Needing a vacation from the vacation

I mean, I suppose we should've seen it coming. Kiddo goes wonky when off routine. But you get in vacation mode and you start to check out mentally and in between the packing up clothes and the did I remember sunscreen? and the oh shoot is the toaster unplugged? and making sure you have directions and all that, remembering your child has ADHD and will not be in vacation mode doesn't necessarily top the list. Apparently.

We were at one of those adorable old-fashioned family resorts where everyone eats in the big dining room and there are games and a lake to play on and the staff puts on a show at night. Think the resort in "Dirty Dancing," except, you know, no dirty dancing. Though there was a Mardi Gras parade through the dining room featuring Spider-Man. DH's family used to vacation there every year, and we were back for Grandma's birthday (and the staff remembered them. Impressive).

But there was too much going on, I guess, or too much to look at, or maybe everything smelled too different, who knows. All of kiddo's "behaviors" ramped up to the nth degree.

First, kiddo figured out how to open the cabin room door. And ran out. Repeatedly. Kiddette frequently followed, because she thinks everything her big brother does is cool, especially when it's not. One or three of us would have to sprint after them and catch them. Preschoolers: Faster than you think.

Then, mealtimes. At every single meal, kiddo would push off from the table and run. At random. For no good reason. One time he got all the way out of the main building, into the parking lot and in front of a (parked) shuttle bus. Needless to say, this freaked us out a bit.

Also, bladder control. He had three accidents in two days, twice because he just wasn't noticing that he had to go. The final time wasn't entirely his fault -- he did ask to go potty after dinner, and I hustled him down the hall to the restroom. Which, for the first time all weekend, actually had a line in it. And the people in the stalls must have been writing their memoirs in there, because those doors stayed good and closed. And I pleaded with kiddo to hold it but I knew it was a lost cause, and eventually he just couldn't anymore. The old biddies in back of us clucked sympathetically and I had a brief desire to tell them where they could stick their sympathy.

And then I had to haul his wet self back to the dining room to grab the bag where I was keeping extra pants and underwear, and then haul it back to the restroom to change him (again), and this was the point where I finally lost it entirely and yelled at him, and became utterly convinced that we were never going to be able to take a vacation with him anywhere ever.

Also, they had to sing Happy Birthday to Grandma while we were in the bathroom, because they couldn't hold up the kitchen staff.

Four adults. One ADHD kid. And we couldn't keep him in line.

We did discuss the issue with his therapist this week, who suggested in future to arrive at the destination a day early, then reestablish a normal routine with him, just low-key going about the day, without immediately jumping into sightseeing or other activities. That would reset him, I guess. Bottom line is, there is no vacation from his condition. We don't get to pretend he's a normal 5-year-old.

The therapist also said quieter, nature-centric spots would be better for him than amusement parks, because that would be way too much overstimulation. Disney, for instance, would be like Vegas to him. (So much for hitting Disney next year.) I don't mind nature-centric spots. So at least that's an option.

Still, I don't think I'm in any hurry to take another vacation.

My advocacy week

I had not one but two research-related events last week, both of which I attended after work, meaning DH had to put the kids to bed. Plus my regular Pilates class another night. DH is a trouper and a half.

First was a workshop on writing an IEP, courtesy of the Statewide Parent Advocacy Network. As of now, kiddo's district says he'll fall under a 504 plan, not an IEP, when he starts kindergarten in the fall. However, one of our sources in these matters says 504 plans are "for shit." So in case that's true, I figure we better be ready to push for an IEP.

A 504 (as I'm understanding it now) specifies certain accommodations they can make in the classroom so that he can focus on learning the material; an IEP starts with the presumption that the child needs extra help educationally in order to learn the material. An IEP is educationally based; a 504 is based in civil rights law. An IEP also has more legal authority behind it and offers more services.

On the other hand, IEP protections end once the child is out of school, but 504 protections extend to the workplace in adulthood, assuming you're willing to disclose what you've got. So .. yay?

