numerous times, and his previous pediatrician said everything was fine.

Our Florida pediatrician said everything was NOT fine.  She sent us to an Ear, Nose, & Throat (ENT) doctor.  Our son did not like the visit. They were unable to complete a formal hearing test because despite my best efforts my son was uncooperative.  The otolaryngologist did remove ear wax and determine that he has significant and constant pressure in his inner ear.  (Was that why he screamed the entire flight home on our last airplane journey?)  They recommended putting tubes in his ears (a bilateral myringotomy) to relieve pressure.  With the tubes he would not be allowed to get water in his ears, BUT they could custom-make ear plugs for the water.  I signed the surgical paperwork and scheduled the procedure.

A reminder to dress warmly because the waiting room is cold appeared in two different places in the paperwork.  They also let me know this in person.  So at 6:30 am the following Wednesday I arrived at the surgical clinic, layered in t-shirt and fleece, my kids in t-shirts, sweatshirts, long pants, and socks.  All of the elderly patients and their families sat in the waiting room in their winter jackets and shivered.  We undressed, because we have Boston blood.  Seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit is apparently frigid to true Floridians.

Prepping your child for surgery in the operating room is not easy.  My job was to keep him calm while they swaddled him tightly, pressed adhesive sensors and connected wires all over his body, and covered his face with a gas mask which caused him to scream until his eyes rolled into his head with anesthesia-induced sleep.  It left me trembling all over.  I sat in the warm waiting room with my daughter for an incredibly long 15 minutes.

The nurse retrieved me when they were done.  I was impatient to get to my son, but she kept me out of the recovery room, trying to tell me what to expect when she opened the door.  "It's normal for kids to cry as they regain consciousness," she began.  I rushed into the room, to find a nurse struggling to hold my son.  His eyes were scrunched tightly closed; he was screaming and flailing and kicking and arching.  I ran to him, and held him against me while he fought me with every muscle of his being.  "It's okay, you're okay," I murmured over and over while squeezing him tightly.  My daughter sat in the stroller, soundlessly watching.

Finally my son opened his eyes, saw my face, and stopped howling.  He stilled, crying more quietly.  I snuggled him, praised him, and put him in the stroller.  "This is all very normal for kids post-surgery," the nurse reassured me.  He had bruises on his arms and legs from all the thrashing.  I was relieved it was over.

Two days later, my son woke up with his hair plastered to the side of his face.  Sticky gunk.  Thick yellow wax.  We went back to the ENT.  It wasn't wax.  It was PUS!  (insert retching sounds here) Our little boy had a terrible ear infection.  The doctor acted like everything was status quo.  "Does this happen often after getting tubes?" I asked.

"No," he admitted.  "This is not typical."  He prescribed a ten-day course of antibiotics and ear drops.

Two weeks later my son's ears were re-checked to be fine.  That was a week ago.  My son has been fussy this week, not wanting to be held, fighting every time we pick him up.  I took him to the pediatrician again today because again I saw him pulling on his ears.  She prescribed another course of antibiotics for this latest ear infection, and said that that it was a good thing he had the tubes or else he would be in a lot more pain.  She reminded me to call the Ear, Nose, & Throat doctor to let them know he has another ear infection.

I don't understand why our son continues to have ear infections after getting tubes.  I don't understand where all that fluid comes from since he wears his custom-made ear plugs every time he is near water.    Thankfully, my son is so sweet when it is time to take his medicine.  Although he doesn't like it, he allows us to give him ear drops three times each day.  And he willingly opens his mouth twice a day to swallow the liquid antibiotics.  I just wish it weren't so routine.

17 Months Old: Global Developmental Delay

My son at the local children's museum

I am tired.  And overwhelmed.

When your beautiful little boy is in a room being assessed by a clinician, and you see him yell and throw every object placed before him, a little piece of you shatters.  But he's angry, you want to say, because he wants to finish reading the book you took away.  But now you see your son as  the observer sees him, and the deficits are profound.  Please please please, you mentally beg your son, engage with the toys.  But your son is not interested right now; he wants out of the chair and out of the room.  He screams loudly.

