Although the biting seems to have mostly resolved, Owen is a physical kid. That is a good thing (there is no snuggle shortage in the Luhrs' household), and also rough right now when he is still learning to express frustration, sadness, and anger.
Hitting is the expression of emotions du jour and our mantra, "hands are not for hitting, hitting isn't friendly" is getting a fair bit of play lately. Not that much, to be fair, but usually once a day for the past week or so.
This weekend, Owen became frustrated that we wouldn't let him play with a camera and he smacked me in the face. The hitting is usually directed at me, and on this particular day I was feeling short-fused and exhausted for no particular reason.
As our routine goes, I removed Owen from the situation, carried him into his toy room while chanting the hitting mantra. I explained that hitting hurts. I am sure he feels a mixture of embarassment and indignation when I go over this with him, he gets everything we say to him. He tried to hit me again (really this one was more of a fake-out) and I grabbed his hands to thwart the wet noodle attack and in so doing, I scratched his cheek. Scratched a gouge really. It bled a little, immediately.
The look he gave me will be burned into my retina for years. It was the worst feeling. In the middle of trying to talk to Owen about gentle touches and alternate ways to express frustration, I accidentally hurt him. I wrapped him into a big hug and he just melted into me but was sobbing. I told him that Mommy did not mean to scratch him. I think he got it, but man, that moment of bewilderment will not be forgotten by me for a long time.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Use your words, honey
Last night, Owen was frustrated at the table during dinner, and was causing a ruckus. As he's back arching and screeching in his booster seat, I said to him, "Are you frustrated? Can you tell us what you want? Can you use your words?" And I really do think that he looked at me and telepathically said: Mom. I can tell you that a cow moos. I can say "baa baa" for the sheep sound. I can tell you dogs bark, lions roar, and owls hoot. I can name my shoe. I can name a banana. I say Mama and Daddy. Are you seriously asking me to tell you that I'm frustrated because you won't hand me that wine glass to shatter all over the room?
He had a good point.
He had a good point.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Butt
We have heard from many a reliable source that, at some point, Owen would have a word explosion. That, some day soon, he would just kind of start talking.
Of course we disregarded this, thinking most likely that is just how the process looks in hindsight. But this weekend, at Meg and Adam's lovely fun wedding, Owen really did have a word explosion.
It started off with an adorable moment when Keith showed Owen a picture of Owen and Stew on the patio and Owen pointed to Stew and said "Schteewwww". More words followed. But my absolute favorite was this morning's event: I was crouched down in a squat with my arms out ready to hug Owen running towards me. Instead of running into my waiting arms, he ran around behind my back, put a hand down the back of my pants and said, "BUTT".
Of course we disregarded this, thinking most likely that is just how the process looks in hindsight. But this weekend, at Meg and Adam's lovely fun wedding, Owen really did have a word explosion.
It started off with an adorable moment when Keith showed Owen a picture of Owen and Stew on the patio and Owen pointed to Stew and said "Schteewwww". More words followed. But my absolute favorite was this morning's event: I was crouched down in a squat with my arms out ready to hug Owen running towards me. Instead of running into my waiting arms, he ran around behind my back, put a hand down the back of my pants and said, "BUTT".
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Jaws, Part I
This post is probably not a light one. It's kind of the elephant in the room, but my amazing sister has finally encouraged me to write about it.
From my post a couple weeks ago, any lurker to my blog knows that my Dad and sister have dystonia. My Dad developed symptoms in...I want to say Spring of 1998, at the age of 54. My sister developed symptoms in late summer of 2005, at the age of 32. This is insanely young for dystonia - it definitely supports a genetic component; most CNS genetic disorders are charcterized by early onset. My Dad has segmental dystonia (cervical dystonia, specifically, affecting his neck, shoulders & arms). My sister has focal dystonia (specifically oromandibular dystonia).
In some ways, there is too much to say on this topic. There is no way that I can appropriately address the depth of this issue and how it has affected all of us, on a blog. But I find that I don't talk about it enough, and being bottled up really isn't my bag. Although I tend towards neurotic, and sometimes I talk obsessively about things that worry me, I do know that it's not in my nature to keep things tightly wrapped. My Dad's disease has been heartbreaking for all of us for a million reasons that can't possibly articulated. My sister's disease is heartbreaking in most of those ways, too, and also some other ones.
Like, she's so young. She is 35. She has two small kids and has a hard time speaking & eating. She has a hard time reading books to them. I'm not sure she can sing to them easily. She tends towards being thin - difficulty eating is just a cruel symptom. She's smaller, physically, than I am & there is this weird thing for me about needing to protect her. I almost wish I had a big cloak and I could wrap my arms around her and carry her with me, and make sure she's eating enough, and take care of her. It's a very vivid image I have, and it's probably not coming across very well, but that's ok.
