April 29, 2014 · 9:44 am

The Boy Who Cried Poop

We just returned from a weekend trip to Disney World, and, of course, I have a poop story to tell. (For the record, I also have pee story about a boy and a lei at a luau, but that’s a tale for another day.)

As my boys get older, I worry about telling pee and poop stories for obvious reasons. But in this instance, there are valuable lessons to be learned, and thus, I I’m sharing it because it’s in the poopy trenches of Mamahood that we earn our stripes (and glasses of wine at the end of the day).

We made a brief stop at Downtown Disney on Sunday morning because we didn’t get a chance to shop on Main Street at the Magic Kingdom the day before. Dylan predictably chose an Iron Man Lego set at the Lego store, and Riley unpredictably chose a Pirates of the Caribbean treasure box play set at my suggestion and in less than ten minutes, which was a personal record for my adorable but slowest shopper ever. After the shopping was complete, we grabbed lunch before hitting the road. On our walk back to the car, I asked both children, “Do you need to go to the bathroom? Daddy and I don’t plan to make any stops on the drive home. If you need to go to the bathroom, you should go now. Do you need to go?”

Lesson One: Don’t ask if your children need to use the bathroom; rather command them to go.

Once we pulled out of the zoo of a parking lot at Downtown Disney, which was chock full of clean restrooms, Riley announced, “I have to poop! It’s coming! I have to go really, really badly!”

And just like that, our relaxing retreat at the Happiest Place on Earth was over. With a bang.

“What?!?!” I yelled. “Keep it inside!”

“I can’t!” he said.

“Don’t let it out!  You’re a big boy.  You can do it.  I know you can!”

Lesson Two: In a situation like this, be descriptive and explicit, appeal to their maturity, and stay positive.

It took about ten excruciating minutes of stop and go traffic, red lights, multiple “Don’t let it outs!” and general panic from everyone in the car (except Dylan who was happily playing Subway Surfer on his Kindle and clearly grateful that the chaos had nothing to do with him) before we finally pulled into a Chevron station. The store looked decent, so I had high hopes for the bathroom, especially since we’d be in there for an eternity. While Mike pumped the gas, Riley and I, both in a cold sweat, rushed into the store and swiftly asked the woman behind the counter, “Where’s your bathroom?”

Her response was, “I’m sorry, Hon. The bathrooms are out of order.”

Of course.

Lesson Three: Expect the unexpected. Always.

I rushed Riley back to the car so we could find another bathroom, which I knew would require approximately six traffic lights and twelve U-turns and by then it would be too late. Mike’s brilliant solution was to let him poop in the bushes behind the gas station.

Lesson Four: Never ever leave the children alone with Daddy.

Flabbergasted and terrified of poop happening in all the wrong places, I hurled Riley into his booster seat. As I fumbled with his seatbelt, he reached forward to grab his Kindle from the seat pocket.

“Riley,” I said annoyed, “I need to buckle you first because we have to find another bathroom. Quickly.”

He said, “It’s okay, I don’t have to go anymore.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I don’t have to poop.”

“Riley,” I said through gritted teeth, “Once we get on the highway, we’re not stopping for three and a half hours. You’re telling me you don’t need to pee or poop?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Riley, why did you tell us you had to poop and then yell and scream all the way to the gas station?” I asked.

“It was a joke,” he said.

Lesson Five: Children are ridiculous.

“Riley,” I said relieved and furious all at once, “That’s not a funny joke. That’s the kind of joke that could get you in big trouble. Like yelling fire when there is none or yelling for help in a pool when you don’t really need it. Do you remember the story of the boy who cried wolf?

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you understand why your joke wasn’t funny?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Can I have my Kindle now?”

It should be noted that it was approximately 11:45am and for reasons unknown I hadn’t had a cup of coffee yet. I decided that his punishment would be twenty years of hard labor forcing him to go to the bathroom whether he wanted to or not and that the sentence would be carried out at a Starbucks, because surely I deserved a grande skim iced latte for being the Mama of this absurd child.

He begrudgingly peed at Starbucks while I sipped my coffee, and three and a half hours later he walked into the front door of our house and went straight to the bathroom and, you guessed it, pooped.

Lesson Six: Poop happens. (If you’re lucky, in a toilet.)

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Filed under bathroom, Disney World, poop

April 24, 2014 · 8:33 am

Now and When

When Dylan was a toddler, he had a hard time saying his Rs, especially at the end of words. As a result, “car” sounded like “cah,” “soccer” sounded like “soccah,” etc. It was kind of adorable and we joked that he had a “Bahstan” accent just like his Grandpa Barry.

Now, we know it wasn’t just adorable. It was a speech articulation issue most likely due to sensory processing disorder (SPD).  When he was diagnosed at age five, it was difficult to imagine fixing everything that was wrong.  I was relieved to know what we were dealing with and confident in the care we received, but there were days when I was so daunted by what needed to be accomplished or weary from endless appointments or disappointed by his regressions or worried about the financial cost of it all or heartbroken by everything he had to endure (or all of the above) that I wanted to quit. I wanted to just believe he’d grow out of it. All of it. I wanted to leave him alone and be left alone.

Six months into twice weekly occupational therapy sessions, for which I had to pull him from school in the middle of the day because there was a waiting list for the coveted afterschool appointments, we were instructed to begin speech therapy, which would add more appointments to our already hectic therapy schedule. When I finally contacted the speech pathologist and explained the language “tics” that concerned us but that we also thought were endearing, her response was: “Well it might be cute now at five, but it won’t be when he’s ten.”

It might be cute NOW, but it won’t be WHEN…

Her words were difficult to hear. They caused an implosion of blame and guilt and anger and responsibility and truth from deep within my core.

Thank God she said them.

In that moment, I grasped with great clarity that I had to get real about Dylan’s challenges – no matter how demanding they were – because eating macaroni & cheese at every meal, refusing to wear long sleeves or long pants, saying “wacecah” (racecar), and fearing bounce houses, flushing toilets, swings, going upside down, being alone, and putting a shirt over his head (to name a few) – would be down-right dysfunctional when he was ten. Or (gulp) fifteen. Or (holy crap) twenty. My actions would shape his future, and it was my responsibility to do everything possible to give him the best shot at being as perfectly imperfect as everyone else.

I wasn’t in denial about what was wrong with him on our long and winding journey with SPD. After all, it was me who searched and probed until I found answers, doctors, and therapists who saw what I saw and felt what I felt. It was me who built the support system we needed (and shed everyone who stood in our way). It was me who managed his care, took him to each and every appointment, and incorporated his behavior modifications into our daily lives.

But I wasn’t perfect.

It took me over two years of hoping for the best before I finally trusted my gut and sought out the diagnosis I that knew in my heart was there. It took a solid week of crying and watching “Bridget Jones’s Diary” on a loop before I made calls to get his therapies started. Down the line, I procrastinated calling the speech therapist (and later the food therapist) that spewed the harsh words I now hold so dear. I waited and cried and avoided because I wanted so badly for my son to be normal. I didn’t want him to be different from the other kids, and I didn’t want to fully admit that it was happening, but he was different and it was happening.

It’s been two and a half years since the diagnosis, and even though his transformation has been astonishing, he has lingering visual processing issues, which have made learning to read and, more importantly, enjoying to read a challenge. I worry about reading comprehension, standardized tests, and schoolwork that has to be done solely on the computer, I’m concerned about his tendency to get overstimulated or zone out, and I still agonize about his limited diet, which more than anything else makes me think, It might be cute NOW, but it won’t be WHEN….

SPD or not, we all worry about Nows and Whens. Will the NOW strong-willed and demanding little girl become a skilled decision maker WHEN she’s an adult? Will the NOW timid little boy who puts other children’s needs ahead his own become a pushover WHEN he’s an adult? Will the child who NOW fears the way things smell, feel, taste, sound, and look be capable of living a happy, healthy life WHEN he’s an adult?

During one of many conversations with Dylan’s occupational therapist about his fears, especially of food, she asked me, “What do you want?”

I responded, “I want him to eat an entire pot roast.”

She laughed and asked, “What do want Now?”

I said, “I want him to sit in a chair at the dinner table for five minutes without having a tantrum.”

She said, “Okay, let’s focus on that, and we’ll tackle the pot roast later.”

It’s okay to be conscious of the Nows and Whens – as parents, we have an incredible responsibility to bare – but it’s important to not get so wrapped up in fearing When that we fail Now.

Eventually, Dylan did sit at the dinner table.  He’s yet to eat a pot roast, but Now his Rs sound flipping amazing, and you should see him on the ice in full hockey gear trying his heartest to get better, faster and stronger. His grades at school are excellent and he’s well-liked by his peers and did I mention that he was voted “Class Clown” in Kindergarten and that he wouldn’t let me walk him into school on the first day of first grade because he wanted to do it all by himself and I’m about to blow your mind because a few weeks ago he went to his first-ever sleepover and had the BEST NIGHT EVER.  (A sleepover!)

Every day I spend as a parent is a humbling lesson in accepting (and occasionally delighting in) the Now and having the courage to believe the When will turn out okay, which brings to mind something Riley often says to me: “Don’t worry, Mommy. It’s okay.” Unless a Sharpie or a shovel is involved, it usually is.

What’s your Now and When?

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Filed under aha moment, parenting, sensory processing disorder