The workshop was pretty good, once I found the place. On account of I got lost (my specialty) and there was no number listed on the front of the building, which as far as I'm concerned, is a mean trick to pull on someone who's prone to getting lost. Fortunately they started a few minutes late.

The woman running it was quite nice and ready to answer whatever questions got thrown at her, and there were many. She also mentioned that her son, now in his 20s, is autistic and non-verbal. And I bow down to her, not just for dealing with a much more intense situation than what we've got, but for being so upbeat about it. I am so very much non-upbeat. I wonder if she gives workshops on that.

Actually, every other parent (and grandparent) there was dealing with a more stressful situation than me. One child who's not only non-verbal but runs into the street when he gets off the school bus, and the school is stalling on helping him not get run over.  One child who was abused at school, regressed and is now home-schooled. 

What's frustrating is that every time I hear from another parent or read comments from parents of special-needs kids online, it's always the same thing: The school doesn't care. The school won't help. The teacher thinks he's lazy/making it up/badly parented. It's so clear you have to fight for everything, even if what you're asking for is legally mandated.

I have no problem fighting for things, of course. But it is an annoyance, and cuts into my lunch break.

Anyway: An IEP should maintain high expectations, not lower standards; should be as specific as possible (will learn 20 new words this marking period); should specify the child's strengths, needs and services that will meet those needs; should include extracurricular activities, since kids are entitled to participate in them; should specify which skills the child needs to develop in order to participate in the school community and make progress; should mandate the child practice a skill X times a week so that he doesn't lose it; and should specify how data will be collected in order to measure progress. Also, there should be regular progress reports. And apparently the average IEP is 40-100 pages long. (Single-spaced?)

 And in case I needed another reminder to ease up on my kid, one of the several teachers present for professional hours had brought her son along. He looked to be about 3 or 4, was completely adorable, and basically treated the whole room like his own personal playground for the entire workshop. He sent his race cars spinning across the floor. He ran around and climbed on chairs. He kept yanking magazines off the shelf in the back and dropping them on the floor. He took an especial liking to me and kept trying to share his lollipop with me. Periodically his mom would try to rein him in and he'd freak, and then she'd let him bounce off again. Everyone in the room was pretty tolerant of the whole thing, but I did keep thinking: Geez, my kid's got ADHD and he'd be grounded till puberty for pulling this stuff. After the workshop ended, the teacher made a joke about how she'd get a babysitter next time, and because I'm nice, I didn't say, "Yeah, you think?"

... And then came the other event, the regular meeting for a certain support group. You'll note this time the group is nameless. This was the second meeting I was attending, by way of giving them a fair chance. Here's how the first meeting went: It was me and the chapter coordinator and her son. Period. For an hour and a half. While her son bounced off the walls, she and I chatted, comparing notes a little bit. I kept sneaking glances at the door: Really? No one else is coming? She didn't seem to have any material prepared. In fact she didn't have any handouts from her organization to give me, and mumbled something about how she'd bring them next time. (I'd already downloaded them.) She explained how she's been fighting to get her son a 504 but that it probably won't happen this school year. She also seemed to take a perverse pride in how her son was just like her, and how they could stay up all night together, since neither one of them sleeps well.

Oh yeah, did I mention she also has ADHD?

I don't mean to trash her -- she was perfectly nice. It's just that I blew off dinner and seeing my kids before bedtime so that I could come to this meeting, in the hopes that I could get suggestions on resources (I was still trying to get OT lined up at that point) or suggestions on dealing with kiddo, or hell, friends for kiddo. Because wouldn't it be good for him to be around other kids like him? What I got was an hour and a half of awkward small talk with one person. I hate small talk.

As she was closing up the building, she remarked that she'd thought a clinical psychologist was going to be giving a presentation tonight, "but I guess that's next month."

Argh.

So despite everyone I shared this story with finding it hilarious (except DH), I thought, all right, maybe it was just an off month. It's the only local chapter around here. I'll try again.

I got held up at work and showed up half an hour late. And it didn't matter, because it was the chapter coordinator, one other woman ... and me. (No son this time.) The other woman had the same baffled look on her face that I must've had. They were discussing apps that were helpful for ADHD. The chapter head uses one of those computer pen things for her job, so she was showing us how it worked ... kind of. She forgot the USB cable. And she was showing us things on her laptop ... sort of. When the connection worked.

 I volunteered a couple of apps I love, like Evernote. But that's a good one for everybody, not just ADHDers.

Anyway, the meeting devolved into the chapter head chatting about her son, and how she hadn't slept in two days, and how the school said he couldn't have a 504 until third grade, which even I know is bogus. And how she'd been fighting with the district, and at the last meeting with them, she handed them her business cards to give to the other parents, "for when you screw them like you screwed me." She was proud of that statement. I tried not to cringe.

No clinical psychologist showed up. Obviously.

The other woman and I chatted in the parking lot after the meeting. It was her first meeting, and she'd had to get a babysitter for it, and it was a long drive for her. She wasn't sure it was worth it. Both of us were boggled by the total lack of people. "There have to be other families dealing with this around here, right?" We asked each other. "Where are they?" We exchanged info, figuring we could at least talk to each other about things.

So I think I'm going to write to the national arm of this group and say, Really? This is the best you've got for me? Because I'd like to join up, but I'm not paying dues for this.

So, one useful meeting, one not-as-useful meeting. One out of two ain't bad, right, Meat Loaf?

The status of things

Whatever bout of insanity convinced us to host Passover, Easter and kiddo's birthday party all in the same weekend has now passed, and should that same urge ever appear again, I will beat it with a stick. One event per weekend from now on, period.

I do suspect the general craziness in the air around here infected kiddo a little bit, because calling him "oppositional" lately would be like suggesting a hurricane was a little wet. He throws Defcon 1 fits over being asked to go potty. He runs off instead of washing his hands for dinner. If you pick him up and bring him over to where he needs to be, he kicks. If you (quite justifiably) send him to his room so he can cool off enough to even begin serving his time out, he throws things at his bedroom door. Thunk thunk thunk.

Last night he goofed around instead of eating dinner and then threw a fit because I wouldn't let him have leftover birthday cake. This morning he and DH got into a huge argument because he wouldn't put his shoes on to go to school. Yes, this is as maddening as it sounds. I finally walked over, sat him on the couch and put the shoes on myself, because no one has time for this crap, and it did seem to defuse things.

The one saving grace of all this is that at least when other family members see what he's really like on bad days, they understand what we're up against. (Or they say, "My parents would never have put up with this," implying, I guess, that we're lousy parents. Ah well.)

Tonight was calmer at least. He did his homework, washed hands for dinner without too much prompting, ate -- well, sort of ate. Not enough to justify dessert, but he got over that. He told us a long, involved story about the scary freezing girl and the guitar that made everyone in the town freeze, and how he broke the guitar and made the girl cry. (I blame the Fresh Beat Band. Also, I miss Phineas and Ferb.) He practiced writing, got ready for bed, and only lost one of his two-book allotment for taking too long.

The timer on my phone is a wonderful thing. My readings indicate that ADHD kids (and adults) have no sense of time, which is why they're always dawdling and getting unfocused and running late and holding people up. So the past couple days, I've been trying to get kiddo acquainted with the concept. I tell him he's got three minutes to do X, set the timer, hold it up and wait. If he doesn't make it, he suffers a consequence.

We did our insurance-approved five sessions with the behavioral therapist and she was under the impression we wouldn't be back afterward, though we weren't thinking things would be solved in five sessions. She's had some good suggestions -- cut down on the toys in his room, thus cutting down on potential distractions; let him pick out part or all of his outfit for the day; try to emphasize positive reinforcement over negative. But mainly her point was, it's on us to manage his behaviors so we see improvement long-term.

She actually went on a bit of a rant toward the end of the last session. We started off talking about how you see small kids walking around with iPhones or iPods or iWhatevers, and morphed into Grown-Up Kids These Days and how their parents indulge them their whole lives and buy them whatever they want and never teach them how to work for anything, and then these kids get to college or get out of college and don't know how to function because, um, they've never worked for anything, and then the parents call her to fix the problem when it's probably past fixing. She said somewhere along the way, between the last generation or two of parents and now, people forgot how to parent effectively.

What's most interesting about that curmudgeonly-sounding rant is that the therapist is probably even younger than I am.

At any rate, we're figuring on bringing kiddo back to her periodically for support and reasurance, and someone to bitch to, so we're going next week.

We finally -- finally -- hallelujah got our insurance to cover occupational therapy; there was literally no one in the state on our insurance plan, so we got clearance for the center to be treated as in-network. Your timeline, folks: He was diagnosed in February, and he's starting sessions in April. I think the Titanic iceberg moved faster than this.

But we took him to the center for an initial evaluation, which he loved, because of the big rope swing and all the giant cushiony things to climb on and the big hammock to slide down. (I thought it looked a little fun myself.) We still have to conference on the full report, but on-the-spot judgment was, he's got some gaps in his physical development, and those gaps are making him, subconsciously, not trust his own body, and so part of how he deals with that is lashing out physically.

So I'm hoping between those two specialists, we'll at least get some more detailed answers.

Eye surgery part II, or: Haven't we done this already?

This time, of course, it was kiddette's turn, for her partially blocked tear ducts that have been regularly making her look like she has pinkeye, even though she doesn't. Ick. Also: How can you teach someone to apply eye makeup when her eyes are always crusted over? Thinking way too far ahead, I know.

We waffled a bit on whether to do it, because this didn't have the medical urgency of kiddo's strabismus, but after needing to give her antibiotics three times in two months, we decided it was in fact urgent enough. Otherwise, every single time she got the least bit congested, her eyes would suffer. (The name of the procedure is balloon catheter dacryocystoplasty, which is such a gibberishy phrase that even as the opthalmologist was about to do it, I couldn't remember how to pronounce it.)

We grumpily dragged ourselves out of bed and hauled her over to the surgery center at 6:30 a.m. She, of course, was completely, cheerily awake, despite no breakfast and no idea what was going on. That's kiddette for you. Then we sat around and waited because they were running behind. Kiddette studied the newspaper over my shoulder, climbed onto my lap, then lowered her head for an upside-down look at the other people in the waiting room.

We got her checked in and weighed, and waited some more, except now I was in the fabulous white zip-up jumpsuit they make you wear when you enter an operating room. Not my best look, really. I noted to DH that now I knew what he felt like after kiddette was born, and the staff made him wear that thing to see me. Except the shoe bootie things actually fit me. He only got about half his shoes into them, and then they ripped. You'd think those things would come in husband size.

More than an hour after surgery was supposed to start, kiddette and I walked down the hall to the operating room. Well, I walked. She took a few steps and went jump jump jump jump!, then a few more steps, then jump jump!, then a few more steps ... one of the nurses fell into step with us and we lifted kiddette by the arms so she could get a good jump in.

We got her sitting up on the operating table and she went into serious poker face mode, studying everyone around her. They were all quite taken by her perfect posture and her calmness. I had to go into my usual explanation about how she's always like this when she first meets someone, or encounters a new situation. Eventually the sleep mask began to kick in, and they tried to lower her down to the table, and she resisted -- not because she was scared or upset. Because she didn't want to lie down.

The opthalmologist walked me out, asking if I was OK. Well, yeah. I'd already been through this anesthesia thing with kiddo. I wonder sometimes if I'm supposed to be more hysterical than I am, just to fit in with the other moms.

She also raved about kiddette, how poised, how good she was, etc., noting that most kids in that situation scream and cry and carry on. (For the record: By the time kiddo realized what was going on, and started to freak out, he was asleep.) I'm telling you now, if this kid ever goes into politics, we are doomed. She's smart, she's tough, she fears nothing, and she just charmed the pants off a room full of medical staff. And she has big blue eyes.

They were done in less than an hour. Now kiddette was unhappy. As would be expected. But they gave her some Tylenol, and some apple juice, and some more apple juice, and then an ice pop, which was her first one ever but she got the hang of it pretty quickly and hoovered it down. The nurses agreed her appetite seemed to be fine, gave her kiddie sunglasses and sent us home.

We have two different kinds of eye drops to give her, four times a day, for a week. Fortunately what with all the fake pinkeye, she and I are pretty well versed in the giving of eye drops. I balance her head on my legs, aim and fire. I say, "OK, now go blink blink!" And she says, "Blink blink!" Which is a little bit of a "Say goodnight, Gracie" moment, and makes me giggle, which is why I keep doing it.

At any rate, she seems entirely back to normal today, what with the bouncing off the walls and the gobbling of food and the attack-hugs she's so good at. So I'm hoping this is it for kiddie surgery. Eye surgery, anyway. I guess there's no guarantee on the other body parts.

Book reviews: ADHD edition

I've been reading up on this whole ADHD thing, because studying is something I'm good at. The CHADD website has been useful, as is the website for ADDitude magazine. Plus I'm still going through the American Academy of Pediatrics' book on the subject. So I thought, I'm learning all this stuff, but what about kiddo? What does he need to know about what he's got?

ADDitude, in a special downloadable supplement, recommended two books for his age group, and I am not kidding, one of them is called "Shelley the Hyperactive Turtle." This sounds like a junior-version parody of an After School Special. And yet it is real. The hyperactive turtle in question also looks an awful lot like Franklin the Turtle, but since the book is from 1989 originally, I'm assuming Franklin, Bear and Beaver never bothered to sue. 

If you can get past the title and the Franklin-ness, the book is fine. It pretty accurately describes what a hyperactive, uh, turtle would be acting like, and goes through the process of Shelley going to the doctor, getting diagnosed, getting therapy and medication. It's written on a level kiddo can more or less understand, except he seemed way too amused by the early scenes of Shelley acting up. I hope Shelley wasn't giving him ideas.

The other book is called "Eddie Enough!" I liked it better -- more detailed writing, nice black and white illustrations -- even though it's written slightly above kiddo's head. The main character is a few years older, and is describing things like art class and lunch in the cafeteria and going to the nurse's office, none of which kiddo is familiar with yet. And he was, again, way too amused by Eddie's misbehavior. Even more amused by the other characters making fun of Eddie. I guess that whole empathy thing comes later?

I will say I think the author isn't quite managing to sound like a third-grader. "To make a long story longer, as Grandma would say ..." doesn't scream "third-grade narrator" to me. But it's a minor quibble.

The plot otherwise mirrors the other book -- kid can't slow down, kid has trouble in school, kid gets help from sympathetic adults, kid goes to therapy and gets medication, kid is happy. Plus it has a nice little postscript from Eddie about how if you're reading this book, then you or someone you know may have ADHD and you can get help for it, just like he did. Which yes, I've also been reading to kiddo, for whatever it's worth.

I think my only real quibble with either book is the medication, just because kiddo doesn't happen to be on any right now. Since I know it does help a lot of kids, I'm not opposed to going with medication if it becomes necessary (though I should note, his therapist is), but until and unless we get to that point, I'd hate for him to think he needs a pill just to be like Shelley and Eddie. Though so far he hasn't noticed that part.

Still, this is a good starting point. He even likes the books. Not as much as he currently likes "The Cat in the Hat," because he seems to be overidentifying with Thing One and Thing Two (for some reason). But he likes them enough.

Stress and tantrums

So I hit the garage door with my car the other day. That may not be the most embarrassing thing I've ever done in my life (riding halfway down a hill on my friend's bike before realizing I didn't know where the brakes were -- that still wins), but it's at least top five. As they say on "Thomas the Tank Engine," "Luckily, no one was hurt." Except, you know, the garage door. A little bit.

It had been, let's say, not the best week. Work stress. Kiddo stress. Hearing nothing from the OT's office. Feeling like I was getting funny looks from people every single time I brought him out in public and he ran around, or acted up, or blatantly blew off something I said to him, or got in some kid's face. I've been thinking I should have a T-shirt made that says, "I'm Not a Rotten Little Brat, I Have ADHD" and that way I can just point to the T-shirt and shrug.

Which is a stupid idea, of course. That's way too long to fit on a T-shirt.

On top of it all, I was exhausted for some reason -- neither caffeine nor Snickers bars were waking me up. So on the morning of kiddo's next therapy session, I got him into the car, told DH I'd see him there, backed the car up and smack hit the closed door.

This, obviously, caused confusion and delay. As in, we were way late for the appointment. But the therapist to her credit was unruffled, and did as much with us as she could in the time she had.

She did have a good suggestion for the running in the parking lot: Give him something to hang on to that clips on to DH's belt, something he'd want to hold on to, so that he'll walk next to DH. Like a voluntary leash, so to speak. I went through an entire toy store and this is what I came up with:

Isn't he just the cutest little Wookiee you ever saw? (Hey, it was either Chewie, Darth Vader, Darth Maul or Yoda. And kiddo would've found all of the others scary. Including Yoda, who he still doesn't believe is a good guy. Geek fail.) And yes, he does the Wookiee growl.

Kiddo and I tested Chewie out over the weekend, as we went to the movies ("Arrietty," liked it), to the playground and to various stores. It works more often than not, although occasionally I had to remind kiddo to keep holding Chewie. I'm sure this looks a little ridiculous, but so does running after him yelling "Get back here now!"

We've continued doing time outs in the chair in the dining room, although we had to switch corners, since he decided it would be fun to hit the framed Ansel Adams print on the wall next to him. I had visions of glass everywhere. A couple of times, he's gotten so worked up he's flat out refused to even sit on the chair, at which point I haul him up to his room so he can cool off, then bring him back down for a time out. I did that today, after he'd whacked his sister in the back of the head with a Nerf football, and then when I went upstairs to retrieve him, I found him on the floor, nestled in the blankets from his bed, sound asleep. I guess the time change wasn't easy on him.

Because that had only been the latest in a long line of tantrums today. He threw a fit this morning when I made him use the bathroom before getting dressed, instead of after breakfast. He threw another fit when I made eggs for breakfast. He threw another one when I told them TV time was over.

I've learned the thing to do when he throws a fit is to wait him out. When he stood in the bathroom sulking, furiously declaring "I am NOT going potty, I am NOT," I said, "OK, then I guess we'll just keep standing here." And after a few minutes, he did his business.

When he utterly flipped out about the idea of eggs -- "I don't like eggs, they're not good for me, I am NOT eating eggs, I am NOT, I am NOT" -- I shrugged and said, "OK, kiddette and I will eat them. But you have to try them before I make you cereal."

"Nooo! I am NOT."

"Uh-huh." I continued scrambling the eggs.

"I want cereal!"

"Well, you're going to have to wait until I make the eggs."

"I am NOT eating eggs!"

"Hey, remember the man in 'Green Eggs and Ham' and how he didn't want eggs, but then he tried them and he liked them?"

"Yes ..."

"Well, maybe if you try the eggs, you'll like them."

"I am NOT!"

"Uh-huh."

So I put the eggs down in front of kiddette, who immediately started to inhale them (bless her, she eats everything except falafel and mushrooms), and kiddo, who stared at them in utter despair. And then he sadly picked up his fork and ate some. He paused. "I like it," he said grumpily. "Can I have more?"

Yeah, Dr. Seuss and I have your number, kid.

So I can handle one or two of those scenes a day. But some days there are more than that, and then my patience runs out. I'd love to know how other people stay patient through all this, and is the secret martinis?

Anyway, the important thing is, the garage door is only a little dented on the inside, and now we have Chewie to guide us. So maybe things will be better this week.

Progress is my middle name!

Oh come on, admit it, you loved "Back to the Future" too. In fact, so many people loved "Back to the Future" that when I Googled the above phrase to make sure I wasn't misremembering it, I got pages and pages of people quoting the same line in their blog posts. So now I'm an '80s movie geek and derivative. Happy Leap Day to you too.

Anyway, the progress. We met with our behavioral therapist this week ("our," of course, because she's therapy-ing DH and me as much as she is kiddo). Seems nice. She talked to us for a bit to get a sense of what was going on, though she seemed more interested in the possible OCD than the ADHD. I was a bit on edge because I knew she was watching us interact with kiddo the whole time -- and of course that's part of her job. I just dislike being watched. (I also suspect the unbelievably opaque sliding windows at the desk in the front office are a way to secretly observe the people in the waiting room. Although it's possible I've just watched way too many episodes of "24.") Kiddo was mostly behaving, sitting next to me on the couch, except when he started kicking my foot. I quietly said, "That's one," which more or less worked, which is good because I'm not sure you can really give a kid a time out in the middle of a doctor's appointment.

She had several suggestions, among them to do time outs in a chair in a quiet corner, rather than in his room. I kind of already knew we were supposed to be doing that -- "Supernanny" says so -- but getting him to stay in his room has been such a trial I didn't dare move him out in the open. She also said to leave the timer in sight, so he knows how much time is left. He did end up getting a time out that night and we plopped him on the spare dining room chair in the corner -- and he stayed there. The whole time. It was positively weird. I'll be even more impressed if he does it again.

The other major thing to work on is his tendency to run around in parking lots. Which is, obviously, bad. She said DH should let kiddo walk on his own as long as he's staying nearby, but the second he starts to run off, he has to hold Daddy's hand, and then no prize waiting for him in the car. It sounded like he did all right with that today.

As for the occupational therapist, seems most of them don't want to deal with insurance at all, let alone your attempt to get their services covered by insurance. So the one place I contacted, which is fairly close to our house, has just stopped returning my calls. Yeah, OK, I get it, you people can afford to have crappy customer service, moving on. (Seriously, I couldn't even get a live person on the phone. It just went right to voicemail.) I emailed the second facility, which appeared to be run by an actual nice human being, and am waiting to hear back.

The hospital finally sent us the diagnostic report -- mailed and emailed, even -- so I can send that on to the school district. Now it's possible that the plan was always to send it to us, and the holdup was just the doctor needing to compile and sign off on the final document. In which case the office staff could have just been out of the loop. Theoretically. It's also possible that they really weren't ever going to send us anything, on the grounds that it was "just a followup visit," and the only reason they did was that I was mean to them. Because sometimes people only do their jobs when you make them.

The report doesn't mention OCD, but does mention Oppositional Defiant Disorder, which also kind of makes sense. Aside from the behavioral therapy, the doctor also recommends fish oil. (Way ahead of you there, Doc.) No mention of occupational therapy, even though she specifically wrote us a prescription for it. So, not the most comprehensive report. Meaning either she just oops forgot to add that part while she was writing it, or she threw this thing together in a hurry because she hadn't been planning on writing one in the first place.

Really, I am so done with the hospital. I'm hoping the behavioral therapist more or less gets us where we need to be.

Cousin H. says dealing with this with her son was a full-time job for the first couple of years. I can completely see how that would be the case. Unfortunately I already have a full-time job, so time management is going to be a bit of an issue.

I am resolutely not thinking about all the years ahead in which we'll be dealing with these aggravations, because if I did, I would be extremely annoyed.