Amy Corbett Storch, better known on the Interwebs as Amalah, has been blogging since 2003 and mothering since 2005. She now does both jobs full-time right outside of Washington, DC. Her four-year-old son has Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD), developmental dyspraxia, expressive language delays and synesthesia. Her one-year-old has something in his mouth that he found on the floor.
If I were to level with y'all and be completely, unflinchingly honest (which ... well, is kind of what I DO, here on the Internet, so hardly a novel occurrence), I would have to admit that three years ago, when my son was first diagnosed as speech delayed and the first red sensory flags were waved .... I never, ever could have imagined that we'd "still" be dealing with "this stuff."
One of my very first blog entries about it -- in which I tried wildly and desperately to temper my panic and fear lest I draw out the Pain Olympic players who like to talk about perspective and childhood cancers -- I assured my readers that I understood that a speech delay was "no big thing." Something we'd face head on and conquer and dust our hands of in no time.
A "blip," I believe I called it. Does three years (plus change) still count as a blip?
NPhoto by Amy Corbett Storchot entirely surprisingly, just a few days after writing about our "normal and quiet" week, Noah somewhat predictably cratered. He came down with a nasty stomach virus, and it really took a terrible toll on his sensitive little system, and he promptly gave back a good portion of his self-regulation gains.
We were treated to concerned notes from his teacher about his anxiety levels, a lot of tantrums, a bunch of moments where we were like, "Oh God, remember THIS? I thought we were done with THIS" as Noah rolled around on the floor of a shoe store because there is NOTHING more terrifying in the world than having to try on new shoes, especially when your mother absented-mindedly suggests that you try on two new shoes at the same time to save a few minutes, even though they are different and don't match and thus completely strip you of your ability to walk, OMG.
Another week, another letter that sends me into an alternating tailspin of introspection and/or agitation. I should probably start having somebody else open my mail, don't you think? This week's baby step of a development in our special needs journey was a letter from Noah's school. Half form letter, half personalized pre-IEP meeting invitation to come observe the classroom environments currently on the table for next year. For kindergarten. Gulp.
The video was a single scene from a birthday party, in which my son is having a great time on an inflatable obstacle course activity. That single scene easily includes a good six or seven "things" that he previously could not tolerate, at all. Six or seven typical childhood "things" that we've never once been able to take for granted.
I truly believe that Noah's current state and success and behavior is directly attributable to the OT he's received over the past 12 months.
So of course, our insurance company has decided not to pay for any of it.
This week was an oddly quiet week for us, quirk-wise. If you know what I mean. Which I hope you do, because even I'm having a hard time figuring out how to put this into words. At least without accidentally dropping some words that tend to cause offense in the special-needs-parenting community. Like "fine" or "normal."