Workarounds

Kiddo is fine, except when he isn't. That is, he's fine until something upsets him, and then he says mean things and is generally unpleasant to be around. That's the pattern these days.

DH and I have figured out that if he's having a meltdown, he's either tired or hungry or both. So we don't react when he yells "I hate you! I hate everyone in this house!" or when he runs away instead of helping to clean up. Getting upset adds fuel to the fire, so to speak, and yelling solves nothing. I've tried it. Doesn't work.

Instead, we wait for him to calm down, or encourage him to breathe, or give him some space, or suggest a snack and/or nap. These are the workarounds. They take a lot more thought and careful planning, but they do seem to help.

Sometimes I resort to sneakiness. He was heading toward meltdown status because I was feeling off and didn't want to take him to the park. I lay down on the couch and pretended to doze. A few minutes later, he crawled onto the couch to join me, and promptly fell asleep. For about two hours.

You can't just tell him to take a nap. You have to make the nap look inviting.

Sometimes I set the rules in advance. I gave the kids a strict edict on Monday that we would not visit the ice cream truck more than once a week. They nodded "sure, sure" as they ate their ice cream sandwiches. Today, they asked for ice cream. I reminded them of the rule, and after only a tiny bit of grumbling, they stopped.

I warned kiddo in advance that he would not be playing with the computers in the children's section of the library, and he listened, although I did have to nudge him away from the screen. But I always have to nudge him away from screens. Because ADHD.

I used to just get upset whenever he had a meltdown, or whenever he whined and complained and seemed overly negative about things. But I know the real kiddo is not that kid. The real kiddo is the little sweetie who likes to play peek-a-boo with babies and who always opens doors for me, declaring, "Ladies first!" That kid deserves the extra care and consideration if he's having trouble managing his emotions. Fortunately, now we have the time to give him that extra care, and I think that'll make a difference in the long term.

An interesting side note: Kiddette has decided she needs fidget toys for camp. This may be her way of sneaking toys to camp. Or her way of getting some of kiddo's attention for herself. Or maybe she just thinks, as she says, that if you get too happy, you need a fidget toy to calm down. But she's designated a tiny Elmo doll as her main fidget toy, and has been bringing him along to camp.

I figure it can't hurt. Kiddette just has a workaround of her own. 

Last day countdown

Today is the last day of school. Today was also kiddette's class writing presentation. I thought it started at 9:30. It started at 9. So after showing up a half-hour late, kiddette dissolved into tears when I tried to leave. That's been my day so far. It's a bit symbolic of how awful this school year has been.

I don't know if other (read: non-special needs) parents say this, but I just cannot wait for the year to be over. I don't even know how I'm keeping kiddo occupied all summer and I don't care. I want two months of not being judged on my parenting/organizing/class-attendance skills by other parents/educators/random people in public. I want two months of NOT getting calls from the school: "Your son did XXXX," "Your son did YYYY," "Come get your son." Two whole months of not caring about homework or monitoring whether they're written enough book reports. Two whole months of not having to resent school officials.

Forget the kids. I need a break.

By the way? I was an honors student, gifted child, AP classes when I was in school. I was Hermione Granger. How bad does kiddo's school year have to be to completely sour me on the whole school experience? This bad.

I will say that he's adapted pretty well to the new program, and that the folks on the all-new IEP team seem nice and really dedicated to working with him -- as in, not even concerned that he's been throwing pencils at them or trying to escape the classroom. That sort of thing is apparently usual for newbies. They're confident that he'll continue to improve, and they said he's a happy kid who responds well to praise.

That's a nice change from "Your son did this and this and this and he's doing this deliberately and he knows better but he's making bad choices."

Anyway. The kids are home now, and everyone seems happy, especially since I promised them ice cream tonight. So we'll take summer one relaxing-ish day at a time. 

Slightly better?

So far so good, anyway. I'm not sure kiddo is any different, but the setting is different, and I think that's what he needed most -- to be in a room where there's always someone to help him, and he isn't automatically the bad kid, and the other kids are more or less like him anyway. Arguably he needed that at least a year ago. But he's got it now, and he's had some good days -- and he's actually doing his homework instead of, say, hiding it under a floor mat at school and then coming home and telling us he didn't have any.

We had one awful day last week, where he switched into some other, meaner kid and was kicking and punching so he wouldn't have to do homework, but we're hoping that was him transitioning into the new situation; we haven't seen the other kid since, at least not to that level.

We spent the entire week alternately meeting with and yelling at various school officials over the way we thought the whole situation had been handled, and to everyone's credit, they were helpful and did not yell back. So we will try not to dwell.

Everyone we speak to has a different theory, a different concern about kiddo. He's OCD. He's not OCD. He's got social communication disorder. Well, now we're not sure about that. He's got pieces of autism. Hmm, sort of. He needs speech-language pathology testing. Nope, no disability there.

Let him indulge in the baby talk. No, tell him to stop. Use a behavior chart. Don't use a chart. Use THIS chart. Get him into Boy Scouts. He might not do well in Boy Scouts.

Is your head spinning yet? Imagine mine.

So he's got ADHD, and some form of Who Knows What Else.

The one thing every single doctor, therapist, educator and otherwise observant adult is happy to agree on is that kiddo is smart. Which is great. But we jump off from there into a minefield of "This-No-This-No-This-No-Try-This."

There is something that stuck with me, from the school's OT, who wanted to pass on her observations about him: She said that because kiddo doesn't understand emotional communication, he just doesn't speak that language, he spent most of school in this "fight or flight" state, not understanding what was happening around him, not sure what to do about anything, and thus constantly trying to protect himself by lashing out, acting silly or running off. She thinks some of his behaviors, sometimes aggressive, seemingly out of nowhere, were defense mechanisms. It makes sense to me. (It may also describe some other people I know.)

I'm not sure yet what to do with that insight. I'm not sure what to do about a lot of things. But it's nice not to be getting calls from the school every day -- seriously, I was starting to cringe every time the phone rang -- and it's nice to see his daily chart saying positive things. I'm hoping it can continue.

He came home today and, after some protest, did his homework. Then he sat next to me on the couch and waited for me to finish something so he could use my computer. Then he fell asleep on my shoulder. I finished my work that way, with him sleeping on me, and it was such a peaceful little moment. We don't always get those, so I'm glad I got that one.

