I am still alive!

I know I joked about monthly postings, but I swear this long hiatus is due to a string of technical issues that left me with no computer and no internet access for two weeks. While taking two online courses. Yeah, it's been fun.

I'm stealing a moment in a coffee shop on Robbie's loaned laptop, but I promise next week I'll be up and running. More insanely long posts, gratuitous pictures of my kids, and pregnancy complaints are on the way, so never fear!

So we totally caved.....

Profile shot, a little hand waving "hi," and on the bottom, some perfect feet.

A couple of weeks ago, I was laying in bed thinking about the baby's upcoming (although hardly impending) birth. I've been thinking about this a lot lately and I'm usually overwhelmed with excitement and joy. Both my previous births were wonderful and on different ends of the spectrum - one induced with Cervadil and days spent in the hospital surrounded by a huge staff and constant machines. The other a quiet homebirth where Robbie and I were completely alone until the last half an hour. Both ended with the natural birth I wanted and a healthy baby, but I feel like this birth is my chance to hit the perfect middle ground. We will still do homebirth, but with a few more women around to help and offer emotional support early on so that Robbie and I can be completely present. Thinking and preparing for this is one of my favorite pastimes, but this particular night was different.

I started thinking about the moment when he/she came out and Robbie called out the gender. I thought about the midwife placing a wet, squirmy bundle in my arms and allowing my eyes to focus on hair that may or may not have pigment. I thought about the boys padding into the room to meet their new sibling and the sudden realization that I'm the mother of three. The more I thought, the faster my heart raced. Suddenly I couldn't breathe. If this was how I felt coping with all these realizations, all these "surprises," four months before the birth, how was I going to handle it when it actually happened under the influence of postpartum hormones?

I rolled over and whispered to Robbie, "What if I just found out the gender and kept it a secret from you and everyone else?"

He laughed and made a joke about how quickly I was caving on our "keep the gender a secret" pact. Then he pointed out that I have the worst poker face on earth. I couldn't argue with the that.

But the next morning, he brought it up again, and assured me that if I wanted to know, he would fully support me. I didn't want to know, frankly, I wanted to just enjoy this pregnancy without knowing. It's like the moment you get a letter with a job decision or college entrance decision. The outcome is so important that the idea of opening it leaves you, at least momentarily, paralyzed and terrified.

I wished gender wasn't so important to me, because keeping it a surprise for everyone would be a lot more fun. In the end, though, I did care a lot. And I needed to know.

Our discussions quickly dissolved from only me finding out, to both of us finding out. When the ultrasound came on Friday, we had resolved to make the tech write it down and then open the result whenever we felt ready.

The scan itself went really well. Even though this is our third baby and our tenth ultrasound over the course of four pregnancies, it was still just as exhilarating and baffling to see the tiny body wiggling on the screen. I had been a little panicked about the baby's health because I haven't felt much kicking or movement, and I've heard a lot of horror stories about birth defects lately. To my enormous relief, however, everything was fine. The boys were surprisingly quiet and calm up until the last five minutes, when Emerson regaled us with some elegant fake burbs and announced to the tech several times that he was "going to fart on daddy." I noticed she was the only tech I've had who didn't ask what gender we were hoping for. I think she knew.

After Robbie escorted the boys outside, she told me that I was a "beautiful scan" and asked if her first-year resident could come do another scan while she went over my results with the head doctor. I blushed and fluttered my eyelashes, "Anything for science." When you grow out of another pair of maternity pants every week, you take any strange compliment you can get.

When we got home, I called my mom to tell her the results while I still technically didn't know the gender. I'm fine with lying to everyone else, but I draw the line at my mother. I once snuck out of the house at 3am without making a single sound and two minutes later she woke up and walked outside to scream my name. You don't mess with that kind of maternal intuition.

After I hung up the phone, Robbie and I sat on the porch and stared at our white envelope. "You look first," I told him. "I can't do it."

I closed my eyes while he looked. "Ok," he said, his voice not betraying any emotion. "Now look." And so I did.

And

this

is

what

it

said:




Ok, the booties weren't actually there, that was my first celebration present to myself. I mean, the kid.


There aren't words to describe that kind of surprise and excitement. We screamed, we jumped up and down, we hugged, we repeatedly looked at the paper to make sure it still said "girl." Since we were on the porch I couldn't make too big of a scene, but when I went inside to grab something, I did a jumping dance of joy around the house that was impressive considering my size. It was real (assuming the tech hasn't made a big mistake). We were getting our girl - a daughter - and our family would be complete.

