A disjointed Christmas

Yesterday DH had the bright idea to Rollerblade to the grocery store to buy a copy of the Post. Well, he returned home briefly with a bandage on his hand and plans to go to the emergency room. He said he had dislocated his finger in a fall. I was baking a cake with Pouce and I needed a few minutes to get some food together for Chunky Monkey before we could leave. He insisted he could not wait. He didn't tell me how bad it was and I wondered why a dislocated finger required such urgency. He ended up driving himself because he thought he might be there all day.

It did take all day, mainly because he had cut his finger DOWN TO THE BONE! I mean, the bone was visible! And I let him drive himself...I will accept my award for Wife of the Year any day now. He got an IV antibiotic and multiple X-rays.

I was happy he was eventually okay, though we are on infection watch now. He'll be showering with a bag on his hand for the time being, but he should regain full use of everything. He's a lucky guy. Must have been because it happened on Christmas Eve.

M's Christmas Plan

M. is really excited about Christmas this year. She has watched pretty much every special that Noggin has to offer and I have suffered through multiple readings of Rooftop Santa. Let me tell you, that title is worth every bit of the 25 cents the Embassy spent for it. We have also been reading The Night Before Christmas. She loves the story, but she looks a little wary of Santa every time we read it.

We went to see Santa at the mall and M. would not even approach his chair. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. G. agreed to be placed on Santa's lap, and it looked like things were going to go well for a quick photo. He tried to grab Santa's beard and was happy being jostled on his lap. Then as soon as I called his name to get his attention, he realized just how far away I was. His bottom lip quivered and the sobbing began. M. took this as all the evidence she needed that Santa was very, very scary.

Well, today she announced that it was Christmas Eve and she was going to get presents tonight. "Santa is gonna come and leave me presents," she said. I said yes, he certainly was. She thought a moment and said, "And I'm gonna wear my dinosaur costume and scare him when he comes."

Merry Christmas, Santa. Love, M.

Twice a month is all you need

We met with G's therapist, the social worker and the case manager this week for his 6 month review. It went as expected, with the recommendation that his physical therapy be reduced to twice a month. They really feel that he is doing well enough that he will be weaned off therapy soon. I think they mean that I will be weaned off therapy soon. The therapist and social worker will switch off weeks so I am never alone for a week.

Early Intervention is great and all, but I kind of wish they would stop treating me like a nut. Why does every session have to feature questions on how my medication is working for me? They insist that it is way too early to tell if he has asd, but they always tell me just as emphatically that he DOES NOT SHOW ANY SIGNS OF BEING ON THE SPECTRUM!!! You can't tell if he is, but you can be sure that he isn't? That doesn't make sense to me.

I should be ecstatic about this. I mean, he babbles all the time (it's even begun to get annoying), he rolls over well and he bangs toys with the best of 'em. What do I have to worry about? Why can't I seem to let things go? It's very tiring watching his every move for the next "sign."

I keep telling myself that when he crawls, says his first word and points (that's the biggie) that I will stop worrying about him. I mentioned this to my father and he was quiet on the phone. Then he said, "You'll be worrying about him when he's 35 with his own children." Spoken like a man with 4 kids of his own.