And then it all went bad

And I'm still not sure why or how. He was great for a week and a half, then he started chasing kids around the classroom with a stapler. And scribbling potty words all over the walls of the room with a pink highlighter. And grabbing scissors off his teacher's desk. And trying to run out of the school. And pushing his teacher. And throwing things at me.

Repeatedly his special ed. teacher has had to pull the other kids out of the room while he acts out. And then no classwork gets done. Which, apparently, is what he wants.

Honestly I feel like I have whiplash. Within the space of several weeks -- granted not helped by spring break, or by kiddo's doctor-enforced ban on gym and recess while the cut on his forehead heals (four weeks, the plastic surgeon said, and HAHAHAHAHA YOU'RE KIDDING, I thought) -- his IEP team went from "we're going to try a new behavioral plan, it'll totally work!" to "the behavioral plan is totally working!" to "we can't handle him anymore and here is where you should send him instead."

Seems there's a self-contained program at one of the other schools in the district, more therapeutic, with a counselor on hand all day, smaller classes and extra aides in the room. More individualized academic goals. A separate room right nearby for decompressing and, as the terminology goes, "de-escalating." On paper it sounds promising. In person -- we've toured it twice, once with kiddo -- it also seems promising. In the IEP meeting, it sounded like "we give up and we're offloading him so he's someone else's problem." It's hard to know which impression to rely on.

I'm so unbelievably frustrated. Four years we've been working on this whole ADHD thing, four years of occupational therapy and behavioral therapy and classroom accommodations and fighting with the insurance company and tensing up every single time he has to be brought out in public, and we have gotten precisely nowhere. We might as well have been the crappy parents people clearly think we are, and ignored every single little thing he was doing instead of trying to help him. This is where my head is at.

I know, intellectually, that we're doing the best we can and we've worked really hard, and probably this program will help him, and eventually things will probably get better. But right now I'm thinking about how the other kids at the bus stop are going to ask why he isn't in class with them anymore, and I don't know how I'm supposed to answer that.

All I know is, if anyone wants to know what I want for Mother's Day, it's to be left alone. In bed. And to go at least one day without any reports on my kid's bad behavior.

I mean, an all-expenses-paid spa vacation would be nice too. But I'd like to keep my wish list in the realm of reality.

Our ER day

So the kids were helping Daddy clean the garage. And then kiddette started -- I'm told -- swinging a broom around for fun. And then -- I'm told -- the broom connected hard with kiddo's forehead. Blood everywhere.

I was at a meeting for my writers' group. As it turned out, this would be somewhat convenient, because I was only a few minutes away from the hospital. I rushed over there to meet DH and the kids. Kiddo had been upset at first, thinking 1. he was bleeding to death and 2. I was going to be really mad at him over all the blood on the kitchen floor. I'm not sure how I feel about that. At any rate, by the time they pulled up outside the pediatric ER entrance, he was more or less calm.

The first nurse praised him for doing such a good job keeping pressure on the wound. Then he chattered to her all about the pain scale chart she had and how his school nurse has one too but the words are different, and also about his fish that died but we're going to get a cat instead, and I'm pretty sure about a dozen other things but at that point I was trying to get the blood off his glasses. She was trying not to smile and failing.

The second nurse made his day joyous by turning the TV on in our room. Which is a good thing, because we sat there for hours waiting for the plastic surgeon. Did he need stitches? Silly mommy. He totally needs stitches, said everyone. So we watched "Clarence," which was funny in a cracked way, "The Amazing World of Gumball," which was funnier in a thanks-for-all-the-'80s-references way, and "Teen Titans Go!" which is the loopiest superhero sitcom on the planet. I haven't watched so much Cartoon Network since I was secretly obsessed with "Home Movies."

What delighted me was how seriously the nurse took kiddo's ADHD. Is there any way to keep his hands at his sides during the procedure, she asked, maybe a squishy ball? I suggested a blanket, she countered with a weighted blanket, which is ten times better. He ended up with two squishy balls and the blanket. And then the surgeon came in, took one look at the mesmerized child watching "Teen Titans Go!" and suggested we just let him watch TV the entire time. Which was practically better than anesthetics. Seriously, as much as I restrict screen time at home, I think hospitals are about the perfect place for TVs.

Watching the gaping wound on your child's forehead get sewn up is ... interesting. And squirm-inducing. But kiddo, aside from a few early squawks, took it like a champ. Because, again, TV. (I don't know how many stitches. I wasn't counting. There were three layers of stitches.)

In fact he was so mesmerized that he didn't want to leave when we were discharged, because "Adventure Time" was on. "I don't care that it just started," I said. "We have to go home."

Even better, the nurse gave him a Lego set. I mean, a full-on, mid-size Lego set. I don't remember getting cool toys when I went to the hospital as a kid. When did this start? Can I demand a retroactive My Little Pony or something?

By the time he was all set, and we'd gotten our discharge instructions -- which included "let his hair grow over his forehead to hide the scar from the sun," so I guess we'll be modifying his hairstyle -- it was 9:30 and we hadn't eaten dinner. And I was so tired I walked us right past the elevator. I had no idea how I was going to get us to a restaurant, or even what restaurant was open. I have never been so grateful to see an in-hospital Starbucks. Snobby? Elitist? Whatever. I had a fruit and cheese platter, he had yogurt, and we probably both ate healthier than we would've anyplace else at that point. (Not counting the giant cookie and the chocolate croissant.) Also, kiddo's shirt was bloody. Not the best dining-out look.

He's been home since, awaiting the follow-up visit to the plastic surgeon, and aside from intensely disliking when we change the bandage, he's been fine. Because he's gotten to build Legos, watch TV and play video games all day. He's going to have a scar for about a year and a half, but at least he's already found the upside.

The six-minute rule

No, not for food dropped on the floor. (I think that's a 30-second rule.) For kiddo's behavior. He's great for six minutes. Then not so much.

That's more or less the interval they're using with him at school; if his timer goes off and he's on task, he gets a smiley on his behavior chart. If not, no smiley. If he gets enough smileys, he earns Lego-building time at home. This is the current behavior plan. We've had many behavior plans. I can't wait until he gets to college and asks his RA during freshman orientation, "Who signs my chart?"

He's been earning lots of smileys. Which is wonderful. And then two minutes later, he does something not wonderful. Like, say, tossing a beanbag at the ceiling, and getting it stuck there.