My understanding of dystonia, in many ways, is very clinical. I've read the literature. I know the anatomy. I know what Botox does. I know what drug families are used, what generally works, what their common side effects are, what the treatment option schedule is. In some ways having that clinical perspective has been helpful for my family, but probably only marginally, and looking back it's probably much more of a defense mechanism.
I want to be Erin's cheerleader, the upbeat one that can reassure. But there is something about reassurance when things are hard and treatments aren't working the way they should that is maddening. It's awful to be terrified and anxious and angry and frustrated and be told to "give it one more try" or "give it one more week" or "we'll just try something slightly different next time". It's so easy to say those things when it's not YOUR life, not YOUR everyday, not YOUR every meal. And I totally know that.
I went to get some fillings the other week and a few days later my jaw was really sore. I mean, sore in a way that was totally foreign to me; my tongue felt too big for my mouth, my jaw and under my jaw felt really tight and it was exhausting trying to normalize it all day. I'm not exaggerating when I say that about 99% of my attention Monday - Wednesday the following week was focused on my jaw. I. Was. Terrified. I was a complete wreck. I couldn't function, couldn't find joy in anything except a few stolen moments with Owen. I felt like I was staring down this motor disorder that had captured my Dad and has stolen my sister' s voice from the other end of the phone, and I didn't know how I - the optimist, the cheerleader - would deal with it. I couldn't imagine not talking to Owen, not singing, not reading books. I couldn't imagine how it would affect my job, could I give talks at work still? Would Botox work for me?
I didn't want to talk to Keith about it, he is already so hyperaware of any abnormal movement I complain about. I didn't want to talk to my Mom about it - that's the last worry she needs. I certainly didn't want to talk to my sister about it - asking her to comfort me seemed cruel. But I did talk to my sister, and I'm so glad. She is the only person who would know that panic that I would feel, and she was amazing.
My jaw is ok. And that's not really the point of this post anyway. The point is that I got a glimpse, however small, however superficial, of what my sister faces EVERY SINGLE DAY. The uncertainty, exhaustion, fear, anxiety, and I totally understand if it makes her angry to have to deal with all of this. I don't know what my future holds with dystonia, and it's a little scary staring that question in the face all the time, but I do know that I will do whatever is humanly possible for me to do to help find a treatment for my sister.
From my post a couple weeks ago, any lurker to my blog knows that my Dad and sister have dystonia. My Dad developed symptoms in...I want to say Spring of 1998, at the age of 54. My sister developed symptoms in late summer of 2005, at the age of 32. This is insanely young for dystonia - it definitely supports a genetic component; most CNS genetic disorders are charcterized by early onset. My Dad has segmental dystonia (cervical dystonia, specifically, affecting his neck, shoulders & arms). My sister has focal dystonia (specifically oromandibular dystonia).
In some ways, there is too much to say on this topic. There is no way that I can appropriately address the depth of this issue and how it has affected all of us, on a blog. But I find that I don't talk about it enough, and being bottled up really isn't my bag. Although I tend towards neurotic, and sometimes I talk obsessively about things that worry me, I do know that it's not in my nature to keep things tightly wrapped. My Dad's disease has been heartbreaking for all of us for a million reasons that can't possibly articulated. My sister's disease is heartbreaking in most of those ways, too, and also some other ones.
Like, she's so young. She is 35. She has two small kids and has a hard time speaking & eating. She has a hard time reading books to them. I'm not sure she can sing to them easily. She tends towards being thin - difficulty eating is just a cruel symptom. She's smaller, physically, than I am & there is this weird thing for me about needing to protect her. I almost wish I had a big cloak and I could wrap my arms around her and carry her with me, and make sure she's eating enough, and take care of her. It's a very vivid image I have, and it's probably not coming across very well, but that's ok.
My understanding of dystonia, in many ways, is very clinical. I've read the literature. I know the anatomy. I know what Botox does. I know what drug families are used, what generally works, what their common side effects are, what the treatment option schedule is. In some ways having that clinical perspective has been helpful for my family, but probably only marginally, and looking back it's probably much more of a defense mechanism.
I want to be Erin's cheerleader, the upbeat one that can reassure. But there is something about reassurance when things are hard and treatments aren't working the way they should that is maddening. It's awful to be terrified and anxious and angry and frustrated and be told to "give it one more try" or "give it one more week" or "we'll just try something slightly different next time". It's so easy to say those things when it's not YOUR life, not YOUR everyday, not YOUR every meal. And I totally know that.