The neurologist gave us a letter of referral.  Five months of intensive physical therapy, occupational therapy, and speech services, two to three times each week, with a followup neurology appointment scheduled in April to determine progress.  And next steps.  And then a diagnosis.  It's all a jumble of words.

Lots of phone calls.  A visit to the pediatrician for additional referrals.  More intake appointments.  The occupational therapist that tests our son says he has an immature grasp and delayed fine motor skills.  She wants to see him two times each week.  The physical therapist determines that he has "loose joints," and that his muscles are working twice as hard as is typically necessary to move.  She wants to see him three times each week.  When we outright ask the speech therapist where our son is with language development, she equates his language level to that of seven-month-old baby.  She will see him three times each week and wants his hearing tested.  Language and cognition are so intertwined at this early age that I am having difficulty proving to everyone that my little boy is cognitively fine.

None of the care providers will say for certain that our son will have a positive outcome with intensive therapy.

I was given instructions to begin "crawling boot camp" at home.  My son first needs to learn how to properly crawl.  The physical therapist showed me how to position him correctly when he is moving, and how to readjust his body into the correct position.  She showed me how to manipulate his surroundings to ensure that he has to lift himself up.  She does not yet know how stubborn my son can be.

It's a lot of work - the phone calls, the appointments, the therapies I do with both children at home, let alone the daily grind of just having twins!  Recently, I stopped attending play groups with other parents because it pains me to see my children with other children.  When I see other people's typically-developing toddlers I mostly see my own children's deficits.  Plus I have difficulty socializing with other parents because while their toddlers run around and play, mine need one-on-one support.  Admittedly, as the weeks and months pass, my son, while making small gains, seems to be falling further behind.

In my house, we celebrate every success.  Last week my son learned to clap, and Yay(!) we clap with him.  While my son cannot yet walk, he can now turn a corner while riding his little truck - yay for mobility!  My son loves books and is willing to read more than just his favorites over and over - yay for something new!  My son can now put blocks back in the bin -  yay for helping Mama clean up!  My son is willing to eat new things if I shove a piece in his mouth first and he accidentally tastes it while spitting it out - yay for fish!  My son is babbling da-da-da-da all the time now - yay for not screaming!  My son loves to be serenaded - yay for sitting on the exercise ball for core strength exercises while Mama sings to you!  My son is hyper-focused on musical toys - yay for happily pushing the button that plays the alphabet song fifteen times in a row so Mama can take a break.  My son suddenly has more facial expressions in his repertoire - yay for helping Mama and Mommy understand you!  Yay for your adorable sense of humor!

My son is gentle, and funny, and he laughs a lot.  He is easily excitable.  He is mostly happy, sometimes frustrated, very sweet, and comfortable with our daily routines.  He sometimes spaces out.   He sometimes cries uncontrollably for no apparent reason.  He clearly has significant motor and communication delays.  He does not yet stand, but he sits and makes eye contact.  He says "ah" and "da da da" and he closed his mouth and said, "Mmmm" for the first time yesterday.  He does not look where you point, and he does not often mimic, but he does respond to his name.  He belly-laughs when you repeat a word he thinks is funny.  He no longer ignores the short Baby Signing Time video we watch daily. With prompting, hand-over-hand support, and multiple scenarios in which to practice, one time this week he signed "more" appropriately and on his own.  My son thrives in quiet spaces.  He is easily overwhelmed in noisy restaurants or crowded events.  He splashes, flaps, and bounces so gleefully in the bathtub, and he snuggles so sweetly before bed.  He knows how to brush his teeth and loves to have his hair combed and scalp gently rubbed.  His crib is a peaceful, safe space, and he smiles contentedly at nap or bedtime.

Maybe my son will eventually catch up.  Maybe he won't.  But we will continue to celebrate the small successes because for him they are enormous.

Thanksgiving

I woke up the morning of November 9, 2016, to a world in which I did not want to raise my children.  I planned to rear them in a world where the first black man was elected president, followed by the first woman.  I anticipated more progressive thinking and reform in the United States.  I assumed that the adoption papers my wife and I carry for our own biological children would become antiquated.

I was wrong.

