Lyle

Little guy (now 2.5 years) found himself the subject of a mama photo shoot yesterday. I posted a few on flickr tonight.

Reaching Out

Inspired by a particularly meaningful sermon at our Unitarian church recently, I made a New Year's Resolution of sorts to take on the occasional pro bono case in my practice.

I already offer a generous sliding scale, so that not all families I work with have to pay a lofty hourly rate. However, I have always been disturbed by the enormous disparty between the haves and have nots when it comes to things like quality therapy services for children. My sliding scale helps, but isn't enough. If you don't have insurance, let alone money to fund private therapy, you will get the free services provided by the public schools. Which can be high quality but isn't always (which is why I left); and in order to get what your child needs, you - the parent - must advocate for your child and push at least a little to be sure the services being offered are appropriate. And then you must continue to be vigilant to know that they are also being delivered, because it can happen that your child's therapist quits and isn't replaced, and no one tells you. Or some such nonesense.

So if you, the parent, don't have the time, education, or resources to be your child's advocate, the free route is not always in your child's best interest, despite the good intentions of those providing it. Plus, many months are lost between the intial referral and beginning of treatment. This is, obviously, a problem.

This idea to take a pro bono case came to me, as I said, at church a couple weeks ago. I decided to do it soon (because, after all, what a quiet, relaxing time we're having here! it's the perfect time to take on something new and challenging!) and vaguely wondered where to go in search of a family in need of free services. You know how sometimes people say that once you open yourself up to something in life it comes your way naturally? Well, in less than 48 hours I received an email from a preschool teacher here in Chicago, looking for a speech-language pathologist who could evaluate one of her students. A student who is homeless and possibly autistic.

I jumped at the case. And furthermore, an email sent out to my new colleagues here turned up a developmental therapist and occupational therapist who wanted to join me. So here is this 3-year old boy, who is living in a shelter with his young mother and little brother, having recently escaped a domestic abuse situation, who appears to have autism. And, preparing to serve this child, is a team of some of the best, most experienced therapists in the Chicago area - well-known therapists with full caseloads and waiting lists. We are carving time out of thin air for this family, and there is no better feeling.

This afternoon I met with the child's mother and listened for a long time. On Friday, I will go to observe the child himself in preschool for the better part of the morning. After getting the business of the evaluation out of the way, we talked, mother to mother, about the challenges and joys of raising two little boys. We talked about what they needed, her boys, and what I could skim off the top from what my boys have, to share with them. I drove her to a relative's house when I learned that she was intending to walk a great many blocks on this very cold afternoon, and felt embarrassed by my riches: my beat-up station wagon with the crushed tissue boxes and car seats covered in old crumbs suddenly seemed like a Disney princess chariot, heading for the ball. When I came home I felt overwhelmed by the roof over our head, the food on the stove, and the healthy children running to greet me.

This is a journey that will be most enlightening. I am looking forward to it.

The Boxes, They Have Arrived

Some boxes were purchased this afternoon, and many have been filled. And so here we are again, just 7 months later. There has been a strange mix of emotion about this. At times, I am full of positive energy, loading up those boxes to take our things to our very own house (finally!), and happy that we can bring carloads of boxes ahead of time to gradually move our worldly belongings. But then, suddenly, one of us sighs, somewhat overwhelmed by having to do this all again so soon. Had we known the week we moved in that we'd have to leave before the year was out, there are some things we never would've unpacked, and we probably would have a lot fewer curtains up right now. And it's just a huge job to move a family of four, there's no way around it. Not to mention costly. This time we'll do as much as we can ourselves. You know, in our "spare time".

I also hate to uproot the kids again, although obviously this is a far easier move than the last one. But when I stopped to count today, I realized that this will be Baxter's 5th home in 6 years (the first 4 are shown above). Gulp. I may need to pretend later on, when it's time to explain this to him, that Daddy was in the Army. Or just add a few hundred bucks to the Therapy Jar right now. Either way, my hope is that in another 6 years we'll be able to say that this was the official end of the Moving Insanity.

And so, despite the excitement of the house closing coming up later this week, in spite of the great fun we had yesterday shopping for a new living room rug and dining room table, I find that I am a lot more tired than usual. I am not sure if this is physical, due to all the packing, or emotional. I think I can guess.