I went to get some fillings the other week and a few days later my jaw was really sore. I mean, sore in a way that was totally foreign to me; my tongue felt too big for my mouth, my jaw and under my jaw felt really tight and it was exhausting trying to normalize it all day. I'm not exaggerating when I say that about 99% of my attention Monday - Wednesday the following week was focused on my jaw. I. Was. Terrified. I was a complete wreck. I couldn't function, couldn't find joy in anything except a few stolen moments with Owen. I felt like I was staring down this motor disorder that had captured my Dad and has stolen my sister' s voice from the other end of the phone, and I didn't know how I - the optimist, the cheerleader - would deal with it. I couldn't imagine not talking to Owen, not singing, not reading books. I couldn't imagine how it would affect my job, could I give talks at work still? Would Botox work for me?
I didn't want to talk to Keith about it, he is already so hyperaware of any abnormal movement I complain about. I didn't want to talk to my Mom about it - that's the last worry she needs. I certainly didn't want to talk to my sister about it - asking her to comfort me seemed cruel. But I did talk to my sister, and I'm so glad. She is the only person who would know that panic that I would feel, and she was amazing.
My jaw is ok. And that's not really the point of this post anyway. The point is that I got a glimpse, however small, however superficial, of what my sister faces EVERY SINGLE DAY. The uncertainty, exhaustion, fear, anxiety, and I totally understand if it makes her angry to have to deal with all of this. I don't know what my future holds with dystonia, and it's a little scary staring that question in the face all the time, but I do know that I will do whatever is humanly possible for me to do to help find a treatment for my sister.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Car Karma
We had girls night last night, which was the best one in recent memory, primarily because it was the ONLY one in recent memory. But also because it was lots of fun and Jenn had the best, I mean BEST nightmare student story ever.
After that lovely dinner with Jenn & Veena, I drove home, in Keith's Outback, and happened to catch Obama's speech on NPR. I knew Keith was recording it, but figured I'd listen in the car too - anyone who knows me knows that it's hard for me to get enough politics lately.
When Obama got to the part about "...change doesn't come FROM Washington, change comes TO Washington" I actually yelled "YEAH! WHOO HOOOOO" in the car and pumped my fist a few times. About 15 seconds later I notice the cop lights in my rear view mirror.
Crap! My mind races, 'when did I finish my second margarita? Was I driving like a maniac listening to the speech? Was I swerving?' I pull over to the shoulder and wait. The cop shines his floodlight at my car; I'm blinded.
I know that he's walking around the car checking something out but I can't tell what. I'm shaking so bad I can hardly push the button to roll down the passenger-side window, let alone pull my ID out of the stupid credit card organizer. He walks up to the window and says, "The reason I pulled you over is that you don't have your lights on. I saw you coming but only at the last minute."
I'm mortified. I know exactly what happened - the automatic day-lights in Keith's car look just like dashlights to me. Unless you know the car, you'd never know that the back lights aren't on because the dash lights and headlights are always automatic. I told the cop that it was my husband's car, and he looked at me like I was very special. Then I remembered that I was driving a dirty Subaru Outback with a bike rack and license plate that says "I [heart] tra1l". I guess it made sense to him that this car did not actually belong to the khaki-wearing soccer-mom looking woman before him.
At any rate, he was super nice - which was a great change in cop demeanor for me. He told me to get up to speed on the shoulder before trying to merge onto the toll road. Really, there is nothing more stressful than having a COP watch you merging back into 70 MPH traffic after pulling you over for being stupid enough not to turn on your lights at 8pm.
Tonight, a guy backed up into Keith driving MY car in the parking lot of the drugstore. Car Karma week, I tell you.
After that lovely dinner with Jenn & Veena, I drove home, in Keith's Outback, and happened to catch Obama's speech on NPR. I knew Keith was recording it, but figured I'd listen in the car too - anyone who knows me knows that it's hard for me to get enough politics lately.
When Obama got to the part about "...change doesn't come FROM Washington, change comes TO Washington" I actually yelled "YEAH! WHOO HOOOOO" in the car and pumped my fist a few times. About 15 seconds later I notice the cop lights in my rear view mirror.
Crap! My mind races, 'when did I finish my second margarita? Was I driving like a maniac listening to the speech? Was I swerving?' I pull over to the shoulder and wait. The cop shines his floodlight at my car; I'm blinded.
I know that he's walking around the car checking something out but I can't tell what. I'm shaking so bad I can hardly push the button to roll down the passenger-side window, let alone pull my ID out of the stupid credit card organizer. He walks up to the window and says, "The reason I pulled you over is that you don't have your lights on. I saw you coming but only at the last minute."
I'm mortified. I know exactly what happened - the automatic day-lights in Keith's car look just like dashlights to me. Unless you know the car, you'd never know that the back lights aren't on because the dash lights and headlights are always automatic. I told the cop that it was my husband's car, and he looked at me like I was very special. Then I remembered that I was driving a dirty Subaru Outback with a bike rack and license plate that says "I [heart] tra1l". I guess it made sense to him that this car did not actually belong to the khaki-wearing soccer-mom looking woman before him.