What happened to our country?  We elected a racist, narcissistic misogynist to run our country.  I say we because even though he clearly did not have my vote, 53% of white women voted for him.  What kind of respect do we as women have for ourselves if we elect as a leader who wants to take away our reproductive rights?  A man who disrespects us so much that he normalizes rape culture?

My black friends and colleagues like to tell me that I am black like them.  This is a false honor.  Unlike them, I was completely shocked by the election's outcome.  My friends and colleagues knew what was coming.  But in my naive white privilege, in which I do not experience daily social and institutional injustice, I believed that our society was getting better.  I was wrong.

Our President-elect is selecting his cabinet, and his "alt-right" choices are bringing back high school memories from the early 1990s.  I had completed a research project on neo-Nazi hate groups in the United States.  In my presentation to the class, I explained how Morris Dees, a lawyer from the Southern Poverty Law Center, was bankrupting hate groups by suing them successfully in the court of law.  After white supremacist members of the White Aryan Resistance (WAR) beat an Ethiopian man to death, Dees won a civil court case against their leader for $12.5 million.  The leader declared bankruptcy and WAR went out of business.

As part of my research I called neo-Nazi hotlines and recorded their hate-filled messages.  They were blatantly racist and anti-Semitic.  They threatened violence, torture, and genocide.  They were on a quest to reclaim their country from anyone "different."  They ended their tirades with, "This... is... WAR."  For weeks I had recurring nightmares about these skinheads coming to my school and sticking a loaded gun in my face, pulling the trigger when I was unable to recite the entire Lord's Prayer.  This is how, in my dreams, they discovered that I was Jewish.  During this time, in reality, we evacuated the school for a pulled fire alarm and returned to black swastikas spray-painted all over the stairwells.

Last year a friend tried to convince me that after so many white supremacist groups went bankrupt, they were quietly and slowly infiltrating government organizations, waiting for their time to come.  I laughed this off as another conspiracy theory.  She told me that they were rising in the ranks as police officers, FBI agents, and representatives in local and state governments.  I said something noncommittal, like "that's scary," and we left it at that.  Was I wrong again?

When David Duke celebrates Steve Bannon's appointment by Trump; when a KKK parade is planned in North Carolina; when a group of neo-Nazis raise their arm in the Nazi salute; when there are 700 hate crimes around the United States in one week post-election, the world becomes a much more frightening place.  On the other hand, these events are bringing together more than three million Americans who vow to not be complacent.  We have a community of three million who will stand up against bigotry, against racism, against misogyny, against anti-Semitism, against homophobia.  We are a community of people who in the past complacently believed it would all work out, but now we are ready for action.  We are a community of people who believe in goodness, diversity, and freedom.  We are ready to fight.

I still mourn the loss of the world in which I wanted to raise my children.  I didn't know how I could ever explain to them this turn of events in our nation's history.  But now, I also see that my children will have role models to teach them that one voice among many counts.  They will learn how to be an ally, how to speak up on behalf of others, and how to be part of a community.  They will learn how to be kind, loving, and accepting of all people.  On this Thanksgiving, while I am still anxious about the future, and depressed about the present state of affairs, I am also thankful for my friends, my colleagues, and my family.  May we do what is right by each other, and in doing so, be role models for all of our children.

Germs

I am somewhat of a germaphobe.  Not the excessive kind that wears gloves and walks around Lysol-ing doorknobs, but the kind that carries around hand sanitizer and goes to great lengths to avoid touching public door handles.  Riding a crowded bus has always been a balancing act, because I refuse to hold on to the poles.  I can't help but fixate on the germs I imagine crawling all over from everyone else's sweaty hands.

A sneeze or cough from someone makes me hold my breath and cringe.  Colds and runny noses are the worst - when I have a cold, I wash my hands so often and exhale so far away from others that I am the person from whom you will NOT catch a cold.  I often wish everyone would be so considerate.

And then I had kids.

Kids are germ-fests.  They can be sweet, loving, cute, funny, and sometimes annoying, but they are also disgusting.  While I expected diaper blowouts and food-filled faces, I never anticipated the depths to which my children are able to gross me out just by being themselves.