The beanbag is from his weighted vest. It's a nice vest, in that it's denim and looks like real clothing, and doesn't scream I am a special needs child and you should treat me differently. But the vest is designed for easy access to the weights, in case you need to add or remove them; it's not designed to keep the weights from falling out. Which they do, all the time, especially since kiddo is supposed to be wearing and removing the vest at timed intervals. Basically the vest is fine if the child wearing it isn't ever going to move around. You can see the irony.

So he somehow ended up with a beanbag in his hand and for some reason thought it would be funny to toss the thing at the ceiling. In a one-in-a-million shot, he got it lodged between two ceiling panels, and there it stayed. Kiddo promptly melted down, because he said I would be mad at him, and tried to get the beanbag back. This apparently involved climbing on top of desks. Standing on desks is only acceptable if you're in "Dead Poets Society."

He didn't get suspended, but we strongly suspect no one would have objected if we'd just volunteered to take him home. (We didn't.) Remember how we didn't get approval on an aide for kiddo? This topic may be coming up again, and loudly.

So, six minutes. He's great in gymnastics for six minutes, and then he's sprawling on the floor instead of stretching. He's great in the supermarket for six minutes, and then he's rearranging all the mint tins at the register. He's great in the morning for -- actually, no, getting him dressed is a feat of Herculean proportions.

I feel sometimes like we're living in six-minute intervals. Everything OK? Everything OK now? How about now? It's a little tiring.

He's great all the time when he's building Legos. If only he could do that all day. Maybe there's a Lego school somewhere.

He just forgot

This is what kiddo has in common with Little Critter: He forgets things. Homework. Hoodies. Perpetual requests to make his bed. Typical ADHD kid -- the second he's not thinking about whatever it is, especially if it's a thing he's not that interested in, it's gone from his head forever.

You can imagine what this does to his homework track record. We've had to give his teacher permission to check his backpack to make sure 1. he's got his homework and 2. he actually did his homework (he'll also forget to hand it in, and when asked, clearly has decided it's easier to say he didn't do it). Apparently second grade is when teachers need to get permission for what I would consider a fairly common-sense thing, especially for a kid with known executive-function problems. Backpack search=locker search, I guess. Somebody call the ACLU. (Or don't, really.)

You can also imagine what this does to his wardrobe. Several sweaters and hoodies have just disappeared, gone forever, no idea what happened to them. Not the most convenient thing, when we're mired in subzero weather. It's like he wants to be cold. I already ran out and bought some emergency backup warm clothing, and the first day he wore his new hoodie, it failed to come home with him. I considered tearing my hair out, but I like my hair. Fortunately the hoodie was recovered the next day. Less fortunately, that same day, he came home with only one glove. At least that's only his hand?

The thing to remember with kiddo is, he's not doing this on purpose. ADHD isn't a moral failing. It's a bit of inconsistent wiring in his head. He really wants to remember everything ... but then he gets distracted, and he doesn't.

So the question for today is, what did he remember? And will he remember it again tomorrow? And if not, is there a sale on kids' hoodies anywhere?

And then I returned to gym class

For Heaven's sake, why would I do such a thing? I was a geek in school. I'm a geek now. Gym class was the worst part of my week. Not only was I picked dead last for every single everything, sometimes the teams would argue about who had to take me. The best part of college was no gym class.

Granted, since then I have discovered yoga, and also Pilates. So I'm not morally opposed to exercise. But planned group team sports are still not precisely my thing.

And yet there I was, in kiddo's gym class, for Healthy Heart Day. Exercising.

It was cute and all. In one game, if someone tagged you with a noodle (representing junk food), you had to sit on the floor and yell "I need a healthy heart!" until someone else handed you a ball (representing said heart) and you could get up and run around again, passing on the ball to someone else who needs it. In another, there were teams, and pins lined up at either end of the gym, and your job was to guard your pins while trying to knock down the other team's pins with balls. Also, the balls were smallish and super-squishy, not the rock-hard kickballs I remember from my childhood. And the gym teachers were playing No Doubt and other '90s faves the whole time, so that was nice.

It's just, I thought I was showing up to watch kiddo play these games. And then the teachers handed out the noodles to all the parents and I thought, oh no.

Fortunately, I was wearing yoga pants and a hoodie, because I can. Less fortunately, I was afraid to take the hoodie off, because I was wearing my Elfquest T-shirt. Remember how I'm a geek? Elfquest is a much-beloved indie-gone-mainstreamish comic book that features, well, elves. And wolves. And the female elf on my shirt, who in my defense is my favorite character, happens to have a bare midriff. A Captain America T-shirt is one thing; people know who he is. Only fellow comics geeks know what Elfquest is. I couldn't figure out how to explain my slightly racy shirt to the other grown-ups. The upshot? I was unnecessarily sweaty. Bleah.

I even got to play more than kiddo did. We've had some less-than-stellar weeks around here, and as a consequence for acting out -- and then refusing to leave the room when he was asked -- kiddo spent the first few minutes of gym with the guidance counselor. (My request. I didn't like the idea of him sitting there, the "bad kid," watching everyone else play.) So I was already out on the floor, having just been tagged by a kid with a noodle, because the kids got the noodles in the second round and some of the ones I'd tagged came after me for revenge. Those kids are fast. I was just starting to sit down when kiddo came barreling into me, and we went down in a heap together. Then he jumped up and became my protector. "My mom needs a healthy heart! You have to help my mom!"

In the second game, when we were supposed to be protecting the pins (I have no idea what they were representing. A low BMI maybe?), kiddo guarded his pin so intently he didn't move from the spot. Probably not a good choice, because one of the dads shot a ball right through kiddo's legs to get the pin down. Well, at least kiddo is just as athletic as I am.

I guarded the pin in the next couple rounds -- once knocked down, once stayed up -- and I was getting into it, crouching to catch the balls, using one to stop another, diving to my knees, that sort of thing. I don't think we won, but I also don't think it mattered that much. Kiddo had a grand time, and gave me about 20 hugs before heading back to class. "I'll miss you," he called after me.

He's such a sweet kid sometimes. It makes up for so much.

Unfortunately the next morning, all that crouching and diving and running caught up with me, and I woke up sore. Thanks for the warning, gym teachers.

So if you feel your workout isn't challenging enough, I have a suggestion: Join your kid's gym class. Have a heat pack ready.

On being Ferdinand's mother

Ferdinand the bull, that is. She's a pretty cool mom, as fictional cows go. She sees that Ferdinand would rather sit by himself under the cork tree and sniff flowers than run around with the other bulls.