I always imagined I would have a daughter - there wasn't any other possibility. As a little girl, princesses and ballet tutus and frills defined me. My relationship with my mother was and has always been my closest relationship. I was close to my sister, my only sibling, and learned a more tomboyish sense of femininity from her.

As a teenager, I discovered women's history and the fight for equal rights. In college, I delved into gender studies and modern feminism. Long before I had children, I thought about what I would tell my daughter as she struggled through puberty. I vowed to teach her about the generations of women in our family and in history who had paved the way for her. I thought about her father walking her down the aisle and being there when she had her own children (assuming she hadn't grown to hate my guts by then).

Ok, I admit, I also dreamed about braiding her hair and taking her to dance classes and buying excessively cute dresses. At least for the first couple of years, at which point she would rebel against me by wearing nothing but pants and the color blue. Later, she would rebel by screaming and slamming doors, but I was prepared for that. If anyone knows drama, it's me.

What I wasn't prepared for was a boy. When I heard the news with Emerson, it didn't seem possible. When I heard the news with Fionn, I was devastated. I never doubted for a single moment that I would love them as much as I would love a daughter. I didn't regret their existence or fail to bond with them - I just mourned the loss of my expectations. In exchange, though, I got a world of wonderful experiences and insights that I couldn't have imagined.

Since both boys are polar opposites, I'm constantly learning about the nuances of masculinity from them and from their father. I never thought I would be excited to go to an event called "Touch a Truck" or that I would tear up at the sight of my boys' first ride on Thomas the Train. I never thought I would giggle when someone farted or that I would melt so completely watching my boys take care of their baby doll.

Now I feel like the luckiest person on earth because I get to experience another world through another baby's eyes. It probably won't match the expectations I've built up over the years, but I know it will be more amazing than I can possibly imagine.

I'm finding myself using a lot of sappy synonyms for "great," so I'll cut this short. But as a final act of celebration, I have to share these pictures. Among the massive dress collection that this little girl will inevitably amass, I'm most excited about these:



This is a dress my mother wore as a baby that I can now give my daughter.




This is one of three dresses that my mother saved from my childhood. I'm not usually a fan of crocheted clothes, but this one is so sweet. It's full of pink ribbons and comes with matching bloomers. FREAKIN BLOOMERS!





Ok, now I'll stop.

p.s. those old wives-tales about pregnancies with girls being harder, that daughters "steal their mother's beauty," or that girl pregnancies give you an ass the size of the Grand Canyon. So far in my case, all true.

A Pilfered Post

So my husband is fast asleep next to me, which is understandable given that it's midnight. If I don't initiate getting ready and going to bed, he will always fall asleep on the couch next to me, or even occasionally sprawled out on the floor. I think it's because he just wants an excuse to sleep on the couch and avoid getting ready for bed. He claims it's because he just wants to be near me until I'm ready to go upstairs with him. "But," he adds, "I do love to sleep on the couch."

Since this exchange is about the closest thing to romance in our relationship, I will try to stick with his explanation.

ANYWHO...I'm going to use his current state of unconsciousness to violate his privacy. (Get your mind out of the gutter!) I was cleaning out old blog drafts tonight when I came upon a partial post he wrote when Emerson was about three months old. It's so endearing that I'm going to share it without asking. You may think that's a horrible thing to do, but I'd like to draw your attention to the joke he makes about me in the end. Enough said.

"Every so often while carrying Emerson in my arms, I'll look over to find him already staring at me with this intrigued expression on his face. More than his hardy little laugh or his high-pitched songs - and even more than his face-eating attacks, those split seconds of catching him staring at me are my favorite times with him.

Suddenly I'm reminded that, oh crap, this is what it's all about. I suppose I sometimes lose sight of the fact that he's not just this little mini-me that's going to one day be an adult. Every little thing I do with him, around him, shoot even not around him... from the day he was born, nearly every action of mine is going to influence him in some way. Is this what I signed up for???

I don't know how I managed to float past this concept so easily. On a nearly daily basis I find something about myself that reminds me of one of my parents. A mannerism of my dad, an opinion of my mom's, a silly phrase of my step-dad's. I constantly wonder out of both fear and excitement what traits the Kid will have due to having me as a father.

When friends and family first learned of me becoming a father, the general reply was, "Poor kid." I knew it was all fun, and I joked along with them. But seriously... when conversations with old friends turn to stupid/crazy things we've done, my list is pretty much always the longest. And now I'm being charged to raise another one of me?