Case in point: my daughter has a penchant for pooping in water.  My wife protests this statement as false, but I disagree.  Once is an accident, twice is a pattern, three times is a habit.  The first time was when both of my children were splashing and giggling in our large, oval, jacuzzi-style tub.  I had just finished washing both children when I saw it.  Floating in between their smiling faces was an enormous, brown, banana-shaped turd.  OH MY GOD.  I threw a dry towel on the floor and hauled my children out of the bathtub.  In the eternity of the next second my brain realized five things:

1.  Due to the now poop-y water, my children needed another bath.
2.  This meant I had to drain the tub.
3.  Draining the tub meant STICKING MY HAND into the poop-y water to open the drain.
4.  I was going to have to lift that monstrous excrement out of the water to dispose of it,
5.  AND I had to act quickly because small bits of the load were disintegrating into the water.

Do I need to mention the gagging that took place as I completed these tasks?  Do I need to explain how I disinfected the tub and threw all of the bath toys in the dishwasher before running another bath?  Or how I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed my hands with disinfectant soap?  Or how I detested being the responsible parent in this very moment?

The next time it happened, my wife was home with me.  This time it was floating rabbit turds.  My wife nearly dry-heaved and ran out of the bathroom, leaving clean-up duty to me.  Then she tried to explain that my daughter doesn't have a habit of pooping in the tub because she wears diapers and poops whenever she has to go, so it was normal.

Then it happened a third time.  In our condo swimming pool.   The swim diapers I had purchased were a size too large and completely ineffective.  We flew out of the pool so quickly both kids burst into tears!  To my horror, my wife sent ME back into the pool to clean up the feces.  My scalding shower upon arriving home was not hot enough to keep my skin from crawling.

But kids are grosser than just poop.  For instance, my daughter eats cat food daily out of the cat bowls.  I've given up trying to keep her away from the bowls in the kitchen, because it's a losing battle.  "Nom nom!" she exclaims, thinking it's fun to see Mama freak out and try to pull the kibble out of her mouth.  My son ate part of the canned cat food the other day while I was pulling kitty litter out of my daughter's mouth.  I didn't realize he ate the cats' leftovers until I picked him up and he breathed the incredible stench of fish in my face.  I almost dropped him.  He screamed while I washed his fishy hands with soap and water in the sink.

Going out to restaurants elicits my internal squirm, because my daughter likes to eat the table.  Open mouth on the edge of the table, sucking and drooling.  Granted, she is endlessly teething, but I don't trust the cleanliness of public tables and moist rags that wipe them down.  My stomach writhes in protest and I just can't look.  Whether it's tables, grocery cart handles, swing chains, or the arms on highchairs, stopping her is futile.  I swear the twins take turns needing my full attention so the other one can eat microorganisms.

It's no wonder that kids are sick for eight months out of the first two years of life  My wife read me this foreboding statistic and I still pray it isn't true.  Sick toddlers are the germ-iest, grossest little people on the planet.  From the yellow, white, and green stinky snot that hangs out of their noses no matter how much I wipe them, from the smelly liquid that splatters with each sneeze and cough, to the wet, slimy hands that insist on touching my face... these are the days my children snuggle and need the most love and nurturing.  These are also the days I am completely revolted by my children.  They cry because I incessantly wipe away their boogers.  They cry because I wash their hands and faces, then scour my own.  And my wife - she won't come near the bulb nose sucker or even worse, the Nose Frida - she calls me from across the house to tell me that our child's nose needs to be wiped.  She calls me from across the house to tell me that our child's diaper needs to be changed.  She reminds me that when we got pregnant she informed me that she couldn't handle body fluids because they make her vomit.  I didn't realize she was one hundred percent serious.  She often makes retching sounds on her way out of the room.  I also didn't realize how much my children would activate my own nausea daily.

To think that I was aghast the day my infant son peed into his own mouth while I was changing his diaper.  To think that I almost puked on my daughter the day she removed her poop-y diaper during nap time and played in it all over her crib.  To think I looked on in horror when all of the toddlers ate  the same drooled-on toys during playgroup.  To think all of that was just the beginning.

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE being a parent.  But I would truly enjoy it so much more without the disgustingness factor.

Air Conditioning

Our air conditioner broke.  In ninety degree Florida heat and humidity, it is not a good thing when the air conditioner stops working.  Unbeknownst to us, the coil was corroded and leaking.  The condo below ours was receiving all the water damage.