Community

I think that, in my adult life, I am experiencing a true sense of community for the first time. As a child I lived within two different and excellent communities, and both had enormous impacts on my life. What feels different for me right now is the continuity. What I mean is, it seems that right now, wherever we go, there is some connection to our new community.

I've already posted here about walking into the 2nd Unitarian Church in early December and happily discovering that not only does my wonderful friend from college attend (which I knew going in), but so do a great many families from Baxter's school, including one of his best buddies who happens to live near our new house. But things seem to happen in this way time and time again for us here. Baxter had a play date last week with a new friend from his class (who of course also lives near our new house), and her mother told me about the co-op preschool that her girls all attended and that she continues to volunteer for because she loved it so much. It's close to our new house. We went to an Open House yesterday and lo and behold, loved it. And not only did some of Baxter's peers at school go there, but even the woman who would be Lyle's teacher has a child at Burley. You have to comprehend the enormity of this city, and the fact that when many people ask me where Baxter goes to school, they don't know our little school. And because I'm so aware of this thread that seems to be pulling us along into wonderful small groups that appear to be part of a larger community life here, I am determined to join this co-op nursery school, even though it's less convenient than some other options would be for a variety of reasons. It was just obvious to me that it's where we belong.

So this is striking, and makes me realize that we have quite unknowingly stumbled into a community, through Baxter's school, that extends into our neighborhoods (both old and new), our church, and even, if he's lucky enough to get in, Lyle's nursery school.

I knew when we first visited Burley that it felt right. It seemed to embody all of what we valued about education but also about diversity and the choice of city living. I suppose in part, because it's a magnet school, it ends up attracting families from all over who are drawn to many of the same things, rather than simply being made up of families who coincidentally happen to live in a neighborhood. I hadn't really thought of that before. But clearly, we found our people. Really quickly.

Kid Happenings

I try not to digress here into too much cute kid stuff. After all, I'm not sure that it relates much to our theme of the adjustment to Chicago, and the internet is chock full these days of kid-oriented blogs. And yet, once in a while, there is some little tidbit that gives you the perfect picture of what life with these boys is like. So I give you this:

It's 6:15 AM. The boys come storming out of their room and then audibly slow themselves down, knowing as they do that we'll be far happier to see them if they approach us quietly. This is a new and most welcome development, and may have something to do with the big sign Matt posted on our bedroom door that reads: "QUIET!"

Lyle comes to my side of the bed and announces that his brother "Ba-ba" has stopped in the bathroom on his way in, which Lyle finds novel and most interesting. We discuss this for what seems like an eternity.

He clambers up my side of the bed and lies down right on me with his face in my face, as is his wont. After cuddling for a minute he picks his head up, looks at me and lisps somberly, "Mommy? I have to tell you something." Surprised by both his serious tone and the clarity of this sentence, I immediately ask, "What??"

"Nothing!" he says, in perfect imitiation of the irritating first grade joke, and collapses back on me with squeals of laughter.

Damn. Outdone by yet another 2-year old.

Hats Off to Chicago!

What the heck kind of strange bravado is this? Or is it a fashion issue?

Today I was driving to work at 8:30 in the morning. It was 16 degrees out and windy, so it felt colder. Now, I don't care where you're from, 16 degrees is cold. In the few miles I passed driving to a school in Lincoln Park, I was hard-pressed to find a person outdoors who was wearing a hat.

I'm talking about people of all ages and walks of life at a bus stop, jumping up and down to try to warm up, their collective breath clouding up over their heads - none of them wearing a hat. Students, professionals, people carrying their offspring who were bundled up within an inch of their lives (including a warm hat) - none of them wearing a hat. I'm telling you, in San Francisco, those ladies in the Sunset are pulling out the hats when it's 50 degrees outside.

Do we not like to muss our hair, folks? Is wearing a hat now a fashion faux pas? Or are we just holding out for a really cold day?

If anyone can shed light on this for me, I'd greatly appreciate it.

Limited TV

If you, like us, strongly limit the television your child watches, here is what you might expect down the road.

You may well find yourselves with a socially adept, mature 6-year old who will still sit on the couch completely riveted to Teletubbies (or Elmo's World, for that matter). I suppose at a certain point, any TV is a treat worth savoring.

You may also hear that child finally say something along the lines of, "I think it's sort of strange that PBS Kids shows the Teletubbies. I mean...that it's on at all...it's surprising to me." And finally, he says the words you've been hoping to hear for years: "I mean, I guess it's kind of a strange show. What are they? TV animals? I've just never seen anything like them." Amen to that.