His mother saw that he was
not lonesome, and because
she was an understanding 
mother, even though she was 
a cow, she let him just sit 
there and be happy.

That was both a wise and a brave choice. She knew her son wasn't acting like the other bulls, and wasn't fitting in, but she decided not to care and not to push him, because he was happy. 



I try to remember that a lot, when I'm dealing with kiddo. 



When to push him? When not to push him? Is he social enough? Not social enough? Is he listening in class? Is he OK on the bus? Is he learning how to take care of himself? Is he happy?



Sometimes I worry even when he does seem happy. When he's building Legos, for instance.



He's utterly obsessed with Legos. He builds these fantastical things. He's got a how-to book by a Lego artist (yes, there are such things) named Sean Kenney, and he's decided that he's going to have Sean Kenney's job when he grows up (though he, adorably, insists on pronouncing the name "Seen" no matter how many times I correct him). Every chance he gets, he's at the Lego table, itty bitty pieces strewn across the floor, building. He's good.



I'm happy to let him do that as long as he wants. Except when he has to get ready for school. And when he needs to set the table for dinner. And when it's bath time. And bedtime. 



Transitions have always been tough for him. He fights it every time. I've had to talk him into leaving the Legos. Occasionally I've had to take Legos away. It's not an enjoyable scene. But it needs to be done. 



And when it doesn't need to be done?



Kiddette wanted to play in the snow yesterday. Kiddo didn't. He wanted to build Legos. We pointed out it would get dark soon and he'd lose his chance. We said he wouldn't get hot chocolate unless he went outside first. He didn't budge. 



I debated. Ferdinand's mother would leave him alone. I almost did the same thing. And then I thought, he really needs to get some exercise today. And I caved. "Go outside," I told him. 



I'm still not sure it was the right call, though he did have fun once he got out there (and had his hot chocolate afterward). I want him to do what makes him happy. But I want him to be part of the world, too, or at least to remember there is a world once in a while. It's a tough balance. 



He'll probably want to build Legos tonight. I'll probably let him. If his homework's done. 

In which she reappears

Wherever did I go? Well, first I took a month to work on a novel. And then it was the holidays. And then I left my job. So, how have you been?

I had a few reasons for the move. One was to focus on getting published finally. Another was to actually be around to parent my children once in a while. Have dinner before 7:30. Be awake enough to handle my special-needs kid. Things like that. Because parenting neurotypical kids is difficult enough when you work full-time. Parenting a kid with ADHD, who is physically incapable of brushing his teeth without getting distracted about a thousand times? It takes so much more patience. I'm barely capable of that as it is, let alone when I'm exhausted from working.

So after much strain on the family, I finally made the decision that any number of loved ones had been suggesting I make for, oh, I hate to even tell you how long. I kept delaying because I had visions of singlehandedly bankrupting the family and getting thrown out on the street. I'm a worst-case-scenario kind of thinker. But actually we should be all right financially. And already kiddette is over the moon that I'm picking her up at night and we're making dinner together. She insisted on helping with the chicken pot pie last night, and the salad, and on eating whatever slivers of avocado didn't make it into the salad.

Kiddo? It's hard to say. He's having major issues with transitions again. He's refusing to do things at school. He doesn't get dressed in the morning unless I repeatedly walk into his room to nag him about it. He's defiant when he's upset. "I don't have to listen to you!" That sort of thing.

It's possible my being home has upset his routine, and he doesn't know how to process it. Or just going back to school after a lovely, gift-filled holiday is too much to bear. I'm not sure.

We did finally get our insurer to reimburse for a social skills group, so he's started that this week. He's doing well with his behavioral therapist. Something has to work, right?

The important thing is, whatever happens, I'm here to deal with things. And that should make a difference in the long term, for all of us.

On spooky things

One of the utterly fun (and by this I mean frequently exasperating) things about parenting a kid with anxiety issues is that he is scared. Of. Everything. Of being in a room by himself, anytime, ever. Of unexplainable noises. Of seeing "The Wizard of Oz" even though he's already read the book and seen the play version. Come on, kiddo, we have it on Blu-ray! You already know the ending! (It's been a point of contention.)

October, obviously, is not the best month for us.

Kiddo is scared of the spooky placemats on our dining room table. He had a near-meltdown in front of the Halloween store because of the scary clown mannequin parked in a chair near the entrance, and the only way I even got him in the store was by telling him to close his eyes and grab my hand. He is, every year, so freaked out by any sort of spooky-ooky house decoration that he will refuse to go near the front door even though there is candy waiting.

And while part of my frustration is that I feel bad for him and want to help him not be scared, the rest is totally that I love Halloween. I like spooky things. I was reading Poe in grade school. (Admittedly, probably not a good idea.) Neil Gaiman is one of my favorite writers. "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" is -- still -- my favorite TV show. I like over-the-top gravestone-bedecked houses. I like gap-toothed jack o' lanterns. I like "The Monster Mash."

I guess I'm just baffled that my love of these things did not, in any way, genetically pass on to my son.

His behavioral therapist has been working with him on the anxiety issue. And I've been trying, gently, to put things in perspective for him.

I told him all about the first haunted house I remember ever going to, and how I was secretly terrified of all the ghosties and eerie candles and things jumping out at me, but I didn't want anyone to know that, so I skipped my way through chanting, "I'm not scared, I'm not scared." At least I think I skipped.

Kiddo was fascinated. Now he wants me to tell him about every single haunted house I've ever entered, ever, and what I saw there, and was it scary.

So I've told him about the haunted house his Aunt C.'s church put on, and how we saw her there, and she stopped pretending to stab a roll of paper towels to say hi to us. (Sorry, C. I'm sure you're thrilled I told that one.) I've told him about the Haunted Mansion at Disney World, and how the floor drops in one room and you see more of the silly-spooky pictures on the walls. DH reminded me about the haunted house and maze at Sterling Forest.

I don't know if it's helping, these haunted house stories. At least kiddo sees that we went in them and lived to tell the tale.

Maybe he never gets into Halloween. Maybe it's too much to ask of him. But I hate the idea of October being this trial for him, something he has to close his eyes and cover his ears just to get through.

He does like the candy, though. So there's that.

179 to go

The first day of school, as far as I can tell, went well. I say that because this is how the conversation with the kids went:

Me: "Did you have a good day?"

Kids: "Yes!"

