My School!

This is what Max cried when I pulled out of the primary school parking lot yesterday. "My school!"

Max's first day at preschool.

I was thrilled.

He wasn't crying-crying, there weren't any actual tears. He was too exhausted from his third day of preschool in a very stimulating classroom to wind up into any kind of tantrum. He might have just been accessing an emotional response appropriate for leaving a place and practicing with it.

I don't care about any of that. I'm just glad he said something spontaneous. I'm glad he talked at all. And I am more than grateful that school quickly has become a place he enjoys.

It's been a rough journey these last several months, discovering that Max has a speech delay and perhaps a few sensory issues. His development was cruising right along, his vocabulary was growing, and his academic learning was way ahead.

At 3 years old he can sing the ABCs, correctly identify the sounds each letter makes, and even list a few words here and there that begin with those sounds. He asks me to make crescents and trapezoids when we play shapes with a rubber band, and he is about one letter away from cracking my password on the Kindle to download more apps.

But tell me what he did at school? Say what he is thinking? Communicate in sentences that aren't first given to him for parroting? Nope, not yet.

These last few months have been a confusing and often depressing journey, but the light at the end of the tunnel is glowing brighter. Actually, it's really illuminating several more tunnels, and we still have to evaluate and explore and outright guess which one is Max's best chance at being his full and authentic self. But at least we've figured out how to drive the freaking train.

Paperwork for anything having to do with school or a state board or a child's brain development is an endless stapled packet. Four different packets are really the same one just in slightly different wording or order. We all know just how much I like filling out paperwork.

But now it's an outright battle. Paperwork is just one more tactic that I'm willing to employ to get Max the help he needs to unlock speech and let all of the learning and behavior skills fall into place. I'm willing to drive to a different city to get him the best therapy. I'm willing to be what I never thought I would be: a parent who drives her kid to and from school.

I dutifully stand in the parent waiting area, the vortex of possible friendship and probable judgment. I willingly hand over my little love to other people who don't let me past the buzzer-locked double doors. I scour the little half sheet of paper that reports what he did in school that day as an attempt to have a conversation with him about it.

Happily, three days of this have yielded more results than the previous three months. My stress level has plummeted with just a few hours a day completely belonging to me, when I can actually schedule appointments or clean the house or get some grocery shopping done (which increasingly has become a screamfest when I have to drag along Max). We're all benefiting from a routine.

Max sweetly feels some ownership of this new place, this school with new toys and new playgrounds and new friends. I am feeling the same gratitude for it.

My school! My chance! My relief.

Tower of Babble Babble Babble

Max is 20 months old and on the cusp of a vocabulary explosion. I can feel it. I thought it might be good to record what words he can say now.

This is not bragging. This is me being completely obsessed with language and lists. (OK, maybe a little bragging.)

Of course, only a few of the words below are articulated as clearly as you and I might say them. Max can't really make the "L" sound at the end of "ball," but we all know he is saying "ball" when he is saying "baaa-uh." (The fact that he is usually carrying his big orange bouncy ball is a pretty good clue.)

A few words come out "baaa-uh," but if you listen carefully to inflection you can tell whether he is saying "ball," "bottle" or "block." Other words don't sound anything like the real word -- he says "beeps" for "grapes" -- but we know what he means and that counts as a word in my book. That is what language is for, after all. Communication.

It is hilarious how he says "triangle" and "rectangle." There are at least six extra syllables in there, but he gets an "A" for effort.

Speaking of "A," I'll also note that he is beginning to correctly identify and say some letters and numbers, including: A, B, D, E, O, R, T, 2, 8 and 9.

All of these words for the past several months, and only a few days ago did Max finally call his parents Mama and Dada. His first word ever was "Grandpa," starting out as "Papa" but moving fairly quickly to "Gam-pa." My mother is beside herself that he still hasn't called her "Woo" yet. (That's another story how she got that moniker.) Max learned both "Brother" and "Gabe" (which comes out "Ge-eee") but still no "Woo."

Here's the bragging part. All of the words listed below are what Max says in context or in correct identification. He can speak a lot more words, often just repeating what someone else is saying, but this list is really about what he can say about the things he knows.

Names
Dada
Mama
Brother
Gabe
Grandpa
Baby (any little baby he sees)

Animals
dog
cat
pig
moo moo (for "cow")
bird
duck
horse
mouse
goat
bear
lion
hippo
bug
dinosaur

At the Table
cup
spoon
fork (comes out "bork," too cute)
knife
grapes ("beeps")
cookie
cracker
pouch (those squirty puree things)
bottle
cheese
banana
carrot
peas
corn
cake

Body
hair
ear
eye
nose
teeth
mouth
toe
head
pee pee (fear not, I will teach him anatomical words)

Toys/Characters
ball
block
boat
map (from "Dora the Explorer")
backpack (ditto)
Thomas (as in the Tank Engine)
Blue's Clues
Bot (from "Team Umizoomi")
Elmo
Bubble Guppies (he hits all of the syllables, but not exactly in the right order)
Bubble Puppy ("Bup Pup")
SpongeBob ("Bob Bob" -- and thanks, Gabe, for the early exposure)

His World
car
truck
crane
choo choo (for "train")
book
bath
sock
shoe
hat
tissue (one of my favorites, and one of his most clearly articulated)
bubble
balloon
pumpkin
toothbrush (this one comes and goes, it was one of his first words, but he doesn't say it much now)
light
door
bink ("pacifier")
snow
sky
moon
sun
star (in the astronomical and geometrical sense)
triangle
rectangle
oval
circle
box

Colors
blue
green
purple
orange
black
pink
red

Other
bye bye
hi
hello
go
uh-oh
no
thank you
don't
all done
up
down
big
small
apart
together
pop
pat
back
cold
hot
march
amen (although I think even at church he thinks we're all saying "Oh, man!" like Swiper the Fox on "Dora")

And then one of my favorite things he says, in a way, is the fake snore for "sleep." "Acgghh-shooo, acgghh-shoo, acgghh-shoo ..."