At any rate, he was super nice - which was a great change in cop demeanor for me. He told me to get up to speed on the shoulder before trying to merge onto the toll road. Really, there is nothing more stressful than having a COP watch you merging back into 70 MPH traffic after pulling you over for being stupid enough not to turn on your lights at 8pm.
Tonight, a guy backed up into Keith driving MY car in the parking lot of the drugstore. Car Karma week, I tell you.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Dentist, part I
I went to the dentist today. I would love to make it sound like I’m an every-six-monther, but I’m really not; the last time I went was in June of 2006, and I didn’t go back because I got pregnant that July. In fact, I got pregnant for the sole purpose of avoiding going back to get a filling.
I think I’ve always disliked going to the dentist, usually because I had some bad news – filling, root canal, tooth possibly erupting out of the side of my face, you know – the usual. If it weren’t for my parents dragging me to all the various and sundry dental, orthodontal, periodontal, and oral surgeon appointments, I would be an adorable cross-bite and gap-toothed woman with a tooth coming out of my cheek.
As far as teeth genes, I am on what we scientists like to call a “mixed genetic background”. My mom has teeth that could withstand a month in a vat of Coca-Cola, and my father has teeth made from a dubious mixture of phyllo dough, caulk, and frosting. I think I ended up with a hybrid of the two – I don’t do so bad, but if I follow my general every-few-years to the dentist schedule, I generally need a filling. I’ve had two root canals done on my adult teeth, which may or may not sound like a lot – to me, it sounds fine and I’m just glad the number is 2 not 30. One root canal was easy – it was done by a woman here in Orange County who was fascinating to watch work, and that’s not just the nitrous oxide talking. She got into this zen state when she was doing the root canal. She was amazing. It probably helps that she was an endodontist and not some crazy hack dentist working out of her living room with only dogs as her assistants.
Which brings me to my other root canal. Go back and read the last sentence of the previous paragraph and that tells you pretty much all you need to know. That, and the fact that her skill with anesthesia could probably be rivaled in aptitude only by my cat’s ability to sing opera. Not following me? I had virtually no anesthesia. She had virtually no idea what she was doing. She had a dental chair in her living room and wore these glasses that made her eyes look about 4 feet in diameter – imagine Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter (played by Emma Thompson), but instead of the psychic abilities, imagine her holding a drill and looking very, very scared. I’m not exaggerating at all, it was traumatic.
So it probably comes as no surprise to anyone reading this (particularly not my sister who was with me for the root canal and I’m sure we both could use some counseling about it) that I need to have that root canal re-done. Root Canal Redux, I’m calling it. I figure if I make it seem like a movie sequel, it will be fun!
I think I’ve always disliked going to the dentist, usually because I had some bad news – filling, root canal, tooth possibly erupting out of the side of my face, you know – the usual. If it weren’t for my parents dragging me to all the various and sundry dental, orthodontal, periodontal, and oral surgeon appointments, I would be an adorable cross-bite and gap-toothed woman with a tooth coming out of my cheek.
As far as teeth genes, I am on what we scientists like to call a “mixed genetic background”. My mom has teeth that could withstand a month in a vat of Coca-Cola, and my father has teeth made from a dubious mixture of phyllo dough, caulk, and frosting. I think I ended up with a hybrid of the two – I don’t do so bad, but if I follow my general every-few-years to the dentist schedule, I generally need a filling. I’ve had two root canals done on my adult teeth, which may or may not sound like a lot – to me, it sounds fine and I’m just glad the number is 2 not 30. One root canal was easy – it was done by a woman here in Orange County who was fascinating to watch work, and that’s not just the nitrous oxide talking. She got into this zen state when she was doing the root canal. She was amazing. It probably helps that she was an endodontist and not some crazy hack dentist working out of her living room with only dogs as her assistants.
Which brings me to my other root canal. Go back and read the last sentence of the previous paragraph and that tells you pretty much all you need to know. That, and the fact that her skill with anesthesia could probably be rivaled in aptitude only by my cat’s ability to sing opera. Not following me? I had virtually no anesthesia. She had virtually no idea what she was doing. She had a dental chair in her living room and wore these glasses that made her eyes look about 4 feet in diameter – imagine Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter (played by Emma Thompson), but instead of the psychic abilities, imagine her holding a drill and looking very, very scared. I’m not exaggerating at all, it was traumatic.
So it probably comes as no surprise to anyone reading this (particularly not my sister who was with me for the root canal and I’m sure we both could use some counseling about it) that I need to have that root canal re-done. Root Canal Redux, I’m calling it. I figure if I make it seem like a movie sequel, it will be fun!
Monday, August 18, 2008
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