Me: "What did you do?"

Kids: "I don't know."

Me: "Who else is in your class?"

Kids: "I don't remember."

Hey thanks, kids, glad we had this talk.

DH reported that kiddette somehow managed to follow the first-graders right into their classroom, briefly fooling the teacher, and then needed to be brought back to her rightful kindergarten class. Which surprises me not at all. Wherever kiddette is, obviously that's where she should be, and of course everyone should be delighted to see her.

Today, she insisted on standing bus-lookout at the corner, and was the first one on. She said she couldn't wait for "a new adventure today" in kindergarten. That's my little Hermione. (This is actually a compliment.)

The smaller bus, per kiddo's brand-new IEP, seems to be working out fine. He runs right onto it. There are only a couple other kids on it, and an aide, so we shouldn't (I think) have any overstimulation/bad behavior issues. The only possible issue: There are a bunch of neighborhood kids at our bus stop, and kiddo is the only one who gets on this bus. I haven't explained why to the other moms yet. Usually I have no problem saying "Yes, my son has ADHD, I'm sure you can tell from all the running around," because if I'm going to acknowledge it, I'm going to crack a joke in the process. But I did that at a party over the weekend and DH wasn't thrilled; he thinks I'm setting kiddo up to be pre-judged. Maybe. So I decided that if the moms ask, I'll explain, and if not, I won't. Anyway no one seems bothered. His bus arrives first, so today the other moms helped me holler at him to quit goofing with his friends and get on. He yelped, came streaking down the sidewalk and jumped on the bus.

I haven't sent in the weighted vest yet, because 1. it's hot in that school and 2. the vest is actually in kind of sad shape. It's missing a snap and I'm not sure I can fix it. Sewing? Not one of my major skills. I fail the Martha Stewart School of Domestic Perfection.

I ran right from first-day dropoff to meeting with our new behavioral therapist. We had a good conversation; she seems nice so I'm hoping she can help. I did have to explain to her what "social communication disorder" is -- THAT'S how new the term is, if parents know more about it than the professionals.

And I've spent approximately the last week fighting with the pediatric psychiatrist's office about getting kiddo's records, so that we can bring them to the new practice. In the span of three phone calls, I heard "Sure, we can get those together for you," "Oh, you need to come in and fill out a form, and then the form needs to be approved by the head of the practice and by the other departments, and oh by the way it'll take two weeks," and "Oh, we charge 25 cents a page, do you still want all the records? He's been coming here a while. Oh, just the medication records? OK, you need to fix the form then." Thus perfectly illustrating why I went and found a new practice in the first place. Well, that and the fact that our regular psychiatrist has been MIA, no explanation given, for three-plus months and the head of the practice wasn't interested in having actual conversations with us despite the brand-new diagnosis, and recommendation on meds, we'd just gotten from the independent evaluation requested by the school. (He finally suggested we discuss a plan for the school year at our final meeting last week, apparently not cluing in that I meant it to be the final meeting. I politely explained that we'd be having that discussion with the next psychiatrist.)

I sincerely hope this round of doctors and therapists is more helpful than the last round. This just gets exhausting.

So we'll call things cautiously optimistic, and see how it goes.

In which we get good news and then hit the beach

The good news being, kiddo will have an IEP next year, or more accurately, in about a month. It's a pretty extensive accommodation plan, and I'm hoping it'll help him get through the school day in more or less one piece. Delighted that the school officials seem to see kiddo for who he really is, and what he's really capable of, and we didn't have to fight for the help. Though to be fair, the school officials seemed equally delighted that we were so upfront about kiddo's issues, and what would and would not help him. Apparently there was this one time when they informed a parent her child was eligible for special education services, and the parent, who had apparently not been expecting this news, burst into tears. I sensed a bit of relief in the room that I would not be bursting into tears.

Frankly I'm relieved we're getting the accommodations, because then maybe kiddo will be able to, say, do his math classwork instead of hiding under his desk, or participate in gym (or Phys. Ed. or whatever they call it these days) instead of sitting in time out for getting too physical/not listening to the teacher/running around too much/whatever else he was getting in trouble for because I've lost track a little. Stigma shmigma. Why make him suffer through school if he doesn't have to?

Naturally, the first person to make a "short bus" joke in front of me is going to have to run and hide.

Having gotten that settled, we left for vacation, which was a multi-part affair. First we went to Point Pleasant and were issued a parking ticket even though we'd paid for parking and properly displayed the receipt. If DH wishes to contest the ticket, he can find some way to show up for the court date. How nice. You know, Point Pleasant, my husband grew up vacationing on Nantucket and he is already not impressed by your Jersey Shore-ness. Thanks for ensuring he'll never want to visit you again. Sad for me, since Point Pleasant and Seaside Heights basically defined my high school years, but it's hard to argue with an obnoxiously unwarranted parking ticket.

And that was before the car battery died. I was expecting the cop to walk back and give us another ticket for, I don't know, not having the proper dead-battery permit?

One new battery later, we headed up to Cooperstown, where the kids tore through the Baseball Museum in about .5 seconds. Historic uniforms and interesting stats are apparently not too interesting to the kids right now. They were much more interested in the ducks wandering past our table at dinner, which was right on the lake. Also, in the hot dogs. So at least they ate baseball food.

On to Grandma's house, where the kids practically pushed us out the door so they could have Mom- and Dad-free fun with Grandma. DH and I made our way over to Massachusetts, where we met up with relatives (thanks for the fun dinner, cousins!), then hung around Cape Cod (the flea market in Wellfleet is huge), then took the ferry over to Nantucket for a day. And here's where you really lose out, Point Pleasant: The beaches are nicer up north. No cigarette butts in the sand. No fee to get on the beach. Lots of shells for beachcombers (aka me). Gentle waves. No crowds even in July. I mean I can't even make the argument. It's frustrating for this lifelong Jersey girl but I think I may have been shortchanging myself on the beach experience. I'm hoping it's possible to get that experience somewhere closer than New England.

At any rate we had a fine time. We biked everywhere and ate fried seafood and made it out to the Downyflake for their utterly perfect doughnuts. We did a lot of road-tripping and random winery visits and made silly snarky comments about whatever five songs were on the radio. The kids also had a fine time, and I think Grandma may have recovered from their visit by now, but I wouldn't swear to it.

We got back yesterday. This morning, kiddo and I had our first appointment with his new behavioral therapist. And thus we get back to routine.