We paid a repairman to refill the freon as a short term fix while we battled with the warranty company to replace the 11-year-old unit.  Further damage to the home below ours was the impetus we needed to get the warranty service to send their contractor.  The air conditioner was to be replaced that Wednesday, and would obviously be turned off while the work was happening.  However, as soon as the rusted coil was removed, water poured out of the duct.   Our laundry room turned into a swimming pool.  Our downstairs neighbor's living room walls shed tears.

Our one-day air conditioner replacement ended up being a three-day job.  The contractors spent the rest of that long Wednesday removing the soggy fiberglass and flood of water from our home.  What did this mean? This meant that for three days I was stuck at home with the twins without the benefit of air conditioning.

I prefer to go on daily outings so I don't feel cooped up at home.  But I was not comfortable leaving the workers alone in the house, and the house was not tolerable.  Our home was scorching, and I mean HOT.  The thermostat said 87 degrees but the humidity was like walking out of the shower and being unable to dry off with towels. We shut the blinds, turned off all the lights, and turned on all the overhead fans.  My clothes continuously plastered themselves to my glistening skin, and my children lay motionless on the tiled floor in their diapers.  We spent much of an entire day playing in a cold bath.  The carpeting in the bedrooms became damp. When we couldn't stand it anymore we sat in the car in our garage with the air conditioning on full blast.  We went out to dinner just to breathe some cool, dry air.  My kids were so warm that I kept taking their temperature after naps to make sure they didn't have fever.  None of us slept well at night, because we were boiling even with the windows open. I finally abandoned the contractors and took the twins to the pool by myself.

This experience made me thankful to live in a first world country with air conditioning.  I thought about all of the people in the world who live in tropical climates without the luxury of cool air.  I thought about fellow Americans who cannot afford to have an air conditioner in their home.  My children were understandably whiny and lethargic, overheated and flushed.  I was too irritable to enjoy my own company, let alone anyone else's.  The only cheerful whistling in our house came from the contractors, busy at work in the laundry room.

That Friday, at 5:30 p.m., our new air conditioner was turned on.  Insta-cheer! Over the next two hours we literally cooled off, and our interactions with each other softened.  Energy and laughter returned to our home.  Normalcy relieved us all.

Every morning I wake up thankful for our brand new cooling system.  Air conditioning used to be a privilege that I took for granted.  Not anymore.

Swimming, Part 2

Swimming.  We purchased a cheap pair of inflatable water wings and put them on our son.  The package was for older children ages 3 and up, but we decided to try them anyway.  I was surprised that the water wings did not actually keep my son's head from going under.  However, they did offer him enough buoyancy to allow him to successfully float on his back without me holding him.  Not only was my son completely thrilled, but something clicked.  He discovered that his face went under water when he kicked his legs but remained above water when he relaxed and lay still.  So he relaxed, and floated around the pool, kicking and going under only when he could no longer contain his explosive joy.

He brought his excitement to the pool the next day, and shed no tears when the instructor pulled him gently into the water.  In fact, he laughed!  I watched my son put his face in the water, flip himself onto his back and float on the water all by himself!  The instructor needed to rescue him when he laughed so hard he nearly drank the pool.  My son wanted to practice over and over again, and I sat on the side of the pool with my daughter, cheering and clapping.

My daughter watched her brother carefully while I narrated what he was doing so well in the water.  "Look, he is putting his face in the water, he is turning around, he is taking a breath of air, and he is floating!  He is not kicking!  Yay!!"  She clapped for him with me, relaxed and smiling.  Usually she clings to me, all nerves.  But she settled into me and focused on her brother's successes.

Then it was her turn.  My daughter cried when brought into the pool, but without the usual intensity.  She cried louder when she was about to go under.  Then she suddenly stopped crying, stuck her face in the water, flipped onto her back, and came up for air, smiling.  She could not float on her back because she was exuberantly clapping for herself!
 
The instructor had promised me that my children would reach this point, but I had been so caught up in their endless tears that this moment caught me by surprise.  This is my rainbow after the storm.  My children no longer scream during lessons.  Swimming by themselves will be my pot of gold, and I now see it on the horizon.