On a side note, here's a quick list of things I'll be sure to teach him NOT to do:

- Play leap-frog with a unicorn (ouch!)
- Listen to Kenny-G, John Tesh, or Yanni
- Be sure that if he marries an Ex-Mormon, she was at least properly trained to be a good Mormon wife (cook, sew, obey)
- Make jokes on the internet about his wife and the fastest growing religion in the world."

When Robbie talks about "face-eating," this is what he meant:

Where Was I...?

Fionn tries on a new visor courtesy of the sun gear exchange. This will be perfect for his next water aerobics class. If only they had fanny packs...

Oh yeah, so about that conference post I promised a month ago. I guess I should just accept that I won't be doing weekly posts for a while. Ever since we found out about the baby, a giant countdown clock in my head constantly reminds me of how little time we have left to finish the house renovations before the big B-Day.

When we had Emerson, we dealt with the holidays six days later and then traveled to Chicago for my first intensive school session two weeks after that. When we had Fionn, we purchased our first house five days later, began renovations, and then packed and moved from our rental - all in the dead of winter. This time, we have finally learned our lesson. The moment this baby arrives, nothing will get accomplished for at least six months. At least.

When I get weekly pregnancy calendar updates in my email, I'm interested in whether my baby is the size of a turnip or a bell pepper. I'm interested in whether he developed fingerprints or if his bones are hardening. But mainly I stare at the number of weeks left to go and feel a mixture of excitement and sheer panic.

That said, things are just going to be chaos for a while. Before I get lost in it all again, I'll do my best to recollect our first NOAH conference:

So our first major roadtrip with both boys was about as hellish as we expected - although the boys were actually the easy part. Everything that could go wrong did, making it a typical family trip full of stories that become funny later on. Much later on.

We arrived at our friend's house in Virginia exhausted and grateful for a comfortable bed to collapse into. Emerson surveyed the situation and quickly assessed that our friend (his Guide Father Steve) had a "cool house," a "cool bed" and a very "cool pool." Four-star digs by all accounts.

The next morning, I took off for the Mom's Mini Conference while the men vegged out on the couch. The moment I walked into the hotel where the conference was held, I found myself in a sea of white hair and familiar faces. I must have looked like an idiot, going around with a permanent grin plastered on my face. It was amazing to think that here we could walk around without being stopped a million times to answer a million stupid questions.

Of course, I forgot that Fionn's mop of curly hair and bubbly personality meant we would get stopped several times no matter what. At one point, four or five people at the conference were trying to get Fionn's attention so that they could take his picture. Robbie suddenly became a Hollywood baby wrangler, attempting to point Fionn in the right direction and encouraging him to smile politely. When it was over, I whispered to Robbie, "We need to figure out how to make money off all this attention - at least build the boys a nice college fund."



By the end of the conference, the boys were so tired of having their picture taken, they went on photo strike. Fionn wouldn't go near a camera and Emerson took shots like this:



But I digress. The mom's conference was about what I expected...a lot of tears, a lot of talking, and some good tips to take home. The next day the full conference began, so the boys reluctantly headed off to daycare and Robbie and I split into different sessions. Most were informational, including a session on sports for the visually impaired, dealing with school districts and the IEP, and a session that gave demonstrations on what people with visual impairments actually see. Others were more emotional, including a session on dealing with taunts and staring, a dad's discussion (not really emotional, but they tried), and a session on school bullying.

Perhaps my favorite session was one given by photographer Rick Guidotti. Rick is a professional photographer who was working for major fashion magazines when he spotted a woman with albinism walking down the street. He thought she was so amazing, he went home and learned everything he could about the condition. He ended up doing a photo shoot for a different woman with albinism - a woman who started out shy and self-conscious. Through his enthusiasm and his photography, she left the session feeling beautiful and confident. Rick decided to leave the fashion world and now runs a non-profit called Positive Exposure devoted to celebrating differences through photography.

Positive Exposure

He travels the world photographing people with albinism and other genetic conditions, fighting violence against people with albinism in Africa, educating government agencies and health professionals about genetic conditions, and running self-esteem workshops.

He gave a slide show of the many people he's met in his travels and talked about the challenges people in Africa face. Needless to say, pregnancy hormones mixed with heart-wrenching stories meant I spent the entire session sniffling and wiping my eyes like a boob.