The redeye vacation

So first let me say that kiddo overall did wonderfully on our return trip to DH's old family vacation resort (or as the kids know it, "the hotel," even though the hotel is surrounded by a lodge, a dining hall, a giant lake, a pool, tennis courts, a go-kart course, a bumper boat course, a nightclub and assorted other goodies. I think the kids' idea of what a "hotel" is may be slightly skewed now). Unlike on the previous visit, he never once ran away from our dining room table and out into the parking lot, in front of moving vehicles. Which alone is a win. Just once did he run outside the hotel without us, and we were heading to the exit anyway so he didn't get far. He more or less stayed with us when walking the grounds, although the entire resort got to listen to me doing this all weekend:

Me: "Excuse me, who's line leader?"

Kiddo and kiddette: "You are!"

Me: "And where should you be?"

Kiddo and kiddette: "Behind you!"

Then they lined up behind me like human ducklings. I first figured out this trick on the days I took them to church by myself, and it's remarkably effective, though it requires a few reminders.

In fact the only real incident involving kiddo also involved an exceedingly rude -- and I'm assuming child-free -- woman at the next table one night at dinner, who snottily told off DH because kiddo had "bumped into her like 20 times," meaning, he'd bumped into her large purse two or three times while running behind her. Slightly difficult for kiddo to avoid, since -- not to make a fat joke or anything -- she was sitting "like 20 feet" back from her table. I turned around and lit into her after she made another snotty comment, then went and complained to one of the staffers (MIL helped). I fully agree it was not my most mature moment. I'd love to be one of those Zen moms who acts appropriately in these situations, but despite my love of yoga, I am not Zen. See: the title of this blog. The staff assured us that this woman was only there for dinner that night, as a guest of the owner (people do own timeshares at this place), and she wouldn't be there the next night. So, problem solved-ish.

Honestly, though, if you don't want kids within 300 miles of your personal space, why are you eating dinner at a family resort that is utterly full of kids?

Anyway, so it was really a lovely time, except for my eyes.

I'd been testing a couple of new eye products -- free samples with an order -- and one of them caused some eyelid bumps. Huh, I thought, washed my eyes off, threw the products out and waited for the bumps to go away. I waited all weekend. Things got worse. Put it this way: I appeared to have a thing for red eyeshadow. Also, the swelling made it increasingly difficult to get my glasses on, or to blink properly. At which point the hotel staff sent over an incredibly nice EMS team, who told me where the nearest urgent care center was, and that I should visit it. They also said I look great for my age, which was nice to hear, as I'd spent the entire weekend hiding my face under my hair, teenage-girl style, in the hopes that no one would notice my eyes.

The equally nice folks at the urgent care center gave me a prescription, as well as the info that one of the products I'd used has a rep for causing allergic reactions. In fact, you look it up: Urban Decay Eyeshadow Primer. I am just annoyed enough to name the product. Apparently it's the silicone in it, which ewww. I already left a complaint message with the website I ordered from, though it was a freebie, so I don't know how far I'll get.

We were sticking around for the rest of the day after I got my meds, but I wasn't inclined to be around people if I could help it -- I looked like Rocky right before he said "Cut me" - so I got a Sunday paper and sacked out on the leather chair in the lounge, and read the paper all afternoon while everyone else did the resort activities. I know MIL thinks I missed out, but the truth is, sacking out on a couch and reading is about my favorite way to spend a Sunday afternoon, so I'd actually call that a win.

The eyes are still not 100 percent, but they're improving daily, and at some point it'll be safe to use eyeshadow again, which I will be more selective about from now on.

But the kids had a fabulous time, and we all ate too much good food, and the '80s revue was pretty entertaining, and I snuck in a tiny bit of shopping. Also, we won Name That Tune again, which was one of the goals for the weekend. So thanks to MIL for arranging things, and it is good to know, for any future visits (I assume there will be some), that the EMS staff is really nice.

Also, I tried out the archery range and, though I haven't done archery since high school, got the target four out of five times (three in the blue), despite my puffy eyes. Katniss? Katniss who?

T-ball follies

So T-ball is going ... just about as well as I expected.

Kiddo crouches down and plays in the dirt instead of covering second base (or third base. Or the pitcher's mound. Or the outfield). It's probably a minor (league) miracle that he hasn't gotten clonked in the head by the ball. At bat, he swings approximately an hour after the ball has whizzed past him. When the tee is set up, as opposed to a human pitcher, he does actually hit it and run to first, so there's that. But when he isn't running the bases, he isn't paying attention.

He did tag one kid out at third, to be fair, a momentous event. I was too shocked to cheer.

We'd hoped getting the glasses -- in which he looks quite dapper, incidentally -- would help focus him, in that he could, literally, focus. But seeing the field more clearly doesn't seem to make him any more interested in looking at it. And he's just as likely as before to have a meltdown if he gets tagged out, or doesn't get to be catcher, or sees a teammate getting tagged out, or basically there are lots of meltdowns.

I know there are Major League Baseball players who have ADHD (for instance, Shane Victorino), but I'm feeling fairly confident in predicting that kiddo will not be one of them.

Our friend M. points out that we should let him play for as long as he wants to, then be done when he decides he's done, which is fair advice. But I have to admit that every time he has a meltdown or starts digging in the dirt instead of covering second, I am secretly thinking growl, because I called it.

He does more or less seem to be enjoying himself, and he'll definitely enjoy the end-of-season ice cream trip, so there's that.

Anyway we'll keep helping him figure out the thing he's actually good at, and once he's got that, I expect he'll finally find that focus.

Fuzzy caterpillars and caffeinated ants

First kiddo flunked his eye exam.

He couldn't read the bottom line of the chart. Or the line above that. Or the line above that. Or the next line. The doctor's assistant giving him the exam asked if this had been going on for a while, and I said, no, this is news to me, wondering how soon I could get him to an eye doctor.

"What do you see?" I asked him later, in the car, and he said that things far away are blurry. "When I'm sitting at my desk, I can't read the whiteboard. The words look like fuzzy caterpillars."

I do admire kiddo's accidental poetry.

Why is it kids will tell you all about the Lego truck they're building or the complete plot of an episode of "Paw Patrol," but fail to mention that they can't read the whiteboard at school? Doesn't that seem like the important thing?

But aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?

I can't say I'm surprised really, though I'm kicking myself a bit for letting him go too long between eye exams. My parents figured out I needed glasses when I couldn't read the blackboard at school (I was a few years older than kiddo). DH wears glasses. All of our parents and most of our siblings wear glasses. We are a nearsighted lot. Inevitably one or both of our kids were going to need glasses.

Kiddo seems more or less excited by the whole thing. He's very focused on the box the glasses are going to come in, and whether he'll get a box, and when will he get the box? And he insisted on blue frames. He so rarely expresses a fashion preference of any sort -- if the clothes cover his body, he's happy -- that I went along with it.

Next of course we'll have to drill into him proper glasses care, and not misplacing or tossing the glasses anywhere, and how to clean them with the proper cloth and not your shirt. (I know everyone secretly uses their shirt at some point or another. Still better to discourage it.) I'm sure this will go well. I'm also sure we'll be taking advantage of the one-free-replacement clause, after kiddo attempts to find out whether glasses fly.

When I brought him back to school after the eye exam, we were met with suspicious giggles from the office staff. And a couple of ant jokes. Already I was worried. And then they explained: The previous day, kiddo had been sitting in a front room, not sure why -- maybe to talk to the 504 coordinator -- and he happened to notice a bunch of ants. And he happened to be sitting near the office coffee pot. Which was full of coffee. He decided to kill the ants, and by the time anyone caught on, he had created ant-flavored coffee.

Let me repeat. He put ants. In the office staff's coffee.

"He didn't understand what he was doing," one staffer assured me. "It's a boy thing."

"We do have an ant problem in that room," said another. "It was an organic solution."

Don't you feel like they should've been mad, all things considered? At least mildly miffed? Because if someone spiked my tea with ants, I'd be pretty annoyed. Nothing gets between me and my caffeine.

But no. A third staffer waited for kiddo to walk back to his classroom before, chuckling, sharing the kicker: Kiddo watched her pour out the coffee and said, "Wow, they're all dead. Except that one. He must be a ninja ant."

I bet you had no idea ninjas came in ant form. Oh, the things kiddo can teach you.

The glasses should be ready in about a week, and then we'll have the new, improved, four-eyed kiddo. No word on whether the remaining ants have already skipped town.

On being the LCD

Meaning, lowest common denominator. See, I remember some stuff from math class. I just justified my education. Now if I could figure out how to calculate the tip on a restaurant bill, I'd be absolute genius level.

DH and I are the LCD. And so are you, if you're a special-needs parent. You're the one who knows everything there is to know about your child and your child's diagnosis, and what's worked in the past and what hasn't, and which medication your child is or isn't on and whether that's the second or third medication you've tried. You know the names of all his doctors and his OT and his teacher. You know her favorite book and her favorite color and what she's thinking about when she melts down. You know how he does in karate class or how she does in ballet. Everyone else knows a piece, a part, one thing. You know everything. You are the lowest common denominator in this equation.

I was reminded of that fact when kiddo had a bad time last week and got himself suspended from the bus for a day. He likes to be first off the bus. Several times he's pushed other kids to get in front of them. The driver was worried a kid would fall down the steps. I get it -- it's dangerous. Kiddo shouldn't be doing that. At the same time, I get kiddo -- he's not trying to hurt anyone. He genuinely didn't realize he could hurt anyone. He just wanted to be first. When his mind is locked on a thing, it's difficult to get him unlocked.

Fortunately the 504 coordinator gets that too, but it didn't prevent the suspension. Kiddo was also more defiant all week, talking back to us, more sullen, refusing to do things when asked, and more hyperactive than usual. Which is why I yanked him right off medication #3 and he's back on #1, which seems to have calmed things somewhat. It's not a perfect fix -- he's still hiding under his desk instead of doing his classwork -- but his usual sweet personality seems to have more or less emerged.

DH and I were displeased about the suspension. Sure kiddo should be punished if he does something wrong. But kicking a kid off the bus for a day is a bit more like punishing the parents, who then have to rearrange their work schedules to account for it. Also we would've been less aggravated if it hadn't taken 10 days to find out about the first infraction. What are we supposed to do at that point?

US: "Hey, kiddo, remember 10 days ago when you pushed a kid on the bus?"
KIDDO: "Huh?"

I mean he's lucky if he remembers what he had for lunch that day.

Anyway. DH and I requested a meeting with the school, to complain about the lack of communication and the lack of info we were getting about how he was doing. It's a good thing we did. One of the assembled officials had no idea we'd been trying a new medication. Another one was unaware that kiddo's social skills group had ended for the year. A third had revised his behavior chart but never sent along a finished version, so he was working without one. (Apparently kiddo has been doing fine without a chart, so we're leaving that one alone.) The assumption had been that we didn't want daily updates on kiddo's behavior, when actually we very much do. It seemed like everyone had a piece of information about kiddo, or about his accommodations, but DH and I were the ones who knew the most. And if we hadn't requested the meeting, possibly the officials would never have shared their information with each other (or us). 

We are the LCD. We make sure everyone is aware of everything. Because teachers and doctors, despite the best of intentions, are not going to be able to help kiddo unless they know everything they need to know. Ultimately, always, it's up to us to make things happen.

Kiddo really does seem improved this week, so here's hoping he keeps at it.

Hills and other obstacles

So I had a meeting with the school last week to further brainstorm ways to help our not-quite-behaving kiddo in the classroom -- they've already modified how they use his behavior chart, and I suggested a clock-style chart on his desk to keep him on task during the day, as well as a few other things. I also alerted them that we'd taken kiddo off the medication, because, turns out, it was making him fall asleep on the bus every day, and not otherwise doing much good for him. (On to Plan C.) They were understanding, and said they would keep an eye out for aberrant unmedicated behavior.

Though honestly I was kind of curious: What's he like unmedicated? Turns out the answer is, "More hyperactive than you remember." Also randomly defiant and near-constantly goofing around. It hasn't been a bad week ... just an interesting week. I haven't gotten many reports from his teacher, though, so I don't know the full story yet.

One thing about kiddo, though: He's quite charming. The school officials told me, with some amusement, how kiddo has been handling his "heavy work" assignment of carrying a load of books down the hall for his teacher. (The idea being, it's a sneaky way to build extra physical activity into his day.) He was walking out into the hallway and telling the first teacher he saw, "My teacher wants me to carry all these books!" And then the teacher would say, "Oh, let me get those for you!" And then he is heavy work-less.