Snowfall

There's just something right about a little snowfall on a cold January day in Chicago. I haven't minded the mild winter we've had so far, but when you wake up and look outside, and the sun is reflecting off of a beautiful dusting of snow, it's just right.

Like Father, Like Son

Baxter had a dream the other night that proves he is his father's son in a more powerful way than any DNA testing ever could.

In his dream, it was possible to give your new product a name that had already been trademarked if you lived in the same city as the person who trademarked the original product.

I'm pretty sure I was dreaming about what colors to paint the new house that night. Or something equally intellectual.

Midwestern Toddler

Oh, my Lord. I knew before moving here that, probably of all four of us, we could count on our innocent little Lyle to end up with the strongest accent and most authentic midwestern ways. After all, he was not even 2 years old when we moved here, so he would spend more of his formative days here than any of us.

I just didn't expect it to come so soon. Over the Christmas break in California, he busted out in his sweet little voice with, "Mommy hold Lyle's hand? Mommy come with?" I almost fell over laughing. For those of you unfamiliar with the midwest, the phrase "come with" takes the place of "come with us/me?" It's a very small linguistic difference that packs a big punch, and is the true mark of a midwesterner. I've heard Lyle's nanny say that to him many times in the past few months and yet it didn't occur to me that he'd pick it up. Now I see the error of my ways!

(By the way, this photo of Lyle was taken by Baxter, using my Dad's professional camera. We think it's way cool.)

Running

We are dying to get back to work tomorrow. I'm not kidding. Matt - maybe only a little bit as a joke - set his stopwatch this afternoon to count down the minutes until he gets to start working at 9 AM tomorrow. At one point he looked up, grinned, and said, "Only 19 more hours, 23 minutes to go!"

Our trip to California was great in many ways: special time with family, little visits with good friends, and quick stops at favorite haunts in San Francisco. My parents were so generous to let us stay in their houses and borrow their car, allowing us to come and go as we pleased. Our friends and family were generous with their time, setting aside time for us to run in, visit for a little while, and then run back out.

However, the trip also served as a reminder that it is, simply put, not easy to travel across the country with young children. First, there's the jet lag. It was 5 days before Lyle slept past 5 AM, and only on the 10th night did he sleep quietly through the night, so the kids (and we) were chronically exhausted. Then there's the stomach virus that kept one of us home with each of them on various days - I'll spare you the details of that one. I had a bad chest cold most of the time and, honestly, I hardly even had time to notice it. Being out of his routine, overtired, and sick, Lyle clung to me like a barnacle the entire time. I slept in the room with him and he ate every meal seated on my lap. Most mornings, he cried for me to sit down so that he could be on my lap and then immediately started screaming for me to go make him some breakfast. Which I couldn't exactly do because, well, I was sitting on that chair with him on my lap. See my problem? And, folks, believe me, it was my problem. Not his.

Things got better after about day 5, when I pointed out to Matt that some of the difficulty lies in our expectations. For example, we should not refer to a trip like this as a "vacation" because it simply is not. It's a "trip" or a "visit". "Vacation" implies rest and relaxation, a get-away from your regular life. Taking the boys to the West Coast made our regular life seem like a piece of cake, and we found ourselves fantasizing about work more than once.

So we returned home Friday night only to spend this last weekend of our "break" filling out and compiling documents for our mortgage application and simultaneously completing a huge Family Tree project for Baxter's class that was supposed to be done over the past three weeks. We did it with him in two days, teaching him the most important lesson of all: procrastination. I have posted a picture of this family tree, which our quirky little family decided to create out of Lego figures. Baxter loved picking out little Lego props (sword, axe, flowers, coffee cup) to help describe various people. (If you click on the photo you can see the figures up close - you would think his family tree was made up of astronauts and cops!) Each figure has a number on his/her shirt that corresponds with a printed packet that lists the person's name, relationship to Baxter, and little tidbits of information. Many have pictures as well. It's very cute and we don't think it looks nearly as half-assed a project as it was. In a fit of self-confidence, Baxter had me email the Chicago Tribune, telling them about his unique take on this project. He figures he should be in the newspaper. I figure his parents deserve a medal.

Matt pointed out tonight that in the photo, it looks like Baxter's whole family tree is made up of marathon runners. And you know, that seems just about right, given the way the past few weeks have felt to me.