The best part of the conference was the chance to socialize with other NOAH families - some new friends and others we have known for years through the magic of the internet. We even got a chance to eat dinner with our friends who came all the way from the Philippines. Fionn and their son Vivaan hit it off pretty quickly:






The last night of the conference was a fundraising auction and dance party. Despite a long trip and not much sleep, the boys took to the dance floor with gusto:






The guide dogs take a break at the end of a long day, so the kids move in for snuggles.

In the end, we left the conference grateful for the experience and excited to get to the next one in St. Louis two years from now. But I do have to say that in many ways the whole thing was overwhelming. I think we forgot that despite all we've been through emotionally, there are so many emotional and logistical issues still to come. The boys are relatively dependent on us at this young age, so it wasn't until we were around adults with albinism that we realized how much they still need to learn in order to live independently.

For instance, during the session on sports, the issue of P.E. in school came up. I heard stories of people struggling to get P.E. teachers to find group activities that would work for visual impairments instead of just forcing kids to sit on the sidelines because they can't see the calisthenics teacher from the back row or don't have the depth perception to do a fast-paced ball activity. Sports never concerned me - partly because there are plenty of individual sports that can be adapted, and partly because we are not big sports people. But P.E.? Holy crap, I hadn't even thought of that!

During a trip to the bathroom, I heard a woman with albinism ask another woman for help because she wasn't able to see which stall doors were open a little and therefore vacant, and which were closed. I thought about how hard it will be for my shy Emerson (for men with albinism in general really) to ask for help from strangers in situations like these.

We met adults with albinism who didn't have any apparent visual impairment, and we met adults with albinism who relied on guide dogs. I wondered where in the range the boys would fall and the "what-if"s threatened to overwhelm me.

On the other hand, every person we met was gorgeous and kind and successful - a reminder that our boys will overcome whatever is to come. One story that I heard second-hand summed up all my feelings about their future:

A bunch of the teenagers with albinism at the conference went out to dinner together. The adult chaperons, including many of their parents, sat at a separate table. During the course of the meal, a group of pigmento teenagers sat near them and started staring. After a while, they pulled out their camera phones to take pictures of the teens with albinism like they were some sort of freak show. The chaperons, to their credit, held back and watched what unfolded. (I would have thrown myself across the room and caused a scene so big that my children would've never forgiven me. Note to self: don't be a chaperon.)

The teenagers reacted coolly by taking out their own camera phones and taking invasive pictures of the pigmentos. A dose of their own medicine.

When I heard this story, it made me cry and filled me with pride at the same time, which pretty much sums it up. The future is going to be really freaking hard. And really freaking good. And I'll do my best not to be a sniffling boob.

And SO....

Fionn tries some break dancing at the NOAH party


We're back, and even three days later I'm not sure if we have recovered from the exhaustion of traveling. I have a head swimming with a 100 different posts on all that we saw and experienced, but before I get to that, I'll talk about the ominous thing that I didn't want to talk about in the last post. I apologize to those that I inadvertently alarmed, but I applaud your prolific imaginations!

Anyway, here it is:



I know I've posted this before, but look again closely. Here's a clue, that's not the wind lifting my shirt. It's not a beer belly. (If only I could drink beer - after 24 hours driving cross-country in a car, I've never needed a drink more in my life.)

It is a baby bump - an inordinately large baby bump at that.

We haven't mentioned our news sooner because 1) we wanted to wait until I hit the second trimester to be sure everything was at least mostly in the clear (that milestone came last weekend) and 2) we didn't want to make a big fuss. Not that we aren't excited, but let's face it, the first one is met with overwhelming joy, the second one is just expected, but by the time you hit the third, people start looking at you like you're the Duggars.

The people who see us on a regular basis learned about our secret several weeks ago since I was in maternity pants by six weeks along. Some people spent a lot of time glancing at my swelling belly until I finally cracked, the bolder people took one look at me and said, "Are you pregnant?!!"

Needless to say, with my speedy growth, I spent several weeks sweating about the possibility of twins (they run on both the maternal and paternal sides of my family). But a nine-week ultrasound revealed one, and only one, healthy heartbeat.

By now you may have some questions for us. Everyone does. So here's my fancy FAQs section:

Three kids? Are you insane?

Yes

When is the due date?

January 30, 2011

Are you finding out the gender? Are you finding out if it has albinism?

No and no. The first pregnancy I wanted to find out, so I promised Robbie we would keep the second pregnancy a secret. The second pregnancy I NEEDED to find out, so I REALLY promised Robbie we would keep the third pregnancy a secret. I honestly never thought we would have a third one. But here we are.

Seriously, though, I don't need to find out. I am 99.99% sure it's a boy and I've mentally prepared myself for that.

As for albinism, we're also expecting that this one will have albinism even though there is a 75% chance it won't. We know of families that have three in a row, so it is very possible. We could do genetic testing ahead of time, but it wouldn't change anything and I'd rather avoid being stuck with a giant needle.

Is it true that subsequent pregnancies are easier?

No, and if anyone tries to preach that as gospel, slap them - open-handed - across the face. This has been by far the hardest pregnancy.

If it's a boy, are you going to keep trying until you get a girl?

No, see answer above. Also, I won't have the energy for three boys much less four, five, six, etc.

Perhaps most importantly, we can barely squeeze a third into our lives as it is. A fourth or more would require a new car, a new house, and a new stroller configuration that I shudder to even imagine.

Did you give up on adoption?

As I said in that post, we had to give up on it considering the high costs. If we win the lottery or if a perfect situation were to present itself, we would still be ready and willing. In the meantime, we need to have our kids close together because I only have three years of school left and I'd rather stay home with them while I'm studying instead of getting my first career job and then pausing for maternity leave.

I still stand by the advice I blurt out, bleary-eyed and ragged, to any parent who's planning on future children: three or four years apart is good. Two years apart is bad. Real bad.

When it became clear that adoption wasn't going to work, it occurred to us that we still had the old-fashioned option. We both knew that we were guaranteed to get another boy, so our decision had to be based on that assumption. We thought...we debated...we changed our minds about a million times...and eventually it came down to one cliche fact: our family did not feel complete.

We decided to give it a go, thinking foolishly that perhaps it would take a few months and we'd have more time to REALLY think this over.

We got two lines the first month.

I know many people face loss and infertility, so I want to emphasize that we are completely, eternally grateful. When I think about our future life I finally feel that sense of wholeness. When the boys press their sticky mouths to my stomach and yell "Hello baby!!" - my heart fills to capacity.

And yet, I admit, there are times when Robbie and I lay in bed at night and one of us will whisper to the other:

"Do you realize we're going to have three children under the age of five? THREE We're not even 30 years old yet!"


"I know, what were we thinking?!"


There is a pause as we are simultaneously gripped by panic at the thought of going through the newborn phase, again, with two toddlers. Since we have stopped breathing, the only sounds are the cicadas chirping in the damp grass and Fionn softly snoring in the crib next to our bed.


"That reminds me, we gotta get this kid out of our bedroom in time for the next one."


"I know."


We eventually start breathing again.


"It's going to be OK. It's going to be good."


"I know."

Bad Blogger

OK, I've been called out on my absence by my three readers, so I will break all the blogging rules and create a post about why I'm not posting. Part of the problem is that the biggest issue in our lives right now - the thing jockeying for the most mental and physical space - is something I can't talk about. At least not for a little while.

The other part of the problem is that I had a personal epiphany in which I realized an important piece of my personality has gone missing. I'd like to blame it on my selfless devotion to motherhood and becoming consumed by my children, but I think you all know me well enough not to buy that. No, it's just one of those things I sort of lost along the path through adulthood. It's like that moment when you've been running errands for hours and you reach into your pocket or purse for your keys. Even before you've explored every crevice, you already know in your gut that they're gone - carelessly dropped somewhere or left behind on a counter. And now you've got to retrace your steps.

The reality of this scenario plays out in my life every other day, but metaphorically I'm still in the process of retracing my steps. I don't wish to inflict my navel-gazing on anyone else (more than I already do), so hence the silence.

The good news is that in just two days, we leave for our first-ever national albinism conference in Washington, D.C. Between our first major road trip with two kids and our first chance to see over 800 people affected by albinism in one place, I should have lots to write about soon.

In the meantime, here are a few pictures of our adventures so far. The summer has been streaking by, but it has been punctuated by some beautiful moments.

Bubble Hair:


Michigan Albinism Picnic at the Beach:







Love Blooms in the Garden:


My parents come to Michigan every year in the winter to babysit while I go to school, so for the first time they got a chance to come and just have fun in the good weather. We packed our schedule with all the best tourist destinations within a 4 hour drive.

Visiting Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes:


Historic Fishing Village in Leeland:


The beaches of Traverse City:


A former insane asylum turned into a shopping and restaurant mecca:

Survival

For some reason, my children have conspired to drive me over the brink of insanity the first night of Robbie's business trips. They are already bad sleepers, most especially Fionn, but they really pull out all the stops on my solo nights. This has the effect of making the rest of the week, or weeks, that he's gone nearly unbearable since I've started out with zero sleep.

Last night was no exception - after going to bed at 1am since I was trying to catch up on a million things, Fionn decided to wake up 4 or 5 times (it's all a blur now). Then, at 5am, he decided that the pewter light edging in around the drapes was as good as daylight, so he demanded to go downstairs for breakfast. What followed was a nightmarish sequence in which I tried to sleep on the couch in between entertaining him, knowing full well that the sleep I was getting wouldn't help at all and not giving a damn anyway.

Finally, I noticed that my dreams were getting longer than one minute, so I cautiously opened an eye and found him splayed out on the rug, fast asleep. Ahhh. I snuggled in and got a blissful half an hour of sleep. At which point a splatter of little footsteps upstairs told me that I was in for round two.

I share all these details not for sympathy (sniff sniff), but just to explain why the post that follows is less of a post and more of me just vomiting random words and pictures onto the screen.

On the good news front, Fionn had his yearly evaluation with the Early Intervention team and they determined that he is right on target for all his milestones. I've been assuming that Fionn would have at least a few delays and need to go through the toddler group and then preschool, just as Emerson did. The reality that this wasn't going to happen and that we would actually have to find a regular preschool for him someday was a little jarring at first. But then it sunk in - everything was OK. It turns out that OK is a great place to be.

On the bad news front, Emerson has decided that being the least bit compliant is no longer a priority. The little boy who would stop walking the moment he got too close to the street is now gleefully ignoring my commands to stop and running headlong toward traffic. The boy who would get frustrated easily, but at least try hard during therapy sessions, is now throwing tantrums as much at home as he is in the speech therapists's office. During a mobility session with his vision teacher a couple of weeks ago, he started losing it, stomping his feet and yelling. She gasped. "Have you ever seen him do this before?"

I laughed. "Uh, yeah, all the time. I guess this means he's comfortable with you now," I joked. We talked about the possibility that he was acting out because I was around - a conversation that I repeated with his speech therapist a couple of days later. I agreed to step out of sessions, but then the vision teacher mentioned that he was acting up during school sessions as well.

Part of me knows it's just a stage and that I should be grateful he's asserting his independence. But the other part of me remembers all the obnoxious boys I've ever had the displeasure of teaching and all the times I thought, "I will never allow my son to behave like this for other people." He's certainly not at that level yet, but my imagination is conjuring up the worst.

What's hard about him is not so much the defiance, which is normal behavior in many ways, but how to effectively deal with it when his personality is already an enigma wrapped in a mystery and topped with a "What the heck?!" His team of teachers and I spend endless hours trying to figure out what motivates him and why he does the things he does. It's validating to see professionals struggle as much as we do, but it also means we only makes spurts of progress, mainly based on sheer luck.

But back to the positive again. During Emerson's preschool progress report a few weeks ago(before the defiant stage, so it was a purely good report), I asked the speech therapist in the classroom about apraxia. She seemed stunned and said, "I've diagnosed a good portion of the class with speech apraxia - but not him." Around the same time, a friend of ours who is a retired speech therapist brought up my post on apraxia. She felt she hadn't seen definite signs of apraxia during her interactions with him and was concerned that our private speech therapist had given him such a "devastating diagnosis" so quickly. Just hearing her validate the diagnosis as devastating when so few people around us grasp the magnitude of it was a huge relief. But hearing another opinion that it may not be apraxia was even better.

After hanging out with her for a while, during which time Emerson went about his normal play chatter, she looked at me and said, "Some people may say apraxia. I say bull sh**."

I'm trying not to get my hopes up too much, especially since the private speech therapist confirms the apraxia diagnosis practically every other session, but I'll take even a sliver of possibility at this point.

Since I'm finally done with school for the semester, I've been slogging through books with titles like "Boys of Few Words," "Positive Discipline," and "Beyond Sibling Rivalry" (another story). Strangely, the most helpful passage has been from the sibling book. It was about children who get an unfair lot in life and how that can sometimes lead to venting their anger on other people, especially siblings who have an easier time.

I looked down at Emerson and thought about that day sometime in the future when he screams at me "Life is so unfair!" And he'll be right. That doesn't mean I won't discipline him. It doesn't mean he won't still have a great life. But it does mean I will need to be more sympathetic.

And patient.