The school officials noted that he is so cute, after all, that people would do such things for him, and he's pretty smart, and I said I hoped he never enters politics. Although if anyone needs a fence whitewashed, they should probably give him a call.

In the meantime, at least it's sort of warm enough to do actual exercise outside. Kiddo and I went for a bike ride over the weekend. I was relieved to find that my bike, which I got at a garage sale last year, had tuned up and then left in the garage for months because of my back issues (and also winter), rides pretty nicely. I made one other wonderful discovery:

On bike, I am faster than kiddo.

"Come back here, you little Mommy!" he kept yelling.

"You have to pedal faster to get up the hill!" I called back.

Maybe I should've gone slower. But the thing is, I've been chasing after this kid since he could walk. Through parks. Across parking lots. Down hallways and around the mall. Run run run. You know what? You chase me for once, sweetie.

Oh, am I going to enjoy this. Every single weekend, whenever we're free. "Hey kiddo, want to ride bikes? Catch me if you can!"

Mwa ha ha ha ha.

Kiddo has also started T-ball practices, and I'm pretty sure he's actually hit the ball at least twice. I'm going to take that as a plus.

Another plus: He turned 7 on Sunday (yeesh, he's 7? I have a 7-year-old?) and had a most fabulous time at his party, and even more or less patiently waited until well after the party had ended before opening his gifts. Patiently waiting for anything is a bit of a struggle for him, so I'm glad he was able to see it through.

So, lots of pluses, even among the troubles and the roadblocks. Who's up for a bike ride?

The karate kid scores

with a fourth-place trophy in his first-ever sparring match. I'll take it. First of all, I'm thrilled he even got out there on the gym floor, got his gear on -- after just getting the gear for the first time last week -- and kinda sorta remembered his moves enough to spar with someone (although he appeared to have forgotten he could kick as well as punch). Second, not every single kid walked out of there with a trophy, meaning some merit was involved. He also got promoted to orange belt level 1, which struck me as a possibly fast promotion given he just got yellow last time around, but DH thinks the first couple levels are easier to get promoted in, and after that you have to really work at it. So, fine.

I know I sound like a bit of a killjoy here, doubting the belt promotion, but I am severely allergic to the "Everyone gets a trophy! Everyone's a winner!" mentality and frankly wouldn't send kiddo to karate twice a week, or pay for the gear and the shiai entry, if I thought he wasn't really earning his wins. As they put it in my favorite Pixar movie:

Helen: Everyone's special, Dash.
Dash: [muttering] Which is another way of saying no one is.

Kids should be allowed to be bad at things. How else will they ever figure out what they're really good at?

We did have one issue early on. Kiddo and kiddette and I were wandering the gym floor, looking for his classmates so she and I could go find seats in the bleachers, when a few of the classmates ran by. I sent kiddo after them, but he came back, upset, because the girl leading the pack told him to stop following them. I thought maybe he'd misunderstood, and sent him their way again. Nope, the girl definitely told him to go away. He came back in tears.

Now, he's had a little bit of a crush on this girl, and has been known to goof around when standing next to her in class; his way of showing off. Add to that his usual inability to read social cues, plus she's a little older than he is. I totally get where all this would be annoying to her, and if she by herself had told him to scram, I wouldn't have said anything about it. But there were other kids following her, so suddenly it was a group rejection, and I was left standing there with one crying boy, his bewildered sister and no idea what to do with either of them.

I marched them both across the floor until I found one of kiddo's instructors, and explained that the other kids were being a little mean. He promised to take care of the situation and of kiddo. Walking back through the room, I spied the girl and her cohorts standing near the entrance. I had a brief mental argument with myself -- do I say something? do I keep walking? -- and then the little devil on my right shoulder won out. "Are you always that mean to my son?" I asked her, and kept walking.

Probably I shouldn't have said anything. Probably the girl didn't mean to make him cry. Probably no one in this situation is old enough to react appropriately to anything, except me, and I still didn't. But his heart is so much on his sleeve, and it's going to keep getting broken, because he has no idea that some of his behaviors annoy people. And I can't protect him from that, and I won't always deal well with that knowledge.

At the very least, I'm starting to nudge kiddo to stay away from the girl from now on. Better for everyone involved.

Still, even with that incident it was a good day. Kiddo got his trophy, he'll get his new belt in class (what do we do with the old ones, anyway? Donate them somewhere? Make funky art projects out of them?), and he got to scarf pizza and cookies at the after-shiai party. All's well that ends well.

Dear Abby, think again.

I mean, I guess it's progress of sorts when ADHD makes it into a nationally syndicated advice column. Even if you don't totally agree with the advice given.

A high school student (I'm assuming high school, no age given) wrote to say that their ADHD medication was suppressing their appetite, and so they didn't eat any lunch, and well-meaning teachers and friends have been pushing them to eat, not knowing the situation. The student didn't want to tell anyone, because some of those friends make fun of people with ADHD.

Abby (okay, "Abby") says to inform the teachers about the medication, but added this:

"It's a shame they would tease someone who has ADHD because it's a condition that so many students and adults share. However, because you feel it would make you a target, you're wise to say nothing."

No, no, no.

I wouldn't call it "wise" to hide a significant part of yourself away in hopes that no one will laugh at you for it. That suggests that people are right to laugh at it, and no they are not.

Also, frankly, if you're different, people pick up on it, and if they're so inclined, they'll make fun of you for it even if you pretend that difference doesn't exist.

Really. Just ask every kid in grade school who made Jew jokes about me.

You have to turn it around. Why is it on you to convince people not to pick on you? Why isn't it on them to try harder not to be jerks?

You should never be ashamed of who you are, and anyone who would try to make you ashamed is not someone who deserves the privilege of sitting next to you in the cafeteria.

At no point have I hidden kiddo's diagnosis from anyone. His family knows. His teacher knows. The other moms know. His karate sensei knows. Because I am not ashamed of him, and because figuring out what works and doesn't work with him is sometimes a group effort. It takes a village to tackle ADHD.

And because of that openness, other people are open with me; they talk to me about their special-needs child, or ask where to go for an evaluation. It's good to know other parents deal with the same issues.

Even if I wanted to, I'm not a good enough liar to pretend I have some sort of Stepford-perfect son. I'd rather be honest, with other people, with kiddo and with myself. I don't want kiddo to grow up thinking he needs to hide his ADHD from people. I want him to be proud of who he is -- all that he is.

Just my two cents, Abby. Carry on.