'We Deserve to See a Range'

I cried for three days when I found out I was going to have another boy. Now I can't imagine my life without Max in it, but boy oh boy did I want a girl.

I love the idea of seeing what kind of mother of a daughter I'd be after being the daughter of my mother. I also love the hair bows and the frilly dresses, the dolls and the sparkles, the girly girl stuff in all of its forms.

But I know there are varied, wonderful dimensions to being a girl. I happen to have some of them. A pink princess castle isn't the only part. Hell, it doesn't need to be a part at all.

Frankly, castles should be gray. A little reality doesn't hurt any girl. Boys get castle sets that resemble real stone, so why does a girl's castle toy have to be pink? It's more of the same conspiracy to label girls as the "weaker" sex that is stamped right on their diapers. (See "The Cheese Stands Alone" blog post.)

Toy company GoldieBlox, which makes interactive books and games, is doing its very best to combat this nonsense and encourage girls to play with science and engineering concepts. (See Slate.com article.) Even better, it set a commercial of girls using all of that pink plastic crap as the world's biggest Mousetrap game to a Beastie Boys tune. I just so happened to have a little love affair with them when I was growing up.

That's not very pink and frilly at all. But they did inspire an awesome lullaby, "No Sleep till Boobie." (See "Max's Anthem" blog post.)

Let's Pretend Caillou Gets Canceled

I'm about to join the legions of parents who express a deep and abiding hatred for the cartoon character Caillou.

My hairless baby unfortunately looked a lot like him, although we mostly got Charlie Brown references, thankfully. But why is Caillou hairless? He's like 4. Does he have cancer? Lice? A lazy artist?

No, insists publisher Chouette, from whose books PBS made the titular series. Caillou -- pronounced "ki-YU" -- is bald so that he can relate to all youth. According to Chouette's website:

"Caillou stands for all children. He doesn’t have curly blond hair, a carrot-top, brown hair, glasses, or ethnic features, because he represents all children. We wanted to make Caillou universal so every child could identify with him. And they do! Caillou’s baldness may make him different, but we hope it’s helping children understand that being different isn’t just okay, it’s normal."

Give me a break, Caillou is NOT representative of any other kid than a lily white one. He has parents with Caucasian skin, mousy brown hair and schlumpy clothes, and a little sister with plenty of orange hair. It's sort of creepy, in a vague, break-away religious cult kind of way.

And he is such a whiny brat of a boy. His incessant, plaintive dialogue is made all the more irritating by the high-pitched, nails-on-a-chalkboard sound that comes out of his mouth.

The narrator rubs me the wrong way too. She's always so very impressed with Caillou's antics, whereas I just want to tell him to shut the hell up and go sit in his room and read a book.

Even when raised in the most supportive, cognitively developed way, no child is going to pick Caillou when asked which cartoon character is most like him or her.

The PBS website claims that the show has evolved since the days I first suffered through it with Gabe. There seems to be a big focus on playing make-believe and building self-esteem and cultivating a child's imagination.

Are there children out there who are not imaginative? Is this a skill that has to be taught? Are we doing something that squelches imagination in children? I think Max will be fine without this show.

And besides, the new synopsis raises a red flag for me:

"Like other children, Caillou spruces up reality with a healthy dose of imagination. Each episode begins with an everyday event from Caillou's life that, through his mind's eye, quickly turns into a fantastic and larger-than-life adventure."

Hmm. I don't think I want my child concentrating that much on removing himself from reality all the time. I loved, loved, loved "The Neverending Story," but this show's premise just sounds like an early exposure to mental illness.

Gadget Wars

My teenager recently got the latest iPad, a gift from my mother for being so helpful these past months with the baby and at the farm.

Well, that and she would give him the moon if she could.

I'm the one with the professional need for such a gadget, but there he sits with it, on the toilet, playing chess. It's among the least damaging ironies in my life right now, so I'm mostly OK with it.

However, we've already had a fight about it. Well, not really a fight. I do not fight with my children. I say something, the kid has about two or three sentences in which to make any kind of viable point, and then I end the conversation with either acquiescence (rarely) or an imperative (usually). If there is attitude in there from one who has come out of my womb, there is often an elevated consequence.

I didn't know he had done it the first day, but the second day I caught Gabe trying to take his new iPad to school. He claimed he used it for his assignment book. I know for certain that he used it to play chess, watch stupid videos on YouTube, and generally dork around with his friends.

The assignment book is a sore subject. Gabe has slipping grades only because he cannot keep track of his homework assignments and turn in completed homework on time. It's been a struggle his entire school career.

If I were convinced that an electronic device that cost hundreds of dollars would inspire him to do the simple task of noting when his homework assignments were due, I would have bought one for him years ago. I am not convinced.

I'm also not prepared to replace it if he loses it or it gets stolen. He once borrowed my husband's scientific calculator because he had misplaced his own, and then managed to misplace the loaner. Not a great day.

Complaints that "other kids" bring their iPads to school fall on my deaf ears. Perhaps these kids have shown an immense level of responsibility. Perhaps their parents aren't even aware of what they do. Perhaps I don't want my children to get caught up in the horror of status symbols.

I understand the great value in students learning with the kinds of technology that they will use in their advanced education or employment. As a high school sophomore, Gabe can practice his iPad swiping here at home. He has several other semesters during which to demonstrate to his mother that he is the kind of student who needs to carry around such a tool during his school day.

But he is the kind of kid who handles an adult-level of work and family obligations. I think I will take him out to dinner.

He can even bring his iPad.