Allow Me to Dream of what Normal Feels Like

October 17, 2008 at 10:44 am 9 comments

I sincerely believed the universe was done with me.  I thought, after enduring two years of serving as a human pincushion, failed attempts at getting pregnant, creative financing to pay for astronomically priced fertility drugs made from old ladies’ urine, and even the loss of a pregnancy, I thought the virtual waterboarding was done.  When I finally won the battle, and saw those two elusive pink lines, little did I know my stint as a prisoner was just beginning.

Today, I trekked the kids over to the elementary school which houses their preschool.  We arrived on official business, to have both Max & Sara assessed for developmental issues, as recommended by their teacher.  We entered the building, signed in, and headed down the long corridor to the integrated preschool.  Once we found the room, a special education teacher greeted us and whisked the kids off to complete their chunk of the assessment and me into a darkened space, equipped with swings, slides, tricycles and two way glass to see into the adjoining area where the assessments were taking place.  Twins require any and all paperwork in duplicate, something our family has become accustomed to, so my ability to monitor the kids’ behavior was limited.  The first opportunity I had to pick my head up, I saw my son, nervous and scared, asking for me.  A teacher opened the door so he could see I was still there, and he came running.  They attempted to disengage his grip and continue the assessment.  He wasn’t cooperating.  Luckily, they knew when to stop and let him calm down a bit.  But, even after a cooling off period, Max wouldn’t play their reindeer games, and I gathered the teachers reached an end point themselves.  Sara, luckily, seemed to cooperate well until she noticed her brother’s behavior and immediately attempted a rescue effort.  I believe the teacher evaluating Sara was able to make some determinations with her, at least more so than Max.

We talked about Max’s early intervention experience, and when I mentioned his exit evaluation results deemed him age appropriate for his formerly delayed areas, his assigned evaluators appeared concerned.  She requested to see copies of the paperwork issued by the EI agency.  An Occupational Therapist noticed something amiss with both Max and Sara’s eyes, that they seemed asymmetrical, and wondered whether they’d been examined by a pediatric specialist for opthamology.  Luckily, they had, although her questions seemed to indicate she had further concerns, despite this highly respected Doctor’s opinion that both children checked out fine.  Still, I don’t think that fact set right with the therapist, but she smiled and carried on anyway.

It was like a drive-thru inquisition.

Finally, the time had come to leave and both children began melting down.  Max’s evaluator suggested I duck out a side door, so as not to disturb the classrooms in session.  I agreed, and we managed to get outside without too much issue.  Until, of course, we walked past a giant playground, spiffy and shiny and so very inviting to two three year olds, even more so because it was completely off limits to anyone but students of the integrated preschool.

More screaming and tears ensued.  We stumbled to the car, all 75 feet or so, and amidst a chorus of their sobs and my off key singing in a futile attempt at distraction, everyone was buckled in.  Safe.  I sat in the driver’s seat, placed my sunglasses on my face, and began to cry.

We must wait the weekend, until Monday, to receive the call to discuss the assessment results and strategies to deal with any issues that may have cropped up.  So, as you may imagine, these next 72 hours will surely be wrought with worry and fret.

I’m past the point of blaming myself.  I realize that my parenting is irrelavent in matters concerning the  development of my children.  But.  This…this floundering, the jumping from doctor A who says, “yay! rah rah!  All is well!!!” and specialist B who fashions a look of most concern when I mention my son’s spatial issues or my daughter’s lack of verbal interaction.  My heart is too small, my brain is too confused and my shoulders are too weak to bear it all at once, but here we are.  The universe clearly feels I need a slightly more challenging life than what I already have, and today, she issued a great, big magnifying glass to point out that fact.

But, I must.  Not for me, not for the right to shake my fist at the sky, but, for them.  And, I will.


Entry filed under: Blogging, Momma Drama.

Grab Roget’s and Turn to Hopeless* Because Something Funny From This Way (must) Come

9 Comments Add your own

  • 1. bobbi  |  October 17, 2008 at 10:50 am

    it’s probably small consolation, but know that I’m thinking of and praying for your family…

  • 2. Miss W  |  October 17, 2008 at 10:56 am

    Sherry, you are such an amazing mom. Wishing for lots of patience, quick results from testing and a good solid plan of action for you all. I hate that you have to deal with any of this at all.

  • 3. divrchk  |  October 17, 2008 at 11:11 am

    I wish you peace getting through the weekend. Whatever the official diagnosis, know that you are doing the best for your kids. A label is just a label. It seems that whatever happens, they will give you the tools that you need to deal with the spatial issues and lack of verbal interaction to help your children overcome these obstacles.

  • 4. Jen  |  October 17, 2008 at 11:23 am

    I wish I had some huge reassurance for you, but having been through a similar experience — albeit with only one child, which I know is much easier than what you’re dealing with — I can only say that you’re doing the right thing, and doing the best you can. And take the “expert” opinions with a grain of salt, if you can; it seems that they will almost always contradict each other if they can. In my experience professionals employed in/by the schools and professionals employed in/by the medical establishment do not like or agree with each other if they can help it, so keep that in mind too.

    Just do what you can, and love your kids, and remember that there is easier and harder, but there isn’t really any “normal.”

  • 5. Christy  |  October 17, 2008 at 11:37 am

    I feel for you. And I have noticed that other EI moms go through the same thing. In fact, it’s usually a string of “same things.” I won’t clog up your blog with the long journey I’ve been through with my almost three year old, but I will just share that his school eval ended almost exactly the same way. A giant meltdown on the playground in front of several teachers and parents, while I was juggling my one-year-old in the other arm. I literally dragged him to the car and had to force him into his carseat. He screamed the whole way home and I cried.

    Both of my kids are EI kids (my son is transitioning out and my daughter is just beginning). They have different issues than it sounds like you’re dealing with, but I’m happy to commiserate if you ever need to grumble.

  • 6. Double Agent Girl  |  October 17, 2008 at 11:55 am


    You’re so courageous. Sometimes, when the universe bites back, its ok to cry behind your sunglasses. God knows, I do.

  • 7. Tracy Rosen  |  October 17, 2008 at 4:22 pm

    ugh, that assessor sounds like a creep.

    Assessments suck – they can feel like such a judgment.

    But know that you are doing the right thing by trying to collect data about how your children develop and learn. There are SO many parents who refuse to assess, which makes the teacher’s job so much more difficult.

    Wow, and to think I met mom of the year just last week 🙂

  • 8. courtney  |  October 17, 2008 at 7:29 pm

    Oh Sherry…
    Who knows why we are given circumstances to deal with that just don’t make any sense, especially when they happen to our kids. Your kids a beautiful, loved, curious and smart creatures. I hope all turns out better than you expect.
    Love, court

  • 9. Kate  |  October 28, 2008 at 6:37 pm

    I just wanted to delurk and let you know how happy I was to find your blog again. I was a regular reader at Horkin Ramblings and apparenly missed the memo that you had moved on over here.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

Trackback this post  |  Subscribe to the comments via RSS Feed

%d bloggers like this: